There are still a few hours left to tell Mom you love her! Poem To My Mother She said I’d write. What could I say? I cannot write! She is the ink, the pen. and I… only the sheet On which she wrote. She spun my body from delight, Wove my soul from her fond dreaming, her heart discreet. Nine months she built me, hers alone, and then came sweet Release. “Hush now, baby…” Taught me by day. By night, She sang. “Just take one small step!” Small arms stretched, to meet Larger ones. Tender kisses made small, bruised knees right. Sweet gardenias, sun warmed sheets. Chapter Title: “Sprite.” Off to school. Knee socks, New things to see, friends to greet. “Keep your Manners, Morals, Maths, and Maker in sight.” Bring home studies, best friends, blisters on dirty feet. Friendships falter, love rejected, projects fail Pillows stained with black mascara. Novel grief. Midnight nearing. Conversations: such detail! Sage advice and sound opinion to avail. “Him, you’ll marry.” “You’ll do better.” Her motif (Mother love) is absolution in travail. Her words were her ink, while my days formed her sheaf. Epilogue: Mom’s wisdom offered sweet relief. Yes, I’ll write, each line her psalm. I her poem, she my balm. --Naomi Poe
Posted on: Sun, 11 May 2014 23:32:27 +0000
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