A mother was born and dreamed of a beautiful life
A new journey had begun - but a hard path lay ahead
Demons seduced her beloved - leaving her alone
The land was foreign and dark clouds appeared above
Child in hand the mother reached an ambiguous cross road
Before setting foot upon the long way - her conscience enquired
"Are you sure this is the right path? It will be difficult, full of pain"
The mother smiled as she saw hope in her infant's eyes
A real mother would sacrifice her own happiness for a child
Storms came on dark days with thunder and lightning
but, she kept her child dry and secure
Winters came with cold days and masonic winds
but, she kept her child warm and protected
Sometimes she would not eat - but kept her child nourished
In secrecy, tears would fall - her son would only see a happy mask
There were days when life was burdensome and full of worry
and she shook in fear - defeating hazards and obstacles,
as she guided her son along the terrain of the highest mountain
When they reached the top her son reassured his mother
"Thank you mother - I would not have got here without you,
you can let go now. I think I will be OK from here"
His mother smiled with pride - her boy was now a man
When her son was at a loss - his mother would remind him
"Son you only learn from losing"
When her son lay dying - his mother gave him hope and taught him faith
"Son, you can't control what happens to you in life,
but you can control how you react to it"
With the love and prayers of his mother and the grace of God
he defeated the most evil disease and is even stronger
Life is full of trials and tests - being optimistic will help defeat hardship
Loving others will give them belief and a reason to live.
Never underestimate the love of a mother who sacrifices so much,
but sometimes we do not realise how much. My mother has taught me so much and is my hero. I am thankful to my mother for always being there even on the darkest days. For helping me through my battle with cancer and always inspiring me to be the best that I can be. It is a true honour to be her son.
15 October 2015
Copyright © Silent One | Year Posted 2015
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,
you to the world.
Where will you be
when my legs
no longer run?
no longer work?
Will you realize
that I love
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.
whether I took
my pills today or not.
if I told this story before.
I even forgot once
who you were
and it terrified me.
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
The love of my life
left me after
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
It has been a while.
You look up at me
with tears in your eyes
"Will she tie my
when I get old? "
Copyright © Rachel Kovacs | Year Posted 2013
Birth was suppose to come easier than this.
I pant quickly as I was taught,
but pain evaporates my gallant front
and tears have come from eyes squeezed shut
I hear a voice unlike my own
The room is filled with some concern
I groan, the doctor takes a turn
Quick-fire decision, a swift incision
... a tug, a void,...a cry... a babe..
The next several hours are a bit of a blur
until everything clears, alone in my room
on sterilized sheets, too stiff, too sleek,
too fragrant of bleach, to think about sleep.
Suddenly, all I can think about is mother
and how different it was for her,
especially, since her young husband was so far away
This miracle I bore, as soft as fine silk,
with tiny closed fists, rose-petal nails
fills me with joy, with relief, I am filled
with a deep pang of grief
for a long ago thief
I can feel the connection, mixed joy, and compassion
I bathe in the scent of my brand new beginning ......
But my thoughts stream behind me,...... to a hope that had ended
My mother in bed, after losing her first....
So young, in her bed, without child,........ bleeding red
from the war that she fought, while my Dad fought his own
I cry tears all alone.... for the grief that she owned
I so cherish the breath.....of this babe on my breast
The circle of life, starts with birth .....sometimes, death
Contest: A Hundred In a Row
Copyright © Carrie Richards | Year Posted 2014
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, (one with a woven rope belt),
he frowns 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 alarm, 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 whisper to my father...
something about a boy who has taken a shotgun into the hillls...
and into the chill of the night…
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 shoulders..so 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)
100 in a ROW contest #1 - Poetry Contest
Sponsored by P.D.
Copyright © Carrie Richards | Year Posted 2011
and she said
Yesterday,I lived for thoughts and dreams
but today I live in my daughter's happiness
All my goals I left behind to watch her reach her own
All my friends I do not see,to stay with her at home
Money might get tight,but what is money
compared to pure joy of a child
What is money compared to her almond eyes
Success lies dormant on shelves for years to come
But what is success compared to first giggles
to first steps, first mouthfuls and her little grabs
Compared to gurgles and babbles
to first time she calls me mama
and hold on to my hands
What is beauty in the world compared to a pearl
This innocent child,a coloured coral petite pretty girl
Yesterday,I lived for thoughts and dreams
But today I live in my daughter's happiness
I had my days of wine and chocolate eclaires
roses on doorstep,unsigned love letters
with spiced cologne and enticing words
Today I live in my daughter's shadow
To watch her live her own dream
I watch her bloom in autumn gardens
from princess of hearts become queen
Tomorrow I will not be here
She might not get to see the white of my hair
the wrinkle in my smile
But,today she knows I love her
long more after petals wither
long more after a mother's hug fades
long after I shine from the sky.
Dedicated to my beloved Christina with love
Happy first birthday wrapped with barney hugs
and Winnie the pooh kisses :-$:-|B-)
Copyright © Charmaine Chircop | Year Posted 2013
Once bloomed a rose so young and fair
With dark brown eyes and long black hair
Beside her be a tall dark tree
Whose branches stretch to smother thee
Too close beside the shadowy bark
That soon begins to leave its mark
She cries for help, but none shall hear
Her thorns too sharp, who’d dare go near?
To save this rose, who’d risk their life?
With naught to gain but pain and strife
Alone, afraid, she lays to rest
Her heart beats low inside her chest
And with the hour growing near
She sheds her final grieving tear
And so the rose soon falls asunder
Her final day, eternal slumber
She lies beside the old dark tree
The only one who mourns for thee
Copyright © Nina Hernandez | Year Posted 2010
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, ...no 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 up....no one was tired
So cozy and warm...no 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 | Year Posted 2010
Mother wore an ample apron
to cover her clean dress.
She'd tell you that's what it was for
if you asked her, I would guess.
But that apron had more uses
than I could even count.
It brought in eggs and vegetables
and could hold a large amount.
I've seen her use that apron
to wipe her dripping brow
as she labored over the big range
that's just an antique now.
Her apron could bring giggles
in a game of peek-a-boo
with her newest, sweet grandbaby
as she hid her face from view.
When we kids were hurt or crying
we'd run to find her lap.
She'd wipe the falling tears away
with a bit of apron flap.
That apron dusted tables
and shooed away the flies.
It did just fine as oven mitts
to take out bubbling pies.
But the greatest of the treasures
that old apron could hold,
was the endless love from Mother
abiding in each fold.
Won 2nd place
Copyright © Joyce Johnson | Year Posted 2010
They needed help
Walking alone in the dark.
A broken down car.
The child frightened,
But not understanding
That would soon
Come her way.
Her parents petrified
That their baby was gone,
Over forbidden images
That crowded their way
Past ice cream sundays
And birthday parties
And wedding days.
A doer of good deeds.
He looks into
the little girl's eyes.
The girl speaks,
"This is not my dad"
And the coward
who took her,
Believing he saved
From a long, cold walk,
Saved a child
From a long, cold death.
Copyright © Rachel Kovacs | Year Posted 2013
The 18th of December was her last day;
she neither knew the date nor cared to.
Gathered at the hospital, keeping vigil,
we couldn't overcome her fright, or ours.
The pain, too great to be driven away,
was only "managed" with IV drips,
needles stuck in bruised appendages --
bony things -- arms and legs, hands and feet.
Above the medicines and washes, we sniffed
her scent, which, more than her yet familiar
face, to us identified our mother --
a smell we never would mistake
for any other. It went quickly
as her body cooled. The rouged and pickled
carcass they displayed was more a statue
than a person. We planned to bury her
with homely tokens, like an ancient mummy:
a family photo, a brooch she liked,
a pink hairbrush, and the brass bell she rang
to call her keeper during her last years.
But, when the time came, I could not bear
to have her leave so finally;
I took the bell from her metal box.
And, now, I ring it -- not to bring a keeper,
but to recall my mother on her birthday,
and on many dark days when I need her.
Copyright © Leo Larry Amadore | Year Posted 2011
“Good-bye my daughter dear,” she said
As tears welled up in her eyes
“It’s time for me to go to sleep
This must be no surprise
The good Lord knows my battles
And my health is ailing still
He’s given me so many blessings
I’ve passed them to you in my will
I’m sad to say good-bye
For we have shared much joy
Remember me to Sarah
My grandchild I love and enjoy
I love you my daughter
These years together have been sweet
I’m so glad you love the Lord
And again we will meet
I’m not afraid of dying
‘Cause I know that in a while
Christ will call me from my grave
I feel my life has been worthwhile
For I taught you to seek your Father
To help you through every trial
He’ll always be there to guide you
With never a denial
I leave you in His hands”, she said
As she gently kissed her daughter’s hand
Her eyes closed very slowly
Against cancer she’d lost her stand
She’d been a wonderful mother
Teacher and true friend
Faithful to her Lord
And gracious to the end.
Copyright © Maureen LeFanue 2007-2012
Copyright © MAUREEN LEFANUE | Year Posted 2012
Busy getting ready to go to a meeting
I was looking through my closet for something to wear
My 20 year old daughter, Shereen, was in my bedroom
Showing me her new clothes
I marveled at her
What a body
What a beautiful woman
Her curves were to die for
Her thin waist set off her other assets to perfection
Such a womanly figure
Her black raven hair fell in big waves to her waist
She commanded attention
Her pencil thin skirt set her curves off to perfection
What a beauty!
I loved showing her off to the world
Just that day I had told her
She was a living goddess
Rushing to get ready
My mind was on finding something quickly
When her words totally threw me…
This paragon of beauty said to me:
“Mama, I was just looking at you earlier today.
You are so sexy
You have wonderful curves.
What you were wearing really set them off nicely.”
This 47 year old overweight woman
I looked at my daughter
Who is brutally honest
The one I turn to when I need an opinion
"How was the solo I sang in Church? Did I go off key?
Does this color suit me?
Am I being unreasonable?"
To all my questions she'd answer with truth, not mincing words
She'd call me on some actions that she thought were "childish"
"You're overreacting, MOM! Stop being a Drama Queen!"
And here she was saying...
"You're so pretty, Mama!"
Because I know she doesn’t hide the truth
I felt like my heart would burst
It may not seem like much to you all
But those words….
Filled that hurting place in my heart
That little place where insecurity has set up a home
Where walls echoe of coming age...and lessened desirability
That place where memories of who I was
Mock and jeer the reality of who I am
Deep in my heart
The words settled in
And for a time
Chased all the ugly away
and gave me back my glow
exuding out in my stride
and they way I carried myself
Those words reminded me
That age is an attitude
That the inner woman
The INNER woman doesn’t change
She is ageless
A few words….
But what a big gift
my daughter gave me today!
I know it's hard for men to understand the sheer agony a woman goes through when she realizes that time is passing her by. That certain age where menopause reminds you that fertility is a thing of the past and beauty is slipping away. Men don't understand....They just get better as they age...more handsome. The ravages to a woman's heart are extreme. Seeing white pepper your hair....changes to your figure...little wrinkles around the eyes. It hurts, but we need to accept it with grace. I never thought it would upset me so, but I'm trying to cope and it's all the lovely comments I get that make me able to go on. Just this evening, I got another such boost when a family friend who is visiting my brother from abroad said, "Hello, Pudding" when he saw me! What a delightful comment! :) I'm, sweet, jiggly, and yummy! ;) It's all attitude...and I got plenty of THAT!
Copyright © Eileen Manassian | Year Posted 2015
As December winds swirled the snow in drifts outside
Lisa covered Mama, held her hand as she cried
“It’s my last Christmas, I know it in my heart, dear
Send my prayers to God; deliver them with my tears”
“Hush, Mama, you can’t die; Tommy needs you so
And his tour of duty still has six months to go”
Mama fell asleep, Lisa bowed her head in prayer
Adding her own tears, she asked that Tommy be there
“Please let my brother see Mama just one more time
When her eyes open, may it be her son she finds”
Tears fell on the floor as Lisa kept vigil
Beside her cancer-stricken mother so fragile
Awakening to see Tommy standing nearby
In uniform he appeared; Lisa exhaled a sigh
“God sent you home, I knew He would, our pleas were heard”
Tommy stroked his sister’s hair, saying not one word
‘Twas then Lisa saw Mama standing behind him
Aglow in heaven’s light were her mother and twin
“How blessed we’ll be – together on this Christmas Day!”
Lisa exclaimed, just before they faded away
Confused, she saw her ashen mom so still in bed
‘Neath the door a telegram, Tommy too was dead
And though there were tears in Lisa’s blue eyes so bright
Her loved ones would spend Christmas together in God’s sight
A smile came as candles flaming in the window grew
Lisa realized one Christmas she’d be with them too
*Rhyming narrative for Paula Swanson’s “Tear” contest
Copyright © Carolyn Devonshire | Year Posted 2010
His family had lived here all their lives untold and he had too.
His father had died when he was young and he vaguely remembered him.
Mom tried to cross the busy street which she had been warned.
She had instantly been killed as her family watched with horror and fascination.
No funeral just sadness as the machines whizzed by but the last of his kind remembers.
As a youth, he had run and played in these fields but steered away from the machines
as he had been warned.
The machines are fast and you must always watch for them and be clear.
The woods were loved as he chased the young females until they let him catch.
He had two of his own children but they had died at very young age.
And soon after, the big trucks came with the men that would be vilified.
They uprooted one hundred year old oak and built twenty homes.
Across the road where the field was, forty more were taken from his youth.
The last of his family had all been married out or were dead until he was alone.
And as he walked and looked, he was frightened and filled with grief.
He saw his mother standing gracefully at the top of the house filled field.
His brother and sister played until dusk when his mother would call and recall.
He ached where he ran and still he searched.
As the tear rolled away with those distant memories and the pain.
Slowed by the ache he laid his final time with grief.
And he knew he was the last and his youth died with him.
The last deer
Copyright © Patrick Cornwall | Year Posted 2012
Your face and rotting teeth and heavy jowls
and sunken breasts with bulging waist and
Your image of laughter, lovemaking, seeking
bourbon tweaked philosophies
of life begins
The hands that tremble as you tilt
the glass that begins another
Tirade thoughts, empty lies, money spent on
lipstick coated leeches who prey on
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:
Copyright © Sue Mason | Year Posted 2007
Mother Nature’s Little Prince
A most beautiful little green frog swims quietly and so gracefully
While his eyes gaze gently on a mountain looming in the distance.
He’s at ease as he swims in a deep forest pond warmed by the sun.
Lost catching flies inside the shadows as an echo holds on to a
Certain gentle stillness within him humming with burning sighs.
This little green frog was called “Froggy” by Mother Nature,
And he was her little precious star-light promise of pretty colors.
Froggy was the Gem of Her Eyes: handsome, funny and intelligent
With kindness so overwhelming and a soft-touching tenderness.
He was talkative, and quiet princely by his apparent noble mien.
Froggy had a divine hope and destiny to wish for a dream princess.
Mother Nature knew that “Her Froggy” was indeed so magical as
His golden fingers of light painted a rainbow array of new born life.
“Her Froggy” was much more than a mere amphibian in this life,
Although he was dark green and sprinkled with light black spots.
Froggy lay on a lily leaf faraway as his thoughts sailed freely into
Another world, where his most infectious and funny smile made him
Quite popular and noticeable to a beautiful young fairy princess who
Was smitten instantly with his looks and his princely correct behavior.
For the young fairy princess it was love at first sight—and so precious!
Froggy was slowly changing and love became his desire and passion.
With a purity shone silver in streaming beauties of light pure gold
At the rainbow’s end was a bridge of his loving tears as he sang a
Melodious song of love with a supreme confidence for the princess.
Upon meeting his princess their mutual fate was woven now as one.
Mother Nature’s enchanted wish for “Her Froggy” and his princess
Was now at hand for their love and emotion were now blended as one.
All that remained was that magical kiss to make them both human.
When these two beings of wondrous beauty kissed—the very stars
And comets in Heaven above shone so brightly that night became day!
With love and the omnipotent and majestic whisk of God’s divine hand,
Froggy and his princess metamorphosed into complete human form!
This was truly a sight in Heaven itself to behold and cherish for eternity!
Now they were a royal pair: A prince and his princess in love—reflected
In the radiant colored light of a mystical rainbow of heavenly direction.
Mother Nature cried joyous tears of hope and happiness at this splendid
Occurrence, making the very rivers on Earth flow in a great abundance
With the sweetest and purest mountain spring water one could imagine!
Now as “Her Froggy”—a real prince now—kissed his princess again,
God’s angels anointed them with heavenly star dust shining so brightly!
The new prince now known as “Frederic,” and his princess took their
Royal places in human society with no one ever suspecting or knowing
From whence or where they came, and their divine relationship to
Mother Nature herself, which was her secret and their secret shared
Together and forever to the very end of time!
Gary Bateman and Liam McDaid – A Collaborated Poem,
Copyright © All Rights Reserved (July 5, 2015) (Narrative)
Copyright © Gary Bateman | Year Posted 2015
My grandfather on my father’s side, was a pecker-toothed sidle who raped his
daughter when she was just ten. He threw down vodka from an eternal well and took my father out to buy prostitutes when he was just fifteen... It was here that my father first learned the true value of a woman. Mercifully, a permanent steel brace got loose at the Pennsylvania steel mill where he worked and crushed Grandfather into a pool of blood and urine.
My father was a dried seed rattling in an empty gourd… he had grown up
hardened with leather-stiff roots exposed too long in the sun. My mother knew
that he wanted to rape me, so I kept guard with knives and ran away whenever I could. I went to bed fantasizing how to sneak into his bedroom and kill him with
the kitchen carving knife.
My older brother hadn’t adjusted well to the chaos either, so he put all his expectations and dreams into a matchbook and burned down three houses in the neighborhood. He secretly, robbed his friends of their valuable coin collections. He grew weary and confessed and was taken to a local Mental Hospital for evaluation. At fourteen, I needed a good stiff drink! I was transferred to two different foster care homes and grew up like a weed.
My mother Dolly was an auburn haired porcelain bisque, matt finished doll from a
discriminating collections of dolls... her father's dolls. She was not a witty woman
but silent, afraid and alone. She gave birth to three children who grew up like
wild dogs while Dolly made Betty Crocker weekends and otherwise TV dinners
until she grew tired... very tired.
One day the brothers were playing with Dolly tossing her back and forth…
like a ball, one to another... until we dropped her. Fragile, she shattered into pieces
on the gray cement patio. My father came out determined to put the pieces back
together but clumsily, he repeatedly stepped on Dolly crushing the refined
fragments into powdered dust.
Copyright © julie heckman | Year Posted 2011
(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 | Year Posted 2014
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
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..... http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Huza5He36b0
Copyright © Carrie Richards | Year Posted 2011
If you look backwards in time you might see us
It was August… too many summers ago to recall
Sometime after midnight, ….my brother and I
Slipping through the valley of sleep
Crawling out the window, to the roof of the old sun-porch
Drinking excitement in late summer's breeze
Sprawled on a bed of shingles and leaves
Anticipation growing with each falling star
Holding our breaths, as the sky fell apart…
… while waiting to see if the world would end
Another year drifted by, other summers would fly
Childhood changed shapes, many ways like the wind
We forgot of the thrill of that lone summer night
Chill of winter set in,… with the worst kind of news,
...our mother was ill
Through the sill of the window, we heard bitter cold wind
We sat her bed, while a new storm was brewing
…….She was slipping…..slipping into the valley of sleep
Together we'd been, now together again,…. sometime after midnight
…waiting, we were, for our world to end
For Contest: "Waiting"
Sponsored by Craig Cornish
Copyright © Carrie Richards | Year Posted 2016
Gone are the fields of winter white
soon to be replaced by hues of greens and yellows,
in the interim, fields of barren brown and dirty gold
turned, to breathe warm air from departed winter chill
Plumes of black and gray from mans machine
kneading the back of Mother Earths desire,
before impregnating her with the many seeds
that will produce offspring to quench mans many needs
oh, how lonesome she looks, so alone
holding yet to some remnants of children past,
left only to cradle her dead, left by man
yearning to suckle new life, as only a Mother can
Above, from the heavens, Father prepares
to germinate those so many seeds,
with life sustaining necessities only he is allowed
sunlight and life giving rain, loosened from the clouds
within days Mother is impregnated
she can feel the multitudes of organic life,
moving within her womb, yearning,growing, needing
the escape, to be warmed and nourished by the Sun
Minutes turn to hours, hours to days
suddenly weeks pass,and yet another life,
giving rain, descends from guilded clouds
arms and fingers, of her children, open, sustained
nearing the end of a warm and wonderful summer
it is time for Fathers other children,
to reap what he has sewn
time for Mother Earth to let her children go
My, how they have grown, tall,lush and full
of the fruit they were meant to bear,
to provide nourishment for the masses of seeds
grown to maturity, in need from the father
Again, the gray black plumes of mans machine
come to life, they move through her fields,
her children, like a predator among prey
until, she is left again, with remnants of children past
Soon she will be blanketed again in winter white
gone will be the warm breath of life,
her children taken from her, she is again barren
only to be betrothed to a promise of new life.
I wrote this on a day trip to Illinois from Iowa across wide open farm land.
Copyright © Richard Pickett | Year Posted 2010
MAMA CRY NO MORE
The most tender I have ever known
The world of never you created
Best example of love a lesson learnt
Mama cry no more
Stranger no more am I to this world
Mama I have learnt its tricks
The hills are lower now, the tunnels are brighter
Mama cry no more
Mama let me dry your tears
I will pop the toaster, crunch the flakes
Spread the marmalade, bubble your bath tub
Mama cry no more
The jet is ready, your ticket at hand
The line will dress you up with the queen’s taste
The fruits of your labour, its time you had the taste
Mama cry no more.
Copyright © ESTHER MUCHAI | Year Posted 2014
“Well,” She asked; her eyes wide. Beads of hot sweat glistening on her brow like miniature
crystal suns. Her angst was palpable. “What is it!”
The air was still. There were no words. Just the sound of bodies breathing in – and
“Congratulations.” He held out his arms, handing the mother, her baby, “You have a son.”
The moment shone like glass in the center of the heavens – pure and eternal.
It was redemption from every wrong thing she’d ever done.
It was the shining eyes of God smiling onto her exhausted face; lighting it with hope.
It was the only place there was – the only time, the only space.
It was the only feeling that existed.
They were the only two incarnate souls in the room; on the planet, and in the universe.
This was her child –
And she was his mother.
(there are no words for such things. suddenly, I feel like an intruder. there are too many
eyes, words and moments here. so it is here, I take my leave; leaving this mother and the
only soul in her universe to their perfect moment. they will have many more moments in this
lifetime; but none as sacred, as human, or as eternal as the first look from life to life;
mother to child; heaven to earth, as the very first. None.)
“It’s a boy.” she whispered. Her throat a crumbling tunnel; stunned, but not really. Like
she’d known it all along. “My baby boy…” She smiled into his ancient, brand-new face;
tracing his delicate cheek with the back of her finger. “He’s perfect.”
She ran her palm along the bottom of his soft, miraculous foot, and laughed. “Look at
your feet – they’re huge!”
And as she wiped the tears with the heel of her shaking hand – smearing what was left of
her mascara - she looked in to his, as close to heaven as one can get, eyes, and said, “Hi.
I’m your mama.” He smiled at her. He knew. He’d known it all along. “And I’ll love you
The world closed its shades then. Leaving the sacred to its history; the moment to
eternity; and their universe to its quiet, little room.
*Inspired by Deborah's, You Must Have Been A Beautiful Baby, contest; and every mother
who has graced this sacred room.
Copyright © Kristin Reynolds | Year Posted 2009
This is the story of a real murder . . .
I was just five years old and was in my bedroom playing,
we had just moved into to this cozy little basement apartment;
mommy was talking to a man, who was yelling something about money,
then everything went quiet and I came to see what was happening.
Mommy was laying on the floor with eyes like my dolls,
lifeless, and this man I had seen before was standing there;
I ran to mommy, "wake up mommy wake up!" But she was so still,
the man told me he would take me to my daddy who lived not far.
Crying and weeping for my mommy and daddy loudly,
the man told me to, "shut up!" But I couldn't I was afraid;
he stopped the car near a huge field and pulled me out shouting,
I dropped my teddy on the side of the road and I was fighting him.
When mommy did not show up for work the police came,
they found her body and knew she had been murdered;
an amber alert was issued for me (but I was already long dead),
after three days they found my lifeless body in that rural field.
Hundreds gathered for our funeral, family and strangers,
there was music and dancing because we loved to dance;
the talkers were full of thoughts and memories and even poems,
me and mommy were united in life and would be forever in death.
The man had dragged me into the field and I was yelling,
yelling for daddy to come and then he stopped my voice;
he put his hands on my throat and then threw my small body,
as I lay there looking up with dead eyes- there was a rainbow.
I saw a double rainbow and then my beautiful mommy,
was holding me, I asked her why that man murdered us,
she told me, "because I owed him money and I made a mistake,"
our spirits will live on she said, but we will not rest in peace yet,
she whispered, "soon, my daughter we will dance again in heaven . . . "
August 12, 2016
For the Premiere contest, Through Their Eyes #2
sponsor, Shadow Hamilton
Copyright © Broken Wings | Year Posted 2016
Morning sounds wake sleepy heads in beds.
A thud against the wall...daddy's home, drunk!
Mommy must have given him that mommy look!
Sis and I rush to help mommy off the floor as
daddy flops across the bed with his shoes on
smelling of stale beer and cigarette's stench.
Mommy is too dizzy to finish fixing our sandwiches
of baloney for our brown bag lunch. With one punch
he laid her flat again. When will his cruelty end?
Tomorrow is Parent Teacher conferences but
they both won't show up... again. They never do.
Mean taunts from ugly kids at school, we don't listen.
We watch the clock on the classroom wall that ends
with a clattering of noisy chatter and beat up books being
joyously slammed closed then shoved into back packs
as the bell loudly rings announcing the school days end.
We walk slowly home together with dulled anticipation
to the empty sounds of no one home to greet us.
The television's voice is a welcoming distraction that
elevates our spirits with happy kids in family shows.
The best thing about T.V. dinners is no dishes to wash.
Mommy comes home from work at the diner after dark
still sporting dark sunglasses to hide daddy's shiner.
The last sounds of the day comes from mommy's singing us
old songs she remembers from her youthful years at home.
Connie Marcum Wong
Poem of the Day June 21, 2016
Copyright © Connie Marcum Wong | Year Posted 2016
The blue mood of silence, is there on the screen
Not a whisper, no dialogue, just a hum that is found
A celluloid reel, spinning backwards in time
while flickering shadows, has hushed all the stars
that watch through a curtain, while marking the years
The soft ocean breezes are catching your hair.
It frolics, embracing the blue dress you wear
You are running barefoot along the incoming tide
The beach is as smooth as the silk of your skin
You are flying a kite in the swift summer sky
You raise up your arm, and are waving at me
A smile on your mouth, and a star in your eyes
I can almost hear whispers, that come from afar
shattering silence, without any sound
The joy of it falls through the long winter years....
In voiceless, vague memory, to rest on my ears
I follow along...as I'm watching you play
Your lips ever moving....what is it you say?
I find myself reaching... still, wanting to catch
to set a small trap...and reach into the past
I can't hear the chords,....nor the score to your song
Or music I long for.....that is kept by the stars
But, here in the heart of this moment, I grasp
Like the kite reaching higher....while piercing the sky
Weaving a magic...where joy never dies
I watch how you hold to that kite in the sky...
and cross over the threshold....no questions to ask...
You've thrown a last kiss.....that I reach out to catch
And for a moment together, .... we are touching the stars....
Copyright © Carrie Richards | Year Posted 2011
Polly got words
He was five and going to start school.
His name was Paul, but everyone called him Polly.
He had only one interest and that was anything with wheels.
His mom knew that other kids his age new their letters and the alphabet.
Polly got bored fast when it came to learning the letters and had no interest in them at all.
He would play for hours with his hot wheels cars, clutched in his hands when he fell asleep.
His mom fretted over this, for after summer, he was to start kindergarten.
She had an idea of how he could learn his letters using cars.
She bought twenty six shiny, new hot wheels cars.
The roof each car she wrote a letter.
It was simple.
She said, this is the A car
When it starts it goes AAaaaaah
And this is the D car
When it starts it goes Dididididi
And this is the R car
When it starts it goes RrrrrRrrrrrr
He learned to recognize the letters and their sounds.
Creative parenting had succeeded wonderfully, and
Polly got words
Sept 21, 2016
Copyright © Tanis Troutman | Year Posted 2016
Greet the little King,
who has been born in a cold manger
on the holiest of nights;
and by the glitter of a descending star,
He will spread peace in the land...
follow the shepherds and find that sight!
My gift to Him is my joyful song,
and with this clarinet I will usher in His coming...
walk side by side with the pretty angels and rejoice;
bring Him your gift, and surround Him with joy!
See the three Magi arriving on jewel-draped camels,
holding in their laps the gifts of His destiny.
A winter's night has always been completely bright,
every hill is hidden by darkness, but an heavenly light
appears across the frosty sky of Bethlehem, while divine
voices announce Emmanuel's glorious birth,
everyone wakes up and sees that star and follows it;
and where it stops, they find a baby without a crown.
Greet the Son of the Highest, the Wonderful Redeemer,
whom the Virgin Mary has borne in the humblest of places...
in the small town without a temple, or a palace for the Emperor,
where Mary and Joseph will train their child in Godly ways;
greet the little king, He will smile and invite you in,
and His smile will spread peace beyond the star-lit hill.
Copyright 2009 by Andrew Crisci
Copyright © Andrew Crisci | Year Posted 2009
Dear God, how did You sleep.
I had a dream and it made me weep.
Did You see it, it was so real.
I think it might even help me heal.
Anyway that dream last night
sure was kind of cool.
Except for the times
I acted the fool.
I was a whole lot younger
then I am now.
I was talking with my mom
and I was wondering how?
We sat at the kitchen table
and she had on that grin.
The one that always told me.
I know where you've been.
I could talk to her
about anything I ever did.
Not only when I grew up
But since I was a little kid.
She was the only one
on this whole entire earth.
Who made me feel like I belonged.
Who gave me a sense of worth.
We talked for hours.
We laughed and we cried.
I didn't leave the table
till the day that she died.
It was a roller coaster ride
of every high and low I could feel.
Then Lord You got out the projector
and then You put on the reel.
We watched home movies
and most of it was good.
You would fast forward
those parts that you should.
There was this one scene
where Jesus had a part.
Remember when I asked for Him
to come into my heart?
On a scale of 1 to 10
I would give it a ten.
But there was this one time
I don't remember when??
When I asked for Jesus to come into my heart
He walked right in like He belonged.
But what I didn't know then
was that He walked in with my mom.
Copyright © Allan Granstrom | Year Posted 2009
A Fountain for Carmela....
In the village of Santa Maria, high in the mountains lived a little girl named Carmela. It has
always been the tradition of the women to carry water from the well no matter how far and bring
it home. This was done sometimes twice a day.
It was another beautiful morning as the Sun began to rise. Outside the front door, brightly
colored Parrots were singing sweet songs as Carmela’s mother, Esperanza, prepared the
morning meal of tortilla’s, black beans and sweet coffee. Carmela so enjoyed sitting next to her
mother by the cooking fire. This was her time, alone with her mother, learning how to tend the
fire and grind the maze that she loved the most.
As her Mother dipped her ladle into the water jug, it was plain to see that it was almost empty.
Carmela looked into the jug and asked….
"Mama, can I carry the water today?" Little Carmela asked, she was so happy to be old enough
to do such a thing. Her mother had taught her how to balance the jug on top of her head just
right, so as not to spill even drop on their many trips to the well. But the well was half a day’s
walk down the mountain and back and she had never gone all by herself. It was a hard task for
sure but her familia needed water for cooking and cleaning.
Copyright © Randall Smith | Year Posted 2010