When Other Orders a Mother’s Heart. A poem and a hybrid by Nancy Ndeke

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WHEN OTHER ORDERS A MOTHER’S  HEART

The soil,dirty,darkly brown, often damp,
The liquid gold of wombic nurture and stature,
The goddess with nimble fingers and tender breasts,
Teaching lullabies in a preachers trembling tunes upon a fevered wake,
A father’s gift for a name after his father’s and further down the lineage, 
The place of worship in needs met and wants explained, 
What’s motherhood but divine soft shine of pain in beautiful gain,
That distance heart of a total stranger on bedded knees for another stranger in need,
Mother! Smoothing ruffled hair and crumpled Jersey, 
Mother! The spirit that hides a fugitive against a pursuing goon,
Mother! The jailer stepping in the gap of injustice and offering survival counsel, 
The spirit of motherhood is more than a mere gender,
It’s the universe holding up candles and star drops of merciful intervention,
To be a mother is bigger than blind titles and comely positions up success ladders,
It’s to be that man, that woman who feels the aching needs of another 
Motherhood is a faith in humanity and a religion of peace,
Motherhood is a gift to life and its unpredictable ladders that sway our steps,
Motherhood is an institution and constitution of light of hearts glowing with wellness for others.  
It’s the cycles of the moon in faith of conception and lovers daring spirits,
The birth of love, the forbearance of sorrow and the glory of service. 
Motherhood is the balm that heals what ails the Gail’s of life visit. 
To be visited by the spirit of motherhood is to attain wings while in flesh,
To fly life into betterment of the hidden Eden that once was home. 
 

BROTHERS WITHOUT BORDERS

Told in staccato silence of whispers along divine vines of prayers on tightly held lips, is the tale of words divorced from the throat of a man whose crime is truth in its nubile nudity oozing mantras of sagely dare to wrong. Night came visiting dressed in white robes and extended palms offering interrogative texts for a chance to leave or live. Poverty sucked hard at the stove pipe where snippets of gasps escaped the priests of bloody baths to signal sentinels of earths intentions to prune unripe grapes before maturity for a crime of passionate speech against misspelling of goodwill into ‘goonwill ‘.

The green of the land mutated from the rich fart of cats pursuing the ratting  mouse, who bore the truth on its flimsy whiskers. Heaven rumbled with the growls of pregnancy across an expansive network of giants of fluid statements and punchy pens oozing protest and defying the lids suffocating outcomes of witnessing a crime in the process of happening. 

A son has lost his mother. His children have shed his name for their sake. Friends are receiving bounty in hard currency to point the hunter the direction of the prey deeply bent over in prayer. 

Character has characteristics just as floor dusters spews out dust from accumulated dalliance with sooty places. A fugitive is not born or baptised into the career of ‘vagabondry ‘. A fugitive is a product and a brand curved out of intolerance and the thriving thievery of masters of saintly parades.

As the night gives way to daylight, a child runs into anti hills of the savannah to seek solace from termites and the mercy of warm hearts yet unbought by the promise of guarantee riches of statements and statesmen who run tragic shows against those unwilling or unable to match to the beat of debauchery and debased drums.

The world is a word in creation and performance.  The world is full of void spaces to fill with songs of muted courage and resilience verbs describing escaped feet and daring hearts.

So in the ear of the year when connection is a finger tap away and prison guard is watching the monitor trail a target from the condominiums of state largesse typing a eulogy before the death of the favoured, writers in their temples of slate paper towns breath hope into the perforated lungs of a child marked for target practice by marksman long dead of conscience.  But fate is an uncharted territory more mystical than Atlantis and the majesty of the pyramid.  The child made its first cry after a difficulty birth of itself and now like an old dog with memories of revolutionary scars and dents on its teeth, just let out a new exhale to celebrate deferred death.

The child’s name is Truth son of Defiance from the clan of Penners.

Nancy Ndeke is a multi-genre writer. She writes poetry, hybrid essays, reviews, commentary and memoir. Ndeke  is widely published with four collection of her full writings Soliama Legacy, Lola- Logue , Musical Poesy  and May the Force be With you. She has recently  collaborated with a Scotland-based Writer  and Musical Artist,  Dr. Gameli Tordzro of Glasgow University on the Poetry Collection Mazungumzo ya Shairi, and  also  co-authored the poetry anthology , I was lost but now am found with USA Poet Renee Drummond  -Brown . She contributes her writings to the Atunis  Galaxy Poetry ( Belgium), TUJIPANGE AFRICA( Kenya, USA), Ramingo Porch, Africa Writers Caravan , WOMAWORD Literary Press, BeZine  for Arts and Humanities( USA), Andinkra Links 5,  Wild Fire Publication, Williwash Press, The poet by day webzine, Writers Escape at Poetry, Different Truths, ARCS PROSE POETRY. Nancy Ndeke  also works as a literary arts consultant, copyeditor and  Writers’ Clinics Moderator.

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Published by darcie friesen hossack

Darcie Friesen Hossack is a graduate of the Humber School for Writers. Her short story collection, Mennonites Don’t Dance, was a runner-up for the Danuta Gleed Award, shortlisted for the Commonwealth Writers Prize and the Ontario Library Association's Forest of Reading Evergreen Award for Adult Fiction. Citing irreverence, the book was banned by the LaCrete Public Library in Northern Alberta. Having mentored with Giller finalists Sandra Birdsell (The Russlander) and Gail Anderson Dargatz (Spawning Grounds, The Cure for Death by Lightening), Darcie is now completing her first novel where, for a family with a Seventh-day Adventist father and a Mennonite mother, the End Times are just around the corner. Darcie is also a four time judge of the Whistler Independent Book Awards, and a career food writer. She lives in Northern Alberta, Canada, with her husband, international award-winning chef, Dean Hossack.

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