Poems published in Red Silk, an anthology of women's writing published by Womanspace of Rockford, IL.



Mud Season in Vermont

April, mud season, also marks the anniversary
of my son’s birth. I spread his eight years on the table
as if he could be measured or given monetary
value. Someone has to write the fable

of his life and keep it like a promissory note.
Someone has to witness the new leaf
on the maple, tote
around the vision, tinged with the belief

that symbiosis is prone to etiolate
the mother. The boy, flippant as a magazine.
Of course I chose to germinate, to create.
But who tells you motherhood is so byzantine?

These eight years my body feels the slake
of the turning of baby to boy to grown man. A solemn
memory, his body in mine, I take
with me in my cells. His life, this spring, rises like a column

from the mud: full of grit
and wet black Earth. I’m bound
to get stuck. May as well tie me to the spit
and roast me. Listen to the sound.


and:

Rant Poem Written in 7 Minutes

I tie a ribbon in a foolish way
because I’m a fool and a foolish
lover.

I have wet dreams all night about
that guy who grabbed my ass.

I have visions of writing a script but
have no clue how to write one.

I spend way too much time Googling
how to write a script and not enough
time actually writing.

I am so happy at the return of the
sun.

I have all these lines of poetry
bubbling in my head and I fear they
will fizzle out and go flat like when
you leave a bottle of soda open on
the counter.

When I get these lines and words &
pieces of poems trying to worm out
I feel as if I have a battle raging
inside me: a battle between team
poet and team responsible.

The latter often wins.

I have yet to learn how to live fully
as a full-time poet in this world.

Sometimes I think there must be a
different, secret world where poets
live.

My son is asking me where the tape
is and I want to tell him to shut up.

I only asked for seven minutes and
he’s supposed to be brushing his
teeth!

I’m still in my pajamas at 2 o’clock
in the afternoon.

A dog barks.

The sun is quietly peeking out from
behind a cloud.

There are battles going on, both
inside and out.

The dog still barks.

Things everywhere rage.

Samantha Kolber