The Bluebird Word

An Online Literary Journal for Poetry and Flash

Tag: mother/child

Photo by Lukhmanul Hakeem on Unsplash

Mothers Carrying Things

10 May 2025 /

Poetry by Rachel Beachy

We begin by carrying the car seat,
the diaper bag, the pump parts
and pacifiers.
Then they grow and bring us
collected rocks, Lego blocks,
remains of snacks,
dirty tissues.
All of this
we take in
so they will know:
whatever you hand to me,
I can handle
no matter how heavy it gets.
Remember, I once carried
my whole world
in the crook of my elbow.
There is nothing I cannot hold
for you.

Rachel Beachy lives in Kentucky with her husband and children. Her poems have appeared in Ephemera, Freshwater, The Orchards Poetry Journal, The Rising Phoenix Review, Sky Island Journal, Steam Ticket and others. Her debut collection “Tiny Universe” will be published by Kelsay Books.

Photo by Yusuf Onuk on Unsplash

Unbridled

1 May 2025 /

Poetry by Rachel Beachy

When the horses run, they run
wildly                       without pre
amble – the gates open
the gun sounds
they go as if their lives depend on it
                  and they do
They were born so they walk
and they walk so they run –
I used to find it remarkable, how at two years old
they could be their fullest force
then I watch you at the same age,
your short legs carrying you
                   down
                   the
                   hill
as close to flying as falling
and so free you do not fear the difference.

Rachel Beachy lives in Kentucky with her husband and children. Her poems have appeared in Ephemera, Freshwater, The Orchards Poetry Journal, The Rising Phoenix Review, Sky Island Journal, Steam Ticket and others. Her debut collection “Tiny Universe” will be published by Kelsay Books.

Photo by Joshua Hoehne on Unsplash

Something Different

1 July 2024 /

Poetry by Emily Lacey

You’re not even mad
that you’re bundled in a pink snowsuit
or that your hands are swallowed
by your sleeves and mittens.
You don’t care that your boots
are stiff or that your hat is strapped tight
below your chin
or that your nose is dripping,

but you’re enraged
that the snow is blocking
the sidewalk,
your mittens now little purple fabric fists
because you can’t go for your
daily walk.
You trudge your body
forward—into the mound—sink.
Mama,
make this go away,
Mama.

You wave at the snow falling,
like it’s something different.
You even try to kiss it.

Emily Lacey lives in Danvers, Massachusetts. Her work appears in Evening Street Review, Medical Literary Messenger, The Broken Plate, and Freshwater.

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