Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Deb Jones Jan 4
This is my heartache
To bear witness, to listen
As one of my adult sons
Cries from a heartbreak
Only to me will they cry
As I make soothing noises
Judypatooote May 2015
MAMA CAN YOU HEAR ME?
I'm telling you I love you,
and thank you for all the
loving things you did for me...

MAMA CAN YOU HEAR ME?
You were a mom who always
put me first.
I didn't realize it them...

MAMA CAN YOU HEAR ME?
I want to call you and say
go to the basement,
a storm is coming...

MAMA CAN YOU HEAR ME?
What is that recipe
for plum cake?
Oh and also the tomato pudding...

MAMA CAN YOU HEAR ME?
Thank you for being such
a wonderful grandma to
my children...

MAMA CAN YOU HEAR ME?
HAPPY MOTHERS DAY!
I miss you oh so much...

~~~
by ~ judy
A Mother's Day poem I wrote last year, to a mother who was so special and put first...
JayceeJellies Feb 2015
"QUIT."
"QUIT."
"QUIT!"

Is all that I can think!

Quit stomping!
You're creating unwanted anxiety.
Why are you walking so harshly!?
Are you, maybe, angry?
I don't want to know.
marianne Oct 2018
I am
born on the prairie, stark clad
blue sky desert, blacktop desert, canola yellow desert
small in the great space
between us

I am
born of the mountains, wrapped
in forest standing strong-faced and tall, my
companions, rooted
my teachers

I am
born of the quiet
meadowlark prints in bright white snow, the buzz
and thrum of tall grass prairie quiet
measure of my soul

I am
born of bleached fluorescent flicker
drawn into the whirling hurry
longing for rainfall and
idleness

I am
born into the faith of my fathers, solemn
like their God, and righteous
holding fast to the book of their fathers
unwavering

I am
born of the rhythm of my mothers
of life-force and flutter
small hands and steaming pots in a hot kitchen
my church

I am
born of ghosts and tiny monsters
the hollow between their aching past
and tangled present,
alien

I am
born of old world order imposed
on new world freedom—
the image shifts
and I blur

I am
born of memory, my fingers carry secrets
daughter of the many mothers before me, their lives
tell the story
of mine

I am
born of the unknown, a swell in the stream
that spills into the ocean, I am
mother of many daughters
to come

Tell me who you are...


My mother lied to me today
When I found out I had to say
Oh Mother why’d you tell a lie
and from me this thing try to hide?
With a coy smile she looked at me
and spoke in a voice so softly
My dearest son it is my job
to keep you safe, away from harm
At times that may in fact include
in order to hide or seclude
the things in life you should not see
because you’re simply not ready

You may discover on your own
Much later in life when you're grown
But when you're underneath my wing
Your one concern is just to sing
Life’s worries I will take for you
The stress and hurt I will shield too
Life asks a lot and has its pains
and slowly these things you’ll be trained
But in due time; Have patience son
Life's not a race, no need to run
So take your time; stop and enjoy
One day you will not be a boy

Out in the world; learn on your own
Keep with you all the things I've shown
And piece by piece on each you'll build
For you I wish a life fulfilled
There is still much you need to learn
I shield from you all the concerns
It's somewhat understandable
You might be slightly gullible
Because you're simply not aware
So many things from you I've spared
Allowed you distance as you grew
But always kept an eye on you

I gave you room to let you fly
To stretch your wings; explore the sky
And you may not have seen me there
but I did not just disappear
No matter the heights you could reach
I always had more I could teach
So even though at times it seemed
Untethered and were not a team
Could not be further from the truth
Clark Kent changing in a phone booth
When needed became Superman
If duty called I lent a hand

Free range to fly all on your own
Solve problems with the skills I've shown
A carpenter; I gave the tools
But up to you how you would use
My hope that given in due time
the skills you had would exceed mine
And there you'd fly so high above
As I look up; heart filled with love
Amazing heights I know you'll reach
This life we live is up to each
of us deciding what to do
And I'll always believe in you

And just remember as you fly
Wherever you go or how high;
Into the world I've sent you off
to learn life's lessons as their taught
So when you look you might not see
Think I have gone; Can not find me
But whether up or down below
I just want you to always know
You are my son and I love you
No limit to what you can do
The distance might be further now
But since your birth I kept this vow
That you would be under my wing
To keep you safe and watch you sing

Obviously I meant to have this ready
and present it yesterday but it
just didn't work out that way.
=)

Written: May 10, 2018

All rights reserved.
Emily Miranda Nov 2018
My mothers love was different.
Instead of kisses she gave me bruises.
Instead of hugs she gave me cuts.
On holidays she would just sleep.
On birthdays she would forget unless you where "important".
She was an addict they would say.
She was always mad at me.
She would always say the meanest of things.
She would often say things that burned you inside...
Things that ate at you.
Depression was a gift she gave to me.
I was the mom...That's what others would say...
I was the big sister so I was supposed to make sure the kids went to the doctors or ate or went to school.
But... It was okay.
the bruises not yet healed.
its okay.
The cuts now scars.
that's okay.
Me having to take care of everything.
Its okay.
The birthdays forgotten.
Its fine
the gift of depression you gave to me...
I loved it mom... Thank you.
The never ending words that eat you inside out.
Those words can stay if they'd like.
the cold feeling of loneliness.
Its fine.
All I ever truly wanted was to hear you voice.
for you just to say "I love you" and to mean it every step of the way.
I just wanted a hug.
But its okay.
Now I see you looking afraid and lost... Do you need a hug?
Do you need a kiss?
Would you care for a talk to let those negative emotions out?
I'm here for you even if you leave me?
I forgive you just say you'll forgive me to....
I'm sorry.
I'm sorry.
I'm sorry I couldn't tell you I loved you.
I couldn't tell you I loved you and meant it.
But that's okay I hope?
Is that okay?
My mother loved me.
She just showed it in different ways...
My Mothers "Love".
Cress Rosario May 2014
Happiness is what I found in you.
Loveliness is in your heart, so true.
No doubt you are the best as ever.
I will love you more until forever.

When I'm down, you keep me up.
When I'm tired, you'll tell me to stop.
Whatever my pain, you know the cure
I know your love for me is pure.

So today is made for us to treasure.
Every single tears, pain and pressure.
To celebrate the only truthful lover.
Happiness forever with you my Mother.
Francie Lynch May 2018
They carried us
Through gestation,
Or took us in
Without hesitation.
Our coming
Was a celebration,
Mothers are our affirmation.
They deliver.

When we're quiet
From travails,
She makes time
For school-yard tales.
The warmth of sunshine
Shyly pales
To her prevailing arms.

She feared for us
Til eyes dried out;
Stayed home alone
When we left her house,
Waiting by the door.
A balm and living cure.

When Moms do well
All can tell
The Madonna-like connection.
No need to forgive,
We'll always grieve,
They've loved us
Since conception.
Happy Mother's Day.
Repost
Eryck Jun 2018
I'll  do nothing...
bad in life that will make my mother cry.
You can disgrace me, debase me, tie me to a railroad track.
But once the tears flow from my beloved mother, there's  no putting them back.

I'll  do nothing, bear this in mind and hear it,
I'll  do nothing that will diminish her spirit.
I  wont let evil near it. 
 I'll honor her by being like her, and proudly cheer it.

    A mother is nurture, she is the birth of nature.
A teacher not a taker, a mentor not a faker.
The ultimate God given talent, a human being maker.

She forsakes hers for the needs of  yours,
with dreams of high aspirations of her off- spring for,
nothing less, till their health and happiness soar.

Who else in this jaded,
complicated,
world gives unconditional love.  Who else.
Who else has you in their thoughts expressly, wantonly.
Who else has you in their thoughts religously, constantly. 
 
Concerned about your wants and needs, worries and dreads,  
doesn't want to pry, so she prays for you instead.
Who else.
No one else!

I'll  do nothing bad in life that will make my mother cry.
Happy father's day. Sorry dad.
Second place, in away, ain't so bad.
Day May 2016
Mothers day, to me
is just, another memory,
gone to waste.*

A day to stop and pause
and remember a lost cause,
only to move on, again.

Because to me, mothers day
is "my mother left me" day,
so, not a joyous occasion.

And try as I may, to hear
the words, "but another is near"
it's just not the same.

Because while I found another home,
my heart still tends to roam,
to other places.

And my thoughts just can't forget
about the life that I didn't get,
no matter how bleak.

But still I try to push past,
and make the smile last,
even if it's fake.

Because I know that someone loves me,
even if she did not birth me,
and now I call Her  *Mom.
Mother's day isn't happy for everyone. It's hard remembering that I have another mom out there that gave me up but as any good poet I try to convey this frustration to all of you. Thank you all so much for the support. Love you guys! Smile.
The uniVerse Jun 2018
She was a homemaker
a trained Baker
four kids
and a dog named Jude
she dreamed big
of something new.

Always a smile
no matter the weather
willing to go that extra mile
to try and keep it together
but no amount
of gritted teeth
could ever surmount
to what laid beneath.

All the big ideas
and grand ambitions
stifled by fears
and inhibitions
but now was her time
to break the mould
makeover her mind  
and never fold.
To mothers, never give up on your dreams.
https://www.instagram.com/p/ByQeemKHH46/
marianne Nov 2018
the day before grief pulled up
with moving van and solemn promise
it was summer,
and i was wearing a cotton print dress,
yellow flowers and bare feet
or maybe it was my mother

that day, the day before
she was swirling slow motion
like in a movie, face to the sun flashing
through young leaves
making patterns,
arms wide

that day, the day before
i snuck a zwieback from the summer kitchen
and watched melting butter make
golden pools,
some dripped onto my dress
but i didn’t worry

that day, the day before the cold snap
wicked north wind,
the sun shone
and we were warm

butter still melts our hearts
zumee Oct 2018
Oh well grow all you need to grow
inside my spine
And then take what you need to take
what's yours is mine
Then just give all you want of it
to some new thing
I'll stay here, the provider of that constant sting
they call love...
Mothers, by Daughter

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7dJltGbbk8c
Sharon Talbot Sep 2017
Sere and yellow,
Rough and round, [bright pebbles in a mound]
Pitted and mellow,
Winding our necks round,
We wore them.

Amber beads unearthed from clay,
Fashioned by my artist love,
Glowing yellow, filled with day,
Captures sunbeams from above.
I still love them.

Some say gods have made these,
To ensnare the light of Sun,
But we women saved these,
In memory & hope of sons,
We keep them.

Fat & smooth as butter,
We turned them in our hands.
The bone beads scraped with madder,
The amber just with sand.

Those of shadowy carnelian
Embedded like a shield,
We treasure as we fear them,
Like wounds on battlefields.

The others soaked with brownish earth,
Sere and yellow,
Rough and round, [bright pebbles in a mound]
Pitted and mellow,
Winding our necks round,
We wore them.

So, when we are dead, take not from us,
These rounded, golden suns,
But bury them with us, with sword and severed buss,
To revere the slaughtered ones,
Who never returned to us.

Revised November 15, 2016
This poem was inspired by several photos taken by poet/photography and historian, Giles Watson, of amber and other beads unearthed at an Anglo-Saxon dig site in England. I was struck by the way the amber still glowed after hundreds of years beneath the earth, and the artistry of them.
Anaya c Jan 2018
my tears will disappear
and i will heal once more
this is a now forever, never ending process
our love and our memories will not ever leave
these parts of my mind have been closed off
the life here has faded like your voice overtime
time has ripped you from my memory
i try not to think too much
because i expect a miracle
i know you won't be there when my nights seem eternity
those nights spent pondering you
and it will bring the heaviest oceans to my eyes
so i continue to wait
remaining broken
for the day that will never come
when i can hear your voice once more
and recover myself whole again
the love shared between a daughter and her mother is powerful and unbreakable // dedicated to my own
Shofi Ahmed Mar 2017
I
A flower that smells of pure bliss keeps an ear to the ground
It's a serene one sitting beneath the stars down on earth
The moon, far, far, seven seas away, loves to drop into her lap.

The Bay of Bengal billows, music has gotten beneath the skin.
The leaves furl out off the deep wood with the birds
singing out to the top of the trees, rhyming with the leafy dance.
Heavensent, that was in one sanguine day in the spring.
The Mother’s Language Movement in 1952 sprouted like this
on the eighth of native Falgun month—oh magic did it unleash!

On that day our beloved brothers were shot dead
They could swallow the bullets with smiles but won’t give up
demanding the official status for the Bangla mother tongue.
Angels wrapped round the martyrs amid lamenting mothers
Laid them on Falgun’s perfumed ground bleeding corpses
Seas of roses bloomed and blew them out red, red kisses!

They are gone not the stone wall of consciousness they raised
Ah, at the sprout of the spring what were they echoing?
Ingrained deep in the soil the pre-designing voice in the planning?
Who can tell? The world gels on February 21 in celebrating!

The angels then snapped up our martyrs’ souls off the land,
placed them on a piece of Heaven where they can hear the jingle.
Down on earth, a nation springs up, has gotten its wake up call!
Stepping on the sweetening arc of the mother tongue melody
the stone turns a flower, all in a butterfly moment soaring to victory.
Thanks to the movement - Bangladesh itself later comes to be!

II
The sun comes down to the rose painting on the land
In the heavenly Falgun hues it nibbles some wild summer dreams.
“Serene songs of earth stirring the water,” like it comes into play,
rowing the cloud bubbles singing in southern breeze.
Ah, a walk on the sun-kissed kaleidoscope land is a pure bliss.  
Every blossom spray of the wind is soothing sweet
Hop on and play straight to the ruby heart, as if it's a flute.

Mother tongue means speak free, fearless, in full streaming.
Speak the heart to the world without the fear of losing the cloud
that will listen, bouncing back on the brink of the sky river.
Then what did one say, hear, or was awed by in the blooming Falgun?
Could it have been the spring humming in her native lingua
or King David singing in mother tongue by babbling brooks
what in any other language, even with a silver tongue, isn’t possible?

Allah has listened to our martyrs’ crying mothers and fathers
The martyrs’ souls whisk through the galaxies and starry fair.

Soar high over the clouds, take the rainbow's *** of gold away,
Like a hue turns 360-degree in the colourwheel bask into the colour.
Still, dip the toes in Bangla mother’s soil salted with perfumed art
Like Himalayan water swirling down melting deeper deep down
This magicland is polished for everyone be it you, a fairy, a star
or off the ploughed-out barrow a walked out wonder!

A pristine voice duo’s voiceprint gleans to the spring in muse,
Pops in a beauteous scurry and speaks in the mother tongue!
Hidden within the earthy depth, only emerges with time,
only dances in tangent, that day slipped out with the butterflies.
And finally the blue nymphs take the plunge drop down the sky  
That day the mother’s voice triumphed, whose is the most original!
This is a poem from my book Zero and One available on Amazon.
September Roses Mar 2018
Little house
Timeless street
Childhood garden

The scent of your preschool playground after a storm on a Wednesday in may

The distinguishable noise of your parents' doorbell

The weepy feeling looking at childhood photos and knowing you'll never get those moments back

The melancholy moment you realize the book you're reading was your favorite bedtime story

The second the atmosphere shifts and you're suddenly thrown back to memories of your mothers embrace on a stormy night

The suffocating feeling of revisiting tales thinning at the ends as your recollection slowly fades

The slipping grip of what once was that will never be again, slowly turning faded and acid washed until its nothing but a feeling you cant put a name to

Nostalgia
Chris Saitta Aug 3
Sunset is a washwoman's stream of rubia dyes
And the crushed scales from the Kermes insect,
While the loosened garments of life slide
Over the ancient liquidity of the hills rolling
As the mountains rolling as the seas rolling
As the clouds rolling as the graves rolling
Like eyes rolling back to sleep.

I am pressed for lullaby,
Not the pillow-clap of thunder or the ether songs of Persephone,
Biding by her asphodels with icen fingers from plum-colored hell.

But press my ear in my mother’s lap of ancient sun,
Of peplos and himation and stola,
And listen to the vines and bunched grapes
And all of heaven sink in its commodiousness.

Press my ear to the sun-fed heart that flows
To the furthest span of the cloth-seas of man and
The solemn songings of the ever-deepening sky.
My mother all along smoothing out the wrinkled sheet of sunlight.
The scales of the Kermes insect were used to make red dye in Ancient Greece and Rome.

Peplos and himation are Greek female clothing while stola is Roman.
Tommy Randell Oct 2017
So, you died.
You were only a Mother after all.

It was a long time ago
And living a life without one
Hasn't been so bad.

I've watched others watch
As their Mothers grew old, grew sick
Grew angry & hateful
And watch them struggle to deal with it.

I've watched others watch
As their Mothers embarrassed them
Tried to keep them as pets
Holding onto their child to never let go.

Any two points in Life really are only two days apart,
Although in our case, 53 years, 4 months, 2 days
According to Google ... but who's counting?

We got that stuff over and done with
Didn't we?


Tommy Randell 23rd October 2017
My Mother died on June 20th 1964, I was almost 12years old but already was the man life with her made me.
Francie Lynch Aug 23
I never knew him to do wrong.
He left me here last Saturday week;
I never saw him again.
A terrible shock.
God was cruel to me.
Words cannot express... my heart is torn.
I have the others.
God spare them to me.
He was the loveliest of all.

My heart breaks day in and day out;
I am just now living for when...

He took a pain,
In the head;
He went to the hospital.
We don't know
What happened -
They didn't,
Until they got the blood test back,
From Dublin.

The next day the baby was born.
At twelve o'clock  there was a crowd,
Neighbours waiting on the news.

They did all in their power.

He was dying.
Words that will ring in my ears...

It was the saddest... most respected
Funeral,
The teachers and children formed
A Guard;
A hundred met him at the Creamery Cross;
Carried the little coffin up the steps
And into the chapel.
Six school pals carried him,
From the chapel,
And left him to rest.

He'll never go off this earth
Without first coming to see me
(Mary, at two o'clock in the morning he came up the hall,
And rapped on the room door
)
I do hope and pray
I'm not keeping him
From Heaven.

I wanted to write you to give you a surprise...
It was little thought it would be this sad news.

The baby... is the image of him.

My heart is torn.
I  could be washed in tears.
This is called *Found Poetry*.  I came across a letter my mother wrote in 1953, just days after the death of her first born son, Michael. My brother, Gerald, was born at the same time, so my mother never saw her son alive again. I hope I did justice to her grief and anguish.
L B May 2018
“Pink carnation if mother's alive;  white if she isn't.”

Fidgeting with the hanky in her sleeve

WPA standout
fending off tears
armed wide-eyed with headache
finding her voice orphan-thin-- tethered--
by wire-will
She sings it still...

“Tis the month of our Mother...”

Behind that white carnation
Behind walls of flesh and ribs

HUGE WATERS
WANT--

...the church vacant of mothers

NEED--

the church
vacant
as clear blood
BURSTS
into faint blue concert

Whirling   Burning   Blurring--

The PURE

--distance--

of audience
of Saints
of God

OF HER MOTHER

“...O blessed and beautiful day.....”
___
"Tis The Month of Our Mother/O blessed and beautiful day..." is from a Catholic hymn sung in honor of the ****** Mary by Catholic school children during May.

May Crowning is an oddly idolatrous ritual and veneration of the statue of Mary that very much associates her with "The Queen of Heaven" and pagan rituals.  

Why my mother was required to perform in this ceremony only weeks after the death of her own mother has always escaped me.  She was thirteen and certainly grieving.  Her father had died less than a year before.  

As an  older woman,  she cried as she told me about it in such detail.  

Certainly part of the reason we ended up in public school.  Not sorry.  Not sorry.

WPA was the Works Progress Administration, which during the 1930s made jobs for the needy during The Great Depression.  Best known for huge development projects, WPA workers also filled jobs in clothing factory lines.
Shofi Ahmed Mar 2017
Inside the great
big global village
not everything is rosy
even a cat knows it
a leaf can sniff it.
The Moon shines
not in every night
nor God promised
always a blue sky.
Still the roses bloom
Cinderella has the lot
the reasons to groom.

The richest among the folks
turns philanthropist in the globe.
The wisest among the men
celebrate the era for it’s
the civilisation at its peak.
Hooray what now triumphs at last
is the wisdom and humanity!

Really? O please tell me?
Not very far, nor for much,
just because some differ in faith
mothers and fathers left in pain.
Not because they are to lose
Rohingyan sun nor the land
beneath their feet but in no time
their sons and daughters
can be put to death into fire
that too before their eyes
before the silent established world!
Next page