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Mother Art Poems | Mother Poems About Art

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

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Details | Rhyme |

COLORS for MOTHER

     COLORS for MOTHER,

Looking towards the blue sky
Every color camouflaged around the cloud
Tears of sadness began to dry
Watching all the colors display out loud

The dark needing to fade
The grey in my life finally made sense
Colors overlapping, forming a beautiful cascade
Shoulders of tense

I imagined your smile against the yellow sun
Giving light to all the matter of the things I've done
A warmness in my red heart-- together in the long run
Creating a new purple and pink sensation-- as one

My new rainbow doesn't come in black and white
Giving reason to follow the joy of light 
A gift of colors remind me everything will be all right
A guide blazing throughout the night

Lavender plant blooming for the world to see
A garden of every color just for me
Everyday I see the sunrise, rising up in colors of glee
My Rainbow will appear everyday without rain, no matter how deep the sea

Red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo and violet, the perfect skin tan
My sweet angel your the largest spectrum where ever rainbows span

:-)

by;PD 
I wrote this poem for my mom.
Rhyme

Copyright © Poet Destroyer A | Year Posted 2011


Details | Free verse |

A Mother's Envy and Pride

Lapis lazuli mines with wide blue eyes
bringing to mind precious stones and
caramel scones; innocent and wise -
Wondering, yet without surprise.

Staring down the universe, a challenge
in your look though you are young;
The earth made only nine revolutions 
since you came out to see the sun.

Unguarded and arched, your brows 
betray high wire tension; enough 
to light up a hundred moons and warm
plump cheeks to cherry bubble gum.

Be not impatient to grow; you smell
of open grasshopper meadows
and firefly lighted lakeshore walks.
You’re a mother’s envy and pride.

Red lips! Your passion for life exists.
Scarlet, lipstick would be a surfeit -
Today as then till many summer’s been,
your spirit will always be free as the mist.



After:  Portrait of Carol Nye  Rhoades (Robinson) (1915)


For Debbie Guzzi's Challenge: Ten Pictures, Ten Poems, Ten Days - Painting No. 2
Kim Patrice Nunez
08 January 2016

Poem of the Week:  January 10-16, 2016

Copyright © KP Nunez | Year Posted 2016

Details | Free verse |

Mother and Child Divided - Damien Hirst

Bisected cattle. Divided
by nurture, not nature.

Fumes seep from amniotic tombs,
corrosive, curling round curiosity.

Curio cows entombed, split
and suspended like the herd hanging

speechless, tongues silenced
after lunch munching on gossip

bovine, tethered to turquoise time.
Glacial wombs separate, untouchable.

But no cow is sacred
in this slice-and-dice life

and the dismembered world
reflected in an onyx eye is unholy.

Life herded to still life, dividing Mother
and Child, womb and tomb.

No place for mother and child
in this mausoleum of macabre

where Friesians freeze in formaldehyde -
a frieze of unease, soundlessly bawling

that bonds get broken,
that life's knife dissects us all.




23 May 2017

To view Damien Hirst's work go to www.tate.org.uk/art/artworks/hirst-mother-and-child-divided

Copyright © Charlotte Jade Puddifoot | Year Posted 2017


Details | ekphrasis |

Tod Und Frau 1910 (Death and the Woman)

As death creeps out of the darkness,
  A mother becomes the rope in a (Tug of war.)
A child reaches to help its’ mother in her weakness,
  And stares death in the eye with abhor.

The rope falls limp in sure defeat,
  Yet the child pulls on the strength of heart.
Against the evilness and deceit,
  Fighting with the will to not be apart.

The hooks of death on weary knees,
  Shackling the arms, exposing vulnerability.
Screaming and crying the words of “please”
  The mother rests with peace and tranquility.

A child left to battle life’s groans,
  Preparing for the encounter and all its’ lour.
For one day she will meet Mr. Bones,
  And she’ll be the rope in her child’s (Tug of war.) 






__________________________________________________________
Inspired by Brian’s Picture Poem’s Contest

Käthe Kollwitz, Death and the Woman (Tod und Frau), lithograph, 1910.

http://www.mmoca.org/mmocacollects/artwork_page.php?id=31

Copyright © Abe Lopez | Year Posted 2009

Details | I do not know? |

Slow

Slow was the logo he had been wearing since he was born.
Born into a world of poverty and scorn. They look at you funny when your mom is 
destroying her fetus and it's not even born yet. 
9 months of pain in a bubble of insanity. Slowly fading. She didn't know how much you 
were going to be. 
So when the day came and she lied down on the table screaming and breathing. Cussing and 
fussing. Wondering why she didn't keep her silly legs closed.
But then you come around and your eyes were enough to tame her. No more stripping to make 
a dollar, no more crack pipes she wanted to be the perfect mother. She raised you right, 
though she made some mistakes she was really trying. 
Your first day of school she held your hand and cried because you were becoming such a 
little man.
She didn't yet know the hardships that were to come. The boat was solid now but the waves 
were sure to crash it.
The little boy strutted to school he wanted to make his mother proud but he didn't yet 
know he was going to be made a fool. 
First day of class and he could barely read. Teacher's crucified him because he didn't 
know his ABC's. 
From then on he was labeled slow. Got left back in the 3rd grade for him their seemed no 
hope. 
He went from being so determined to blaming his mother, the stress so enormous she 
started the pipe again.
The boy couldn't imagine how much he had hurt her. But he knew hurt as well and for now 
he felt he deserved to be selfish. 
Kids teased him every day, stole his lunch money, called him " slow" and a dummy. He had 
no friends and one day he turned to his mother. 
He said mom why is that every day I go to school and they tease me and I come home and I 
tease you. But you’re silent, you don't ever belittle me. Why is that mommy? He stared at 
her with intelligence in his eyes. The mother was silent for a second and then she looked 
into her baby's eyes and said " Because to me you are golden and even though they might 
not see it I surely know it".The boy looked at his mother and said but how can I be 
golden that's not what anyone says they all say that I’m slow. 
The mother looked at her son and reached out for his hand and slapped it. Didn’t I tell 
you never to listen to what other people say it only matters what you think? What do you 
think?  
The boy gazed into his mother's eyes and said " I think I’m really bright, if you can see 
it and I can see it than that's all I need to know. The mother smiled as he left her that 
day the future seemed bright.

Copyright © Shahana Jackson | Year Posted 2005

Details | Personification |

When I Need to Be Held

Surrounded by seven cherubs of cheer,
Just recently passing my 100th year,
I’ve been standing here on this perch,
In Little Falls, MN’s Our Lady of Lourdes church.

Most of the day I’m alone simply pining away,
Surrounded by stained glass scenes of yesterday.
Watching glorious beams of color jump left to right,
As east to west the Sun travels ever so bright.

Mostly alone with a visitor or two,
One of my favorites is when Mike is in view.
He studies my features with such wonder and awe,
I can see deep within he is on his last straw.

Walking in with face down slowly plodding as one,
Genuflecting with pain in respect of my Son.
Shuffling into the pew, his body sulking he sits. 
Looking up at me, into my eyes, his stare hits.

I wish I could reach out and hold him in my arms,
Wrapped in my blue cloak, protecting him from harms,
Rocking his fears away with a simple motherly sway,
Breathe into him new life taking away all his strife.

Times like these he needs, comfort and touch,
I thank God above for others providing so much.
It is now that I listen for, the eery creak of the door.
For a heavenly sent friend to cradle him until the end.

Copyright © Michael Vacek | Year Posted 2017

Details | Lyric |

MOTHER GHANA

MOTHER GHANA
I was told about your retrospect, after that scene, I burst into tears. I learned they came to genuflect like angels and took away your possessions. They dehumanized your progeny like animals. They dragged them as if they wanted to tear. Your progeny toiled just for us to cheer. They (the visitors) hypocritically played the drum expecting your progeny to dance. Your progeny suffered for my emancipation especially when the visitors wanted their nod consolidated. Your bold progeny tried come hell or high water to get it emasculated, but the more they tried, the more it got devastated. They fed your progeny and told them to regurgitate. They forced them with the rod anytime they tried to hesitate. They (the visitors) searched the brave among your progeny and escorted them to the grave. Wherever the deceased are, I pray the creator keeps their souls. You suffered but the battle ended. We thank those who toiled their blood and passed through all holes. We live confidently because of their fight. I couldn't stand the sight when I watched pictographic scenes of the battle. We were discarded but have been found. Today is your day for you were freed this day. Although I am happy, I am sad and I hope you know why. You were freed long ago but as if we have reached an impasse, we can't go. Anytime I think about it, I have no option than to sigh. Your present progeny need to wake up and work relentlessly, for your name should climb higher than I can see. You deserve the world's priority for you suffered immensely. It is unequivocal that your womb is blessed. We see bloody things in your neighbor's houses but we live happily on your compound. Awake present progeny and make your mother proud. You have tried but looking at your mother's grief, it is very minimal............HAPPY INDEPENDENCE DAY TO ALL GHANIANS 

Copyright © CHRISDAD KOJO ARTHUR | Year Posted 2015

Details | Free verse |

My Son Moon and Star

            My Son Moon and Star ~

        Approaching the celebration of his Birth 
                cherishing the gift I received 
           within weeks of conception I knew
            something amazing was in Creation ~

            the Stars held a party
            sending me with one of their own  
    Gazing at 3 shooting stars twinkling crossing the sky   
       It was magic  It was destiny taking its flight.  

           In love with an October full moon 
               drawing and painting I liked 
             thinking of Vincent Van Gogh ~
                caught in a loss of time 

          Hours going by as choosing my color  
           a wittness to three falling stars 
             A clear night sky sparkle's
           A once Famous Star was sent 
            inspiring the tiny child inside ~ 

           Never a doubt in my mind at all     
       child bearing was worth any pain received
      yours will be in a pursuit of a dream ~
             one to cherish and hold
          My Son was born the following August ~

    working on the set of Grimm 3rd season this year  
         as the set of Leverage for 3 years .

              Has done a Indie movie here  
             In Paris it was seen and honored
             coming soon filmed in Portland ~
                 "The House of Last Things "

        awaiting the credits , you will see
                        
    1st Assistant Director ~ production assistant 
   
                 My Young Lion Mans dream ~
        A proud mom I watch every show and the credits 

        as foretold in a whisper to me 25 years ago
              My Son &  Moon and Star  
               A name you will all know ~

            Happy Birthday to my creative Son
             you will exist in my heart forever~
                        and thereafter               
                             Mom

Copyright © Shanity Rain | Year Posted 2013

Details | Free verse |

Rose Wine

Your strong hand 
beneath my head
my Love in your Blood
turned from friendship
did spread
into More
the first time you
took my Hand
and traveled every
line, of my Flesh land
the way you reflect your soul
Into my Eyes, 
makes me forget my small stature
shape, size
in this world
I wish to carry your 
future child
be it boy or girl
be them strong of spirit
Smarts of street and class
leaders of Eminence
Sweet mixed with Sass
I see this future
as I fall head first, spilling
into your secure embrace
like a single bottle of Rose Wine
Down to the last Taste



Copyright © Heather Hill | Year Posted 2010

Details | Ballad |

Mother Africa

Mother Africa,
Gather your sheep like a good shepherd.
Teach them morals and guide them rightly,
Educate them on African Values and culture.
Protect your sheep from the hynas and lions
That parade more in the forest of life to kill.
Remember the community begins at home.


I know you are not irresponsible like the Goat
Who has three breast but gave birth to four kids;
What will the fouth kid suck if others are sucking?
Guide the boys to stop looking at the Ladies lustfully,
The girls must bring their husband  home as it is
Stated in the tradition of Africa, no under tree love.



Cover your children with your wings like
Mother Hen covers her chicks against the kites.
Do not go loose in front of the young minds;
For when mother cow is cropping giant grasses
Her calf watches her from behind the scene.
Act like the mother you are not like a child you're not.



When a child misbehaves in your presence,
Hit him with a rod of correction and bring him
Back to your side with a sweet flavoured left hand.
Educate the ladies how to close their legs while sitting, and the boys, you must not leave behind;
Teach them that Africans never pregnate a lady before they marry her and the younger ones,
Tell them that Africans don't put their trouser 
on their waists.




See her in skimpy skirt and drive the skirt away from her waist, African women  don't wear skimpy skirt.
Those whose wrapper always untie because of civilization, padlock the wrapper to their waists.
Those boys whose pants flip up and down publicly,
Tie their pants with ropes to their waist, Africans have a face to preserve and protect in days to come.
She lust after money when in love and lost her value, show her what love means to Africans.



Father Africa, leave all not in the hands of Mother,
Bark when you needs to bark in front of your sheep.
Roar like a wounded Lion when the sheep goes wild,
All should not be left in the hands of Mother Africa
Nature has made us two, two together, two hearts beating as one can preserve many lost dignities.
You and you can save the you that stray away in shame.





(C) John Chizoba Vincent
All Right Reserved 2016



Copyright © john chizoba vincent | Year Posted 2016

Details | Ode |

ODE TO MOTHER

Ode To ‘Mother’ Creator ©
Not only is it a marvelous happen chance in being able to have ‘shares’ in Mother Nature’s flora creations 'first hand'---
But, we are then granted to sit before her, these ‘set tables’….
She, as our ‘hostess’ serves ‘up’ an endless canvasing ‘kaleidoscope’ set for our eyes only!
She tempts us again and again, into a fevered ‘hunger-fest’ to (pig-out) by and they are very much ‘ready’ with such ‘food for thought’!
 She has intuitively displayed her indulgent ‘realm’ to overrun our 'minds' eye….   
We are prearranged to touch, taste/smell and become a convert---
It is; as true, loyal, ‘voyeurs’ we now give our undivided attendance, when we are all invited to her 'seasoning’ assemblies….
Their wholeness is made perfect, even into their ‘finally’ timed performances!
Her uses and gifts work miraculously to brightening 'up' her shadings and tonalities towards her abundant-folding true colours and her 'achievements' are (forever) complemented upon---
Whether, it is in her fauna show of velvety, satin and silky petal-flowers spending titillating fragrances
Or, by use of her seasonally ‘varying’ cycles, in 'all' her weather modes; she always will spend, all her wonderment  and excitement--- towards her spectacular works! 
Her numerous ‘paint-box’ colours with their different scents and shaded consepts are definitely.... crafted, in alluring us feverishly,  into inventive crazed acts--- 
Just like the moments, when a (newly) box of crayons, first opens up and invitingly nudges the painter and writer forward.binging 'us’, to recreate one's own bountiful displays with worded colour and paints…. 
Thus, with our 'first hand' wonder/mental experience, “Mother’  has never 'giifted', (a questionable) blank canvas to work upon!
We are a growing world-wide nature loving group, enamoured to (dabble) our time away, 'within’ her 'ecospheres'--- 
We have also ‘gifted’; as well, to oiur 'public', family an friends many of our exhibited works….
 Our own ‘piece-meals’ are proudly admired and profitably ‘feasted’ upon! 
Many wonderful invites are sent 'out', for all to come and attend our (tabled smorgasbords) --- 
‘Mother’, must be as proud and pleased when taking note, of all the vast, interpretative and varied (personal) worked styles we have made, in her likeness….
she has ‘qualified’us her pupils, in her stead, to such ‘artistry’ freedoms!
We have been ‘branded’ her slaves; as only a true slave driver can do---
We are meant to go through with our own ‘humbling’ efforts willingly.
Our need and desire to please and honour her great gifts, by these, our gifts are surmountable!
Our enthusiasms, to share our ‘Mother Nurtured’ talents among one and all to salivate and savour, is indeed a two-fold 'forever'gift and made much more---  
We can only hold her responsible for our inspirational madness every day, days in and days out throughout time….  
Mother Nature, we thank you for the power you have given us again, and again and again to learn, create and live in your world.
We are indeed, our own 'self-appointed time keepers and guardians to your ‘star studded 'forevermore''garden! 
My writer’s mind speaks ‘never’ enough words to paint your magnificence---
There are not enough means, to ever do you justice….
Our word/plays and colourful paintings are but a ‘stitch’ to your ‘dressed’ canvases! 

Didee
A true lover of Mother Nature’s works.
Artist and poet writing with ink and paint!

Copyright © Diane M Quinlan | Year Posted 2015

Details | Iambic Pentameter |

Hera

Hera precious, gorgeous queen of splendor,
of mighty Ares,and Enyo,the mother,
to thee I write my gratitude and thanks
for all thy blessings showered upon my head.
Thine is the pomegranate and the diadem,
with which you rule all worlds and human lands,
with magnanimous mercy and charity.
of rainbow colors dressed divine thou art,
the sunny smiling matron of the arts,
Thou,queen, who favorest the pure of heart.

Copyright © Victor Chavez | Year Posted 2013

Details | Free verse |

Mother and son

I cherish you,
If you cherish me.

You brought me to life,
We began to meet through time,
Even though,
Sometimes you don't comprehend me,
Sometimes you don't understand me,
That sometimes time isn't enough,
That sometimes instincts get uncontrolled...,
But still,
You were designated for my life,
And you profile my living...
We share lives...

Although,
Time brings maturity,
And time doesn't last forever,
As well as we don't last forever...

There is no such thing,
As total perfection,
Even though,
Thank you...

Copyright © Ruben Alejandro Hernandez Diaz | Year Posted 2013

Details | Ekphrasis |

Father's Gone

Father's Gone 

Beside the seaside the fisherman's wife, 
her child in hand, walks asking about loss. 
Her father, years gone, left a life of strife. 
They both offer prayers with sign of the cross. 

A serene light graces this seaside day. 
Time seems to still as mother and child gaze 
to the past and father's laughter at play. 
Now he's gone in darkness and time's dim haze. 

They look and pray for their hero now lost, 
finding peace in this daily morning walk. 
Their lives once full demanded a harsh cost, 
as misery follows them, see it stalk. 

But, sights and sounds ease with familiar tune 
and beauty helps the sad and grieving hearts. 
The pleasant weather this morn in cool June, 
missing only the flights of the martes. 

Soon sailors and fishermen go to sea 
with nets to cast while praying for big scores. 
The strolling pair pray, "return him to me", 
to Neptune they each sadly implores.

Robert J. Lindley, 1-12-2016

Painting number nine
Poem number nine, Ekphrasis, (rhyme)

Inspired by-
(Morning at the Quay in Venice), by Helen Allingham
and Debbie Guzzi's ten/ten/ten challenge.
Ekphrastic: Writing on Art and Art on Writing  [this site ACCEPTS reprints] http://www.ekphrastic.net/submissions.html

note: "martes"
Definitions of Martes:
noun: martens

Copyright © Robert Lindley | Year Posted 2016

Details | Dramatic monologue |

To a Dead Man

You Drive me into this Malice, into this Maze I can only see the last of days Your Creation Failed With Me Burn with malice as you bridge to the plains of ennui

Copyright © Wyatt Loethen | Year Posted 2012

Details | Haiku |

Monument

Forgotten but here
Remembered yet never there
Why do you exist?

Copyright © Daniel Spencer | Year Posted 2012

Details | Bio |

NOT JUST A MOTHER

Women are not just mothers
they are not just a companion
they are beloved
in the soul, in the eyes and in the heart

Do not underestimate their roles
they are power  of the world
their power masked by the eyes
the effective power of love

Remember who are those women
their services are not just a parable
do not forget their roles
they are one to rage war

Why women are not just mothers
their heart are soft like a wind
born leaders strong and firm
from stomach of these queens

Only questions can be afford
a man born in time they hold
born to take care of the world 
these women indeed are like fort

Women kept everyone’s name
if forgotten will shake the world
they have the power of words
in their heart to sail the boat!

Copyright © Neldy Jolo | Year Posted 2015

Details | I do not know? |

The Motherless Child

Whispers in your ear you fear

The child with no mother is near

As she promotes her soul within

To see you lifeless cunning grin

The warped faze and constant glaze

Undress your body with ever rage

As she smells fear from near your maze

Your mind at ease is restless peace

The clock strikes 12 tic toc heart stopped

She warms you up as her baby soft touch

Enters your cloned state of mind

From the cloned state of time

When things where in rhyme

Of a perfect loves chime

Ticking away the clock strikes 1

The motherless daughter shows you her fun

And see where it leads as she shows you who won

And see her heart bleed as her mother did once

The clock strikes 2 she reloads the gun

Points it at you as she smiles you hear the drum

Her heart beats loud keeping tune in her womb

As the trigger from her lonely motherless gun

Come to halt as the clock strikes back towards 1

She sees youuagain as you where back in time

Back in time when her mom was around showing prime

Back in time when she smiled at others with a crime

Back in time as she feels her heart stop in rhyme

Tick tock the gun pulled her shock

Back to time it did her

As the motherless deter

Bring your pain

Bring your shame

For we all are motherless sons

For we are all cowards of none

The same said for her

As the motherless daughter

Could fear nothing more

Than her shadow on the wall

Copyright © Penn Kname | Year Posted 2007

Details | Rhyme |

The Art Of Storytelling

Facedown on the carpet I just knew that I would die, 
the red obscures my vision as the blood dripped in 
my eye,

I never saw it coming, tell me, how could I have 
slipped? But let me back it up a bit and tell you bout 
my trip.

My mother was the type who gave me food but fed 
me lies, the woman gave me life October 5th of '85,

while growing up I always knew that something was 
amiss, my 16th birthday's when I found out true lies 
do exist.

October 2K1 my goodness, it was such a time, I 
lived my life the 'seat of pants' way, out there runnin 
wild,

my b-day gift from Uncle Sal which I was blown 
away, a nickel plated 22 he called a 'throw away'.

Mom Dukes was straight addicted to a lithany of 
drugs, my father died absorbing quite a lithany of 
slugs,

I thirsted for the streets and no amount of love could 
quench, to now possess a firearm, it all now 
seemed a cinch.

I had some people over to the crib to celebrate, my 
little cuzzo Pop and plus my homies Rell and Nate,

we had the PS2 because that Madden game was 
heat, you know how things occur sometimes when 
you expect it least?

It seems that day my mother really snorted up some 
blow, she had assorted stains of snow which 
showed around her nose,

when Moms got high the sky could fall and she just 
wouldn't know, she also had a case of real loose 
lips because of coke.

Now everyone was chillin, plenty happy times for all, 
then Moms approached my Uncle Sal, the rising of 
my fall,

she then just spoke out loud enough for everyone to 
hear, 'Why don't you claim your son right now while 
everyone is here? !

The music stopped and pinheads dropped I'm 
thinkin who the F? Now cheery Sal with teary smile 
embraced me to his chest,

'I'm sorry it was done this way but yes there's 
sumthin true, I have 2 sons see Pop is 1, the other 1 
is you'

I fainted, dropped my brew and don't know what I'm 
gonna do.......

To Be Continued......

Copyright © James Lewis | Year Posted 2011

Details | Free verse |

A WOMAN OF VIRTUE

For nine months
With love and pain
With joy and suffering
In her womb she carried me
A mother she is 
And a woman of virtue.

When there was no one, she was the only one
Even left alone, she never leaves me alone
Indeed, she’s a mother 
And a woman of virtue.

When toddling, she cared
And still directs when I could run
She is a mother of the child and the adult
In her thoughts are all, even the descendants to come
Many names will I call her; “A mother of all”
And a Woman of Virtue.

Copyright © Francis Twumasi | Year Posted 2012

Details | Personification |

JUXTAPOSED

~~~~~~~~~~~ "Sky's eyebrows white on blue juxtaposed... tears wave to wash away pain on cue" ~~~~~~~~ ~JSLambert © 2012 Poet TreeZ Publishing

Copyright © JSLambert Mister ROBOTO | Year Posted 2012

Details | Quatrain |

SIMPLE PLEASURE

I walk on tip-toes in the dark
To take another awe-struck peep
A perfect, tiny, masterpiece
In blue pajamas, wrapped in sleep.

My best creation, born of love
Whose life my soul perchance reflects
And every nuance of his face
My joyous heart again inspects.

An artist with her greatest art
Whose work has only just begun
Each day will add a color, stroke
To this, my canvas, called "My Son."

And nothing else this mother needs
Not food, not shelter, or even rest
But to gaze upon my greatest work
This simple pleasure is the best.

Copyright © Cindi Rockwell | Year Posted 2016

Details | Romanticism |

Mother Nature, You The Seed Of Earth's Delights

Mother Nature, You The Seed Of Earth's Delights

Soft spoken and sweet art thy graceful ways
Within forests of rainbow trees a light shines
For each of thy songs, the sad world pays
Reluctance in glory and resentfully it opines.
Coming Spring, brings increases in thy lights
With calming days and grace in castle towers
Soft spirits dance in woods on cooler nights
And later finds comfort in thy majestic powers!

Sun and morn bring far more pleasant things
Even happiness in light cool spring showers
Gratitude for blessings thy heart always brings
Admiration for thy gracefully wielded powers.

Mother Nature, you the seed of earth's delights
And greatest author of its most beautiful sights!

R. J. Lindley
no date on old poem.


No date on an old poem.  Most likely late 70's to early 80's. 
found six verses to another poem  that I may finish if I 
can find the time and do not forget to do so.

Copyright © Robert Lindley | Year Posted 2015

Details | Free verse |

Gothic Mother's Day Poem

Your beauty is a ripe and full
as the moon in view
so many tried to compete but there
talents were to few
for the mother that you are
is a hard act to follow
the love that you bring
voids the hollow
for our child's life is vibrant
due to your generous amount of love
so happy mother's babe
for you have to give you already gave.
(To my wife Courtney Dyer)

Copyright © Malcolm Dyer | Year Posted 2008

Details | Dramatic monologue |

One,Two,Three

I'm dreaming with mother
I'm dancing with father
i'm laughing with brother
i'm dressing up with sister
i'm sitting in grandfather's lap
i'm talking to grandmother
i'm singing with auntie
i'm helping unlce
i'm dressing cousin
One by one 
Two and two
Three to four
There is no war,that can tear me from you
Five by five
Six and six
Seven to eight 
This was the last memory I have of you all.Catch me,free me,bring me back to life,watch over me,and set peace over my head.
Nine by nine
Ten and ten
Eleven to twelve
What more could I'll tell you? Did you not hear the words that came from my mouth as I ran toward you?
One by two
Three and four
Five to six 
Catch me when I fall.
Free me from my chains.
Bring me back to life and away from the grave.
Watch over me while I walk through this valley of the ignorant and dead.
Set the peace over my head,that i may control what fury I carry inside.
Seven by eight
Nine and ten
Should we use are words and speak and use are actions and break one another? What reason could we show if we lose part in memories that were so perfect and harmless.
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight 
Nine 
Ten
Just how many times must i say it again?
I'm dreaming with mother
I'm dancing with father
i'm laughing with brother
i'm dressing up with sister
i'm sitting in grandfather's lap
i'm talking to grandmother
i'm singing with auntie
i'm helping unlce
i'm dressing cousin
What a peaceful exist this is and should always be.

Copyright © Marcedies Rhodes | Year Posted 2012

Details | Quintain (English) |

' ' I LOVE YOU ' '

~*~ =============================== sophisticated architect who framed the home of my life's essence eloquent sculptor who casts and molds my ethereal vivacity aesthetic painter who puts the ravishing, superb hues in my flawed existence imperial majesty, owning the aureate diadem of my subsistence's glory " NUMBER 1 " mother, the blood when I'm in thirst and the flesh when I'm hungry. ~*~ ================================================================

Copyright © jun-jun villanueva | Year Posted 2011

Details | Ballad |

My Mother is My Hero

Glance into the world through mother' eyes
Just as though time were gone; and
Every crook will become straight to you.
Tears shade for self are tears of weakness
But tears shade for others are a sign of strength.
Mother, my tears are for you thise day,
ADANNEYA!

The only greatest thing ever happens
To me is that I have a caring mother
Who knows where and when it hurt men,
In the darkest. Chamber of the odd night.
She is the golden jewel that never worn out,
A breathe that brings life,
EGODIYA!

She is the moon that brighten my night,
The eyes that sees through my eyes,
It is natural to die as to be born by mothers.
It is impossible to love and to be wise,
Mother is the stone that never move
But the water nourished it as its sit by its shore,
ORIAKU!

Note her words for they are life to the hearer,
The woman of the East whose smiles calm the storm of life.
Mother is my hero, my hero is my mother, the maker of my tomorrow,
ADAUGO!

The only person in charge of the little me,
There won't be the me in me without her.
When others backoff where it hurts
She stands up for you behind the storm,
ERINMA!

When no one believes me, 
She looks into my eyes and believed.
When no one love, she loved me 
She is the only hero made for me
In the beginning of the world,
AKWAUGO!

The only one who could face the sun for my sake
The only one who could kindle the burning fire for me,
The maker of my smiles, my mother is my hero,
NWAYIBUIFE!

Copyright © john chizoba vincent | Year Posted 2015

Details | Epigram |

MY MOTHER ONCE TOLD ME

My mother once told me of my root
She told me why the He goat smell
Why my ancestral home was not
Pull down by the then monsters
Her first love at the eve of her making.
How they played under the rain naked
In those stone age when the earth has no sin.
They romanced the clay soil in the village square
Screen saved their names in the face of the sky.
They built castles in the field where demons trended
Where they could live and tell each other love stories.
The rumor mongers came but were ashamed 
To see them cherished themselves after they ravaged 
Their relationship before the villagers eyes.
The clapping of the birds and their songs
Were the drives which kept them soaring.
She told me of my village- Nkporo.
The maidens who came from Elughu with their 
Heads down in appreciation to her bravery.
Those who fought and stood against women paying tax at Aba.
The story of the dancing trees at the village forest
Where her father was killed before her eyes.
By the Ohafians  warriors yet Nkporo never stand up
To fight for the innocent blood murdered with a white hands filled with guilt.
She wasnt Nasty then but trying to grown her 
Emotions to accet the fact that nature had made it
To be so in her eyes.
Upon all that she said, dreams were found resting in the wardrobe of her heart
TO make life a bed of roses to her children.

Copyright © john chizoba vincent | Year Posted 2015

Details | Limerick |

Ma Dropping It Like Its Hot (Limerick)

Ms. Potter caught her daughter Lollipop
There dancing in the grocer’s parking lot
And scolded her profusely
‘Til someone cranked up “Juicy”…
Ms. Potter stopped and dropped it like it’s hot


Comments:
How soon some forget that they were once young too. If the power of dance is ones 
passion it is not the worst vice a child can have, in fact it is good exercise.  One 
Love

Copyright © Adell Foster | Year Posted 2008

Details | Rhyme |

The Impressionist's Daughter-Poem 8-Revised

The impressionist's young daughter
stands poised before an open door
Occupied in thought she wears
a red apron much darker 
than her hair with a pony tail,
then a revelation stirs her curiosity-
outside trees are frosted with snow.

The chilly breeze swiftly enters and makes
the long curtains behind her flutter;
it feels colder than the Iceland wind,
Hesitant, she stays inside in the warmth.  

Inside the room, her mom  
smudges pastels onto  
drawing. The child watched.
Mom captured her daughter's
wonderment in each chalked line.

Upon completion, child and
and painting; are compared;
the child won't be  
able to distinguish 
impressionism from realism.

The artist sought- after and
amply admiring this work
for the right- other sights
for her chosen colors 
and creative images. Her hand
gave life to seasonal
landscapes, or blank faces
which stare straight at us
with an air of mystery.
From a background gloomy or gaudy-
they make us feel a sense of suspense.    
.

Copyright © Andrew Crisci | Year Posted 2016