Verses 2-4 of A Mother’s Poems

***Verse 1 of these poems was published separately on February 10 under the title: “This Small Heartbeat”. These poems are for my thriving adult children.


A Mother’s Poems

By Jane Tawel


Verse 2- A Haiku

by Jane Tawel

February 11, 2019


Metaphors slide skew

When I try to write of you.

Only love will do.



Verse 3 – an Ode


Beyond and Above Aphrodite

by Jane Tawel

February 12, 2019


Now I, the geek,

Will mimic the Greek.

But Odes to love of children

Are false gilden, not real gold.

Or so I’m told.


I strive like Psyche

To see you, hidden from me.

And in the process, burn you

Then angst ‘bout why you flew.


Wondering why

And wandering nigh’

I hold coins in my mouth

To keep the devils out.

Yet before long,

My righteous strength is gone;

Opening forbidden boxes that you might see

A mother’s lasting love in me.



Ah, Aphrodite’s  love of child can not compare

To the cupidity of my every prayer

That you, my dear divines,

My treasures, as long as sun does shine,

Will find more Love, than all I’d give

And find True Love within you lives.



Verse 4

This is a poem I wrote several years ago that I thought I’d end these with for Verse 4.


March 11, 2015

By Jane Tawel

To Justine, Clarissa, Verity, and Gordon


Whoa, slow down, where you galloping off to?

A second ago, you were a useless collage of limbs.

I had to raise your hands to clean.

I had to raise your head to drink.

I had to ask you questions then answer them for you,

You, without a word, or sound that anybody knew.

But I.


Whoa! Take care! You’re running much too fast.

You’re going to slip and fall — I know.

I’ve seen it happen in my mind

A thousand times a day.

Did you hear me? Can you hear?

Have fun! Be safe! Too fast!

Rely on me and all my knowledge present, future, past.

Love you.


Whoa…slow down… I missed what you just said.

I see the buttons, levers, gears.

My fingers fail where yours speed on.

I hear the words that used to mean

A different thing. A different thing.

Did I already say that?

You tumble forward, catch yourself.

I used to catch you when you fell.

I’m still here watching, waiting– holding out my helpless hands.

Too much.



You’re gone and I can’t hold you here.

My whoa’s are just my own.

Remember—no, you don’t, I guess.

I clutch the memories, now — no more.

I once held you, my baby, child–

And now you’ve flown,

A Pegasus with wings of dreams

Not flaming myths,

Not lullabies from me.

I’ll sing your story old and new

Not mine, not ours. All you.

I’ll never seek to slow you down again.

My joy in you and your bright flight

Is how I can explain these blinding tears.

Blurring my sight

Of your fast ascent.




This Small Heartbeat – Poem

A Mother’s Memories

Verse 1

To my beloved children

By Jane Tawel

February 10, 2019


This small heart beat of mine,

Pounding down aisles

Of memories,

Reconstructing the blue prints

 of your now built temples,

As they once stood trembly

Scaffold-ed only by my love.


Ah! The sight of your accomplished domes and arches

Thrills me in my voyeuristic tourism.

And yet, to me

You will always be

That childish little chamber

In the house of my heart.




In My Cocoon a poem by Jane Tawel

In My Cocoon

By Jane Tawel

January 2, 2019


In my cocoon

I lie

As yet, unraveled

by the winds and swatters

of the awaiting day.


In my cocoon,

I do not need to fly

Into, out of, despite.

My day’s wings are not yet formed

And I can ignore


care for


Which is not yet born

In flight.


In my cocoon

The creepy caterpillars

Of my nightmares die

And a new body

Full of promise


If only while I can still lie

And to self lie

In my imagination and deny-



There is nothing scary or sad,

Without a heart or brain,

In my cocoon:

No Pain, No Gain, No Blame;

No feigned vain reigns

Of kings or queens

or me.

And the rain in Spain falls always on the train

Because all the moments

Are all the same

When I am tourist-ing life

Sweetly paralyzed

In a cocoon.


In my cocoon

Nothing hurts and

Nothing hurts me

And my pupils

Remain closed

While the pupa of my

Solitary, sedentary self




And yet. . .

The waking antennae

Of my soul

Begin to sense that

In my cocoon. . .


There is no room for



Shared meals

Warm Sunshine


Dry toes

Wet leaves

Cinnamon rolls

Spontaneous Grins

Splashy Puddles




In my cocoon

I can not hear

The notes and chords

A baby’s bleating cry

The breezes

The pitter-patters

The gurgling waters

Giggling waders

Gorgeous sunset weepers




In my cocoon

I will never, ever, ever




Hurt with




Be touched by




And so

I begin to shed all

That would keep me here

Incomplete again.

I digest the self of yesterday

Willing wings to grow

Though still small and damp

With tomorrow’s fears.

I emerge.


Today it is enough for me

To materialize again


The same,

Yet some one brand new.



I’ve never been a butterfly,

But I will learn in this new moment

How to use my wings.


And being a slight grey moth

Is enough.

Moths can also fly.


And with a small amount of creature luck

tonight there will be

A new cocoon to rest in

To grow in hidden promise

unaware to all

Even to my moth-holed self.


And someday

I hope to wake

And find the whole World

Has been cocooning

Until Eden is restored

And Butterflies

rise from their

imagined cocooning graves,

Never to die.

Trying to Make Rhyme and Reason Out of The Christmas Season

Trying to Make Rhyme and Reason Out of the Christmas Season

by Jane Tawel

December 23, 2018


We worship the Genie we call Santa Claus

Or  honor a building or practice some laws.

We call this religion and true Christmas season;

Or come up with competing fiestas or reasons.

We give gifts to loved ones and eat ’til we pop

And think we are doing our best if we shop.

We claim it is all about Jesus and yet

The fact He was Jewish we’d rather forget.

And all of the immigrants who’d like to be saved,

We keep locked in prisons while walls are being raised.

Our children are dying by their own hands or ours,

And we have the nerve to preach “wisemen” and stars?

Well, maybe that’s why kids prefer “holiday”

Instead of the old news of babes born in hay.

If this is the time we celebrate birth,

We’d best know that God came to save the whole earth.

And that means if we want to lay down a claim

That “Christ-Mass” is about the Name of all Names,

We must take down our idols and elves off the shelf.

We need to become like the Christ-child Himself.

If you are still worshiping power or greed,

Then humble yourself,

Be bruised like God’s Reed.

And if you have never experienced real love

Forget about Christmas and seek the true God.

For God will become anything your soul craves,

After all, He once chose to become a small babe.

Because our God loves us He came down to save,

And took for Himself our own death and the grave.

And that is what Christmas should be all about,

And why those who love Jesus should sing with a shout:

“Fear not, for a God does exist who is Love

And wants all of His children in His Kingdom Above.”


The phrase “Merry Christmas” seems often abused,

So I would prefer to give truly Good News:

God loves our small planet and each molecule

That He has created and that over He rules.

The God of all ages has appeared large and small

And this season we worship the smallest of all.

So let’s in the New Year all try to find

A heart like a baby’s both needy and kind.

Let’s need love from others in the same way we share

The love of All Love, the God-child who dared;

Who came down to our level and brought us Truth’s Light;

Messiah, The Chosen, King of David’s Birthright.

May the new day before us remind us, we too

Can live every day reborn and renewed.

Just as God longs to heal each worldly cell,

He desires that all souls may know true Noel.

We pray that in our hearts, each of us will strive

To let God-love transform us and eternally live.

May we seek every season, love that grows in each heart,

No matter our culture, religion, or part.

For every day’s holy if we humbly will listen,

For the soft voice of Jehovah and the True Word of Christ-mass.

May Each Day of the New Year Bring You and Yours Those Things that will Remain–

Faith, Hope, and Love,


*********This can be a tough time of the year for some people. Did you know that if you text 741741 when you are feeling depressed or suicidal, a crisis worker will text you back immediately and continue to text with you? Many people don’t like talking on the phone and would be more comfortable texting. It’s a FREE service to ANYONE – teens, adults, etc. – who lives in the U.S. It’s run by The Crisis Text Line.
If you prefer to talk to someone, National Suicide Prevention Lifeline 800-273-8255


Until The Daylight Comes A Poem by Jane Tawel

Until The Daylight Comes

By Jane Tawel

September 27, 2018

Until the Daylight comes,

I lie broken



Until the Daylight comes,

I lie




And until the Morning Star breaks the dark

And breaks the dark in me

I fight the demons of the night

Real and unreal

Forgetting that Hope

Comes with the Light.


But Ah, My Soul Awake!

Hope Comes Renewed

with the Rising of the Morning Star.


Maybe You Have Left Us — A very long meditation poem. By Jane Tawel

Maybe You Have Left Us

by Jane Tawel

November 20, 2017 – July 22, 2018

This is a very long poem-like meditation, a modern-psalm-ish thing of lamentation. It is something I have worked on a long time and just need to be “finished with” for now. It came out of this ache and longing, I guess, to come to grips with a struggle within myself about with how far off course I feel we seem to have sailed in our ideas about God and His / Her relationship with us humans and our planet. It is based on Biblical records of God’s coming and going, Jesus’ coming and going, and the willful coming and going of the Holy Spirit. You will find pathetic sophomoric allusions to The Great Thinkers of the ages, like L’Engle, Dickinson, Greek philosophers, Dolores O’Riordan and The Cranberries, Shakespeare, Pink Floyd,  and  so on — listen to them instead of me, of course.   It is also a meandering collection of random droppings from nights of lying awake in the night and wondering, Are You there, God? If so, I’m rather lost down here.  And finally it comes from a deeply dissatisfied weariness of facile answers and cheap grace talk. It is not for the faint of heart nor the short of time. LOL! Perhaps like any personal thoughts, the sharing of mine  might open a door for someone else’s thoughts, valuable to them.



We’ve cornered You in books and boxes–

Dry pages turning over Your name,

like dirt turning over a gravesite, so

Maybe getting bored or irritated?

Maybe? You Have Left Us?


We gather publically to kneel easterly in modern streets

And fight neighbors over thievery- aged space

to beg You for things and more things.

And You are known to get angry at abuses of Your name, so maybe,

Maybe You have left us?


We rant like ants in a bowl of super-sized Super superstitious  Super-sized Super Stars.

I’m thinkin’ –Maybe You have left us?


We think of You as the putz who promises persistently to part the Red toilet-bowl-sized Seas of people’s petty problems.

You are the definition of a putz: “one who engages in inconsequential or unproductive activity”. See you Sunday if I can make the time for You. If not You’ll forgive me with Your Walmart-priced grace. Welcome to Discounted God-grace.

We still hope you will continue to pick up the bill and get us out of our fixes and hand over the goodies without much effort on our parts. That is how we see You — #Genieinabottlegod.



But didn’t I see somewhere on a dusty shelf that

we used to view You as

Someone who created us

out of dust

to be gods.

Isn’t there a repressed memory (oh, god, I long to repress it!)

That once in paradise

we lived like


owning out- of- this- world power, wisdom, glory, truth,

beings who were with you, were

like You;

we lived

created to creatively create as mini-Me gods

in Your eternal Being-With-ness.

But that was a long time ago,

When You were With Us, #emmanuel.


Here– Now–

we wallow in our wimpy wan and selfish greed

mistaking greed for power

preferring to beg You but not to be like You.

Frankly, we would quite prefer not to expend the energy it must take to create and By Jove!-

it is much easier to destroy stuff, in the image of some random, soul-sucking goddess of the ancients

Yep – that is us -Toys Ares are Us. #bestBastBuys

Just another game somewhere with machine guns, killing the zombies which Ares just

A bunch of panty-waisted school kids from over the border of otherness.


We beg You for incidentals

in a world crying for LIFE!

writ large indeed.

We praise You for our gourmet buffets

in a world crying for clean and living Water.

We hammer up cameras to spy on thieves

and miss the daily stealers of our souls.

We blithely tip the cup

on Sundays before brunch

and rise on Mondays to brazenly pour out cups and cups and cups and cups…

into the landfills of our nations

while neighbors worship– roofless, shoeless, dirty,

in their hovels of holiness.

Are You there? Hello?

What language is Your Spirit speaking where?

Oh, God, maybe You really aren’t there when I feel like you aren’t there?

Oh, God, maybe you have left us?



We shut the city gates, and build the Western Walls, eyes in the skies help keep our carpets clean, we celebrate our blessings of being imprisoned against those who are licked by dogs, who gladly take the crumbs from a table we no longer sit at in reverence, no longer wasting our perfumed lives weeping repentance in the footsteps of You.

We daily eat the flowing bread and drink the wine bought with the price of an hour’s litigation, thinking that the one meal we ate, ingesting You into our tiny, closed up hearts was enough to feed us ’til the Judgment– trusting that Your once upon a time, in a land far, far away sacrifice of being spitted -on and spitted on a stake for our future consumption, believing against any reasonable belief that  Your One Man-band’s sacrifice on the deathly cross paid up all our bills. We daily leave Your offered Feast for offal feats and for the remembrance of how good that one meal tasted. Long, long ago we rose from Your table, barely able to move from stuffing ourselves so full, and we thought we put You safely into our little closed up hearts like a napkin to wash our faces with after eating at  other banquets; Son of Man as convenient Handi-wipe; and You remained behind longing for a homeless person’s dirty feet. And as we waste away our waists in the wasteland of  our corpulence, I lie awake at night needing a good massage to work out all the knots in my scar-tissued back and I remember how You had some serious scar tissue back there too and I have to wonder if  You finally just decided to once and for all show us Your back side on Your way out  #don’tlettheDoorhitYouonTheWayout.

maybe you have left us?


We put You at the end of swords, and guns, and bombs, and bombs and guns,

and turn our plowshares into Wikileaks and tweets.

We honor you with words spit out as fast and killing as bump stocks.

We think You only face one way, Northeast was it?  with all your other faces, you are so not

halal, not kosher, not evangelical, not shriven

and, oh god, do we even know your name?

maybe Y-u have left us?

We look at each other through cloudy mirrors called TVs and cell phone screens

And are so bloated with appetites for apps we can’t see our feet meant to teeter on

The Narrow Way;

And after so much Botox and Lasix our eyes can’t focus

And we no longer look for You in the dimmish glass.

Our mirrors have been turned to selfish selfies and perjuring posts making our lives look large

But about you? — how small can I make your name? and how do y-u spell that?

We have fallen into the habit of containing You in buildings and museums. As if the God of Noah, Abraham, and Moses could cramp Himself into a container built without holy specs.  You tried to tell ole David that.  I notice now when people touch their hands to light up the touch screens with stuff about you, or put your body in their mouths, they don’t fall over dead.

Is that ‘cuz You have left us?

Frankly, though (and I can call you Frank or Shirley or anything I want – what was Your name again?) Frank, old Boy —

If I’m to be perfectly honest with You, Frankly;

We would rather You did not show up in Persons.

Remember how awkward it has always been when You have?


So, maybe you can leave us –#hopingitwon’tmatter

Anyway,  I plan on catching you on The Other Side

Once I finish ruining this dark side of the moon.


We like to think, being more used to breaking international treaties, that this has always been a one-way street with You. Our favorite praise song is “I Did It My Way.”

Fun Fact: The word covenant doesn’t even come up on spell-check.

We like to think You always save us by day’s end — Dear God, please RSVP and BYOLWF —  Show up please, with Your lambs and wood and fire (I hope You know I mean metaphorically cuz I’ve recently gone vegan to lose some weight, but I’m telling everyone it’s cause I love little animals so darn much).

We like to think we ‘pecial persons are  the final Hurrah People. Forever lisping childishly, we didn’t mean to bwake it, pease fix it fohwa us, pease?

I heard an old, old story that

You came once to save us by being one of us

Just in time for The End,

Remember?  You threw that big cook-out

with Lamb on a big wood skewer

marinated in our sins and

deliciously surviving the Fire.

Now You are being saved up for dessert later

Wrapped in heavenly golden streets

Waiting for me right after I finish eating

my million-dollar 24 Karat Gold Chicken Wing. #oncesavedalwayssaved


but maybe You cancelled your reservation to dine in my neighborhood

and You plan on taking a rain-check

something like the rain-check You took before the rainbow?

or maybe You just left us?


We do not want to count the cost ticked off in Your centuries of multiplying corpses.

Costs ticked off tend to tick us off.

Some of us are counting on the Prime Number Corpse You raised.

Others of us count on the corpses we bomb in Your honor.

And there are those who think our corps are the only people

at the core of Your Great Plan of Salvation

Never realizing they too have eaten the core of the dirty apple.

Well, it’s so much nicer here in Texas, than in the Corpus Christi You had in mind.

Some of us want to be left alone with you-ness-less-ness, simply left alone by-non-you, to breathe through nihilistic nostrils through our first world- stressness, seeking a type of nascent meditated-medicated corpse-ish-ness we think sounds peaceful, aum, aum, aum, without a thought of how to die for those who breath in bomb-fumes, rat-fumes, death-fumes,  third-world fumes of  fumigated philosophy.

uncertain next- breathless-ness.

and maybe, just maybe, because we insist on living,

and You insisted we must die

then maybe You could no longer dwell in our corps? Our corpses?

maybe You have left us?


Isn’t there a verse in some holy book or other that promises if I just say You exist that You will stick around to make everything Almighty-alrighty– just for little ole me?


We have created an idea that there is a need in You!

We have created this idea because we need to believe You are for us.

But that is a need that cannot exist if You are who You are –I Am

No prepositional prepositions around Yourself

No conjunctions connecting Your outstretched limbs,

No ifs, ands, or buts,

just Being-ness. #freetobeYounotme

We say: “You need us to love! You need us to watch! You need us to do Your work, to kill the infidels, to spread Your words, to give foreign children boxes on Your birthday, to gather once a week to sing songs and be taught by highly paid motivational speakers, to post up Your commandments, to hide our faces, to make our nations great, to make others follow Your laws, to give You our service, to give You our hearts, to give You our only ten percent and no more, to give to, pray to, sing to, speak to You! You! You! Rah, Yea, You! You need US to love you, need US to love you, need US to love you!”

But maybe You didn’t need to stick around?

We believe in you because little ‘ole God (how small can I make your unknown name?) needs Us.

But need is not a word I think You comprehend. I could just as well ask You to tell me the color and shape of a Dream. I may as well ask You to give me the equation for Hope. If You have the time, could you tell me the meaning of Time?

But hope has lost her feathers and must be singing elsewhere,

plucked naked in the company of stars.

Ah, Jesus H. Christ! Did the H stand for Holy or How-ie, as in How do I get out of Here?

How do I find The Way to where You are, Jesus How-ie? Christ!



I am left with only the remembered space of


now empty.

And what am I to do?

if YHWH El Eloah Elohim Elohai El Shaddai Tzevaot Jah Mashiach Ruah Hakodesh

have left me?


I often wonder over here

if maybe You are in

Korea or India or Nauru?

But maybe You have left us all, all together, left us– for God so loved the world He eventually just had to walk away and count up His losses?


What if You have gone elsewhere

Like any good Mother would

To see her children?

What made us humans think

we were born as Your only children?

It is legal after all to divorce your Parents and if we divorced You

Then maybe You are taking care of the kids who didn’t.


What if You have born quintessences in

galaxies galore

to explore

that we know nothing about?

What if You have a whole family

Of lovely children that

Look and act just like You?

What if You have a special Son You’ve been meaning to hang out with more?

So maybe You have left us?


What if You are wedded

With beings that are far more like You than we could ever know?

(After all, after The Fall,

we gave up on that quixotic idea,

preferring to be zombies dressed up with no place to go).


What if You are dancing and singing with supernova-stars

While we watch Idols win prizes that decay?

What if while we seize the day,

Your Son has come out Tomorrow?

What if You are building worlds with feathered bird-like Phoenixes

While we burn out and then burn up, never to rise

In the only resurrection?

What if You have found others who have lived with

pierced hands and piercing eyes

and You have yoked together

in radiant death-sought death defying



If all who once dangled dancing on this lopsided Orb

with broken feet and empty suitcases

have ended up Up- there out there somewhere else

with You,

while the rest of us are just vacationing here,

biding our time, instead of biting Yours,

if They godlike are now circling

in the cacophonous kaleidoscopic Caper,

cavorting through constellations as Your Corpse

Your Body as Macrocosmic!

but some how You Yahweh

individualized in little ole me time and place

right here right now

as it is in Your Heavens and yet

so beyond the measure of our Season, Space and Scope,

on this brief Stage

with no flag flying

but the Banner of Love



I could choose to live in the mangled mode of your mysterious materiality, mothering the mother of all manias with my Maker. #meaculpamymaster


But, oy vey

This day

I wonder – Oh Woe — if

maybe You Yourself have packed up

and moved on in a Tesseract of Space and Time

Tessered  beyond

My teeny tethered ability to fathom it;

while I unbeknownst are

unknown? #Ineverknewyou

what if you have left us?

What if you have left Us?

what if You have left us?

what if when we left You…..


YOU let us?


The wind blows where it wishes and you hear the sound of it, but do not know where it comes from and where it is going; so is everyone who is born of the Spirit.– John 3:8


Just Laugh – a Poem by Jane Tawel

Just Laugh

By Jane Tawel

July 6, 2018


For my husband, because sometimes (okay, lots of times)  I just have to try to make him laugh.


When you are feeling super down

The circus hasn’t come to town

And no one wants to join you at the caff;

Just pick a point across the room

And let your tummy just assume

That you can let it all go– and just laugh.



If politics has got you glum

Or your feelings have been hurt by mum

Or your boss has just rejected your bar graph;

Why, don’t you know that it’s a choice

To just release your inner voice

(And quite behind their backs) you can just laugh.


Now maybe you have bigger woes

Like unpaid bills or untrue beaus

And you think that my advice is too facetious;

But I’ve found when I feel like an ass

If I can summon up a laugh

I feel a bit more like an able genius.



While watching shows upon the telly

You sometimes need to start your belly

Cuz it’s been out of practice for a while;

And if you really can not giggle

Then I’ll allow some room to wiggle

And you can start by forming just a smile.



So the next time you are feeling sad

Or maybe mad, or just plain bad

And you made a silly or a great big gaffe;

Just look yourself right in the eye

And realize no one’s going to die

If you open up your mouth– and laugh and laugh.