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.
http://buelasprairiepractice.blogspot.com/

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.

Friend

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.

Compassion.
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.

Savor.

Support.

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.

Lense

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.
Besides,
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