Posts Tagged ‘poetry’

Snapshot of Snort.

April 2, 2013

The luxury of being you
Your head on your mother’s leg
The boat gently rocking
Spring sunshine streaming in the windows.

Your sleep is heavy and sweaty,
Cheeks red and sunglasses on,
Breathing deep and steady,
Perfect trust in the world around you.

Oh, the luxury of being your mother.

Yesterday, in haiku:

March 16, 2010

Babies on the floor
flailing all the fuck around
how will I catch them?

You keep on screaming
I know you want your milk, dude
give me a minute.

You tricked me again
I sit here feeling bemused
I am a twin mom.

Batteries dying
bouncy chair fucking freaky
gothic sounding tunes.

Mama needs nachos
so hungry she will eat YOU
watch out, little twins.

Poop on your toes, my nails
an arc of pee flies overhead
boy, this is so fun.

You are both asleep
so this is my chance to pee.
Motherhood is grand.

Should be doing this:
writing book, peeing, sleeping.
Twitter ruins my life.

Both babies awake
I missed my chance to go pee
the toilet mourns me.

Every time you burp
it feels like my own triumph
I OWN you, baby.

Judge not, non-twin moms
I should have changed my knickers
minipad instead

I am lots of things:
but ‘more asleep than awake’
describes me today

I am an artist
baby fingernails my art
pass me the clippers.

Three fifty two now
feels like midnight at least
I’m overtired

I keep smelling shit
Who did it this time? ANSWER ME.
I will sniff your butt.

Bride of Chucky on
feels so very dirty
baby twins in room.

YES! Scored a free toy
the Tiny Love Apple, yum
Freegle, I love you

My twins laugh and laugh
her fingers in his mouth and
her feet in his hands.

Painful invention
auto-repeat, more Chucky
and his doll bride too.

Going to bed now
impossibly long long day
worn out from the fun.

I tweeted mostly in haiku yesterday, though I also spoke in sentences about my period, how everything smelled like farts, and my fear of overlarge babydolls. Ah, more high brow reasons for you to follow me on Twitter Plus, we can chat and take it to the next level, ifyouknowwhatimean *leer*.

You bookend my life. Thank you.

September 9, 2009


On the day you were born,
we brought some music into the room. On
a fluke
the evening before, we added the song
‘Beautiful Suprise’ to the CD.

And you are.

A beautiful surprise, I mean. The first moment
I saw you, I was flat on my back
with my head turned to the left,
your mum looking at you like
she’d known you her whole life. And
she looked at me
like I was a miracle for
making you.

Little boy, with your soft
deep gold hair, your heavy bottom,
your soft soft skin.

Little girl, our coconut,
with your rosy perfect lips
and tiny curled toes.

How could I have known this, known you,
imagined what it would be like?
Every day I learn you, get
to know you, watch you watching me.

I hang suspended in these moments,
in no rush to lose them to
just here for this exact time,
in this exact way.


Thank you to everyone who took the time to comment on my entry yesterday. Last night as my breasts let drip after drop fall onto my stomach, as I looked at them in the mirror before gently tucking them back into bra, I wondered for a moment if I was crying. Your comments kept me sane on a sad, sad day. I read them each about twenty times, and no doubt will go back to read them again and again in the coming weeks until I come to terms with how things are.

But you know, having this son and this daughter,
I am grateful.


haiku, it takes less time.

August 22, 2009

one-handed typing
pumping like a big moo cow
from my left boobie.

standards of hygiene
appear to be slipping fast
vomit on my arm.

happy to say that knickers
finally fit me and, oh joy,
have some room to spare.

last night tmd
brought me a baby and a
big ass milk carton

the sort adults
pour on cereal. she gets
confused at nighttime.

also gave me breast pads
when i asked for inhalers,
bless her cotton socks.

my cotton socks house
swollen ankles and talon
toenails. roar! beware!

have i mentioned that
we think our babies are awe-
some? we really do.

let’s see, what else to
say. spd very bad,
five to six months to clear up.

almost time to switch
boobs. have so much more to say.
will try later on.

in the meantime, folks,
i have a son and daughter
who need some lovin’.



April 5, 2009

This morning sounds and
smells and feels
like home.
Home here, home on the other
of the
but home nonetheless.

I am awake by myself, excepting
my cat,
and it feels good.

One baby rolls and turns in
my stomach, I
imagine the other’s
I have been writing to
them this morning
and BOY
don’t I sound literary
in those words.

I’m telling them about
what the light looks like before
other people wake
I’m telling them
how TMD pushes her face
against my stomach
every day
and kisses them,
I’m telling them about my big
worry-love and wondering
when it will only be

This is a morning I want
to silently get dressed
creep outside
walk down the hill
spread a blanket
and lay in the park,
until the blanket is soaked
through and I am freezing
and wondering why
I bothered
getting dressed.
And then stay

This is a morning
I write and write and write
and feel like a spring is
even if I’m not quite sure
where it is located.

This is a morning where
that woman with
beautiful heart
(and breasts!) lies sleeping
a few walls away, and the only
non-natural noise is the keys
I compress,
which sound more
than anything else I’ve heard
in a


It feels good to breathe
today, to shut
my eyes and merge
this life and past lives and
feel happy to be
sitting here
where I am.

Even the grey clouds can’t get me down.

September 24, 2008

Today is shaping up into an altogether tasty day. Highlights include:

1. My new career as an envelope decorator. One of the children I work with has a birthday soon, and I have rarely enjoyed coloured pens and stickers so much.

2. Myself and a friend at work are talking entirely in Haiku.

3. The session I was anxious about all last night was kickin’. I took the lead and I think it went really well. A little of my confidence is back.

4. My sister and I are exchanging very long emails about very big stuff. It feels gorgeous.

The only thing that would make today better is if I already had my license and TMD had left the car at home, allowing me to drive and pick up dinner. She’s out really late this evening, and I really fancy chips.

The only blight in my day, which is actually so screwy I kind of enjoy it, is that my septum really fucking hurts if I push up on it. I think this is my nose’s way of telling me it is not happy that it is not pierced. Damn TMD for repiercing her nose and looking so good – and not wanting to be ‘twins*.’ She wants to be ‘a cool lesbian mum.’

I will have to find a way to be cool. I suspect it will involve envelopes in some way.

Peace out, bro’. For reals.

* Besides, I tell her, you aren’t twins with someone if opposite sides of the nose are pierced. Dental health be damned, I never should have taken out my tongue ring. That’s cooler than the nose thing any day.

Flair board. As close to a picture of me as you’re likely to get.

September 13, 2008

I’ve gone minimalistic with my current flair board on Facebook. There was something nice about deleting the mass quanty of flair and just not caring.

Thirty facts about me/my life/etc on my thirtieth birthday!

September 5, 2008

My father has borderline personality disorder,
my mother went into labour with me
on labour day,
my grandmother marched in the first
union march in the
country I was born in.

I love buying journals and have trouble
finishing them. I have five holes in my
ears and no more hole
in my tongue.
I have one crown in my mouth,
no tattoos, and
a serious distaste of earthworms.

I’m 5’8, taller than my mother (only just)
and shorter than my
father. Once, playing under a sleeping bag,
I watched my sister swallow a
I met TMD in 1998, I moved to this
country permanently in 2001 (we can
ignore the extensive visiting in 2000).

My grandfather had a huge collection
Reader’s Digest books,
and he ate popcorn every night from
a giant wooden bowl.
He and my grandmother were
first generation in my home country.

I never thought about being
from that country until I moved
far away from it, and my accent and cultural
habits made me an oddity.

I dislike cutting my toenails (because it’s
icky, not because I want long claw hooks),
I’ve worn glasses since I was eight,
I lost my virginity when I was 16. My wife
has a killer voice
and plays the guitar like a dream.

I have never met my father’s side
of my family,
I have never met my grandparents’
across-the-ocean family,
I wonder sometimes how they fared in
the Holocaust, with all those
death camps sprinkled around.

I am not German or Austrian.

I’ve slept with more boys
than girls
but been with TMD probably longer
than all other relationships combined.
I’m a serial monogomist.

I used to tap dance.
I cannot do a cartwheel.

(I think I counted correctly. Thanks to everyone who wished me a happy birthday in one way or another. The first fact of my 31st year: I love comments on this diary. It makes me feel listened to, valued, and like someone has reached out to make a connection with me. Love to you all!)

A taste sensation.

August 27, 2008

My stitches: sort of
red and puffy, as well as
leaking white glob things.

Finally. Math that makes sense.

August 21, 2008

Love your houdini.
Haiku plus houdini is
seven syllables.