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Poems about Mothers Mother's Smile by Michael R. Burch There never was a fonder smile than mother's smile, no softer touch than mother's touch. So sleep awhile and know she loves you more than "much." So more than "much, " much more than "all." Though tender words, these do not speak of love at all, nor how we fall and mother's there, nor how we reach from nightmares in the ticking night and she is there to hold us tight. There never was a stronger back than father's back, that held our weight and lifted us, when we were small, and bore us till we reached the gate, then held our hands that first bright mile till we could run, and did, and flew. But, oh, a mother's tender smile will leap and follow after you! Delicacy by Michael R. Burch Your love is as delicate as a butterfly cleaning its wings, as soft as the predicate the hummingbird sings to itself, gently murmuring?“Fly! Fly! Fly!” Your love is the string soaring kites untie. Such Tenderness by Michael R. Burch There was, in your touch, such tenderness?as only the dove on her mildest day has, when she shelters downed fledglings beneath a warm wing and coos to them softly, unable to sing. What songs long forgotten occur to you now? a babe at each breast? What terrible vow ripped from your throat like the thunder that day can never hold severing lightnings at bay? Time taught you tenderness?time, oh, and love. But love in the end is seldom enough ... and time??insufficient to life’s brief task. I can only admire, unable to ask? what is the source, whence comes the desire of a woman to love as no God may require? I Cannot Remember My Mother by Rabindranath Tagore loose translation by Michael R. Burch I cannot remember my mother, yet sometimes in the middle of my playing a melody seemed to hover over my playthings: some forgotten tune she loved to sing while rocking my cradle. I cannot remember my mother, yet sometimes on an early autumn morning the smell of the shiuli flowers fills my room as the scent of the temple’s morning service wafts over me like my mother’s perfume. I cannot remember my mother, yet sometimes still, from my bedroom window, when I lift my eyes to the heavens’ vast blue canopy and sense on my face her serene gaze, I feel her grace has encompassed the sky. Frail Envelope of Flesh by Michael R. Burch Frail envelope of flesh, lying cold on the surgeon’s table with anguished eyes like your mother’s eyes and a heartbeat weak, unstable ... Frail crucible of dust, brief flower come to this? your tiny hand in your mother’s hand for a last bewildered kiss ... Brief mayfly of a child, to live two artless years! Now your mother’s lips seal up your lips from the Deluge of her tears ... The Poet's Condition by Michael R. Burch for my mother Christine Ena Burch The poet's condition (bother tradition) is whining contrition. Supposedly sage, his editor knows his brain's in his toes though he would suppose to soon be the rage. His readers are sure his work's premature or merely manure, insipidly trite. His mother alone will answer the phone (perhaps with a moan) to hear him recite. The Greatest of These by Michael R. Burch for my mother Christine Ena Burch The hands that held me tremble. The arms that lifted fall. Angelic flesh, now parchment, is held together with gauze. But her undimmed eyes still embrace me; there infinity can be found. I can almost believe such love will reach me, underground. Heroin or Heroine? by Michael R. Burch for mothers battling addiction serve the Addiction; worship the Beast; feed the foul Pythons, your flesh, their fair feast ... or rise up, resist the huge many-headed hydra; for the sake of your Loved Ones decapitate medusa. Dawn by Michael R. Burch for all good mothers Bring your peculiar strength to the strange nightmarish fray: wrap up your cherished ones in the golden light of day. Amen Love has a gentle grace by Michael R. Burch for Beth Love has a gentle grace; you have not seen her unless you’ve looked into your mother’s eyes and seen her faith ?serene, composed and wise? that you’re the center of her very being (as once, indeed, she carried you inside.) Love has no wilder beauty than the thought that you’re the best of all she ever sought. (And if, perhaps, you don’t believe my song, can your mother be wrong?) Love Is Not Love by Michael R. Burch for Beth Love is not love that never looked within itself and questioned all, curled up like a zygote in a ball, throbbed, sobbed and shook. (Or went on a binge at a nearby mall, then would not cook.) Love is not love that never winced, then smiled, convinced that soar’s the prerequisite of fall. When all its wounds and scars have been saline-rinsed, where does Love find the wherewithal to try again, endeavor, when all that it knows is: O, because! Childless by Michael R. Burch How can she bear her grief? Mightier than Atlas, she shoulders the weight Of one fallen star. Erin by Michael R. Burch All that’s left of Ireland is her hair? bright carrot?and her milkmaid-pallid skin, her brilliant air of cavalier despair, her train of children?some conceived in sin, the others to avoid it. For nowhere is evidence of thought. Devout, pale, thin, gay, nonchalant, all radiance. So fair! How can men look upon her and not spin like wobbly buoys churned by her skirt’s brisk air? They buy. They grope to pat her nyloned shin, to share her elevated, pale Despair ... to find at last two spirits ease no one’s. All that’s left of Ireland is the Care, her impish grin, green eyes like leprechauns’. The Poem of Poems by Michael R. Burch for Beth This is my Poem of Poems, for you. Every word ineluctably true: I love you. Your Gift by Michael R. Burch for Beth Counsel, console. This is your gift. Calm, kiss and encourage. Tenderly lift each world-wounded heart from its fatal dart. Mend every rift. Bid pain, “Depart!” Save every sorrow for your own untaught heart.

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Poems About Mothers

Poems about Mothers Mother's Smile by Michael R. Burch There never was a fonder smile than mother's smile, no softer touch than mother's touch. So sleep awhile and know she loves you more than "much." So more than "much, " much more than "all." Though tender words, these do not speak of love at all, nor how we fall and mother's there, nor how we reach from nightmares in the ticking night and she is there to hold us tight. There never was a stronger back than father's back, that held our weight and lifted us, when we were small, and bore us till we reached the gate, then held our hands that first bright mile till we could run, and did, and flew. But, oh, a mother's tender smile will leap and follow after you! Delicacy by Michael R. Burch Your love is as delicate as a butterfly cleaning its wings, as soft as the predicate the hummingbird sings to itself, gently murmuring?“Fly! Fly! Fly!” Your love is the string soaring kites untie. Such Tenderness by Michael R. Burch There was, in your touch, such tenderness?as only the dove on her mildest day has, when she shelters downed fledglings beneath a warm wing and coos to them softly, unable to sing. What songs long forgotten occur to you now? a babe at each breast? What terrible vow ripped from your throat like the thunder that day can never hold severing lightnings at bay? Time taught you tenderness?time, oh, and love. But love in the end is seldom enough ... and time??insufficient to life’s brief task. I can only admire, unable to ask? what is the source, whence comes the desire of a woman to love as no God may require? I Cannot Remember My Mother by Rabindranath Tagore loose translation by Michael R. Burch I cannot remember my mother, yet sometimes in the middle of my playing a melody seemed to hover over my playthings: some forgotten tune she loved to sing while rocking my cradle. I cannot remember my mother, yet sometimes on an early autumn morning the smell of the shiuli flowers fills my room as the scent of the temple’s morning service wafts over me like my mother’s perfume. I cannot remember my mother, yet sometimes still, from my bedroom window, when I lift my eyes to the heavens’ vast blue canopy and sense on my face her serene gaze, I feel her grace has encompassed the sky. Frail Envelope of Flesh by Michael R. Burch Frail envelope of flesh, lying cold on the surgeon’s table with anguished eyes like your mother’s eyes and a heartbeat weak, unstable ... Frail crucible of dust, brief flower come to this? your tiny hand in your mother’s hand for a last bewildered kiss ... Brief mayfly of a child, to live two artless years! Now your mother’s lips seal up your lips from the Deluge of her tears ... The Poet's Condition by Michael R. Burch for my mother Christine Ena Burch The poet's condition (bother tradition) is whining contrition. Supposedly sage, his editor knows his brain's in his toes though he would suppose to soon be the rage. His readers are sure his work's premature or merely manure, insipidly trite. His mother alone will answer the phone (perhaps with a moan) to hear him recite. The Greatest of These by Michael R. Burch for my mother Christine Ena Burch The hands that held me tremble. The arms that lifted fall. Angelic flesh, now parchment, is held together with gauze. But her undimmed eyes still embrace me; there infinity can be found. I can almost believe such love will reach me, underground. Heroin or Heroine? by Michael R. Burch for mothers battling addiction serve the Addiction; worship the Beast; feed the foul Pythons, your flesh, their fair feast ... or rise up, resist the huge many-headed hydra; for the sake of your Loved Ones decapitate medusa. Dawn by Michael R. Burch for all good mothers Bring your peculiar strength to the strange nightmarish fray: wrap up your cherished ones in the golden light of day. Amen Love has a gentle grace by Michael R. Burch for Beth Love has a gentle grace; you have not seen her unless you’ve looked into your mother’s eyes and seen her faith ?serene, composed and wise? that you’re the center of her very being (as once, indeed, she carried you inside.) Love has no wilder beauty than the thought that you’re the best of all she ever sought. (And if, perhaps, you don’t believe my song, can your mother be wrong?) Love Is Not Love by Michael R. Burch for Beth Love is not love that never looked within itself and questioned all, curled up like a zygote in a ball, throbbed, sobbed and shook. (Or went on a binge at a nearby mall, then would not cook.) Love is not love that never winced, then smiled, convinced that soar’s the prerequisite of fall. When all its wounds and scars have been saline-rinsed, where does Love find the wherewithal to try again, endeavor, when all that it knows is: O, because! Childless by Michael R. Burch How can she bear her grief? Mightier than Atlas, she shoulders the weight Of one fallen star. Erin by Michael R. Burch All that’s left of Ireland is her hair? bright carrot?and her milkmaid-pallid skin, her brilliant air of cavalier despair, her train of children?some conceived in sin, the others to avoid it. For nowhere is evidence of thought. Devout, pale, thin, gay, nonchalant, all radiance. So fair! How can men look upon her and not spin like wobbly buoys churned by her skirt’s brisk air? They buy. They grope to pat her nyloned shin, to share her elevated, pale Despair ... to find at last two spirits ease no one’s. All that’s left of Ireland is the Care, her impish grin, green eyes like leprechauns’. The Poem of Poems by Michael R. Burch for Beth This is my Poem of Poems, for you. Every word ineluctably true: I love you. Your Gift by Michael R. Burch for Beth Counsel, console. This is your gift. Calm, kiss and encourage. Tenderly lift each world-wounded heart from its fatal dart. Mend every rift. Bid pain, “Depart!” Save every sorrow for your own untaught heart.