When Mother Gets Angry
When Mother gets angry, the children are not safe,
clinging to walls that collapse around them, crushing
childhood beneath her wrath. She roars at us, and throws
our things about, for they mean nothing to Mother
when she is mad. She’ll unleash torrents, and we will try
to hide, but Mother knows all the hiding places.
She will knock them down or flood them with her rage, until
we are gasping for air, begging Mother to forgive us.
And when she calms again, Mother is nearly silent.
She never apologizes, only watches us through cloudy eyes
as we try to pick up broken pieces of Mother’s fury.
We hold the children and shake, and try to explain, but
we can’t. Haunted by the cruelty Mother has unleashed
on some, we whisper and hope, and glance up warily.
Do not make Mother angry.
Sun Grew as Flower Grew as Me
Sun grew as flower grew as me.
Rays that stretched and reached,
pushed through the wormy earth
to climb on stemmed leg. We drank falling
water and embraced warm. Nights,
we faded, rested silently, to be
re-born at dawn. When at last we opened,
our faces turned to one,
flower, me, sun.
even if you have the
may have been
too harsh, and
too many days,
will rust anyone
climb over gates
in time and for time,
and only he
Sarah Clark Monagle is an educator, mother, writer, photographer and brain tumor survivor. Her work has been published in many poetry reviews and photography sites, and she is a regular contributor to the Chicken Soup for the Soul series. You can follow her at www.sarahmonagle.wordpress.com and on Twitter @sarahbluepeace