Some poems are safety valves for letting off steam, to help relieve the pressure on a working machine. I’ve now got enough distance from the baby stage to share these archived tales which helped to dissipate my rage.
Missing Peace
My mind’s a murderous maelstrom, and I’m hoovering
Then a rattle brings me back from the abyss
Something big got lost inside this vacuum
I’m hoping it’s not anything I’ll miss
I’m contemplating arson at the playgroup
There really is no need to be alarmed
Give me the peace of an evacuated building
And only trains with faces will be harmed
I’m thinking of absconding from the school run
I don’t want anyone to make a fuss
Procedures will take care of both the children
While I drift off to somewhere silent on the bus
When the children were young, a classic feminist novel was mysteriously delivered to our house…
Post-Woman
The postwoman hands you a parcel
You can open it and look at the big picture, share your gift with the woman next door or you can continue to recite your stories..
How you were just on a work call while changing a nappy and the soup boiled over and nobody is dressed yet and there’s a full potty on the doormat
Sort through your day of caring and domestic duties until you recall a point where too many demands came at once. Save these stories for the telling and call them funny. It’s all about the juggling and laughing while you’re struggling
There’s a knock on the door while you’re feeding the baby. As you get up you are simultaneously aware of your piles and your stitches. Your toddler rushes around you shouting ‘Daddy, Daddy Daddy’. Not for another three hours will that be a reality
As you reach the door, the baby’s head turns and 100ml, or 60 calories, or 30 minutes of breast milk is coughed up onto your work shoes
The postwoman hands you a parcel. You can tell your story, or you can open it
©tamingtheoctopus 2020