Great Mother

I wrote this poem a long time ago and didn't like it at first, but this morning I'm liking on it. I wrote it in response to a man I overheard talking about how he hated living in WV. Love it or leave it, buddy, and blessings either way. I don't really hope he is eaten by a black bear...maybe.

He says that mountains don't talk,
But he just doesn't listen.
The wind gossips behind his back,
making the creek giggle.
The wind tries to be sneaky,
but the chimes report his every move.
Leaves drift around like teenagers gathering
to share their secrets and then just as quickly scurrying away
not to be seen talking together about who's crunching who.
The crows watch it all
and CAW! CAW! CAW!
And there's no telling what the fairies are up to.

He says mountains are obstacles,
things to be moved.
I look at the same gentle hills,
And I see the Great Mother.
Her bosom and arms cradling the valley,
Her swollen womb
nurturing seeds of every kind.
And I know that she will produce spring.
And when spring arrives,
if you dance barefoot outside,
you will feel her pulse.
(He only sees dead things everywhere,
And dreads the god-awful mountain winter).

He looks up and sees the trees
as a circle of barbed wire,
trapping him.
I agree that they are barbed wire,
put in place by the gods to keep
less hardy, less determined people
out of this sacred place.
(And I ponder how he got to our hills in the first place and why.)

He pities us poor, uncultured hillbillies.
I pity him because he is blind to our culture,
And, therefore, will never have a chance of
fitting in or being accepted.


I get my morning hug from the mountains
by sitting outside in the sun,
draped in a quilt sewn by my West Virginian granny,
and eating toast topped with homemade blackberry jelly.
I hear the chatter of the wind, the creek, the chimes, the birds, the leaves.
I feel the pulse of the earth beneath my bare feet.
And I secretly hope that he is eaten by a black bear.

(c)TNicholas 2010

Back to School (stone for 1/4/2012)

I drop her off at germapalooza.
She quickly joins the other poppets,
Schoolhouse glue dripping from their noses,
tiny, sticky, grubby hands linking best friends.

1/3/2012

I awake at 5 a.m.
and climb into the writing loft
with a bowl of oatmeal,
steaming coffee, the best of intentions,
but the kitten and ADHD,
have followed me...again.

Lukewarm oatmeal!
Thank you for sustaining me all these years.
I close my eyes and try to remember
what salsa tasted like.

small stones 1/2/2012

Jealous am I of things that can fly.
I hook my thumbs and make finger wings.
I follow birds in their flight,
But they continue into the sunlight
And leave me spellbound, earthbound, (hellbound).

Small Stones 1 1 2012

I took a walk with spring today!
Wild winds! Plants danced!
But now the sky cries
Because tomorrow that cold-hearted wintry bitch moves in next door.

Untitled

Untitled so far. This is my newest, and I'll probably make some changes.

The small azalea and blueberry bushes grew
In small pots on the porch when they were tiny and new.
They were junkies, too.
Addicted to long drinks of rain and sips of dew
(on the rocks).

They jonesed for the sunlight.
They quivered beneath the moonlight.
They had some blow when the wind was right.
Grass could be found everywhere in sight.

They were cut off cold when the winter came.
No sunshine, no dew, no drops of rain.
The blow turned bitter and caused them pain.
Nothing sustaining shot up through their veins.
(So they slept).

They awakened when they heard the robin’s song!
They survived the darkness, and their branches are long.
I wish you had of been as strong.

You couldn’t find a way to bud or start your life anew.
Stuck in the void, you decided you were through,
While the little plants fought their addictions and grew.
So we planted them, but we scattered you.
(And I wept).

©tnicholas2010

Mental Masturbation

Here's the title poem from my (hopefully soon-to-be published) book "Mental Masturbation: Poetry that has no point. It just feels good." Yeah...I don't give a crap about psychological nudity.

Mental Masturbation

If I try to concentrate on serious drudgery,
My mind goes off on a solo spree.
Thoughts come that bring joy to only me.
My mind masturbates in poetry.

I try to focus on hardcore work,
But my mind begins to jerk
Away to where creativity flows free,
My mind masturbates in poetry.

If I try to converge on important matters,
My mind beats off like the wings of moth.
Wild horses need out of the barn.
Breasts shouldn’t be captive to a corset.
It’s too hard to read dry material,
That doesn’t keep my gray matter wet.
It shoots off every chance it gets.

When worries are crushing my mental libido,
The spirit reminds me which way to go.
I can play alone, and nobody will know!
Poems get me off,
And help me stay where life is soft.
Imagery tends to relax.
Rhythm and Rhyme’s union produces the climax.

Words spluge forth and cover the page.
The ink defiles the virgin white.
There’s no course plotted out for this flight,
And there’s no destination.
There’s no point. It just feels good,
This…mental masturbation.