motherhood

17 May 2019 Poetry anxiety, dearmamarose, healing, homeless, mamarose, mental health, money, motherhood, poem, poetry, travel 2

The night had never been longer

Charlotte Rose

When I was waiting for Santa Claus – the night had never been longer

When I was stranded in Europe with no where to go, no phone, no map, no money and no words in their language and the people on the streets had it so much rougher than I and the man I was with couldn’t protect me and the clock never moved and time was not my friend and the ground was hard and my body cold and the sky was dropping rain that hung in the air and I was so hungry and thirtsy that each breath begged to drink it and the men in bars laughed as they walked to their cars at bar close and the one hit the other over the head with a golf club and there was so much blood and the ambulance took 45 minutes to come and the woman begging for a light had orange juice oozing from her bandaged arm as she reached toward me and the only one sober was lying but told the true stories of how the others became stranded in the night with his few words of English and only inches of personal space and spit that flew from between his two rotted front teeth and the black man danced in the street to his mp3 player and they said he’d come from Africa and couldn’t get home and no one had comfort and we all felt alone, the night had never been longer.

When we left the hostel in the forest at 4am to walk eight miles to make the train on time and the man who just spoke Spanish cackled as he took our room key back and said with wide eyes, “good luck”, as if he knew that luck was not enough to make it out alive and the trees all seemed as if they could house a predator and we had no weapons but pepper spray and a can in a sock and the women at the exit by the part that was the zoo were dressed in hardly anything and leaned into the windows of the cars they rode away in as they negotiated terms in words I didn’t know and my legs burned and burned and burned and I couldn’t stop and I wasn’t safe… the night had never been longer. The walk had never been longer.

When I tossed and turned in his bed, anxiety animating my legs and I knew, KNEW, something wasn’t right with us but I didn’t know my worth and I didn’t know love so I didn’t know what and at 4am I finally left and the giant snowflakes were orange in the light of the campus street lamps and I felt comfort as they melted on my face but I felt afraid as I walked quickly toward my car for fear of being taken but in truth he was the only one who ever took me without permission… the night had never been longer. The winter had never been longer.

When my nipples were bruised and bleeding and she would only sleep in my arms and I sat up in the bed and read the sign on the door a hundred times and I was hungry but couldn’t move and I had to pee but couldn’t move and everything hurt but everything was sweet and I was sweating through my sheets which no one told me would happen and her father was asleep because he didn’t have the milk and I was waiting for her inevitable stirring and fearing that her cry would mean I waited to long to meet her needs and was an imposter not a mother but a failure and a fraud and my mind played out scenarios where water bottles accidentally fell off ledges and crushed her head and I was so, so tired… the night had never been longer.

I wrote a poem while I was in Europe about the cruelty of time and how, still, I also trusted it to save me. I wrote in my daughter’s baby book that I prayed time wouldn’t take her from me. I wrote in my son’s that time was passing too fast.

I’m not sure if it was time that found me alive or nursed me back to health but it was time that brought me through all of those nights. I’ve almost forgotten them.

I think that it’s time.

I think I am time.

8 Aug 2018 Poetry breastfeeding, dearmamarose, mamarose, motherhood, poem, poetry, the only one, to be honest 0

Breastfeeding

Charlotte Rose

I know I’m not the only one who bites their own shoulder in the night when their nursling hasn’t stopped for six hours,

the only one who wants to rip off their breasts and throw them away so no one can ever touch them again,

the only one who cries when they are wanted and needed because being a life source is… a lot,

the only one who worries for the day, that will come, when they stop.

10 Jul 2018 Poetry baby, capitalism, child, dearmamarose, heart, heart centered action, law of attraction, love, mamarose, money, mother, motherhood, numbers, poet, poetry, the fall 0

The Numbers

Charlotte Rose

I don’t have paper in my hands or my pockets but these people… they let me have whatever I want because I have imaginary numbers.

I put my piece of plastic and magnets in their plastic magnet machine and it says,

“Yes. She is worthy of the thing. Give it to her now.”

They hand me the thing. It’s mine now.

The plastic metal viewing machine says that I have 4,563 numbers left before I run out of numbers and then they won’t let me have the thing anymore.

They gave me the numbers when I filled out the form. I told them the name for my face was Charlotte and they said, “You are 6,000 numbers.”

Sometimes I do things and people give me more numbers.

Sometimes they get mad at me because they don’t have as many numbers as I ask for.

I wonder how many numbers I’m worth if I just stay put, do nothing and rest.

My daughter wonders how I put numbers in the bank and how paper turns to plastic and plastic to symbols on a screen and then into the cookie I promised her if she didn’t touch anything while we were grocery shopping.

My daughter wonders why sometimes Mama doesn’t have enough numbers to get the cookie… or the groceries.

I tell her she exists between one and zero and that the numbers there don’t come apart. I tell her about infinity and how she springs again and again from the well of information that is stillness in her heart.

I tell her that by the time her age reaches the number of mine, that no one will count numbers for cookies. That her heart will be enough. That her heart is enough.

I tell her to plan for the fall of Capitalism, that imaginary numbers won’t last. I tell her that I don’t know who gives us all the numbers but that we are taking them back. That we are between one and zero. That we are the space between the numbers and that there is no space between the numbers and she asks…

for the cookie in my hand.

10 Jul 2018 Poetry babies, baby, child, children, dearmamarose, inner child, love, mamarose, motherhood, tough love 0

To my babies

Charlotte Rose

To my babies:

If you’re crying and you want to be held, I will always hold you.

I don’t need to “toughen you up”.
The world will make you tough enough.

My job is to show you loving arms,

to keep you tender.

Because, my only fear is that you’ll be too afraid to feel or too afraid to express it.

Babies; it’s safe to feel. It’s safe to express it.

and I love you eternally.

16 Apr 2018 Poetry adulthood, anxiety, ascension, change, dearmamarose, death, depression, family bond, healing, health, human, inner child work, inner voice, internal diaglogue, intuition, life, mamarose, motherhood, parenting, poet, poetry, reflection, second chances, self talk, self-love, sister, suicide, transition, voice 0

Sister

Charlotte Rose

I heard her cries for help without ear-buds in.

She wrote in blood because tears weren’t thick enough.

and pity, to her, is the last thing she needs.

She wasn’t ever asking for it and isn’t now.

Her quest for nightmares to free the monsters she trapped has since passed.

She eats vegetables.

She mows the lawn.

She goes for short walks because she wants a body that listens to her SCREAMING

“…please, just let me live without pain.”

“FUCK THIS PAIN”

she finds the ways to make it go away.

“I love you for meeting your needs in whatever way you can.”

“I love you for being resourceful.”

“I love you for continuing on when you’ve never had to.”

“I love your shape, the way you express yourself in movement, the sounds that you make, the love that you give away, the effort you put in your day, the things you care about, the colors that adorn your frame.”

“I love the cozy places that you’ve built to hide.”

“I love your walls. I love your pain. I love your voice on all those voiceless days.”

I heard your voice on all those voiceless days.

7 Feb 2018 Videos ascension, channeled, channeling, confidence, creative energy, creative potential, dearamamarose, enlightenment, female, female sexuality, gender non-binary, growth, higher self, human being, intuition, male, mamarose, masturbation, mirrored partnership, mother, motherhood, non-binary, partnership, sex, sexual being, sexual energy, sexuality, spirituality, taboo, the shift, woman, womanhood 0

The Shift in Sexual Energy – Ownership of our creative power

Charlotte Rose

There is a HUGE shift happening in our sexual energy – our ultimate understanding and expression of self. From my perspective as a woman I am discovering what it means to be my authentic, sexual self!

In this video I explore what it means to be a sexual being, how it feels to be sharing that truth with others and what it’s like for me to be in a mirrored partnership during this discovery process.

As this continues to unfold for me I will post videos sharing my perspective, so, please SUBSCRIBE to my YouTube channel to take part in this ongoing conversation.

Also, feel free to add your experience to the comments as to how this shift in sexual identification, sexual expression, sexual partnership and sexual energy as a whole is effecting you!

Lastly, check out more from me on http://www.mamarose.blog including the Healing and Support services that I offer YOU as you move along the journey of the collective shift in consciousness.

Those of you who know me know that I make my videos when inspiration strikes! So, although I’m usually in my bathrobe with terrible lighting – my videos are heartfelt expressions of my vulnerable authenticity and I have no doubt that you’ll feel the value in that.

Thanks for watching!

<3 Mama Rose

19 Sep 2017 Performance Videos abundance, aftertainment, amsterdam bar and hall, art, artist, ascension, awakening, female artist, god poetry, gratitude, healing, illusion, intuitive, law of attraction, live poetry, local poetry, mama rose, maya, mother, motherhood, music, oneness, poet, poetry, psychic, roberto, self-awarenss, self-expression, spanish, spirituality, spoken word poetry, universal consciousness, woman, women 0

Charlotte “Mama” Rose – Poetry – Aftertainment Networking Conference at Amsterdam Bar and Hall

Charlotte Rose

Charlotte “Mama” Rose – Poetry – Aftertainment Networking Conference at Amsterdam Bar and Hall at Amsterdam Bar and Hall.
Spanish at 1:19
You Are at 4:30
Maya at 8:30
Freedom to Move at 11:30
My Son at 14:40
Nathan’s Song at 17:20

23 May 2017 Poetry ancestors, immigrant, mamarose, Mexican, mother, motherhood, poet, poetry, son, spanish, spoken word 0

Roberto

Charlotte Rose

It never felt like it belonged to me. The way the Rs rolled, the way the words flowed.

But I felt it, growing inside me and becoming mine.

Roberto.

I was afraid to say his name. I was afraid my rigid tongue would strip it of its beauty, of its culture, of its history.

I was afraid they would all laugh at me. I was afraid they would be insulted by the way it stuck in my mouth like putty, like glue, like… English.

And I decided, for a time, to leave it to those who it belonged to.

But even greater was the fear that my son would come to know himself as Row- bear-toe.

Growing up to wear just a shell of his crown.

My prince.

My Principe.

The owner of all of the time and space that preceded him, the sculptor of all that lay before him.

I felt him growing inside me, becoming strong.

Strong like his Papa said his name, “Roberto Antonio Caballero!”

Strong, like his father, whose name is the same.

Beto, my boy.

Strong like his abuelito who was born in Mexico, learned the land by the stars, created a life in America and trusted me to carry his story. Strong like the river he crossed.

And this history, that wasn’t mine, and this language that sounded like wind through the trees and held love and pain and war and joy in its vowels and rolled like water over stones through its consonants was growing inside me. This language that belonged to my boy felt like rocks tumbling from my throat and staining my cheeks like sun to my fair skin.

I come from generations of strong women and men whose history is lost but not stolen. What a blessing, I thought, to have ancestors on your tongue.

So, when I met him, I whispered, “Roberto Antonio Caballero. That’s you!”

And I promised that my confidence would grow as he grew. And I’m learning and I’m teaching my daughter too.

This Spanish is more than a language my ninos. It’s you. And in the marks upon my belly and the milk that fills my breasts for you, it’s mine too.