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Prenatal learning isn't a myth
Even animal species learn sounds, tastes and smells before birth
What to say of babies human
Learn languages, music in mother's womb
It isn't my theory
Well documented scientific repertory
Kerala girl Aryananda Babu is the evidence
She won Sa Re Ga Ma Pa li'l Champs 2020
With no background of Hindi
Her mother told the audience
When she was in her womb
She used to listen Lata Mangeshkar's songs
All mothers-in-law, please listen
Don't hammer your daugthers-in-law like a blacksmith
They are golden crowns of your clan
Care for them like a goldsmith
Lest mentally ill or criminals are born
Prenatal learning is a reality. Best nutrition, ambience, care and conversation should be provided to pregnant women. Governments are taking care of nutrition, but other aspects are being ignored in the society.
Elena Mustafa Sep 30
One night
I spoke out of bed
To clear my head
Something is ill advised to anyone
Under 14
Should do
From the night mares
As i walk i hear
Crying loud moans
I look into my
Bahai/muslim neighbor
Torture her children
To death because they
Choose peace instead of jihad
From then on I saw them
Playing in the street
In the middle of the night
White as the ghosts
They are
As if pleading to me
To help their story
Well here it is
apayne Sep 16
I'm sending you an indigofera tinctora
plant it, water it, grow it
when it blooms
pluck a petal and hold it to your eye
look at me
through its vulnerable corolla
for when you need to see beyond the tangible
the little girl you created
Aubrey -
A not so ordinary girl or name
But who's to blame?

I'm sending you a stained glass dreamcatcher
careful it doesn't break
hang it over your bed
when you wake, hold it to your eyes
look at me
for when you need to see my truth
Joseph's coat of many colors
Aubrey -
A not so ordinary girl or name
But who's to blame?

I'm sending you the promise of a flood-free future
take a step closer
study it
place the promise between us
for when you seed to my truth
hate-proof, judge-proof, water-proof
Aubrey -
A not so ordinary girl or name
But who's to blame?
"Aubrey - a not so ordinary girl or name but who's to blame" pulled from song "Aubrey"   written and composed by David Gates; originally recorded by Bread.
Khoi Sep 13
Misused abused tough
body hits and heart attacks
only bleeding love
Abused by drug addicted kids and abusive husband's it is extremely tough for mother's in the gangster riddled Capeflats to cope love coupled with faith has an unbelievable way of carrying them through
Poems about Mothers

Mother's Smile
by Michael R. Burch

There never was a fonder smile
than mother's smile, no softer touch
than mother's touch. So sleep awhile
and know she loves you more than "much."

So more than "much, " much more than "all."
Though tender words, these do not speak
of love at all, nor how we fall
and mother's there, nor how we reach
from nightmares in the ticking night
and she is there to hold us tight.

There never was a stronger back
than father's back, that held our weight
and lifted us, when we were small,
and bore us till we reached the gate,
then held our hands that first bright mile
till we could run, and did, and flew.
But, oh, a mother's tender smile
will leap and follow after you!

Originally published by TALESetc

by Michael R. Burch

for all good mothers

Your love is as delicate
as a butterfly cleaning its wings,
as soft as the predicate the hummingbird sings
to itself, gently murmuring―“Fly! Fly! Fly!”

Your love is the string
soaring kites untie.

Such Tenderness
by Michael R. Burch

for loving, compassionate, courageous mothers everywhere

There was, in your touch, such tenderness―as
only the dove on her mildest day has,
when she shelters downed fledglings beneath a warm wing
and coos to them softly, unable to sing.

What songs long forgotten occur to you now―
a babe at each breast? What terrible vow
ripped from your throat like the thunder that day
can never hold severing lightnings at bay?

Time taught you tenderness―time, oh, and love.
But love in the end is seldom enough ...
and time?―insufficient to life’s brief task.
I can only admire, unable to ask―

what is the source, whence comes the desire
of a woman to love as no God may require?

I Cannot Remember My Mother
by Rabindranath Tagore
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I cannot remember my mother,
yet sometimes in the middle of my playing
a melody seemed to hover over my playthings:
some forgotten tune she loved to sing
while rocking my cradle.

I cannot remember my mother,
yet sometimes on an early autumn morning
the smell of the shiuli flowers fills my room
as the scent of the temple’s morning service
wafts over me like my mother’s perfume.

I cannot remember my mother,
yet sometimes still, from my bedroom window,
when I lift my eyes to the heavens’ vast blue canopy
and sense on my face her serene gaze,
I feel her grace has encompassed the sky.

Frail Envelope of Flesh, from "Poems of the Nakba"
by Michael R. Burch

for the mothers and children of Gaza

Frail envelope of flesh,
lying cold on the surgeon’s table
with anguished eyes
like your mother’s eyes
and a heartbeat weak, unstable ...

Frail crucible of dust,
brief flower come to this―
your tiny hand
in your mother’s hand
for a last bewildered kiss ...

Brief mayfly of a child,
to live two artless years!
Now your mother’s lips
seal up your lips
from the Deluge of her tears ...

Note: The phrase "frail envelope of flesh" was one of my first encounters with the power of poetry, although I read it in a superhero comic book as a young boy (I forget which one). More than thirty years later, the line kept popping into my head, so I wrote this poem. I have dedicated it to the mothers and children of Gaza and the Nakba. The word Nakba is Arabic for "Catastrophe." The children of Gaza and their parents know all too well how fragile life and human happiness can be. What can I say, but that I hope, dream, wish and pray that one day ruthless men will no longer have power over the lives and happiness of innocents? Women, children and babies are not "terrorists," so why are they being punished collectively for the "crime" of having been born "wrong"? How can the government of Israel practice systematic racism and apartheid, and how can the government of the United States fund and support such barbarism?

The Poet's Condition
by Michael R. Burch

for my mother Christine Ena Burch

The poet's condition
(bother tradition)
is whining contrition.
Supposedly sage,

his editor knows
his brain's in his toes
though he would suppose
to soon be the rage.

His readers are sure
his work's premature
or merely manure,
insipidly trite.

His mother alone
will answer the phone
(perhaps with a moan)
to hear him recite.

The Greatest of These ...
by Michael R. Burch

for my mother Christine Ena Burch

The hands that held me tremble.
The arms that lifted

Angelic flesh, now parchment,
is held together with gauze.

But her undimmed eyes still embrace me;
there infinity can be found.

I can almost believe such love
will reach me, underground.

****** or Heroine?
by Michael R. Burch

for mothers battling addiction

serve the Addiction;
worship the Beast;
feed the foul Pythons,
your flesh, their fair feast ...

or rise up, resist
the huge many-headed hydra;
for the sake of your Loved Ones
decapitate medusa.

by Michael R. Burch

for Beth, Laura and all good mothers

Bring your peculiar strength
to the strange nightmarish fray:
wrap up your cherished ones
in the golden light of day.


Love has a gentle grace
by Michael R. Burch

for Beth on Mother’s Day

Love has a gentle grace; you have not seen her
unless you’ve looked into your mother’s eyes
and seen her faith
―serene, composed and wise―
that you’re the center of her very being
(as once, indeed, she carried you inside.)

Love has no wilder beauty than the thought
that you’re the best of all she ever sought.

(And if, perhaps, you don’t believe my song,
can your mother be wrong?)

Love Is Not Love
by Michael R. Burch

for Beth

Love is not love that never looked
within itself and questioned all,
curled up like a zygote in a ball,
throbbed, sobbed and shook.

(Or went on a binge at a nearby mall,
then would not cook.)

Love is not love that never winced,
then smiled, convinced
that soar’s the prerequisite of fall.

When all
its wounds and scars have been saline-rinsed,
where does Love find the wherewithal
to try again,
endeavor, when

all that it knows
is: O, because!

by Michael R. Burch

How can she bear her grief?
Mightier than Atlas, she shoulders the weight
Of one fallen star.

by Michael R. Burch

All that’s left of Ireland is her hair―
bright carrot―and her milkmaid-pallid skin,
her brilliant air of cavalier despair,
her train of children―some conceived in sin,
the others to avoid it. For nowhere
is evidence of thought. Devout, pale, thin,
gay, nonchalant, all radiance. So fair!
How can men look upon her and not spin
like wobbly buoys churned by her skirt’s brisk air?
They buy. They ***** to pat her nyloned shin,
to share her elevated, pale Despair ...
to find at last two spirits ease no one’s.
All that’s left of Ireland is the Care,
her impish grin, green eyes like leprechauns’.

The Poem of Poems
by Michael R. Burch

for Beth

This is my Poem of Poems, for you.
Every word ineluctably true:
I love you.

Your Gift
by Michael R. Burch

for Beth

Counsel, console.
This is your gift.
Calm, kiss and encourage.
Tenderly lift
each world-wounded heart
from its fatal dart.
Mend every rift.
Bid pain, “Depart!”
Save every sorrow
for your own untaught heart.

Will There Be Starlight
by Michael R. Burch

a poem for good mothers everywhere

Will there be starlight
while she gathers
and lilac
and sweet-scented heathers?

And will she find flowers,
or will she find thorns
guarding the petals
of roses unborn?

Will there be starlight
while she gathers
and mussels
and albatross feathers?

And will she find treasure
or will she find pain
at the end of this rainbow
of moonlight on rain?

Originally published by Grassroots Poetry, Poetry Webring, TALESetc, The Word (UK)

The Desk
by Michael R. Burch

for Jeremy

There is a child I used to know
who sat, perhaps, at this same desk
where you sit now, and made a mess
of things sometimes.I wonder how
he learned at all...

He saw T-Rexes down the hall
and dreamed of trains and cars and wrecks.
He dribbled phantom basketballs,
shot spitwads at his schoolmates' necks.

He played with pasty Elmer's glue
(and sometimes got the glue on you!) .
He earned the nickname "teacher's PEST."

His mother had to come to school
because he broke the golden rule.
He dreaded each and every test.

But something happened in the fall ―
he grew up big and straight and tall,
and now his desk is far too small;
so you can have it.

One thing, though ―

one swirling autumn, one bright snow,
one gooey tube of Elmer's glue...
and you'll outgrow this old desk, too.

Originally published by TALESetc

by Michael R. Burch

for Jeremy

Cherubic laugh; sly, impish grin;
Angelic face; wild chimp within.

It does not matter; sleep awhile
As soft mirth tickles forth a smile.

Gray moths will hum a lullaby
Of feathery wings, then you and I

Will wake together, by and by.

Life's not long; those days are best
Spent snuggled to a loving breast.

The earth will wait; a sun-filled sky
Will bronze lean muscle, by and by.

Soon you will sing, and I will sigh,
But sleep here, now, for you and I

Know nothing but this lullaby.

by Michael R. Burch

for Jeremy

We need our children to keep us humble
between toast and marmalade;

there is no time for a ticker-tape parade
before bed, no award, no bright statuette

to be delivered for mending skinned knees,
no wild bursts of approval for shoveling snow.

A kiss is the only approval they show;
to leave us ― the first great success they achieve.

by Michael R. Burch

for Jeremy

Some intuition of her despair
for her lost brood,
as though a lost fragment of song
torn from her flat breast,
touched me there...

I felt, unable to hear
through the bright glass,
the being within her melt
as her unseemly tirade
left a feather or two
adrift on the wind-ruffled air.

Where she will go,
how we all err,
why we all fear
for the lives of our children,
I cannot pretend to know.

But, O! ,
how the unappeased glare
of omnivorous sun
over crimson-flecked snow
makes me wish you were here.

Just Smile
by Michael R. Burch

We'd like to think some angel smiling down
will watch him as his arm bleeds in the yard,
ripped off by dogs, will guide his tipsy steps,
his doddering progress through the scarlet house
to tell his mommy "boo-boo! , " only two.

We'd like to think his reconstructed face
will be as good as new, will often smile,
that baseball's just as fun with just one arm,
that God is always Just, that girls will smile,
not frown down at his thousand livid scars,
that Life is always Just, that Love is Just.

We do not want to hear that he will shave
at six, to raze the leg hairs from his cheeks,
that lips aren't easily fashioned, that his smile's
lopsided, oafish, snaggle-toothed, that each
new operation costs a billion tears,
when tears are out of fashion. O, beseech
some poet with more skill with words than tears
to find some happy ending, to believe
that God is Just, that Love is Just, that these
are Parables we live, Life's Mysteries...

Or look inside his courage, as he ties
his shoelaces one-handed, as he throws
no-hitters on the first-place team, and goes
on dates, looks in the mirror undeceived
and smiling says, "It's me I see. Just me."

He smiles, if life is Just, or lacking cures.
Your pity is the worst cut he endures.

Originally published by Lucid Rhythms

Child of 9-11
by Michael R. Burch

a poem for Christina-Taylor Green, who was born
on September 11,2001 and died at the age of nine,
shot to death...

Child of 9-11, beloved,
I bring this lily, lay it down
here at your feet, and eiderdown,
and all soft things, for your gentle spirit.
I bring this psalm ― I hope you hear it.

Much love I bring ― I lay it down
here by your form, which is not you,
but what you left this shell-shocked world
to help us learn what we must do
to save another child like you.

Child of 9-11, I know
you are not here, but watch, afar
from distant stars, where angels rue
the vicious things some mortals do.
I also watch; I also rue.

And so I make this pledge and vow:
though I may weep, I will not rest
nor will my pen fail heaven's test
till guns and wars and hate are banned
from every shore, from every land.

Child of 9-11, I grieve
your tender life, cut short... bereaved,
what can I do, but pledge my life
to saving lives like yours? Belief
in your sweet worth has led me here...

I give my all: my pen, this tear,
this lily and this eiderdown,
and all soft things my heart can bear;
I bear them to your final bier,
and leave them with my promise, here.

Originally published by The Flea

For a Sandy Hook Child, with Butterflies
by Michael R. Burch

Where does the butterfly go
when lightning rails,
when thunder howls,
when hailstones scream,
when winter scowls,
when nights compound dark frosts with snow...
Where does the butterfly go?

Where does the rose hide its bloom
when night descends oblique and chill
beyond the capacity of moonlight to fill?
When the only relief's a banked fire's glow,
where does the butterfly go?

And where shall the spirit flee
when life is harsh, too harsh to face,
and hope is lost without a trace?
Oh, when the light of life runs low,
where does the butterfly go?

Performing Art
by Michael R. Burch

Who teaches the wren
in its drab existence
to explode into song?

What parodies of irony
does the jay espouse
with its sharp-edged tongue?

What instinctual memories
lend stunning brightness
to the strange dreams

of the dull gray slug
―spinning its chrysalis,
gluing rough seams―

abiding in darkness
its transformation,
till, waving damp wings,

it applauds its performance?
I am done with irony.
Life itself sings.

Originally published by The Raintown Review

Keywords/Tags: mother, mothers, motherhood, child, children, childhood, son, daughter, family, love, compassion

Published as the collection "Poems about Mothers"
I keep having this haunting nightmare where are the children across the street A boy and girl whose or nameless and they were adopted but not for the right reasons for they were adopted for to be miss used for the name of God. I keep remembering seeing Islam art workor all over the place and seeing her beat her kids so very seriously. Every time I have the stream I just want to call the police or tell her to go away.  there is greater evil in this world.

ما زلت أعاني من هذا الكابوس المؤلم حيث الأطفال عبر الشارع ، فتى وفتاة تم تبنيهما أو بلا اسم وتم تبنيهما ولكن ليس للأسباب الصحيحة لتبنيهما حتى لا يتم استخدامهما باسم الله.  ما زلت أتذكر رؤية عاملة فنون إسلامية في كل مكان ورؤيتها تضرب أطفالها بجدية شديدة.  في كل مرة يكون لدي بث ، أريد فقط الاتصال بالشرطة أو إخبارها بالرحيل.  هناك شر أعظم في هذا العالم.
There was a woman who tortured children who she adopted and she wanted them to becomes the hardest and when they couldn’t they were cast away or killed true story and it was just across the street from me I wish I still call the police at the time
Nalinee Aug 28
पुराने संदूक में ये क्या खोज रही है
शायद नन्हे बच्चों को अपने ढूंढ रही है।
छोटे छोटे रंग बिरंगे पैरहन में
उनका बचपन संजोए रखा था।
सब कुछ टटोलकर शायद
अपनी मुस्कुराहट ढूंढ रही है।
पैरहन- लिबास, वस्त्र
abbey Aug 9
how many times do i have to flip my pillow over before there’s no more of me left on it? how fast do i have to go to get enough momentum to fling myself to mars? i think about you all the time. i don’t know what that says about me. if i gifted you a wind chime made of the bones in my legs and my hands, if i tied them up all pretty, when it rang, would you hear me or the bones? when the chimes were deep, would you hear that summer when you thought you were doing me a favor or would you hear the bones? when the chimes were light and lilty, would you keep pretending you didn’t know what i was doing that school year or would you hear the bones? i wonder. i gift you nothing instead. what do you hear? i wait and it’s quiet. no boney wind chimes. i haven’t even driven you home. i flip the pillows on your side of the bed but it doesn’t change anything because you never touch them. there are three cold sides to your two-sided pillow. i don’t know how you manage things like that. teach me your ways. you’re magical. you sleep on the couch. i can’t imagine why.

i can’t stand to sit here anymore. maybe we could go to church or something. that could be fun. knowing you, you’d hear god and he’d tell you to drive a stake through my heart. knowing you, you’d think about it. maybe we could go to the lake and you could think about drowning me. maybe i’d thinking about drowning me too so you didn’t feel so bad. i don’t know what that says about me. i’ve got to grind all my insides up to fit in my bed. i have to cut seven toes off just to fit in the door. and then i walk over the cheap rugs you got from home goods with my only three toes and i think about all the memories we’ve got here. peeling leather off my skin and turning all the lights on. watching you chain smoke in the driveway through the blinds so i could time my panic attacks just right. i got so good at saying sorry and so bad at paying attention to what for. i come back for nice pairs of socks but i leave literal parts of my body and i don’t know what that says about me. i’m trying not to think about it. i know you almost as well as you know the back of my head.

i didn’t know this was going to be about home before i started writing. another thing — i’ve never stepped foot in the attic and i hope the roof collapses. i hope the shutters fall off the windows and mangle all your flowers. i hope it all burns up someday. and i hope the people under the floorboards you told me about go up with it. what does that say about me? maybe that i’m a coward or that you’re terrifying. maybe that we’re both horribly selfish. maybe that i’m lonely. (or that i’ve only ever really wanted two things — to die and to be loved.) maybe that i’m traumatized. that you are too. maybe that we’re human. none of this means we’re ever going to forgive each other. none of this matters at all. especially not now, after all the damage i’ve done with this one. our house burned down. there are dead bodies in the crawl space. where are we going to live?
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