Prompt #3: Parenthood

April is National Poetry Month.  For fun, and in honor of great poetry the world over, I’ll provide a writing prompt each day.  Feel free to respond to the prompt, or ignore it if it doesn’t suit you.  The goal here is to write a little every day, if for no other reason than to experience the joy of writing.  I imagine that not every prompt will inspire a full poem, but like Natalie Goldberg espouses, we’re going to write for the practice of writing. 
If you would like, you may email your responses directly to me at, or leave your efforts in the comment section below each day’s prompt.  I would be happy to share work and links back to bloggers and poets that have decided to participate.
Many of you may already have a poem or piece that fits the prompt, but try to write and share something new.  Flex muscles.  Write.  You can always revise later.

Prompt #3: Parenthood

Motherhood has been the most significant moment of my life, but it was something I dreamed of long before I was ever pregnant. Having said that, I have a number of friends that NEVER want to be parents, and I can respect that desire.  Write a poem about your own feelings on the subject.

And just for fun… my poem, while not new, did inspire the prompt:
(I am hoping to write a new one for today’s prompt)

“She Sleeps”
I am  not afraid of the dark,
but fear silence too long still.
I reach out in the night,
across cool cotton sheets,
check her tiny, sleeping form
a half-dozen times. If she is
quiet beyond my inhale, my
breath stops, my heart tripping.
I stroke her to a mild whimper
just to be sure that she lives
beyond today, maybe to be a
prom date, or a graduate student,
or a mother in her own right.
I think of my mother lying still
and listening with her whole body
for a tiny mew in the darkness.

To visit that previous post:


Birthdays ROCK

Because it’s Michele Battiste’s Birthday and since her book has been a wonderful companion, I thought I’d post a poem inspired by one of her own pieces.

Would You be Upset?

Would you be upset
to know that I read
your poetry in the bathtub,
in water hot enough to steep tea,
the pages curling inward,
forward, my left arm propped
on the cool edge,
the lotus petals of my hand
assuming Savasana.
Would it bother you
to know that with little regard
for the ink of your odd cartography,
I am the whale,
the water sluicing down
my twitching abdomen,
that place I watched
so diligently as my daughter
kicked and slugged and warred
with my bladder.
I hope that you do not mind
that I have taken you
with me to that sacred space
where I work the crossword
and watch my knees wrinkle
in a presage of things to come.