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Mother Childhood Poems | Mother Poems About Childhood

These Mother Childhood poems are examples of Mother poems about Childhood. These are the best examples of Mother Childhood poems written by international PoetrySoup poets

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Details | Rhyme | |



So young, I was, and so naive There was no doubt, I did believe This babe who's latched inside my womb The ties we had would always be Latched on was he, as he was fed Then later days, our hands instead Not tall enough to open gates I would reach the latch for his escape In time he grew to need more space The cord we had, still had it's place The loving ties from birth, so long Were gently stretching.., moving on, Yet still remaining full and strong In time he grew, to be a man Our bond had changed, but still lives on He fell in love, as it should be He latched on with her, I'm glad to see It didn't mean our own was gone Songs are sung when lovers part But no song for a mother's heart When new adventures come one day And new roads take him far away The man he is, has been set free To be the man he wants to be The child he was is never gone She's letting go, yet holding on If once, one wish, were mine to choose So many would my thoughts pursue But one within my heart still yearns For just one day, the clocks would turn Together you and I would be Sitting there among the trees I would lift you up upon my knee Just like we did when you were three…
___________________________________________________________________ For Francine's Contest: Children In Rhyme

Copyright © Carrie Richards

Details | Narrative | |

Will You Tie My Shoes When I Grow Old

You were beautiful, 
my tiny child, 
wrapped tightly in my arms, 
close to my heart.
I listened to you breathing.
I counted your fingers
and your toes.
you cried out to me
and I loved you
with every ounce of my soul.

Will you hear me
when I cry out? 
Will you hold me close
as I held you then? 

I remember the day
You took your first step.
There was no stopping you.
Your feet gave you freedom
to explore the world
like never before
but danger lurked.
I opened those doors anyway, 
and introduced
you to the world.
Where will you be
when my legs
no longer run? 
no longer work? 
Will you realize
that I love
freedom too? 

I laugh
about that day
you first tied your shoe.
We tried and tried
to get that rabbit
in that hole
and you finally did it.
You pointed your toes
for everyone to see
how proud you were.

I am proud too, 
of my writing
and my drawing, 
of my needlework
and my cooking.
But my hands are beginning to ache
and my fingers will not bend.
I will lose the things
that make me proud
except for you.
Hopefully not you.
Will you let me
brag on you? 
Even tell wild stories
that are a bit beyond the truth? 
Will you be proud of me too? 

I waved good-bye
that morning when you left
on that large, yellow bus.
I was so scared.
I know you were too.
You waved at me bravely
through the dusty window
but I saw the water
forming in your eyes.
You came home, however, 
full of pride and joy.
You sang the alphabet song
and got most of it right.
You practiced for hours
until you could sing it
even in your sleep.

I'm afraid.
I forgot
whether I took
my pills today or not.
I forgot
if I told this story before.
I even forgot once
who you were
and it terrified me.
My mind
is my treasure
the only thing I have left, 
and I heard you make
fun of me
for not remembering
that I gave you the
same gift as last year.
Will you love me
when I no longer
know who I am? 

You came home blushing
from the glow of
your first kiss.
Your first love, 
the one you thought was real.
You talked about him non-stop.
You changed for him. You gave.
But he left you anyway
for a blue-eyed girl
and I held you
while you cried for him.

I too have a
broken heart.
The love of my life
left me after
fifty-six years.
He left me here
to live life on my own
while he moved on
to another realm
And I cry for him too.
I long for his shoulder
and strong embrace.
I feel betrayed
because he and I
made a deal
that we would never
leave the other alone.
Yet I am alone
sitting in an echoing house
with no hands to hold.

You welcomed her home today- 
your tiny baby girl.
She has your eyes
and possibly your toes.
I see you counting them
as they roll me
into the room.
You finally came
to visit.
It has been a while.

You look up at me
with tears in your eyes
and ask
almost desperately, 

"Will she tie my
when I get old? "

Copyright © Rachel Kovacs

Details | Free verse | |

Like a Rock

I carry my mother 
like a rock in my pocket 

that I just can’t seem to throw away 

It serves me 
no purpose, 
it just weighs me down 

When I first found it, 
when I first picked it up 
and started carrying it with me, 

I thought it so beautiful – 
I could look at it for hours 

But, like my mother, 
it never looked back at me, 
never grew warm under my loving gaze 

For the longest, I was blind to that, 
Blind to anything but the beauty, 
blind to the cold, hard, 
beyond-remote nature of the rock,
of my mother,
my stone


I carry my mother,
a thought without weight

And she’s heavier

and she’s colder

than all the stones
there are

By the time I recognized her 
immutable, emotional unavailability, 
I had run out of joy,
felt depleted of hope –

But I could not,
for the life of me,
stop seeking a beauty, a warmth,
inside her heart

Could not stop
that one day this stone,
my mother,
deep inside my pocket,

Might just become
its own opposite –

Change from hard to fluid,
from cold to warm

But my rock, my hard burden,
will only turn to water

When my mother
stops being
a stone

Copyright © Rev. Rebecca Guile Hudson

Details | Bio | |


Why, Momma, why?
Was I not deserving 
of you?
Was I not good?  
Was I too frail?
Did you send me away
Because your own life 

Why, Momma, why
Do I still secretly wail?
Asking myself what did I do so 
wrong? How did I fail?

What you called rebelliousness
Was the only way I knew how 
to stay strong sometimes, I'd 
stay up all night looking after you
Got banged and bruised so that 
he wouldn't hurt you

No one else did that
Isn't it true?
Did you ever think about my wounds
That was the only way I knew to
protect you

Instead of helping me 
You banished me through lies,
Stripped me from my home,
My siblings, my life

Withheld your love
Because I tried to take my own life
But did you ever stop and think that
Perhaps something in me wasn't right?

Why, momma, why?
Does your absence whisper in me
A forever sorrowful lullaby and
Although, I miss you I love you more 
each day that goes by

I forgive you wholeheartedly
Despite that yesterday, I cried
I wouldn't hesitate to wipe
The tears from your eyes if they 
ever again were to meet with mine

Copyright © Madelin Barton

Details | Narrative | |

Precipice of a Lost Innocence

I am standing outside my bedroom, on the precipice of lost innocence.
Wide eyed, and barefoot on cold hardwood.
Someone is hammering on our front door.
My father, looking a bit annoyed, shuffles anxiously down the stairs.
Tussled hair, a bewildered vein bulging in his forehead,
wearing his old, blue plaid robe, the one with the woven rope belt,
he looks like a lightweight boxer, ready to enter the ring.

There are two grim faced policemen waiting on the front porch.
My mother, at the top of the stairs, clutches the neck of her gown.
She looks as if she might choke herself.
Confused concern, reflects in sleep swollen eyes.

They ask my father,  “How well do you know those folks across the road?”
As they notice me standing on the stairs, they quickly lower their voices.
In a hushed, rather husky monotone, they explain to my father... 
whispering something about a boy who has taken a shotgun out into the hills… 
He has taken his own life…and has been identified as the boy..., 
the teenager, who lives kitty-corner across  our road.
The same kid who mowed our grass when Dad was sick for a spell last summer.
The one who bags Mom’s groceries at the local A & P.
They think I don’t hear them            ……but I do…
and I hear them ask my father, 
      would he,  please, come along to help them break the news?

My father, glazed eyes, and head low, steps away a moment, to quickly dress.
I remember hearing my mother gasp, then suck in a  sob,..
But then is right behind me, pulling me towards her…..
and I can feel her heart pounding, through flannel of my pajamas.
She is squeezing my hard that it hurts,.... somehow I don’t mind.
I look up seeking reassurance,.... her eyes are huge, …
                      and she knows that I have heard…. 
And we both know,...that nothing will ever be the same. 
After this day is over,  the childhood of yesterday, will wear a different face…

Father pulls a coat over his pajama tops, …he gives my mother a touch on the arm.
With a desolate look at me, he touches my head.
He steps out into the darkness of a not quite dawn.
And through the window,  I can see the line of shadows on the lawn.
Three men, like hunched over soldiers, walking slowly into the wounds of a new day.

(Sadly,  this is based on a true story)

Copyright © Carrie Richards

Details | Free verse | |

Sweet Lady

In the drawer
Behind all the white t-shirts 
Packed away in the corner where 
It is safe, I keep you.

You are hidden
No one knows you're there,
Except me.
I take you out to see your 
Smiling yet depressed face.

I realize the trouble you went through 
Just to make sure I live a better life 
Than you did.

Here you hold your baby one last time
Before sending him off to a
Life without poverty.
He doesn't say goodbye because
He is so small and innocent.
You give him a little kiss and say
Goodbye my sweet child.

So I thank you
Sweet, sweet, lady.
I'll put you back
In that safe little place,
So that when the time comes
For me to meet you,
I will find you before
You find me.

Copyright © Joseph Giordano

Details | Free verse | |

She Hulk

When I was a child I only ever wanted to be strong.
I wanted to be able to compete with the boys
and when I foot raced them at recess I won every time.
They called me ‘She Hulk’ because of my muscular frame
and from the way I only ever wore soccer t-shirts and sweat pants.
After that nickname was implanted into my brain like a growing weed,
I’ve only ever wanted to be feminine.
I started wearing skirts and dresses 
and in middle school they shrieked at the site of my makeup and done up hair.
But that weed inside of my mind only grew, and grew, and grew
until I became a mixed drink cocktail
with one part anorexic and two parts lonely,
because I thought that the definition of feminine began with the word frail.
No one ever realizes how greatly words affect us,
how a simple nickname can turn a pretty girl into a skeleton.
I stood at five foot two weighing seventy nine pounds,
so cold and frozen,
yet I still considered myself a ‘She Hulk.’
You could see my ribcage through my t-shirt
and my spinal cord protruded loudly through my weathered skin,
as if somehow my bones were dirty knives
just trying to cut through the flesh of judgment.
As I grew older I became the girl that was never enough.
Not good enough to speak poetry.
Not good enough to lay paint on a canvas.
Not good enough.
Not tall enough.
Not big enough boobs for them.
Not primped to perfection.
Not undeniably straight.
Not smart enough.
Not dumb enough.
Not ditsy enough.
Not cool enough or fun enough.
And I began to believe, too, that I wasn’t enough.
I never told my mother that I had been in madly in love with a girl.
I never told anyone about the night we first kissed 
because I was too vulnerable for the judgment.
And parents always justify saying that ‘kids will be kids’
But when we are kids our brains are still growing
and the smallest of seeds that get planted will one day bloom
into one giant regret,
will one day affect the choices that we make,
will one day influence us about the clothes that we wear,
will one day shape us into the person who we thought we would never be.
I only ever wanted to be strong,
and as a child I thought strength was only about being able
to lift a bar stool above your head.
I thought that strength was only about being able
to beat the boys in bare foot running races.
I was told that strength was something only
a man could have.
But as I’ve grown older I’ve realized that strength
isn’t about muscle at all,
but it’s about weakness,
and the ability to overcome the social anxiousness.
It’s about carrying around a lifetime of baggage
on your broken back
because the ones that kicked you when you were down
are going to be the ones that were  ultimately wrong.
I thought that the definition of woman 
began with the word disappointment.
And I became a mixed drink cocktail
with one part freedom
and two parts Sailor Jerry
because every girl needs a stiff drink once and awhile.
We are not disappointments.
We will never be the ones who gave up on hope.
We will never be the ones who gave up on each other,
or god,
or our mothers.
We will always be enough;
enough for the ones who shunned us 
enough for the ones that cursed us
enough for the ones the hurt us
and destroyed us
and beat us when we were covered in bruises.
But you see, bruises fade
and the scars of our flesh are only stories
things we have overcame
and there are things out there that we will overcome.
When I was a child, I only ever wanted to be strong.
I hid my vulnerability.
I hid the parts of me that were true.
I never told my mother about my girlfriend
because I was afraid she wouldn’t understand,
kind of like all those people who never understood 
just how much words effect us. 
I can’t say that I can beat the boys at foot races anymore,
because, well, I smoke cigarettes now.
And I can’t say that the nickname of my childhood didn’t affect me.
But I take that name now and embrace it.
Because I am strong.
I am the ‘she hulk’.
I am a mixed drink cocktail
with three parts greatful.

Copyright © Katie Pukash

Details | Couplet | |

She Calls Me Home

She Calls Me Home…

At days long end
Left on troubles shore
When I just know
I can't take anymore
When the last light
Of hope is gone

She calls me home
She calls me home

When my thoughts
Are racing round
And I can't find
A friend in this town
When every door
Has turned out wrong

She calls me home
She calls me home

She calls me home
To her embrace
Wipes the tears
From my tortured face

Calms my soul
Til the demons are gone
And with her sweet voice
She calls me home

When the dark
Won't give up light
When the wrong
Outscores the right
When the noise
Outdoes the song

She calls me home
She calls me home

When the clouds
Won't seem to break
And the sky
Just seems to ache
And the sun's
Completely gone

She calls me home
She calls me home

She calls me home
To her embrace
Wipes the tears
From my tortured face

Calms my soul
Til the demons are gone
And with her sweet voice
She calls me home

Copyright © James Burns

Details | Narrative | |

Adult Child of an Alcoholic

Your face and rotting teeth and heavy jowls
         and sunken breasts with bulging waist and
         wooden legs
Your image of laughter, lovemaking, seeking
         bourbon tweaked philosophies
         of life begins
         at  forty.
The hands that tremble as you tilt
         the glass that begins another
         day of
Tirade thoughts, empty lies, money spent on
         lipstick coated leeches who prey on
         your diminishing

Through these wintry days pass faces long past
         into what was then
              while with the coming spring ...
                       at last!  at last!
One can remember
         and want no more 
              what could never be:
                      a Mother.

Copyright © Sue Mason

Details | Sonnet | |

Blossoms And Bubbles

Dancing butterflies and laughter
without a care. A day full of sweet
smelling blossoms fill the air.

Sister's golden hair glistened in the
Summer sun's glow, as Mother blew
colorful bubbles that bounced off
her little nose.

Mother's  heart was always full of
love to share and the day of blossoms,
and bubbles will forever in my memories
be kept with  loving care.

Precious and few are moments shared
together. This wonderful day of blossoms
and bubbles, in my heart will last forever.

April 6, 2015

Copyright © Sharon Gulley

Details | Narrative | |

Surprise Factor

    (Why I'm Still Breathing)

When the cow was dry, she was compliant.
When she calved, she turned vicious
and no fence could hold her,
but she gave milk in abundance,
and Dad refused to sell her.

She chased Mother 'round and 'round the barn
until Mom panicked, climbed the corner logs,
and perched under the roof,
clinging like a cicada shell on a weed-pod.
Beasty pawed and bellowed until Dad came home.
"I could gain on her on the corners,"
Mother said, "because I could turn faster,
but she gained on me on the straightaway."

Plug-ugly tore through the fence,
into the garden, where Mom and I worked.
"Run, Cona Faye, run," my mother shouted.
How did she know? The cow passed Mother
and thundered straight for me. I ran.

At the fence, snorts filled my ears. Hot breath
steamed my back. I saw myself stomped,
pulverized into the dirt. I turned, screaming 
at full volume, and flailed my arms
like a windmill in a strong wind.
That old red cow locked her front legs
and skidded like a freight train on full brake.

I seized the moment, and scaled that rail fence.

Copyright © Cona Adams

Details | Free verse | |

My First Child

A precious gift! Joy unimagined fills my heart She smiles! My heart races, leaping! And like a butterfly in spring, gliding, It dips among new blossoms Like a sweet melody playing softly in the cool of the evening, I soar! My baby, my first, like an angel sleeps Soft, warm and brown I stare in awe of this most perfect gift from God! Tiny almond-shaped eyes, sparkle- searching Nothing as beautiful have I ever seen! She cries and her teardrops like crystal daggers Pierce, my joyful heart! And like a wounded sparrow it plummets Free-falling, and I am left puzzled...confused Nervous, I gently hold her close to my breast I am sure she can feel my heart beating.. Suddenly our faces brush... she turns- Our eyes lock, and smiles ripple! My first born--all is well in my world.
© 1992 ~*~

Copyright © Annalise a.k.a. Audrey Haick

Details | Narrative | |

One Halloween

It wasn't the usual Halloween night
Of parties and goblins, of which there'd been many
It was a year of big changes, for our family had moved
At ten years old, I was still struggling and shy
And, in a brand new school, where no one gave me an eye
I'd been replanted and torn,, forlorn and alone 
Late in October...uprooted and lost

On Halloween night, it rained and it poured
It seemed the end of the world...I was unhappy and bored
Leaving what had been so familiar and sure
Where our old street had been filled, with a million new thrills
Now, here in the boondocks, one came to the door

I was dressed to go out...but storms drenched the night
My mom understood....and tried to keep bright
She went up to her room, made up her face
She combed up her hair, until it stood on it's roots
Covered her face with black fireplace soot
She threw on her robe, and pulled on dad's boots
Crept out the back door, and to the front porch

When the doorbell rang....I jumped in delight!
Trick-or-treaters had come to our house this dark night!!
When I opened the door, at first I didn't see
It was mom, ...trying to hard, bring me some glee!
She grabbed me and laughed and pulled me to come
Out into the rainstorm....up the road we would run
We ran in the downpour, getting soaked to our skin
Laughing and yelling....such fun it had been!

Later that night, we warmed by the fire
She let me stay one was tired
So cozy and longer so cold
With popcorn, and candy...and the ghost stories told
That one Halloween, on that night of the storm
Was the best Halloween....and reminds me of home.....
I'll never forget  when each Halloween comes
The candy, the fun....   and the gift from my mom.....

Copyright © Carrie Richards

Details | Quatrain | |

The Whispered Song

The warrior lays her weary head, 
With heavy heart she cannot bear, 
Burning tears stream down her face, 
As whispered memories touch the ear.

Her armour tarnished by remorse, 
Her battle-cry a wimpered row, 
Her wounds, of which bleed solitude, 
Will never know forgiveness now.

The song began two score ago, 
When two came knocking at her door, 
In need of refuge from the world, 
Of that, and love, and little more.

Forced to fight for every smile, 
Her only solace found in song, 
She longed for love to rescue her, 
And plant her where she could belong.

Jealous tongues are seldom kind, 
Self-seeking hearts know nought of love, 
The caged canary only sings, 
When coaxed to praise from up above.

For the steely spine that now I own, 
Forever shall I grateful be, 
A gift from her, and from her own. 
Courage mounted inwardly.

I'll not forget how I have loved thee, 
And youthful memories I will prize, 
Til on the shore of His forgiveness, 
Whereto now, we both shall rise.

Copyright © Yvonne Evanoff

Details | Rhyme | |

Little Yellow Socks

* Written for my daughter, who really does have a precious pair of Little Yellow Socks.

Little Yellow Socks
       by Amy Swanson  12/5/2008

Little yellow socks
running down the hall
"Slow down with those socks on,"
I'd yell... too late, the fall!

Little yellow socks
padding softly late at night
climbing up into my lap
one more hug, out goes the light.

Little yellow socks
follow me with squeals of laughter;
Oh how she loves to run in them,
Begging me to come chase after!

Little yellow socks...
now not being worn a lot.
My little girl is growing up,
No longer just a tot.

Little yellow socks
will be cast aside someday
I must guard these precious moments;
in my heart, they'll safely stay.

Copyright © Amy Swanson

Details | Free verse | |

Christmas, Minus One

We said our goodbyes in June,
and the months since blur into mist.
At unexpected moments, awareness
of loss hits; tears spill unbidden.

Family gathering, Christmas Eve 
as usual . . . minus one.
We quietly exchanged gifts, 
found flowers from her funeral 
crafted into hand-made jewelry, 
kaleidoscopes, treasured mementoes.

I cooked grapes today, dark muscadines.
I extracted seeds and peelings, 
and measured life-sustaining juice 
through the metal funnel she used 
from the day of her marriage.
It came to me dented and bent, 
like her body had been at 93.

I still taste those fresh-from-the-oven 
chocolate rolls after school, 
garden tomatoes warmed by the sun, 
hot biscuits with apple jelly, 
squeezed from the peelings after 
she baked crisp slices in cinnamon-rich pie.

I'm glad I didn't know then,
about being allergic to Cinnamon.

Copyright © Cona Adams

Details | Blank verse | |

A Brief Childhood

In the back of my head, in the garden shed,
I see him as clearly as fresh white paint:
A little boy sat on the creosote floor, 
Dragged grazed knees hugged up to his chin, 
So familiar, so resonant and never faint. 
He shivers and weeps on the wooden ground, 
Alone, almost silent, with hardly a sound, 
In retreat from a world he cannot understand 
That Is ruled and defined by a callused hand.

It's his seventh birthday and a slowing flood 
Of mucus and blood flows from swollen lips, 
A tooth bares a nerve and a jagged chip, 
But the pain means no more than dandelion clocks 
Or cuckoo spit; the act alone the gestalt of it.

Some days he would walk for miles, 
To see beyond the next hill, around the bend, 
Kicking slowly along, his shadow twice his size, 
Dwarfing him, tracking him, a passive friend. 
Perhaps to find some haven, someone to 
Take him in, rescue his heart, and want him;
But strangers, though kindly, approached 
With the dusk and it always ended the same way:
"Where do you live?" they would say
And thoroughly drilled, he would quietly reply,
In emotion drained monotone,
His address and number of the telephone,
And they always took him back home.

Some days he would walk for miles,
To sit on the edge of the viaduct, 
Perched perilously with nothing to lose, 
Dangling feet in small scuffed shoes, 
Dropping pebbles and stones to the 
Rocks and undergrowth far, far below, 
Imagining if he may fall in their stead, 
What then would be left to know?

The fall down the stairs snapped his ankle
Like a spindly twig, fractured some ribs,
Dislocated his jaw.
The children's ward, antiseptic and bright,
Young nurses in uniform, starched and white
Were so kind to him, he almost cried, bringing concern
And orange squash and a paper straw.

Sometimes it’s like this when things go wrong, 
A scapegoat is needed to blame things on. 
People thought him shy, with head bowed low, 
Lost in comics and books, lost in himself, 
Denying the threat of another blow. 
He was not shy, just hiding and biding, 
Keeping his head down and trying not to show.

Life is a scoundrel, and time a cohort thief, 
Stealing a childhood with no reprieve, 
Leaving only the slow burning sense of relief, 
That an unpleasant childhood seemed mercifully brief.

Copyright © Tony Bush

Details | Personification | |


One moist patch, like dewy grass,
surrounded by a field of weeds,
emerges first and breathes at last, 
through openings, the air it needs.
Cut off from, and cut off of;
counting on, and counting in;
from down below, to up above - 
A smack on tender, crimson skin.
	There is a pulse.

One spring bud, like seedling stems,
surrounded by a garden wall,
is standing out from all of them, 
despite the fact, they're just as tall.
And though the bud has not yet grown,
the soil and the water see
more than just the seed they've sewn.
They see the flower it will be.
	There is a pulse.

One tall stem, like climbing vines,
surrounded by its petals' plumes,
shares its elegant designs,
and stretches as it blooms.
And when the wind begins to call,
the flower spreads it's pollen 'round.
It falls in love, and loves in fall,
and falling love renews the ground.
	There is a pulse.

Copyright © John Taylor

Details | Quatrain | |

‘The Airplane Crossing Clear-Blue Sky'

My white-washed bars surrounded me -
they held me as I slept;
they soothed me when the days were long,
and mother’s blue-eyes wept.

A baby girl, six months or less,
awakened from my sleep -
stood up legs as sure as hope;
as strong as flat is steep.

My hands, my saviors, gripped the rail
so I could peek outside –
the bluest sky I’d ever seen,
As tall as it was wide;

came into view - between the blue,
an airplane gliding by,
its smoky streamer like a flag,
across my memory’s sky...

The memory is a simple one -
a window, sky, and plane -
but in my heart, it's heaven's door
and there it shall remain.

I’ve hung it on my memory’s wall
Between that life and this –
It covers every hole I’ve dug
In sorrow’s vast abyss.

This picture brings the special peace
I knew when I was small –
Where mother’s just beyond the door,
and waiting for my call…

*Inspired by Danielle's Earliest Memory contest. I have blocked out almost every memory 
from my childhood, and only a very few gems remain - this is the first. and I will treasure it 

Copyright © Kristin Reynolds

Details | Sestina | |


No mother would fill up her eyes with tears of woman...
if it weren't for God performing a miracle at dawn,
as she cried out in joy and held her baby in trembling arms
but shed many sweet tears hearing his laughter so loud;
oh, he couldn't see her mommy's face through his tiny eyes,
and it will be long before he'll will utter the first word, " Mom." 

Now that baby sleeps under the attentive look of his mom,
who's too young to become a mature woman;
many visions of this birth crossed her gleeful eyes
she dreamed of the very same words whispered at each dawn,
repeating them in her silly head as if they sounded too loud...
while cradling a pretty doll in her folded arms.

Will she be welcomed home by her parents opening their arms?
Will they reprimand her and not consider her a legal mom?
Perhaps they will not be angry and speak not so loud:
girls are supposed to be girls, not suddenly turn into woman...
So this innocent girl, deceived by a bad boy, must wake up at dawn
when her baby cries and feed him with scary, childish eyes?

Nights seem longer for her, trying to stay awake rubbing her eyes,
what she beheld in those exciting eyes, now it's a burden in her weary arms;
she remembers that pain was too unbearable, but joy more sublime at dawn...
how will she learn how to care for the infant by watching her mom?
She must have seen a nursery or read a book how to think like a real woman,
and can anyone imagine how she keeps that secret instead of revealing it loud?

She must gather enough courage inside to feed her baby who can't cry loud,
but for now she must carry that baby without sighs of distress into her bright eyes;
and her parents can see the changes making her a loving person already woman;
they may ask questions to why she has gained weight and holds dolls in her arms...
no, they aren't anticipating great news and in doubt, they await a splendid dawn.

Mother and daughter closely together amazed by the coming dawn,
any concealed secret can be easily spoken...somewhat joyful and loud;
they imagine the infant's futures will be part of grandma and mom!
Their reunited hearts come together to show love in their delighted eyes,
and they'll take turns feeding the new-born, tenderly lulling him in their arms;
what if forgiveness hadn't been there to deny her all of the joys of woman?

Would a mother deny her daughter compassion as a good woman?
Even God hurried dawn to offer that gift into her gracious, tender arms...
and those arms accepted it with the gentleness and kindness of mom.

Copyright © Andrew Crisci

Details | Rhyme | |


Many years ago, when we were all young,
We really thought life, would be so much fun.
While playing dress-up, trying on mom’s stuff,
Putting on make-up, we found to be tough.

Then came our schooling, and boy things would change,
“Those aren’t our parents”, when they acted strange.
Sometimes they were hip, but old-fashioned too,
That’s something I swore, I would never do.

Wishing you were older, adults had it made,
They would do nothing, yet still would be paid.
That is how little, we all had known,
We surely found out, once we were grown.

Loving the twenties, we’d go out with friends,
When we went shopping, we followed the trends.
Doing what we wanted, and staying out late,
It didn’t matter, what time we all ate.

Then came the thirties, and most of us wed,
Watch what you wish for, my parents had said.
We had to work hard, many bills to pay,
I guess they were right, what more can I say?

Raising your children, was hardest of all,
Needing some advice, your parent’s you’d call.
It seemed so easy, they needed no rest,
So now it’s your turn, you learned from the best.

The forties arrived, that was a shocker,
We’d spend lots of time, just at the doctor.
Back aches and headaches, so tired you’d be,
Trying not to cough, or else you would pee.

The fifties would come, and your grandkids too,
Where were your glasses? You hadn’t a clue.
You searched here and there, and under the bed,
“Hey grandma” they laughed, “They’re right on your head”.

Here come the sixties, now let’s have some fun,
You are retired; your work is all done.
To dinner with friends, you dressed and you wait,
They never show up, you have the wrong date.

Now the seventies, with friends playing games,
If only you could, remember their names.
You try hard to hide, those under-eye bags,
Gravity happens, and everything sags.

Enjoy every day, and have a good laugh,
All the steps you took, led down a new path.
Live life as it comes, each year a new page,
One thing is for sure, everyone will age.

Copyright © Kelly Zakerski

Details | Rhyme | |

Apology Letter To My Mama

Dear mama,
I apologize for the aches,
And all the pain,
I apologize for struggle in your 
Torturing your veins,
I apologize for the stressful tears,
On account of non-listening ears,
I hear your melancholy weeps,
From a mind that never sleeps,
I know the fake smile you keep,
Will break you suddenly,
I am sorry for the things making you 
I am sorry you had to grow up 
Even when you shout hate,
I see love in your eyes,
Out of your heart you apologize,
But, this is my apology to you,
For all the things I put you through,
I apologize for the things you never 
Just to make us glad,
I apologize for the unpaid bills, 
that has you taking headache pills,
I thank you for your vigilance,
But, I can't sit and watch,
The other half is gone,
And you're fighting alone,
Somebody got to be the MAN of the 
We can't always sit on the couch,
Mama I appreciate the things you 
I thank God for you,
I apologize if my actions never 
I Love You,
You bring peace and healing to my 

Copyright © Anthony Scandrick II

Details | Free verse | |


UNGRATEFUL CHILDREN   A parent's lament

   	with Wings
    	and Talons
Pounce on the fleetest of hearts

                 over the
                 Blood Transfusions
    		Hospital frights of prematurity
             			 of EMS sirens
                              HIV trembling tests 
   		 Asthma Tents
                Breathless Worry atop cloud kissed Trees
                Sleepless Nights of bully battles
                Struggles with Education’s foes
                 Mad Escapes from Fathers of Violence
                 The teary wave good bye for fledgling endeavors
			Day night day night day night…unending

Land  on

      Slight Imperfections and Imagined Slights
            or the

Shortage of Cash
                    New Shoes 
                    New Cars
	or other

Copyright © Victoria Anderson-Throop

Details | Free verse | |

Grandpa's Wink

One night I was trying to put a wide-awake and unruly child to bed.
She slipped, and slid, and giggled as she ran everywhere else instead.
But then I finally caught her as she climbed upon her Daddy’s lap.
He ask her why she wouldn’t go to sleep and monsters is what he got.
So Daddy told her a bedtime story that calmed her down at last.
His chair sat by the windows, where he could see the sky.
She’d noticed that he sat there nightly starring at those stars.
He told her to look for one that winked for it was Grandma saying good night.
Another one would be Grandpa who would take her cares to heart.
And one would be her Guardian Angel to keep her safe at night.
But the best of all would be God who would be there to plot her daily course.
Then look at all the twinkling ones…. They are the Angels as they rejoice.
And the Aurora Borealis is the music to those stars.
Now listen very carefully, and watch with all your heart…
And you will see you’re not alone in your bedroom late at night.
For how can you be alone with so much going on just for you?
Then Daddy gently picked her up and took her off to bed.
Now she wouldn’t go to sleep unless the curtains were open this night instead.

Then years later I was listening as she put her own precious wee one to bed…
And you will never guess… She said exactly what her father had said…
I went back to that old chair and thanked her Daddy for his wisdom thru the years…
And as I looked upon the stars… he winked good night to me, I’m sure…
Written when still on later brought it here to

Copyright © Carol Eastman

Details | Narrative | |

The Blue Danube

   There's an old upright,
   standing tall, against the wall,
   no one plays it much anymore
   as it sits there in silence, out on the old sun porch

   But I can imagine it quite regal in its prime, shiny and new
   And age has turned the varnish yellow
   The veneer, a bit buckled, and the bench has been repaired
   With clamps and screws, and Elmer’s wood glue

   A relic from another time, although the
   sound has not changed throughout the years
   and tears have spilled upon the keys
   There's one key that sticks, and three more are chipped...

   If only time could skip…backwards to then…
   To when my mother and I sat side by side
   together,.... playing “The Blue Danube”.


Her hands over mine, pointing out the key of C
And what I do see,... still in my mind….,  
         are the blue veins of her hands
                  enveloping mine,
                    and hearing the waltz, a bit off key

                   (It needed tuning…it always did, it never mattered, it never will)

I was small…my fingers couldn’t reach them all, 
         those pock marked, scarred, and magic keys

But the measure of Johann Strauss would bounce off the walls…

She would hum into my ear…
        Her soft brown hair would mix with mine
I could smell Breck shampoo, and feel her breath upon my cheek
And the music, soft and sweet, classic light…from that old Upright...

A simple tune…the waltz of time
     that has played on and on... long beyond her life
        and will play on long beyond my own…


Recited on youtube.....


Copyright © Carrie Richards

Details | Rhyme | |

Dear Stranger,

I tried my best
To show you part of me.
The side of me
You've never seen.

I'm more than a daughter;
I'm an artist, a writer,
A sister, a friend
And now to you a stranger.

I have a question,
Have you ever realized
That I have my own voice
And I have my own life?

I'm not relinquishing my soul--
I won't sell it to anyone.
If I can't be myself
Then who will I become?

I have a mind of my own,
A heart and gifts.
I have a life of my own
And it's mine to live.

Yes, you gave me life,
But it's not yours to give.
You gave me this life
So I can learn to live.

Tell me, have we met?
Have you ever seen me?
Or did you just see my music,
My tee shirts and jeans?

It's not what I look like,
It's how I look at myself.
I'm embarrassed to show you it.
Only you and no one else.

Don't be disappointed,
Mad or upset.
Be happy I have morals,
A mind and self-respect.

I'm the person I want to be.
I stay true to myself,
Meaning I'm me.
I'm me for no one else.

I'm smart and independent
Because you made me this way.
I'm no longer fearful and afraid,
That's not how I wanted to stay.

Now do you know me?
Or should I continue?
I'm making you realize,
I'm not being rude.

So make your decision.
Please, I just want an answer.
Not to be disrespectful,
But are you my mom or my mother?

Copyright © Skylar Rae Montgomery

Details | Rhyme | |

Picky Eaters

This poem was inspired by Dr. Mehta's poem on Childhood Obesity.

Our Mom made us sit and sit
Until we’d eaten every bit
She said “there’s starving kids in China
Africa and Asia Mina”
We kids said then send it to ‘em
Broccoli, spinach – we don’t do ‘em
But Mom, she would have none of that
So all us kids just sat and sat
Until our Mom just shook her head
Said “you’re finished – go to bed”
Then we all stood up one by one
Thinking all that we had won
But truth be told, we didn’t beat her
No we all are picky eaters
So many things we just won’t taste
Picky eaters – such a waist

Mdailey	5/25/11

And before you draw my attention to the spelling of waist – it was intended as most 
of us picky eaters tend to go for meat and potatoes that go right to our waist.  But I 
guess could have used waste as well in that last line.

Copyright © mike dailey

Details | Rhyme | |

Flour Sacks

Life was hard in the money department
My parents had what was called a paid job
Just over basics it was evident
Someone else ate the corn, they got the cob

Life was grand, week to week we ate biscuits
There was sidemeat on our plate with syrup
The salt made the sweet dance by castanet
That simple food had what is called one-up

Then mother lost her job, more biscuits served
Hollyhock flour purchased by twenty pounds
Its brand name stamped across the sack in red
She bleached letters off, she didn't mess around

Fabric to make shirts for me to wear to church
Embroidered by a friend 'pon collar and sleeves
I wore them like a princess, now for them search
In my heart, and for those beautiful clothes grieve 

Sponsor: Judy Konos
Contest: Whatever Happened To Flour Sacks
I saw some flour sacks at Wal-Mart in the last few years
and it was only one time..I did notice that it cost more 
to get the flour sacks..I remember when I began to 
learn to sew that mother gave me flour sacks to 
fancy up to put in my hope chest..I did a technique
where I pulled threads out which left an open weave
on the ends to make fancy dish towels..I also embroidered
them with fancy designs to put in my hope chest..When
I was newly married my mother-in-law would get flour
in a sack with a dish towel sewn into the end seam on it..
I guess one flour company trying to outdo another company.

Copyright © Sara Kendrick

Details | Tetractys | |

Divine Mother (Tetractys)

So Divine
Children she loves
Angels brightly smile on her from above!

Copyright © Joseph Spence Sr

Details | Rhyme | |

Face Of A Beggar Child


I saw your tear-stained face O’ child
It swam before my eyes at night
I clearly saw your life’s struggle,
Your painful hunger pangs and fright.

In my dreams I could clearly see
Your shredded clothes and unkempt hair.
At such a tender age O’ child,
On your face it was all written there.

No one to care for you my child
No one to call your very own.
No mother nor father to call you son, 
No siblings to call you come hither bro’.

I wondered how you came to be
In such a distressed way of life
Each day you have to beg for alms
And face the world’s rage and strife.

Were you the victim of natural disaster,
Like quake or floods epidemic or plague.
Or was it due to human vices
Like war or bloody bath of  death.

Were you  lost in busy hustle of life,
Was it all due to human greed.
Were you the fruit of sin and tossed,
Amidst dirty dustbin where dogs came to feed.

Your tear-stained face swims before my eyes,
And asks me how it came to be.
That  God created all humans alike,
But gave them different destiny.

Oh God, this your humble servant,
Asks you just one small question.
If there are so many tear-stained faces present,
Why Mother Teressa was only one.

Copyright © Kulsum Mehmood