Tag Archives: writing

Heart Daughter


They told me that you were born missing most of your brain,
But to me, you were perfect.
I’ve fallen in love dozens of times, but nothing prepared me for the way it felt to hold you in my arms and look into your grey-blue eyes:
Calm, still oceans that harboured secrets no one would ever discover.

You were not a child of my body, but you were a child of my heart.

Born to teenage parents who had underestimated the challenge of raising a special needs child, I cared for you in the hospital for the month after your birth while you waited for a foster home.
Doctors and nurses focused on how you wouldn’t live past ten,
But all I could focus on was the way you looked at me whenever I cradled you and sang,
“You are my sunshine, my only sunshine…”


What does it mean when a child is born imperfect?
Some people take uncreased sheets of paper just to fold them into shapes called “art”.
Some people pour gold into fractured pottery just to celebrate the beauty of splintered history.
If art and history can be subjective, then who am I to behold the creation of Almighty G-d and call it anything less than spectacular?
You, you are made of the magic of stars and cells, angels and organisms, fairy dust and molecules,
Spackled together by two people who didn’t know how to raise a child who wasn’t like other babies,
And I, I was the witness to this messed-up miracle of a sweet baby girl born imperfectly perfect, perfectly imperfect.
All I could do in your presence was hope that I could kiss you enough for both our lifetimes whenever I cradled you and sang,
“You are my sunshine, my only sunshine…”


Your name is a song that dances on my lips in the arabesque of a half-smile or the brise of laughter in a quiet moment.
Time races by in sunrises and sunsets,
Almost as fast now as those hours at the hospital where I counted your fingers, toes, and eyelashes.
Somehow, I have ended up loving you without you much longer than I loved you while knowing you.
The day I handed you to a woman I didn’t know to take you away to a place that I’ll never know, knowing that I’ll never see you again,
I sat down on the pavement outside the hospital and cried in the autumn rain.
They say that motherhood is momentous because it is choosing to forever have your heart walk around outside of your body,
And in that moment, as the raindrops beat down, I became a true mother.


You are my Heart Daughter, and wherever you go, I will always long for you.
Every night before I go to sleep, I cradle all my love and hope and wishes for you in my arms and I never forget to sing,
“You are my sunshine, my only sunshine…”

Chloee passed away February 22nd, 2018. I will never forget her.


 Creative Commons License
This work, “Heart Daughter”, by Beth Murch,  is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.


Remember Me?


It’s May and little sprigs of green are poking their heads out of the ground. The winter’s snow is finally gone (we hope!), and things feel fresh and new.

I’ve been fighting a losing battle with writer’s block over the past year. For the past year or so, poetry has not felt like my friend…which was weird, because I’ve always been able to turn to poetry as a friend, even in the toughest of times. But what to do when poetry itself is the problem? Hmm.

Anyway, spring is here and I am slowly experimenting with writing once again.

This is what I have been up to:


I got published in Oratorealis! Check out Spring 2017’s Issue 2.1 on page 18 and 19, and you will see my poem, “~4 AM~”! This is rather exciting for me, because it was a goal of mine to be printed in this publication, so achieving that has got the old creative juices flowing once again. I’m glad that “~4 AM~” found a good home, especially one that includes the work of some very talented artists.


I’ve also been published in a zine that will be released on Mother’s Day (May 14, 2017) called, Soother: Femmes Grieving Family and Fertility. The poem, “Ritual For A Much-Wanted Child That Will Never Be Conceived” was the poem to end my writer’s block, and I feel both very good and very vulnerable that it is being shared with so many people. I’ve seen a preview of the zine, and it is gorgeous! It is definitely worth money, but it is being generously offered on a sliding scale starting from $0. If you are interested in ordering a copy, go here.

I was strolling through Facebook the other day and came across some pictures of me performing in Vancouver at the Verses Festival back in 2015. See?

me at verses

me at verses 2

Lastly, I am gearing up for a set at Bracelet of Hope’s Women to Women show in Guelph, on May 28, 2017. I’m looking forward to my feature there, as well as doing a little shopping in their pop-up boutique!

I hope you are doing well, my friends, lovers, dears, and queers.

Trees, Bees, and Babies!



I never write poetry anymore.
I don’t remember how to.
I remember red wine and clove cigarettes.
I remember singing Tom Waites at 4 AM.
I remember counting syllables like a greedy child counts coins for candy.
Words don’t come easily now.
There’s only the hum of the refrigerator for company.

I only sleep with escape artists.
I pretend that I am not awake whenever lovers quietly leave
so that I never have to say goodbye.
They pretend that they will see me again.
We pretend that red wine stains come out of white winter coats.
Nothing is final –
Except my unwelcome solitude.

My special talent is turning inside-out.
Let me show you my entrails.
This is my heart.
These are my veins.
These are the hungry ghosts that play between my organs.
I call them my emotions.
They don’t call me anything at all.


Is this your image? Please let me know so that I may credit you.

Creative Commons License
This work is licensed, “Untitled” by Beth Murch, is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.


Under A Bushel


They say love is a light:
To let it shine, let it shine, let it shine,
But the bulb in my kitchen has been burnt out for a week now,
And my apartment is sitting in half-darkness most of the time.
I spend my days writing poems that no one will read,
Waiting for a phone call that never happens,
Creating origami flowers from letters that never come.
I’m hungry for something other than potatoes and rice,
The ache inside me like a sinkhole –
Swallowing up people, places, and things
As if nouns could ever satisfy the longing.
This kind of sadness requires adjectives.


 Creative Commons License
This work, “Under A Bushel” by Beth Murch, is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.


Upcoming Events Avec Moi


I’m a busy little Queen B these days, and over the next few weeks, there are some events taking place where you can find me, if you want to!


First off, Precious Blueberries, you can find me facilitating two workshops at the Birth and Beyond Conference in London, Ontario from October 20th-22nd. The first is entitled, “Conceiving Your Story: Telling Tales” and the second is “Birthing Your Story: Telling Tales”.


If you still haven’t gotten enough of me at the Birth and Beyond Conference, you can catch me hosting their Birth House event, where the birthy folk will be showcasing their amazing talents such as spoken word, dancing, singing, storytelling, and so much more! 


What’s new, Pussycat? Whoa-oh-oh! You can find me at the Pussycat Lounge in Hamilton, Ontario, celebrating women/wimmim/womyn/womxn who love women/wimmin/womyn/womxn. No matter your gender identity, you are welcome to take in the music spun by DJ Michael Simla and the creative work of Debra Anderson and myself. It’s going to be purr-fect!

Trees, Bees, and Babies!

Peace and Blessings!

Bethy ❤


There’s A Country & Western Song In Here Somewhere


They say that when someone’s been stabbed
it’s safest to leave the knife blade in the wound.
The weapon acts as a plug to keep blood in the body,
and additional organ damage can be caused by pulling out the sharp edge.

In the movies, the hero pours whisky on his own pierced flesh,
grimacing as the alcohol stings his slash marks –
makeshift antibiotics for his barely-there medical care.
Hypovolemic shock never sets in before the bad guys are brought to justice.

I’ve been staggering around with a knife stuck inside my body.
Even though my muscles have stopped trying to force the foreign object out,
and my skin has grown over the place where the blade entered me,
I can never forget the feeling of being punctured.

There’s a tourniquet around my heart, Baby,
But I’m still bleeding out over you.
I pour bourbon down my throat but it doesn’t heal the nerve damage.
I think this time the bad guys just might win.

bloody-yellow-melon-killed-by-knife-wound-with-blood-metaphor-stock-photo Stock Photo.

Creative Commons License
This work, “There’s A Country & Western Song in Here Somewhere” by Beth Murch, is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.


Morning Song


The juicy sound of the cat barfing
raises the hairs on my neck before I even open my eyelids.
I check the sheets for menstrual blood stains as I make the bed
and then my piss splashes in the toilet bowl like a golden tsunami.
The sting of peppermint toothpaste attacks my senses
while I brush and spit the remains of a restless night into the sink.

There is nothing delicate about morning.

The scent of freshly ground coffee beans
competes with the fragrance of the freshly used litterbox,
and the milk has gone as sour as my love life.
Yesterday’s dishes are piled in the sink.
Yesterday’s ashtray is overflowing.
Yesterday’s used condom sits in the wastepaper basket,
and I’ve been wearing the same nightgown since Tuesday.

There is nothing more revealing than the bright light of morning.

In the steaming shower, soap bubbles trail between my legs,
while I lean my forehead against the cool tiles.
My muscles are like fists,
unclenching one by one,
And I think for a moment, of
feline vomit
period stains
sour milk
golden bars of sunlight streaming through the cracks in the curtains…
…and I think of morning.

There’s nothing quite like the dawn of a new day.

image by King of Wallpapers.

Creative Commons License
This work, “Morning Song” by Beth Murch, is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.