May 1, 2015

Belinda Hubert: Four Poems, "Easy Mom"

In addition to writing fiction and poetry, Belinda Hubert is currently working on a novel, titled Shrink Wrapped and a collection of short stories about life in the Midwest. She works as a clinical psychologist in a private practice in Lowell, Indiana. Belinda is a frequent contributor to Indiana Voice Journal.

Easy Mom

She wishes for a reprieve.
Simple appreciation and some rest.
Just a smidgen of the generosity
she lavishes on her loves.
She doesn’t expect anything.
That kind of giving is it’s own reward.

It’s hard to explain that receiving it
is wonderful, precious, vital;
but giving it is so much better.
A privilege beyond anything she ever imagined.
Especially considering the
unrelenting, cruel amount of work.

But on Mother’s Day she often expects.
It’s her day.
The whole culture tells her she matters.
On that day she wants, and allows herself to believe
thoughtful attention like she lavishes
is her due.

So this gracious font
of unconditional love,
who slaves to orchestrate all the other
lovely celebrations;
she can be tough to please.
Even get angry or bitter.

On other days, it’s no effort
to consider the source,
see the offering from the
age, frame of reference, intention.
On other days.
Not so much on Mother’s Day.

On that day, she wants a little effort.
Selfless appreciation, pampering.
Understanding of her for a change.
Just everyone to do what she wants.
All day. Perfectly.
Pretty hard to get that right.

Good thing she is wise enough
to let go of expectations.
Be grateful for enough.
For fumbling, misguided or last minute.
If anyone on the planet knows,
it’s mom.  Simple is not easy.


All you need is one.
More is a welcome embarrassment of riches.
She brings you chicken soup when you’re sick.
Or bakes you sugar cookies like her grandma made.
She inspires you with her courage, her intelligence.
Style. Taste.
Mad skills.

She makes you laugh and listens to you cry.
She calls you in the middle of the night when her cat dies.
At lunch, on a girl’s night out or a trip to Europe,
she will stand shoulder to shoulder with you
to learn, grieve, celebrate.
Create. Teach.

Old or young, plain or magnificent,
women hold up the world
with their wisdom, grace and beauty.
And their death defying strength.
There is no more precious gift
than the friendship
of a woman.

Sam Owens

The clouds and mists roll past
suspended in a line
between the fairy village
and the craggy peaks of Alp.
In puffs or shreds of cottonball
opaque to sheer
sinking and settling into a low spot.
For a minute.
Blurring the focus here
as the vista crisps to view
somewhere else.

In the town center is a tree that
dates to the 1400’s.

Ghost fairy magic time travel town
tucked at the base
of improbable angles and juts.
Slivers of waterfall rushing.
Bare branches reaching
furry brown like rich soft mink
above the evergreens.
Moss growing up the tree trunks.
Inching.  Ageless.
As a single rose blooms red on a fence post.
In a pile of white snow.


It’s just me here - having hot flashes
and being old.
Watching my parents fail,
feeling my heart clench in my chest
Talking to Sarah who is
being overwhelmed
by her three banshees.
Watching Jess be stuck
in a wheelchair,
for cripe’s sake.
Empathizing with Allie
about her broken heart.
Knowing my husband
is a little bit depressed.
It doesn’t get better,
it just changes.
It’s bad. It’s good. It’s both.
All the time.
And that’s just stunning.
Because each thing is a flash.
Just a kernel,
vibrating with rich color and opportunity.
if it wasn’t OK with me,
those bits would still
be exactly as they are.
 For a moment.
So, Hell, it might as well
     be OK with me.

Jessica Hubert
~Belinda Hubert

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