A New Adventure

Hey everyone! I hope you’re all hanging in there. I know I’m trying.

I’m stopping in to invite you to join me over at my new page, MagicMama!

There I’ll be fusing together all of my favorite things: motherhood, fitness, poetry, and mental health advocacy. It’s my mission to use this platform to help women feel heard and understood.

I hope you’ll join me.

❤ Nicole

Rebirth

I am transitioning. 

 

motherhood: 

 

milk-coated moments 

soft, opaque, all love and light. 

 

smoke-filled lungs

choking on small scenes 

wading blindly

 

I started small.

 

one additional heart 

five years, holding his 

small, sturdy body in my arms

feeling it bloom, all limbs. 

 

his hands, still new, only larger now. 

he rests them on my growing belly

his brother

 

his small mouth talks of protection. 

 

I hold him as I always have

with my whole self

days, minutes, hours before

I split myself in two.

movement

[https://i.pinimg.com/originals/1d/7e/91/1d7e914dc8d7ddc86ec378317e83e7e5.jpg]

 

and here you are living

despite it all 

• rupi kaur 

 

a weak heart beating in spite of itself.

the sun rising in spite of itself.

 

suddenly there is gratefulness 

in the way you paint your mouth 

in the bathroom mirror.

 

suddenly music has grown 

hands

feet

tongue

movement 

a new necessity

 

loud, louder, drown everything.

 

the hours present like 

ocean waves in your chest

 

breathlessness to appreciation

of silver moon on silver water.

 

the irony lies in the excited chatter of 

birds outside your bedroom window,

their days fuller than yours.

 

your second son kicks you awake 

reminds you of the way your body moves

 

even when you can’t bear the thought of it.

yesterday I wanted flowers

[https://photos.com/featured/multicolored-tulips-bob-pool.html]

yesterday i wanted flowers

(such a small, insignificant thing)

 

weeks ago I’d have quickly ran the 

water at the kitchen sink 

 

forgotten to trim the stems 

 

crowded too many into the glass vase

 

poured in the drops of vodka that

promise to keep them fresh

 

placed them off center on the kitchen table

and went about my day.

 

but now 

 

now I’d document the hue of every petal.

 

I want tulips – 

 

sky-burnt orange 

(I’ve forgotten what it’s like to wake with the sun)

 

the hastiness of red

(we haven’t ran far enough for our cheeks to turn)

 

the authenticity of purples, blues, pinks – 

 

I’d lay their sweet heads 

on the countertop

 

carefully trim their green feet 

 

reach for the second vase 

(distance is key now)

 

carefully position each one

(watch their delicate necks)

 

and then I’d watch them bloom.

 

I’d catch each one as it

stretched out it’s bright arms

and dropped each precious petal

 

because time

is the smallest, 

insignificant of things.

Rituals

Enter a caption

the day is a series of catchphrases

 

the sun rises and falls 

 

casts the same judging glare 

through her living room window

 

she’s forgotten what the air feels like

when it catches and holds in her throat

like all of the words she’d tossed into 

a jar before she dared to try them on for size

 

somewhere her daughter 

cries in unpredictable patterns 

quiet, loud, a siren’s wail

 

barely breathing but never more alive

 

life thrums at the edges of her doorstep

 

she counts the crows huddled 

along the power lines

and steps back inside

Obsessions

Take nothing for granted, she said.

 

Each morning you crawl out of bed;

I rise from the ashes and go sorting

out my bones just to begin the day.

 

You pour coffee and toss out

sleeping words you won’t remember;

I drop stones from my tongue and

pick them up when I’m finished.

 

I fold blankets perfectly from end to end

for the empty house to enjoy,

I straighten photographs

no one notices anymore,

 

I open and close blinds until

sunlight greets me at the perfect angle

 

but still

 

I can’t stop

these uneasy waves

in my chest.

I have some exciting news to share!

Hi guys! Remember me?

I know it’s been quite a while…but for good reason, I promise.

I’ve been keeping most of my writing under wraps because I’ve been working on my very first chapbook, and I am excited to announce that it is finally finished, and available for purchase on Amazon in both print and Kindle e-book form. I decided, at least for now, that self publishing was the best path for my work. The cover art was done by my great friend and tattoo artist, and I am over the moon with how it turned out. I can only hope the poems inside live up to the beautiful cover.

If you’re interested in purchasing a copy of my debut chapbook, all these things that haunt you, just head on over to Amazon!

Or, click this link.

Thank you all for the support you’ve given me on my blog over the years. I really hope you enjoy this chapbook; it’s been an exciting ride putting it together, and every piece is near and dear to me. Some you may have seen before, but most are brand new.

And if you do choose to purchase one, don’t forget to leave me a review on Amazon!

Thank you again. I’m looking forward to taking a breather and delving back into WordPress for a while. See you all around!

 

xo,

Nicole

connections

mother folds the rug back 
while father sweeps

mother stirs the pot 
while father fixates
on a crack in the ceiling

 anything but the way
my shoulders jackhammer
while i am begging him
in some devastated tongue

 to see me in some light, any light

they say a mother’s love knows no bounds
but what happens when your own mother
is so broken she cannot lift a hand
to see the way it looks so much like your own?

i am screaming with my mouth shut
and i’ve run out of bandages
to keep my bones from breaking
in one fragile swoop like some cheap trinket

i am grasping at straws made of sand
they turn to dust in my grasp
like this mirage that tries to
tell me i have a family

i kneel behind my son in damp grass
wrap both hands around his waist
point at whatever wonder the day is bringing

and i think: i’ve done this, haven’t i?
i’ve been on the other side of this
hands around my waist, so small
somewhere in the fog of another life.

Sandy Crimmins Prize for Poetry

Hello out there! Remember me?

I’m still writing furiously, but keeping things under wraps in hopes of being published means my creative well is drained by the time I get around to blogging. So it goes.

I’m popping in to encourage you to submit your previously unpublished poetry to the annual Sandy Crimmins Poetry Contest, run by yours truly.

Now get out there and write some fabulous poetry.

Details here: http://www.philadelphiastories.org/poetry-contest/

xoxo,

Nicole Marie

 

steven

[https://fineartamerica.com/featured/tire-swing-darren-greenwood.html]

 

steven was a boy

with a name like butter

on my wind-chapped lips,

like marbles in the

pit of my juice box stomach,

like heat between thighs

just old enough to

straddle a poorly hung

tire swing over filmy lakes

in august heat

 

and

 

I bled for the first time

at a sleepover

somewhere between the

singe of burnt popcorn and

the nineties television

we played whisper-down-the-lane

as my innocence clung to my thighs

 

three girls in polyester

nightgowns

all differing shades of pink

thin hair, thin lips, thin minds

stuffed tissues in their

training bras while I

shifted on my pillow seat and

thought of him.