"mothering" poems
Snowy owl with freedom singing in her eyes
She has shaken off a few backwards fitting feathers
Who had worn out their welcome
Now lighter and more free
She is everything she is meant to be
A window to shine out her undying light
The universe speaks through her fingertips
Mothering owl with a smile most comforting
Has hidden the truth beneath her quaking quills
Finding a new sun every day
She is sweeping the dust of her past away
Drained of her milk of misery… she is the purest of cacao
Radiating her rays to all who come across her
Her message is love
Her passion is life
Her heart was never as faint to be feared
Those off-beats of her rhythm
Were lessons to be learned
Blessings as blossoms to ****** her heart from the dark
Exquisite owl with eyes that kiss the daylight
A heart as open as galaxies
A voice as soothing as the breeze
Your hands will heal the world’s disease
Aug 31, 2010
Aug 31, 2010 at 8:17 AM UTC
we walk with faces to the sky
the goddesses on earth
our words from a breathless heartsigh
we appear with old grecian beauty
and not such modern masks
it comes in hand with our ancient virtues
true to our everlasting tasks
hera; dark curls and flaming passion
striking down all who cross her
thin and wary is she
artemis; earthy flesh and midnight coils
gentle to the wild and bow-weilding
athletic and kind is she
demeter; flaxen tresses and tenderness
protecting her wards
mothering and calm is she
athena; thick legs and honey hair
raising blood-soaked war flags
wise and fearless am i
Oct 10, 2016
Oct 10, 2016 at 10:35 PM UTC
Motherhood
Smothering mothering is what she is best at.
Gathering her smattering of children
and racing to grace them with her persistent worship.
Her life is outlined by her finding
new things to admire regarding her juv’niles.
Living and breathing her maternity;
feeding and cleaning and watching and working.
Defined solely by her motherhood.
Feb 23, 2013
Feb 23, 2013 at 11:28 PM UTC
http://hellopoetry.com/search/poems/?q=Betterdays
**as is my wanton wont,
when stumbling
upon a new voice,
the passed baton
is herein handed off**
am old man.
my poetic voice is just
memories that are
repetitive lies and lines.
speak in simple sentences declarative.
this is nature's way.
darkness approaching is indeed my
au courant poem, mon actuellement.
I have seen better days.
I have read betterdays.
now I am upset, distraught.
here come another young
hot bright votive voice,
and I am being asked to believe that there are
still words that raise hopes of
betterdays.
her bed chip crumbs, delighting,
leave crumbs of pleasure in my soul.
l like her big word poems,
that leave me, fill me by:
*siphoning all in a parched gluttony
leaving behind a viscous residue
and few glassine portals
into a reflective world*
better yet I love her
mothering little god poems,
letting me remember little boys
who once loved a father
*little god love
radiant is thy smile,
smallboy love, exudes from you,
like a flower god's nectar,
bestowed, with negligent love,
upon a mother's world.
i will drink my fill,
everyday, whilst i can,
for far to soon will you
grow up.*
don't speak eastern Australian,
tackers and doona's, no clue,
blue cats are a foreign breed,
but the cat of this starfish mother,
shares my literary tastes:
*him, nestled,
on the second, to
uppermost stay,
of the third
bookshelf,
in the study.
he has filed
himself,
between,
ogden nash
and proust
and it is there,
he plans to stay.*
let me not go on and in deeper, lest
I delay you from her pleasuring
thy tasted untested senses.
so here I am all grumpified
(at my age, you can make up your own words)
unsure if un or satisfied,
knowing that a woman,
word whips me into a
soothing frenzy of creamy
morning coffee verbosity,
a captive taker of life's
ungrandest moments,
poems of them,
make to glory come.
somewhere in the world,
a woman writes of plain goodness
of simple strife and simple lives,
makes methinks that there could be
betterdays still ahead,
better poets surely, than me,
and the day starts well
Mar 29, 2014
Mar 29, 2014 at 8:50 AM UTC
If Tuesdays are bad news days
Fridays are always sideways
Struggling
Hustling
Fumbling
Tumbling
Trembling stuttering
Impolite utterances
Brotherless
Misguided mothering
Distant cousins
Conditioned lovers
Struck by thunder
No structure to govern...
Monday is gonna come...
No matter what goes on in your life Monday is going to come
Give me one time that Monday have not approached?
Hold your head
You'll be alright
If not
Monday is still on it's way
If you stay stuck in muck
The world isn't
It will move onto a new week
Oct 4, 2013
Oct 4, 2013 at 8:31 PM UTC
forgiveness for self is a thunderstorm ferocious,
cracking sounds so god awful fearful
that one questions his-her sanity,
an overage so unnatural that
only nature could create it
it is a moment momentousness
when the exhalation of exhaustion,
the winner and loser, both you,
surrender ne’er knowing
which you is which,
life’s son of ***** or just a plain jane mothering version,
either way you say to yourself got to
get past that lousy stinking
love affair
win the race to clean slate,
where the end is insight where everything replaced
in its used to be placed
goaded into melted nothingness,
goaded into believing that’s a real thing,
that when you finally get there,
enough is enough,
get out of jail ticket will work,
but it ain’t never free,
even if you paid for it in
what you call
throwing bad after good,
monopoly money,
nope, ain’t never free
no idea what to put in the second empty closet,
who needs an attached to-the-wall-tile
toothbrush holder with one extra emptying space,
where to hide picture albums in a space
outta sight, outta mind, you still can find
why you didn’t care enough to
daily mat-wipe street shoes before
riveted in place
before entering your own! apartment and no,
you are consciously unconscious immobilized by
the missing calling out of her “don’t forget”
in the car’s ashtray,
a red kissed blotted red lipstick
tissue that needs discard-action,
but you incapable of either,
those collected records and cd’s,
her teasing your old fashion ways,
reluctance to let go
so you read
“that to forgive one self doesn’t forgive forgetting”
and it hits home, home run, score to the core,
since you wrote those words on a sun rain afternoon,
a punctuating thunderstorm day
refusing to decide
which
haunts worse
<>
Jun 30, 2019
Jun 30, 2019 at 5:04 PM UTC
An Irish couple buy some fertilised duck eggs and they hatch.
But then they’re missing!
The cat is licking her lips.
Oh No!
They follow the cat to her snug in the barn.
She too has given birth.
Snuggled beneath the cat’s protective paws
Are suckling kittens and DUCKLINGS!
Had those dear ducklings hatched an hour earlier
Or later
They would have been cat food.
But around the birthing time Missus Cat was only a Mother,
Mothering anything that moved.
Mother Nature breeds such Motherly instincts.
A thing of Wonder.
A story that happens to be True.
Since then those ducks grew up
But still followed their “Mother”
Everywhere she went (within reason).
An unshakeable bond,
Lasting for ever.
Paul Butters
Jul 25, 2016
Jul 25, 2016 at 5:49 AM UTC
royals mistake the tears cried over animals, esp. those wild and not petted, as if they were man’s added 1 to a million ‘ stones in minature form of the sandy: see that singleton quotation mark? it’s different pause from comma semi-colon or hyphen, it’s the ironic pause - almost compounding the two words.
i skullhead i,
i the skullhead, i,
no more a body than a maxim,
i the tomb in stone
but in body a bone,
i skullhead i,
i the skullhead,
no more a body than a maxim -
why will not death wilt
before engaging in the lives or mortals?
why will death meddle in mortal amorousness
when it will not meddle in a death of a god?
**** you death!
meddle elsewhere! who are prone
to breathe the same air as you;
interesting lives make less
of a library than libraries readily mothering
the lives hardly lived but nonetheless written...
eager ***** in section 1,
less eager ***** in section 1.5
mature ***** in sectiont 2 of being crazed
by crosswords and those dumb books
written by young men who "diverged from living"
given horse was replaced by motorcycle...
and feet were replaced by horse later replaced by
ferrari... vroom vroom...
and affordable life in london by saudi arabia investments;
let's wave to our mothers...
we'll be the ones on the premier red carpet
for sure...
it doesn't matter... i prefer opera to cinematic raqqa...
and i prefer theatre to conversation.
Dec 3, 2015
Dec 3, 2015 at 9:09 PM UTC
I was conceived on acid and whippets, the drugs a kaleidoscope of umbilical dreams.
I was conceived on bad luck and lust, from darkness and sexually exploitive childhood trauma.
I was conceived on teenage dreams and difficult childhoods, to black sheep children of 17.
I was raised on addiction and narcissism, a love bomb here and authoritarian abuse there.
I was raised on the chess long game, to lose a piece here means to win at the end.
I was raised on 2000s tv, Lorelei Gilmore my wish for a mother, Rory my idol.
I taught myself strength in building up a fantasy on the outside while my castle crumbled within.
I picked myself up by the tendrils of a lost childhood, by the whispers of good memories, by the hiding places I found in pages upon pages of someone else’s imagination.
And I let it all go at 28. To find peace. To start over. To build myself a new castle with no more haunted corners or echoes of pill bottles or smells of ***** and orange juice permeating the breaths of those who walk these sacred halls.
Rib cage cut open, heart destroyed and renewed, ancient umbilical nooses cut with teeth.
I will no longer fall victim to my mother’s circumstances or my father’s mistakes, I will never have the soul I’ve created look at me and ask himself if he is loved or safe.
I am cycle breaker,
I am generational karma’s worst ******* fear,
I am no longer frightened maiden,
I am fearsome mother.
I am new.
May 17, 2022
May 17, 2022 at 12:15 PM UTC
Revel in space, yet not darkled, still
the **** and span of things that breeds
airlessness; The trees are evenly cut,
and their overgrowth seems like a forethought.
Where I am from, we eat fish with
our bare hands and our furniture, from bodies
of sandalwood, crushed with the scent of
peregrines. The morning makes you conscious
of space, and altogether the height of trees
syncopates to a nauseating stillness. In the awning
hours, leaves punctuate the ground – the cicada
with its machinistic song prowls, spills like
water from a broken vase toppled by me
years younger, raw, agile, deftly windless,
wounded in love, lovingly wounded,
perhaps if there is a word for it, then let me
have my way, easily fraught with its meaning:
a casualty. Sometimes the timeworn folks
would light cigarettes underneath the canopy
of a mango tree to banish ants and send them back
to their queens – roosters in their wrinkled stations
croon in stasis, a song for the somnolent. I become
what the seasons evict. Constancy. Rearing weight
and gravity from nocturne. Tears are communal.
They make us aware of the weight of the Earth.
Somewhere, a funebre stilts through the silence,
and the jangle of little pieces spells out fortuity,
men in huddles mending pain by the sleight of hand,
a toss of a card, spinning in its imaginary axis: fate,
feigned and fine-tuned to belief that it is controllable,
a variable, or a tabulation marred by frailty. From where
I am from, people stride through the streets naked,
soldering baskets filled with fruits gossamer from the
harvest, children suckling their mothers, the music of sweeping
metastasizes throughout the afternoon, and the same clouds
contort themselves to afford wry proposition: it is a day tender
with wonder, its allure overwrought, its sheen unremarkable.
The funebre leaves with a necessary abundance of absence.
All the leaves depart from their mothering boughs,
collapsing on the dreary back of the loam like penitence.
Like how once when you were young, you tinkered with
the fresh scab of your wound and felt the pain confine
itself there, a part of you, that has now healed, but is still
available for the world to break once again.
Jan 30, 2016
Jan 30, 2016 at 4:47 PM UTC
Orion,
I kind of miss your sandy hair,
and the way your eyes are bluer than mine.
I miss the way you'd watch me fall asleep,
and I'm pretty sure I can hear the absence
of your chuckle every time the night sky is clear.
Orion,
I miss the way you used to tell stories:
your face was the most expressive form of art,
I swear you lit up the entire room,
you were my forever young Peter Pan,
discussing the battles of young warriors
and the chaos of young daughters,
and how their hearts were full of mothering love.
Orion,
I saw you were in town tonight,
I noticed you sitting among the rest of the sky tonight.
Would you mind peeking in my room this evening,
would you mind taking me to fly with the rest
of the lost boys?
Orion,
I miss your tanned arms snaking around mine,
I feel the need to smell the sun on your neck again.
Orion,
Would you visit me, maybe?
Sincerely,
A Very Lovesick Girl
Mar 7, 2013
Mar 7, 2013 at 10:56 PM UTC
Hips don't help
when I'm hightailing home
hurrying...
Times like these, I'd rather be asexual.
I see shadows slink-scurrying
slithering slyly
sneering...
I hate your ability to intimidate.
I want to turn toward and
take on your trash
toughly...
But there's five of you and one of me. And my hands are small.
No matter the mothering moralists
who match me to men
meaningfully...
I am a woman, and I am still afraid.
Self-defense can only go so far...
and my hips don't help.
Feb 13, 2012
Feb 13, 2012 at 12:24 AM UTC
Jean, death comes close to us all,
flapping its awful wings at us
and the gluey wings crawl up our nose.
Our children tremble in their teen-age cribs,
whirling off on a thumb or a motorcycle,
mine pushed into gnawing a stilbestrol cancer
I passed on like hemophilia,
or yours in the seventh grade, with her spleen
smacked in by the balance beam.
And we, mothers, crumpled, and flyspotted
with bringing them this far
can do nothing now but pray.
Let us put your three children
and my two children,
ages ranging from eleven to twenty-one,
and send them in a large air net up to God,
with many stamps, real air mail,
and huge signs attached:
SPECIAL HANDLING.
DO NOT STAPLE, FOLD OR MUTILATE!
And perhaps He will notice
and pass a psalm over them
for keeping safe for a whole,
for a whole ********* life-span.
And not even a muddled angel will
peek down at us in our foxhole.
And He will not have time
to send down an eyedropper of prayer for us,
the mothering thing of us,
as we drip into the soup
and drown
in the worry festering inside us,
lest our children
go so fast
they go.
1.8k
Weekend walls come down
containing our free will
navigating our minds and meeting
us on the way home
dragging our thoughts and vision
mothering our bodies and liberating our minds
weekend walls are boundless
despite their presence and their substance
weekends would be dull without their fall
freedom is a state of mind and letting
us move and think without measure
is just too much as the goodness they hold is exposed
not walls but views of the world
as we want it and how we make it
peaceful and requiring no support.
Sep 18, 2011
Sep 18, 2011 at 6:19 PM UTC
When you woke up and told me
How sick you really were
I couldn't believe it .
It was an untold mystery
That still had a story to tell
And as soon as you asked
I had to give you a cure
So I began connecting all around
Having only better in mind .
I wanted us all the time
Rhythm had cost too much
Next to the unimportant
And everyone around
Were sick in the mind
Madness had struck one too many times
Calling her name, they all wrote
Taking her fame
Killing her tame
She had a message in a bottle
Like a sad little story
Landing on a sunny beach
But this is all his story
No I lied, its actually mine
Kind, I let lead the blind
**** it, I tried
So now I'm waiting here
Letting brain take its course
Matter is always there
And it takes mothering motion
To send it on its way .
Aug 11, 2013
Aug 11, 2013 at 10:13 PM UTC
I give you flowers and tears
You give me sarcasm
I wish you would show a little more sympathy
You'd rather I get a backbone
I whisper unspoken love on your shoulder
You say it with a mothering tone
I have a panic attack whenever something doesn't fit
You dismiss it all with an iron fist
I dream of a place full of love and passion
You're just thankful you even exist
Money, *** miscommunication and occasional road trips
It's not necessarily a bad thing just
Our own sort of a
Dysfunctional relationship
Jul 11, 2015
Jul 11, 2015 at 2:01 AM UTC
_...back broken...
...divinely kneeling...
...mending reflections...
...feeling the delusion...
...waging a war...
...fuelled by resentment...
...old wounds distance me...
...soft tissue...
...neatly hidden...
...from mothering..._
☟
_...withdrawing criticism...
...that’s all it takes...
...without shame...
...of surrender...
...open the door...
...feel the longing...
...take the brave step...
...with you unafraid...
...all my intricate defences...
...would be taken away..._
Mar 26, 2021
Mar 26, 2021 at 10:01 PM UTC
the youngest brother loves his ladder. the oldest is barefooted and sentimental. the middle is marketed to your children and dies to put a stop to the glorification of suicide. their father knows **** well what the world thinks of them so why would he stoop to reading. the family bible isn’t a book because it knows nothing about god. mothering is not the billboard that got away.
Jan 23, 2014
Jan 23, 2014 at 4:25 PM UTC
father shined his shoes
we ironed handkerchiefs
by the dozen shirt collars
underwear so white and loose
child noise song not allowed
we did not know he missed being
artist bad boy free
sole beloved of his woman
now mothering too many
his own left too soon
the boy to hurt forever
to pass that truth along
as best he could
Oct 20, 2014
Oct 20, 2014 at 7:38 AM UTC
My God, my God, my mothering God!
I cry to you from along this trackless waste,
Where humanity buried itself so long ago –
Scorched earth in place of garden sweet –
No water here to cool the parchĕd lips,
No sanctuary for the troubled, lonely soul.
My God, my God, my mothering God!
What did we do to make this barren land,
Where souls are turned to shadowy shades,
Eyes are empty and hearts grown cold?
We long for your mercy, better than life,
Gentle rain of grace, light in the darkness.
My God, my God, my mothering God!
I search this desert haunt, one broken man,
Where my brother is stripped of all dignity,
My sister is sold into slavery for pleasure;
Men **** your world for vanishing profit,
And crush your children for fleeting gain.
My God, my God, my mothering God!
Here in the wasteland we make our home
With tears and curses and all our fears –
We lost the war we began in ages past –
Now here we subsist, hostīle squatters,
Breath the air of the world we poisoned.
My God, my God, my mothering God!
This scorchĕd breeze carries the wailing,
Cries of the millions of the sick and poor,
Widows and orphans and lonely souls –
We blinded ourselves; we are deaf now –
Agony and angst, anxiety and final death.
My God, my God, my mothering God!
Is there some sanctuary in this desert land?
To lay down this self-borne cross, to rest –
Water to refresh, to cool the burning brow –
Some sweet promise of the garden again,
An oasis of hope amid our suffering shame?
Sep 17, 2013
Sep 17, 2013 at 10:28 AM UTC
Muddy Muddy Monday
Cold air
Cold glare
Lurking on a window that shields our felt insecurity
Summertime we all come to
We all come together then unravel apart
I am a man for a short bit then I quit
And retire
Retire to regimented round the clock lonesome longing of money and a schedule, scheduled schooling of sorrow
Growing up I,
I'm utterly useless
I’m painfully plain
This become the real repetition
The depiction and depression in the U.S. Of A
It's simple
And simply it's dull and sad it's melancholy at its finest
And this carnivorous cancer grows calculatedly sneaking steadily and processing with prowess
And Lexus lingers after Lexus near our neighborhood of suburban sadness,
Sorrowful slumps stuck in sand
Succumbing to ******* the life out of myself muddling through murky days
And this depressive digression into normal no-thing-ness that does not know nothing
But private school privilege pressuring me till I press my heart and it pops
Mundane money Monday murdering my mind mother and might
Monday each day
Becoming Monday
My mothering Monday
My absent adolescence
Oct 5, 2015
Oct 5, 2015 at 10:55 PM UTC
*
the mothering love
of letting go
silently keeping
a corner
warm the nest
ready to welcome
anytime me
the wounded bird
a small body
still crossing oceans
Sep 8, 2016
Sep 8, 2016 at 9:20 AM UTC
Our final steps
are never meant to be
one step on the moon
or a leap for mankind.
It was your memory,
intangible.
metaphysically physical
synaptically existing.
My mother's
mothering
mother, Bernice.
or
A lover's
loving
love, Helena.
or
Writer's
writing
wrote, poems.
Apr 10, 2025
Apr 10, 2025 at 5:53 AM UTC