Behold the mother with her newborn child!
An icon of a hope that never dies.
Death may label all we cherish lies,
Yet this love lies too deep to be defiled.
We clear an inner field where fate has smiled,
Letting play the pleasures of surmise,
Holding back all contrary replies,
As though our thoughts might turn the winters mild.
Despite the well-known travesties of time,
Each time a child is born we dream anew,
For only thus our losses are regained.
Though we must share the destiny of slime,
No passion in our palette is more true
Than that which cradles innocence unstained.
Before I was myself you made me, me
With love and patience, discipline and tears,
Then bit by bit stepped back to set me free,
Allowing me to sail upon my sea,
Though well within the headlands of your fears.
Before I was myself you made me, me
With dreams enough of what I was to be
And hopes that would be sculpted by the years,
Then bit by bit stepped back to set me free,
Relinquishing your powers gradually
To let me shape myself among my peers.
Before I was myself you made me, me,
And being good and wise, you gracefully
As dancers when the last sweet cadence nears
Bit by bit stepped back to set me free.
For love inspires learning naturally:
The mind assents to what the heart reveres.
And so it was through love you made me, me
By slowly stepping back to set me free.
Although consumed by fury, you still loved us.
At least that is the knowledge of my heart.
Screaming like a child, you would beat us
Until you snapped, and then the tears would start.
“You know I love you,” you would cry, demanding
More of us through tears than with your fist.
And we, through tears, would nod our understanding,
Too bullied in our pain to dare resist.
Yet now that you’ve been dead for many years,
And I have wandered through my own vast hell,
I see the desperate anguish in your tears
And hope at last that I can love you well.
For only in my love can your love be
The love that once, I think, you had for me.
Although a daughter, I write this as a mother.
We’re both mothers now, of child-daughters:
You, a grandmother forced to be a mother,
And I, a widow, alone with my fatherless daughter.
Death has thus shaped both our lives in ways
We would not have chosen. Yet life is still the bright,
Painfully lovely thing it was always:
Our children like dancers on a dark, splendid night,
Needing our loves as I needed yours; your love
The same song as ever, a lullaby I remember
So well from my time in your arms. We move
In slow spirals towards the stars. September
Has weeks like June, yet is closer to the fall.
Love has no answers, yet its beauty answers all.
A villanelle for Mother’s Day
Should take me just about an hour:
Writing it is child’s play.
Because I know just what to say,
And rhyming’s quite within my power,
To write it should be child’s play.
Yet plain speech is not my way:
I look for leaves to shade my flower,
This villanelle for Mother’s Day.
I do not wish to sound too fey,
Obscure, mystic, gushy, sour–
Arggh! Writing’s never child’s play!
Yes, childish! To my dismay,
Far beyond the allotted hour,
This villanelle for Mother’s Day
Dawdles on. Let me just say
It plain: I love you, and so end our
Villanelle for Mother’s Day.
(Well … writing it was child’s play.)
A vase of flowers in a window frame.
A house of gentle light amid dark leaves.
An ecstasy so sharp it feels like anguish,
The pull that makes our beeline an ellipse.
No transcendental morning’s inspiration
So ravishes the things we never see.
We hear for all our lives a silent music
To which we dance unknowing through our time.
And even when we die, there is a beauty
Older than the cold December stars,
A part of us that waits behind the darkness
To take us once again into its arms.
A mother serves her sugar with
A bit of peppermint
To clarify the passages
That carry what she meant When she first set to bear a soul
Quite separate from her own,
Whom she would cherish, yet must teach
To live and die alone.
A mother’s love determines how
We love ourselves and others.
There is no sky we’ll ever see
Not lit by that first love.
Stripped of love, the universe
Would drive us mad with pain;
But we are born into a world
That greets our cries with joy.
How much I owe you for the kiss
That told me who I was!
The greatest gift–a love of life–
Lay laughing in your eyes.
Because of you my world still has
The soft grace of your smile;
And every wind of fortune bears
The scent of your caress.
Here Is A Day
Its Your Day
Wishing You A Very Very
Happy Mothers’ Day
Every Now And Then
You’ve Been There With Us
You’ve Taught Us The Way
To Lead Our Own Way
You Are Our Mom
Our Dearest Mom
Whose Been With Us All Along
When We Wept Alone
You Came Up To Us
You Gave Us A Prod
& A Good Applaud
You Are So Truly & Special
Unique In Every Way
Warm And Sweet And Loving
Like Sunshine Everyday
Dear Mom, Your Kids Love You
We Want To Say Just One Thing To You
In All Ways You Are Great
And We Just Wish
You Have The Greatest Mom’s Day
HAPPY MOTHER’S DAY
Contributed by: Srishti Singhal
A halo that reflects a life of
wisdom, kindness, and caring.
Eyes that sparkle with pride
and show how much she believes in you.
Shoulders that have been slept on
and wept on and
carried a world or two.
Arms that never run out of hugs.
Hands that know
just when to hold on
and when to let go.
A mind filled with amazing things,
from fairy tales to family tails
and long-ago stories of you.
A smile that can jump right into your heart
and warm you faster than hot chocolate.
A heart of gold
that holds more love
than you can possibly imagine.
Contributed by Anna J
