She looks in her eyes,
Seeking the light that never dies,
Even when the shadows rise.

Her face still glows
Like the brightest star is the sky,
Even In the deepest lows,
Gentle as a doe.

Not just a impressionist
Or a perfectionist,
But also a professionist.

Wisdom is wrapped in her tenderness,
Strength disguised as her gentleness.
Full of fire, full of grace,
She walks her path at her own pace.

With contrast in personalities,
we got the similarities.
Cause our heart share the same tides,
And Without any hindrance she guides.

Sometimes a warrior, sometimes a swarm
Yet she always keeps me warm.
Because She is, and always will be,
My super duper mom.

I’ll share this photograph of my parents with you.
It’s like an old wine overflowing time, still new.
They’re eighteen and twenty-four, in their best poor clothes,
Posing under an olive branch on a Roman road.
The picture is classically imbued; they, permeated
By natural light like actors in a neorealist film
Embraced in some final frame of desperate justice.
The photograph arrests the wind of the day, that moment,
Blowing blades of blurring grasses into living inertia,
Light pregnant even in the stones and shadows;
And there’s something more, something magical,
Beyond youth and beauty, a divinity being born,
Cupid bending the olive branch, the arrow flown.

MOTHER
A word thoughtfully
Spiritfully
Embroidered.

Many pushed forth
A few nurtured and brooded.

Mother—
An entity enjoyed by some
But tasted by so few.

Hurray
I sing of a woman
My world.

I celebrate my hope
Wrapped for me
From God.

Happy Mother's Day
To my Odogwu

In the quiet of the morning, you find yourself wandering back,
To a time when the world was simpler, and joy was easy to track.
You were just a child, with a heart full of wonder and glee,
In the serene woodland, where snowdrops and daffodils grew free.

The air was crisp, the sky a gentle blue,
As you picked the flowers, their petals kissed by dew.
Each bloom a token of love, pure and bright,
For your dear Mum, on that Mother's Day light.

Her smile, when you handed her the bouquet,
Was a memory that has never faded away.
She held the flowers close, her eyes shining with pride,
In that moment, all the world's troubles seemed to hide.

Now, you look back with a sigh,
Your Mum, so much older, often lets loneliness pass by.
Her days are filled with memories, some heavy with sorrow
But you hold onto the joy, the love, and hope for tomorrow

The woodland still whispers, with the echoes of the past,
Of a young boy's laughter, and a love built to last.
Though time has changed us all, and life's burdens have grown,
The purity of those moments, in your heart, is still known.

So, you sit by her side, and you cradle her hand
And talk of the snowdrops and daffodils, and a love that withstands.
For in those simple flowers, and the joy they would bring,
Lies a timeless bond, an eternal spring

Brigid was born on a flax mill farm,
Near the Cavan border, in Monaghan,
At Lough Egish on the Carrick Road,
The last child of the Sheridans.
The sluice runs still near the water wheel,
With thistles thriving on rusted steel.
What's known of Nellie's early years?
Da died before she knew grieving tears,
But her eyes will burn in later years.
She's eleven posing with her class,
This photo shows an Irish lass.
Her visage blurred,
Her eyes look distant,
Yet recognizable
In an instant.
She attended school for six short years,
The three R's, some Irish,
With a Doctorate in tears.
Her Mammy grew ill,
She lost a leg,
And bit by bit,
By age sixteen,
Nellie buried her first dead.
Too young to be alone,
Sisters and brother had left the home.
The cloistered convent took her in,
She taught urchins and orphans
About God, Grace and sin.
(There were no vows for Nellie then.)
At nineteen she met a Creamery man,
Jim Lynch of the Cavan clan;
He delivered dairy from his lorry,
Married Nellie
To relieve their worry.
War flared up, and men were few,
A Coventry move would surely do.
(and thistles bloomed as they grew.)
Nellie soon was Michael's Mammy,
Then Maura, Sheila and Kevin were carried.
When war floundered to its end,
They shipped back to Monaghan,
To work the flax mill again.
The thistles and weeds
That surrounded the mill,
Were scythed and scattered
By Daddy's zeal.
He built himself a generator.
And powered the lights and the wheel.
Sean was born,
Gerald soon followed;
Then Michael died.
A nine year old,
His Father's angel.
(Is this what turns
A father strange?)
Francie arrived,
Then Eucheria,
But ten months later
Bold death took her.
Grief knows no family borders
For brothers and sisters, sons or daughters.
We left for Canada.
Mammy brought six kids along,
Leaving her dead behind,
Buried with Ireland in familiar songs.
Daddy waited for our family,
Six months before Mammy got free
From death's inhumanity.
Her tears and griefs weren't yet over,
She birthed another son and daughter;
But Jimmy and Marlene left us too.
Death is sure,
Death is cruel.
Grandchildren came for Little Granny,
Brigid, Nellie, her names are many.
She lived this life eduring pain
That mothers bear,
Mothers sustain.
And yet, in times of personal strain,
I may invoke her one true name:
                            "Mammy."

Isn’t It Nice to Have a Mother?
I write this poem to share a thought—

A reminder, perhaps, to offer extra kindness today.
Because not all mothers gave hugs,

Or left kisses along the way.

I had a mother who was my first bully—

The first to teach me to chase a love.

That was never mine to hold.

She taught me that love had to be earned,

That I needed to prove I was worthy of it.


The cost?

Low self-esteem, people-pleasing,

And a hunger for validation
In exchange for love she rarely chose to give.

She resented in me the traits she had been taught to hate in herself—


And now I see them,

 Reflected in my own insecurities,

In the body I’ve grown into,

In the weight I carry,
both seen and unseen.

Not all mothers are kind.

Not all are gentle.
Some are neglectful.

Some are cruel, 
In more ways than one.

So if I seem quiet today—
If I hold back on a day meant for celebration—

Please understand:
 It reminds me of the mother I did not have.

And of the mother I hope one day to become.

i was “born” without lungs
gasping for air
and while they grieved for me
i pushed air throughout my body.

june 20, 2024, 6pm.
you did the bare minimum
and i have been obsessed with you.
months. you, of all people.
and when i have told my friends they said
“him, of all people?”

april 29, 2025 and many days before that
my friends called me a *****.
that word is red and bold and ****** and italic and underlined and highlighted and- *****.
im 14.?
to all the mothers out there- god(?) bless your hearts,
how would you imagine
your daughter
a *****? (i know im not, but what am i if not society’s opinions?)

…November (?) 2021 until now (every moment every second of my waking and sleeping being)
i think about it.
i think about him.
he should be in jail
and he probably has a girlfriend
a wife
kids
by now.
i’ll never forget what that “man” ( if you can even call him that ) did to me
and i wonder if i told my friends
*****-callers!
what he did to me
i wonder what their faces would say
i want to see them shocked and cry and apologize for calling me a ***** (because i am not a ******* *****!!)

…the things which i held in my palm
as a young child (was i a ***** then, did i come out of the womb “asking for it?”)
always seemed so large
but they are specks of sparkling stardust in my hands now
they seem so small. (were they always?)

I AM SICK AND TIRED (only a ***** would be tired) OF EVERYONE ELSE GETTING WHATEVER THE **** THEY WANT BECAUSE EVERYONE ELSE HAS DETERMINED THAT THEY DESERVE THAT.
i wonder how many of our lives are determined by how others think of us
i wonder how many of us are others
society is not a singular being but something that is inside all of us
we are all society
(so you can all be ****** too.)
(or maybe just me.)
(just me.)
(me.)
-

-a something-year-old *****.