When Mother Gets Angry

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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.

 

 

What Remained

He blew through bitter and dark,

battering her shores with cruel winds

that dragged her in a frenzied, swirling dance.

His wrathful waves assaulted her shore,

her protection, as he slammed his rage

against her, under somber, swirling skies.

She pleaded, tried to reason with him,

even sang a song, of the love between sand and sea,

but his relentless rage continued,

for she had taken up with the sun,

and he could not bear to see her golden sands.

To save herself, she bowed her head,

put up a fence to fend him off,

but he struck it down, “Let your sun

shine on a broken fence.”

Then, depleted from his fury and the change of tides,

the sea retreated, dragging as many

pieces of her with him as he could.

The sun shone on what remained.

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