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Best Famous Mom Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Mom poems. This is a select list of the best famous Mom poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Mom poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of mom poems.

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Written by Judith Viorst | Create an image from this poem

Fifteen, Maybe Sixteen Things to Worry About

My pants could maybe fall down when I dive off the diving board.
My nose could maybe keep growing and never quit.
Miss Brearly could ask me to spell words like stomach and special.
(Stumick and speshul?)
I could play tag all day and always be "it.
"
Jay Spievack, who's fourteen feet tall, could want to fight me.
My mom and my dad--like Ted's--could want a divorce.
Miss Brearly could ask me a question about Afghanistan.
(Who's Afghanistan?)
Somebody maybe could make me ride a horse.
My mother could maybe decide that I needed more liver.
My dad could decide that I needed less TV.
Miss Brearly could say that I have to write script and stop printing.
(I'm better at printing.
)
Chris could decide to stop being friends with me.

The world could maybe come to an end on next Tuesday.
The ceiling could maybe come crashing on my head.
I maybe could run out of things for me to worry about.
And then I'd have to do my homework instead.
Written by Judith Viorst | Create an image from this poem

Some Things Don't Make Any Sense at All

My mom says I'm her sugarplum.
My mom says I'm her lamb.
My mom says I'm completely perfect
Just the way I am.
My mom says I'm a super-special wonderful terrific little guy.
My mom just had another baby.
Why?
Written by Denise Duhamel | Create an image from this poem

Snow Whites Acne

 At first she was sure it was just a bit of dried strawberry juice,
or a fleck of her mother's red nail polish that had flaked off
when she'd patted her daughter to sleep the night before.
But as she scrubbed, Snow felt a bump, something festering under the surface, like a tapeworm curled up and living in her left cheek.
Doc the Dwarf was no dermatologist and besides Snow doesn't get to meet him in this version because the mint leaves the tall doctor puts over her face only make matters worse.
Snow and the Queen hope against hope for chicken pox, measles, something that would be gone quickly and not plague Snow's whole adolescence.
If only freckles were red, she cried, if only concealer really worked.
Soon came the pus, the yellow dots, multiplying like pins in a pin cushion.
Soon came the greasy hair.
The Queen gave her daughter a razor for her legs and a stick of underarm deodorant.
Snow doodled through her teenage years—"Snow + ?" in Magic Markered hearts all over her notebooks.
She was an average student, a daydreamer who might have been a scholar if she'd only applied herself.
She liked sappy music and romance novels.
She liked pies and cake instead of fruit.
The Queen remained the fairest in the land.
It was hard on Snow, having such a glamorous mom.
She rebelled by wearing torn shawls and baggy gowns.
Her mother would sometimes say, "Snow darling, why don't you pull back your hair? Show those pretty eyes?" or "Come on, I'll take you shopping.
" Snow preferred staying in her safe room, looking out of her window at the deer leaping across the lawn.
Or she'd practice her dance moves with invisible princes.
And the Queen, busy being Queen, didn't like to push it.
Written by Sharon Olds | Create an image from this poem

The Clasp

 She was four, he was one, it was raining, we had colds,
we had been in the apartment two weeks straight,
I grabbed her to keep her from shoving him over on his
face, again, and when I had her wrist
in my grasp I compressed it, fiercely, for a couple
of seconds, to make an impression on her,
to hurt her, our beloved firstborn, I even almost
savored the stinging sensation of the squeezing,
the expression, into her, of my anger,
"Never, never, again," the righteous
chant accompanying the clasp.
It happened very fast-grab, crush, crush, crush, release-and at the first extra force, she swung her head, as if checking who this was, and looked at me, and saw me-yes, this was her mom, her mom was doing this.
Her dark, deeply open eyes took me in, she knew me, in the shock of the moment she learned me.
This was her mother, one of the two whom she most loved, the two who loved her most, near the source of love was this.
Written by Sergei Yesenin | Create an image from this poem

Letter to mother

Are you still alive, my dear granny?
I am alive as well. Hello! Hello!
May there always be above you, honey,
The amazing stream of evening glow.
 
I"ve been told that hiding your disquiet,
Worrying  about me a lot,
You go out  to the roadside every night,
Wearing your shabby overcoat.
 
In the evening  darkness, very often,
You conceive the same old scene of blood:
Kind of in a tavern fight  some ruffian
Plunged a Finnish knife into my heart.
 
Now calm down, mom! And don"t be dreary!
It"s a painful fiction through and through.
I"m not so bad a drunkard, really,
As to die without seeing you.
 
I"m your tender son  as ever, dear,
And the only thing I dream of now
Is to leave this dismal boredom here
And return to our little house. And how!
 
I"ll return in spring without warning
When the garden blossoms, white as snow.
Please don"t wake me early in the morning,
As you did before, eight years ago.

1924
 
Don"t disturb my dreams that now have flown,
Don"t  perturb my vain and futile strife
For it"s much too early that I"ve known
Heavy loss and weariness in life.
 
Please don"t teach me how to say my prayers!
There is no way back to what is gone.
You"re my only joy, support and praise
And my only flare shining on.
 
Please  forget about your pain and fear,
and don"t  worry  over me a lot
Don"t go out  to the roadside, dear,
Wearing your shabby overcoat.
Written by Frank Bidart | Create an image from this poem

Herbert White

 "When I hit her on the head, it was good,

and then I did it to her a couple of times,--
but it was funny,--afterwards,
it was as if somebody else did it .
.
.
Everything flat, without sharpness, richness or line.
Still, I liked to drive past the woods where she lay, tell the old lady and the kids I had to take a piss, hop out and do it to her .
.
.
The whole buggy of them waiting for me made me feel good; but still, just like I knew all along, she didn't move.
When the body got too discomposed, I'd just jack off, letting it fall on her .
.
.
--It sounds crazy, but I tell you sometimes it was beautiful--; I don't know how to say it, but for a miute, everything was possible--; and then, then,-- well, like I said, she didn't move: and I saw, under me, a little girl was just lying there in the mud: and I knew I couldn't have done that,-- somebody else had to have done that,-- standing above her there, in those ordinary, shitty leaves .
.
.
--One time, I went to see Dad in a motel where he was staying with a woman; but she was gone; you could smell the wine in the air; and he started, real embarrassing, to cry .
.
.
He was still a little drunk, and asked me to forgive him for all he hasn't done--; but, What the shit? Who would have wanted to stay with Mom? with bastards not even his own kids? I got in the truck, and started to drive and saw a little girl-- who I picked up, hit on the head, and screwed, and screwed, and screwed, and screwed, then buried, in the garden of the motel .
.
.
--You see, ever since I was a kid I wanted to feel things make sense: I remember looking out the window of my room back home,-- and being almost suffocated by the asphalt; and grass; and trees; and glass; just there, just there, doing nothing! not saying anything! filling me up-- but also being a wall; dead, and stopping me; --how I wanted to see beneath it, cut beneath it, and make it somehow, come alive .
.
.
The salt of the earth; Mom once said, 'Man's spunk is the salt of the earth .
.
.
' --That night, at that Twenty-nine Palms Motel I had passed a million times on the road, everything fit together; was alright; it seemed like everything had to be there, like I had spent years trying, and at last finally finished drawing this huge circle .
.
.
--But then, suddenly I knew somebody else did it, some bastard had hurt a little girl--; the motel I could see again, it had been itself all the time, a lousy pile of bricks, plaster, that didn't seem to have to be there,--but was, just by chance .
.
.
--Once, on the farm, when I was a kid, I was screwing a goat; and the rope around his neck when he tried to get away pulled tight;--and just when I came, he died .
.
.
I came back the next day; jacked off over his body; but it didn't do any good .
.
.
Mom once said: 'Man's spunk is the salt of the earth, and grows kids.
' I tried so hard to come; more pain than anything else; but didn't do any good .
.
.
--About six months ago, I heard Dad remarried, so I drove over to Connecticut to see him and see if he was happy.
She was twenty-five years younger than him: she had lots of little kids, and I don't know why, I felt shaky .
.
.
I stopped in front of the address; and snuck up to the window to look in .
.
.
--There he was, a kid six months old on his lap, laughing and bouncing the kid, happy in his old age to play the papa after years of sleeping around,-- it twisted me up .
.
.
To think that what he wouldn't give me, he wanted to give them .
.
.
I could have killed the bastard .
.
.
--Naturally, I just got right back in the car, and believe me, was determined, determined, to head straight for home .
.
.
but the more I drove, I kept thinking about getting a girl, and the more I thought I shouldn't do it, the more I had to-- I saw her coming out of the movies, saw she was alone, and kept circling the blocks as she walked along them, saying, 'You're going to leave her alone.
' 'You're going to leave her alone.
' --The woods were scary! As the seasons changed, and you saw more and more of the skull show through, the nights became clearer, and the buds,--erect, like nipples .
.
.
--But then, one night, nothing worked .
.
.
Nothing in the sky would blur like I wanted it to; and I couldn't, couldn't, get it to seem to me that somebody else did it .
.
.
I tried, and tried, but there was just me there, and her, and the sharp trees saying, "That's you standing there.
You're .
.
.
just you.
' I hope I fry.
--Hell came when I saw MYSELF .
.
.
and couldn't stand what I see .
.
.
"
Written by Rudyard Kipling | Create an image from this poem

The Native-Born

 We've drunk to the Queen -- God bless her! --
 We've drunk to our mothers' land;
We've drunk to our English brother,
 (But he does not understand);
We've drunk to the wide creation,
 And the Cross swings low for the mom,
Last toast, and of Obligation,
 A health to the Native-born!

They change their skies above them,
 But not their hearts that roam!
We learned from our wistful mothers
 To call old England "home";
We read of the English skylark,
 Of the spring in the English lanes,
But we screamed with the painted lories
 As we rode on the dusty plains!

They passed with their old-world legends --
 Their tales of wrong and dearth --
Our fathers held by purchase,
 But we by the right of birth;
Our heart's where they rocked our cradle,
 Our love where we spent our toil,
And our faith and our hope and our honour
 We pledge to our native soil!

I charge you charge your glasses --
 I charge you drink with me
To the men of the Four New Nations,
 And the Islands of the Sea --
To the last least lump of coral
 That none may stand outside,
And our own good pride shall teach us
 To praise our comrade's pride,

To the hush of the breathless morning
 On the thin, tin, crackling roofs,
To the haze of the burned back-ranges
 And the dust of the shoeless hoofs --
To the risk of a death by drowning,
 To the risk of a death by drouth --
To the men ef a million acres,
 To the Sons of the Golden South!

To the Sons of the Golden South (Stand up!),
 And the life we live and know,
Let a felow sing o' the little things he cares about,
If a fellow fights for the little things he cares about
 With the weight o a single blow!

To the smoke of a hundred coasters,
 To the sheep on a thousand hills,
To the sun that never blisters,
 To the rain that never chills --
To the land of the waiting springtime,
 To our five-meal, meat-fed men,
To the tall, deep-bosomed women,
 And the children nine and ten!

And the children nine and ten (Stand up!),
 And the life we live and know,
Let a fellow sing o' the little things he cares about,
If a fellow fights for the little things he cares about
 With the weight of a two-fold blow!

To the far-flung, fenceless prairie
 Where the quick cloud-shadows trail,
To our neighbours' barn in the offing
 And the line of the new-cut rail;
To the plough in her league-long furrow
 With the grey Lake' gulls behind --
To the weight of a half-year's winter
 And the warm wet western wind!

To the home of the floods and thunder,
 To her pale dry healing blue --
To the lift of the great Cape combers,
 And the smell of the baked Karroo.
To the growl of the sluicing stamp-head -- To the reef and the water-gold, To the last and the largest Empire, To the map that is half unrolled! To our dear dark foster-mothers, To the heathen songs they sung -- To the heathen speech we babbled Ere we came to the white man's tongue.
To the cool of our deep verandah -- To the blaze of our jewelled main, To the night, to the palms in the moonlight, And the fire-fly in the cane! To the hearth of Our People's People -- To her well-ploughed windy sea, To the hush of our dread high-altar Where The Abbey makes us We.
To the grist of the slow-ground ages, To the gain that is yours and mine -- To the Bank of the Open Credit, To the Power-house of the Line! We've drunk to the Queen -- God bless her! We've drunk to our mothers'land; We've drunk to our English brother (And we hope he'll understand).
We've drunk as much as we're able, And the Cross swings low for the morn; Last toast-and your foot on the table! -- A health to the Native-born! A health to the Nativeborn (Stand up!), We're six white men arow, All bound to sing o' the Little things we care about, All bound to fight for the Little things we care about With the weight of a six-fold blow! By the might of our Cable-tow (Take hands!), From the Orkneys to the Horn All round the world (and a Little loop to pull it by), All round the world (and a Little strap to buckle it).
A health to the Native-born!
Written by Charles Webb | Create an image from this poem

The Death Of Santa Claus

 He's had the chest pains for weeks,
but doctors don't make house
calls to the North Pole,

he's let his Blue Cross lapse,
blood tests make him faint,
hospital gown always flap

open, waiting rooms upset
his stomach, and it's only
indigestion anyway, he thinks,

until, feeding the reindeer,
he feels as if a monster fist
has grabbed his heart and won't

stop squeezing.
He can't breathe, and the beautiful white world he loves goes black, and he drops on his jelly belly in the snow and Mrs.
Claus tears out of the toy factory wailing, and the elves wring their little hands, and Rudolph's nose blinks like a sad ambulance light, and in a tract house in Houston, Texas, I'm 8, telling my mom that stupid kids at school say Santa's a big fake, and she sits with me on our purple-flowered couch, and takes my hand, tears in her throat, the terrible news rising in her eyes.
Written by Charles Webb | Create an image from this poem

Suitcase

 Its silver clasp looks like a man grasping
his hands above his head in victory;
the latches, like twin hatchbacks headed away.
There are no wheels, just four steel nipples for sliding.
A hexagonal seal announces the defunct "U.
S.
Trunk Company.
" The frame is wood— big, heavy, cheap—covered with imitation leather, its blue just slightly darker than Mom's eyes.
"It's beautiful.
Much too expensive," she told Dad, and kissed him.
The lining is pink, quilted acetate.
Three sides have pouches with elastic tops— stretched out now, like old underwear.
I watched Mom pack them with panties and brassieres when I was so little she didn't blush.
The right front corner has been punctured and crushed.
(I could have choked the baggage handler.
) The handle—blue plastic doorknocker— is fringed with wrinkled tags from United, Delta, U.
S.
Air (which crunched the hole, flying the suitcase back from Houston).
I'd gone there to see Mom in the "home," and save some boyhood relics before my sister gave them to Good Will.
"Take mine," Mom said, hearing my suitcase was full.
"I won't need luggage, the next place I go.
"