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Name Mother Poems | Mother Poems About Name

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

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Details | Free verse |

Love is writing her name in the air with sparklers

Love is writing her name in the air with SPARKLERS!



I need a new heart!
Like the one I had when I was 5,
when I wrote her name in the air.
When the deep red held us up,
and I thought Birds touched Bees Beneath the lilies
Softly, 
because that is how I touched my Grandmother and the cheeks of Horses.


I need one,
that will not grow up.
One that will hunt for carnivals in August.
One that keeps filling. 
One that carries salt and a pairing knife through the garden when it’s hungry.
One that still sleeps on the bellies of yellow dogs.

I need one, 
most importantly, 
that still falls in love.
Love, 
LOVE I SAY!
Love that is simple
and feels like birds must.
When they warble a deep red and
carve the air.
Lifting bees,
Softly.
Like sparklers into the sky. 


If you think you have such a heart I will to pay!!!
I have a savings of over $15,000 and I am willing to have wages garnished.

*an installment plan with interest negotiable.


In the exchange of hearts you will receive mine for as long as is needed or until a 
preferred heart is available.
It is a sort of sad thing this heart. 
Slowly folding over onto itself, collapsing inwards like a shipwreck. 
However, its meter is quite steady and will be an adequate replacement until another, 
more suitable heart is found.


* Serious Inquiries Only!!!!


Details | Ottava rima |

Kanhapatra - WIN

Once upon a time there lived a dancer 
Shyama, a concubine of a feudal baron
Had a pretty girl Kanha, also a dancer
Quite excelled in playing of the Veena”s tune
Was mortified being Courtesan’s daughter
Sobbing, came to her mother with a question
Calming her down she pointed to God’s statue
HE is your soul-mate will take you away astute

She took to Lord Pandurangam thus advised
As her lover, owner of body, mind and soul
As the classical musician her she was praised
People came with offers, mother turned down all.
Sultan of Vidarbh by her beauty was charmed
Sent order to send Kanha to his serial
She left town at dawn as she had intimation
Went to Pandharpur temple for inspiration.


She wrote, composed and sang as blessed poet
Data was leaked when a man saw her singing
The Sultan besieged the town and held the priest
Quite engrossed she kept on Veena –playing
Chord broke, song disrupted, the statue split
God came out, carried her, the statue joining
Merged with God, piece of scarf stuck in a gap
Kanha got herself in her eternal lover wrap.

                        **********
Once upon a time in the fourteen century, at Mangalwedhe ,Maharashtra State, 
India, the story has taken place. A temple was built later, in Kanhapatra’s name. 
The lucky visitors, who strongly believe in Lord Vithal and his miracles, can see or 
assume the tiny piece of cloth, stuck (at the place near the heart) on the Lord’s statue.
                                                
Contest: Any poem # 3              6th place win
==============================================
*Name of a woman
** Kanha means a belle
*** Veena, an Indian musical instrument
****Pandurangam, a name of the Indian God
*****A feudal Lord of Ancient state Vidarbh of India
******Pandharpur name of the town where there is famous temple of the Lord 
Pandurangam
===============================================
Honorable mention
Contest: The ottowa Rima by Jared Pickett


Details | Acrostic |

POET - DESTROYER

P-oetess, who is so GREAT and LOVELY
O-n  the pedestal, I look up at her with so much glee
E-verything she writes are splendid and they all inspire me
T-eaching  me unique writing styles, drawing me to pen more with piquancy.

D-estroyer is a nice name  giving me good impressions
E-ncouragement through her comments, destroy all my writing inhibitions
S-o grateful that heaven brings  her as one of my precious gems
T-ruly, I will forever treasure her in reality and in my dreams
R-ight here in my heart and mind, I sincerely admire her
O-h, what a great mother, grandmother and also a sweet friend and sister!
Y-earning to meet her someday,  I still wonder
E-nchanting names she has are giving me puzzles
R-esolve my doubts, who is  Skat and Linda who has the same name as her bf forever?
        





Written: Sept. 6, 2012


10th Place Winner
Contest: Curiosity Killed the Cat Harry Horsman and Mandy Tams
Judged: 10/3/2012
Poet Sponsor: Harry Horsman


Details | I do not know? |

Doctor Hill's Bill true story

In a little West Texas cow town years ago
There was an  old doctor by the name of Hill
Little man, mild mannered, cheerful until made mad
He doctored old cowboys and drunks when things got slow
His usual cure was a kick in the butt and a pill
He had some regular people that weren't to bad


Doctor Hill had some that lived far out of town
On ranches and God awful places Doc was carried
There was one family that lived on a ranch way far out
There name was Brown
An old mother and two daughters not married
The old mother complained to hurt everywhere about

She claimed to be bed ridden, could walk as good as you and me
She fell out of bed one night, the sister did not know what to do
So the called Dr. Hill at ten
So late at night the got in his car to go see
He had been there five times before, he knew what to do
Laying there on the floor, she had done it again

Doc told them to get a blanket and a pillow and put them on the floor
He made a pallet for her and ten he said
"Let's roll her over on to the mat
Put the pillow under her head , then headed for the door
His little round face was turning blood red
Then he said, "Now damn it fall off of that"


Details | Bio |

Outside looking In

Im going to tell you a story about a girl.
She was smart, and ready to take on the world.
Had a hard childhood with her mother always ill,
but her father worked hard and struggled to pay the bills.
My name is Pam and the poem your about to read,
Is a interesting poem, all about me.
I started to feel depression and pain,
at the age of 15 I was snorting cocaine.
I got pregnant at a young age and wanted to explore,
So I walked right out of my families door.
Time went on and I was still not around,
My mom grew sicker and dad wearing a frown.
Not much longer until I experienced this change,
and tragic horrible hurt and feeling of pain.
I walked in that room ,and climbed in the bed
I layed down beside him, and layed down my head.
With my hear I could hear his heartbeat.
The next thing I new we were burying him six feet deep.
At the funeral they said she was in a better place,
but it just wasnt fair to see that look on her face.
My mom that is she died with my dad,
She may have been breathing but always so sad
Two years later she decided to give up,
her faith was gone and hope for luck up.
Thats when I really started to struggle,
barely getting by and forgetting that i was mother.
She seen me drift into a dark place,
I started loosing weight in my stomach and my face.
Before I new it I was always getting high,
Weeks became months, and time flew right by
Its to bad that I chose this new path I was on ,
Because on August 11Th I got a call saying my mother was gone.
Like a replay I walked into that room,
to see her lying there as stiff as a broom.
I layed down beside her and rubbed my fingers
through her hair , but the pain I was feeling I just couldn't bare.
You would think after loosing my mom and my dad,
Anything else wouldnt seem near as bad
Within four years I had nothing left,
My child was taken for my foolish regrets.
Just me and my addiction no more tears to cry,
so many different ways that I could get high.
I would like to introduce this powerful drug,
It bring nothing but bad when I was searching for love.
The name is crystal, Crystal Meth
The one thing in the world, I wish I had never met...


Details | Dramatic Verse (Verse Drama) |

My Dad

My Dad was Chicagoan.
He would light up a room just like my Mom. 
He loved to fish ! He loved his beer .
He also designed a Octagon home in the 70's 
Built custom by hand . I was very proud of Dad .

Alcohol hit our Family , a curse .
He left my Mom when I was 14 in Illinois.
To renew in California , leaving a trail of tears .
Meeting my step mom , my sisters age .
My 2 sisters they were accepted in her world . 

Not I , I looked too much Like Mom . Told this all my Life . 
She a petite Beauty , RN , real estate Broker .
I did not see why it was wrong to be like mom ?

I moved in with Dad, His new Wife , and 2 sisters 
eventually . All three women were competing for my Father .
I was kicked out at 16 yrs.

Years do pass , you try and accept people places and things .
At the end of Dads life , he was calling me once a week .
I ordered a Engraved Clock for the Fathers day coming.
This was a issue for the Wife and sisters , never invited to his new home , 2 Decades ~My little Brother & I , never wanted .

Dad passed suddenly one sad Spring Day . Not one word from his wife , all 3rd party,  how and when,  Dad Died . being denied the right to his address , even to say goodbye .
Not being able to send my engraved clock . 

 "Dad Passed " received call  from sister whom just stayed a week with me ,  I took her all around the sites here . "1st day I get call , you should come , 2nd Day after , Dad's been cremated already . " It was a lie.

I went anyway , finding the funeral home, the Funeral Director was appalled at the denial displayed.

He insisted I was given 10 minutes alone with Dad , my Birthright to say Goodbye , he was in dismay over the Hostility towards a daughter ~

I get to this room of mean relative's. His sisters , Mine, angry looks , hearing from a Aunt "What is she doing Here ! " I can't give nor reason or rhyme. 

 Shame to you and all that participated that wicked day.
 Are you Glorified with Power?  Denied the right to grieve , 

 Left with no sane answers to give in hatred received by Blood . Some , just Spouses , telling me I had no right to Say Goodbye to my own Father , My DAD .

My Dad wanted me there , I know he did . I love Him and will never forget , his youngest girl whom looked like Mom . I know in my heart and dreams he speaks. 
 We all see when we leave . May God not allow any Son or Daughter to go through such Evil.

Thank-you Poetry Soup for returning my voice .


Details | I do not know? |

WHO AM I BY NAME ALONE

written 10th Aug 2013



I am God's child, first and forever
I am known by many different titles, a daughter
I am a wife
I am a mother
I am a grandmother
I am a poet
I am by several ways, known as a sister
I am an acquaintance
I am a loyal friend
I am a stranger
I am a cousin
I am an Auntie
I am a niece
But who is this person, they all call "Denise?"

She is a child to God
She is a niece
She is a cousin
She is a stranger
She is a loyal friend
She is an acquaintance
She is known to many, a sister
She is a poet
She is a grandmother
She is a mother
She is a wife
She is known as a daughter to many
She is everything, she'd ever dreamed her life to be....
She is happier than she ever imagined possible
SHE IS "DENISE"


Details | Free verse |

My name is Catastrophe

Hell hath no replete replica like an Ohiohell
memom memoboys dispelled with lovelessloss lorn laments
measured in misgiven gravid neutral grautities of cool compromised cruel
capsid cascades of dreary demented drowsy dump deep demented deny desires
with wilfull wallowing in unsupposed not to be here
herein two boys born to a numbnuts army husbodad and a 
WTF what is happening in/outside this family 50's acircle
what comes next in the uneducated female nonintuition of a
deaddad accidential with a pity piss payoff and a whatdoIdo anal attitude
totally in reverse of an arkansas hope of upheaveal. GDMFSOB, who could I/we haVE
BeeN in the assinine scheme of things with someone in an intersomewhateducated semistate of minimal MFconsciousness. We play the hand we are dealt in the vast unscheme of unness. 
WTF, and where/why does God take part and lessen a small boy's dream of donated dadhood by taking it away and leave him left to faulterflounder in a boyhood abyss. Dead, devoid, denied to the manmale circumstance of what the future folds to be delivered to doting descendents, like my three sons. with whom I struggled to 
shower, impart, enable, enbibe, instill, foster, enliven, and all that I did not experience yet faux provide with an inner soulsense to a measured milestone of mannered man manufactured love and tendered texture of all mine to give with that that is mustered macro from a micro counteanace of humocapped coperal deliverance. All's fair they say unless u have been there and then it's every man for himself---and then, I dare u to get in my way---------no holds barred, look out for I am a survivor, all the way.   
Hi, my name is Dave, and according to my grandparents, I wasn't supposed to live to be raised. Go figure.


Details | I do not know? |

A Story My Mother Told Me

someone always told me this with tears in her eyes...


(for Lata Sethi's late-mother, who was my mother’s ‘sister’ and who took us all into her heart, and for Lata and Ravi Sethi of Defence Colony, New Delhi)


a wife left South Africa in the 1960’s to join her husband 
who was in exile at the time...

in 1970 the husband was sent by the African National Congress to India to be its representative there...

the husband and wife spent two years in Bombay...

one afternoon the husband fell and broke his leg...

the wife knocked on their neighbour’s door, in an apartment complex in Bombay

the neighbour was an old Punjabi lady...

the wife asked the neighbour for a doctor to see to the injured husband...

a Parsi ‘Bone-Setter’ was promptly summoned...

the husband still recalls his anxiety of seeing ‘Bone-Setter’ written on the Parsi gentleman’s bag...

by the way, the ‘Bone-Setter’ worked his ancient craft and surprisingly for the husband, his broken leg healed quite soon...

but still on that day, while the ‘Bone-Setter’ was seeing to the husband...

the wife and the old Punjabi lady from next door got to talking about this and that and where these new Indian-looking wife and husband were from as their accents were clearly not local...

the wife told the elderly Punjabi lady that the husband worked for the African National Congress of South Africa and had left to serve the ANC from exile...

and that they had left their two children behind in South Africa and that they were now essentially political refugees...

the Punjabi lady broke down and wept uncontrollably...

she told the foreign woman that she too had had to leave her home in Lahore in 1947 and flee to India with only the clothes on her back when the partition of the subcontinent took place and Pakistan was formed and at a time when Hindus from Pakistan fled to India and vice versa...

the Punjabi lady then asked the foreign woman her name...

‘Zubeida’, but you can call me ‘Zubie’...

the Punjabi woman hugged Zubie some more, and the two women, seperated by age and geography, wept, sharing a shared pain...

the Punjabi woman told Zubie that she was her ‘sister’ from that day on, and that she felt that pain of exile and forced migration and what being a refugee felt like...

Zubie and her husband Mosie became the closest of friends with the Hindu Punjabi neighbours who were kicked out of Pakistan by Muslims...

then came the time for Mosie and Zubie to leave for Delhi where the African National Congress office was based...

the elderly Punjabi lady and Mosie and Zubie said their goodbyes...

a year or two later, the elderly Punjabi lady’s daughter Lata married Ravi Sethi and the couple moved to Delhi...

the elderly Punjabi lady called Zubie and told her that her daughter was coming to Delhi to live and that she had told Lata, her daughter that she had a ‘sister’ in Delhi...

Lata and Ravi Sethi then moved to Delhi...

This was in the mid-1970’s...

Lata and Zubie became the closest of friends and that bond stayed true, and stays true till today, though Zubie is no more, and the elderly Punjabi lady is no more...

the son and the husband still have a bond with Lata and Ravi Sethi...

a bond that was forged between Hindu and Muslim and between two continents across the barriers of creed and time...

a bond strong and resilient, forged by the pain and trauma of a shared experience...

and that is why, and I shall never stop believing this, that hope shines still, for with all the talk of this and of that, and of that and of this, there will always be a simple woman, somewhere, anywhere, who would take the ‘other’ in as a sister, a fellow human...

and that is why there will always be hope...
hope in the midst of this and of that and of that and of this...

hope...


(for Lata Sethi's late-mother, who was my mother’s ‘sister’ and who took us all into her heart, and for Lata and Ravi Sethi of Defence Colony, New Delhi)


Details | Dramatic Verse (Verse Drama) |

The number the brand

When I met her , a very old lady she was , yet inside lay a frightened child .
I felt my heart cry , I felt as if I was touching history itself , as I made this older lady, child,  chai .

I remember the day , and so many tears I have cried
I have cried before she and I met 
As a child , so many tears, left confused inside .

Not understanding Why , and how could we stand by and live our lives as if this never happened ?

It happened , we are left in dismay of the movies seen the accounts taken of History 
My self ..I have caught stereotyping the very people whom did this to she , the rest of her Family erased .


The white candles we light , we try and forgive , or just simply block this pain out completely.

It occurs , over and over , as it has been said History will repeat .
When thinking of my children , when I think of that little girl losing ,  cold and scarred , feeling only defeat .

There is a lesson here and I pray , that all whom have been taken from life , have no pain and are gifted spirits throughout eternity . May they be warmed with love,  and reunited with the ones they lost .

The first time I met her , her old hand I took and warmed it with mine , I held it for a long time . 
You could not,  but notice ..the Evil imprinted on skin , the Evil only to remind.
This very old Soul , in her eyes you could see . 
The child that once lived , so innocently free, not aware yet,  of the Hostility .

I speak of a Little girl, I speak of a old woman , I speak of a Jewish,  chosen Religion.

There as I held her frail , old hand  , a brand , a number stamped in Evil a long time ago .   In 1945  , once in our distant, yet Frightening  past . 

We should never forget , never forget it happened , never forget all the names .
If we do , we have learned nothing , A World living in Shame .
                                " Etta Babooshka Kofman  "


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