— Read on



When I rose into the cradle

of my mother’s mind, she was but

a girl, fighting her sisters

over a flimsy doll. It’s easy

to forget how noiseless I could be

spying from behind my mother’s eyes

as her mother, bulging with a baby,

a real-life Tiny Tears, eclipsed

the doorway with a moon. We all

fell silent. My mother soothed the torn

rag against her chest and caressed

its stringy hair. Even before the divergence

of girl from woman, woman from mother,

I was there: quiet as a vein, quick

as hot, brimming tears. In the decades

before my birthday, years before

my mother’s first blood, I was already

prized. Hers was a hunger

that mattered, though sometimes

she forgot and I dreamed the dream

of orange trees then startled awake

days or hours later. I could’ve been

almost anyone. Before I was a daughter,

I was a son, honeycomb clenching

the O of my mouth. I was a mother—

my own—nursing a beginning

~Ama Codjoe

#life #mom #mother #poetry



Subtle sense of solace 
Prettiest blooms and greenery 
Rebirth and awakenings, an 
Inconceivable ambience 
Neverending bouts of rain showers 
Glorious clear blue skies ahead

~ J Alaine 2019

#acrostics #poetry #spring #nature #life