Dearest, why cry in vain to the black night
fight its gentle intent to hold and rest.
Why fear the loss of light thus malcontent?
When ego is so false upon the loom.
Dearest, what makes you think elation found
from harsh light will so frame your hearts delight?
Reality thus formed will not slay fright.
When ego goes so false upon the loom.
Dearest, husks of the Universal eye
soft grays will velveteen the fading light.
Walk on courageous in the Mother's night,
accept the silken comfort of the blur.
All that is soft and gentle comes from Her.
Dearest Heart, loose yourself upon the loom.
*Dedicated to my friend Robin Gass
and all those who fear dispersal in the dark.
In the Christmas Freeze of 1983
Mama thought she lost her Oleander tree
Some called it a “bush,” but at 14 feet tall
Its shadow cast wide on her home’s southern wall
How she mourned the loss of this beloved plant
She begged the Lord for any blessing He’d grant
The freeze ended soon, though her tree appeared dead
The scent of water each day clung to its bed
On January twenty-fourth, the call came
Dad said mom entered God’s heavenly domain
A neighbor had found her, lying in the yard
Next to remnants of a plant she’d not discard
In May a miracle appeared to occur
The strong plant revived, as if waiting for her
*True occurrence based on my mother’s death, January 24, 1984.
Poem written July 12, 2014
She brought me into this world with her love,
One of the precious gifts from up above,
From her womb ‘til I stand on my own feet,
She did everything for my benefit.
She was my first teacher and she was stern,
For her, in life I have so much to learn,
Sometimes, with her great love I’m also hurt,
She is not perfect, but she wants the best.
I salute her for being a martyr ,
Serving her family who is so dear,
She is my sunshine during stormy day,
My guidance and strength when I lost my way.
I’m so lucky that she is my mother
I am of what I am because of her.
May 14, 2013 5.30 pm
A dedication to my loving mom. That's really her. Ever since, she works so hard for the family as a dressmaker. She'd sacrificed a lot for us especially when we were young( my 2 brothers and I) because according to her and my dad, we were so sickly especially when we were still babies ;))).I love her so much and I'm so proud of her. HAPPY HAPPY MOTHER'S DAY!
Contest: Mother and precious poems
Sponsor: My loving sis & greatest poet, PD
I bet you didn’t know about the fairies
assigned to all the infants that are born.
At night beside her precious charge each tarries
while softly crooning lullabies till morn.
An extra special fairy will be sent
to first-time mothers of a girl or boy,
for when the harried fretting mom is spent,
she only has to look upon her joy.
As magic dust releases from above,
the mother sighs and holds her baby near.
Then particles illuminate the love
of one who coos while cradling her dear.
As fairies go, there simply is no other
as blessed as she who serves the child and mother.
The pool grows green through the leaf cover.
Large pears hang upon ancient tree.
Mocking Bird sings chanting to his lover;
As the dew sparkles, like water in the sea.
Crepe Myrtle has turned red how time has passed.
Moma admired some trees said they were pretty.
Daddy dug up a few runners, oh! memories from past.
In most things, think of daddy how witty__
Daddy brought (them) here to brighten moma's life
To give her something pretty to enjoy.
Today I enjoy them, this is reallife.
Now as I look at them they are my buoy
Clouds are coming in hiding the sun rays
But their light and life brightens my days_
For Nancy's contest;
Contest name: Gratitude
Shall I compare thee to your mother's arse?
Thou aren’t more lovely, but more flatulent.
Rough winds do shake it; and bring on a farce
And all her clothes hath all too short a rent
Sometime too hot-headed of hell doth burn,
And often is the true nature exposed;
And every foul from fowl; my stomach churns,
By reason, or by nature's raging closed.
But thy infernal diet shall ne’er start
Nor gain possession of which now I grasp;
Nor shall we meet again; let’s stay apart,
When in eternal sounds the voice does rasp,
So long as men can breathe or eyes can cry,
So long lives this, and I bid thee goodbye.
Inspired by; Constance La France’s Native American Portrait
Nikan is a man who once stood proud and true all across this land
in symbiotic relation with nature endowed by the great creators hand
passed onto him by his ancestors to never take more than his fair share
and always be kind to this land for it’s the Mother to all whom she shall bare
When times are lean we all will grow thin together for together we are one
with one voice to sing in harmony for bountiful harvest to our Father the Sun
and give him thanks and praise for warming and making fertile our Mother
who blessed new life into the birthing seasons for every Sister and Brother
Great spirit hear my song of hope that I sing for my people who will cry
we are mighty on the earth give us protection or your children they will die
and our people’s blood will flow upon our Mother like deep rivers of raging red
O’ Father I can see no solution will you spare us from the white mans dread
I could never make claim to imagine this great man’s woeful sorry or despair
Nikan's song is a lonely tune played for the spirit of his people upon the air.
Nikan traslation from the Potawatomi "MY Friend"
Baamaapii Nikan.......until we meet again my friend
Billions of journeys round a fiery eye
This watery celestial traveler made.
Untiring, spiraling route through the sky
Always returned from yearly crusades.
She carried her children on top her back
And nurtured their needs until they have grown.
Some may have suffered; those may have cracked
But never through any fault of her own.
Forever and always maternally
This wondrous, aging beauty shall remain
Our source of life atmospherically.
Through time and space her dimensions attained
Despite her journeys she managed to bring
Her gifts: summer, autumn, winter and spring.
My mother’s hair hung thick and to her waist.
But seldom did she wear it in that way,
for always in a bun she had it placed
til it was loosed and on her pillow lay.
She sometimes tells me how I'd kidded her.
When I was small, I said, “Your hair is pink!”
From how she tells this story, I infer
I must have caused her tender heart to sink.
She aged, yet grey was sparse upon her head.
We said, “An older woman cuts her hair.”
Mom acquiesced and lost those locks rare red
she’d humbly worn for years when young and fair.
She’s nearly eighty now, bobbed hair turned brown,
And how I miss her once “pink” glory crown.
By Andrea Dietrich
A Dirty Basement Room
In a dirty basement room a baby cries
Weakened mother was defiled
Forced my law to birth a child
Upon a dirty pillow she lies
In a dirty room the mother dies
Mother and son soon reconciled
Victims of government gone wild
A time to live a time to die
Angry rapist walks streets free
Will they listen to her plea?
In a dirty basement room a baby cries
Angry rapist runs streets free
In a dirty basement room mother dies
Will they listen to her plea?