No mother would fill up her eyes with tears of woman...
if it weren't for God performing a miracle at dawn,
as she cried out in joy and held her baby in trembling arms
but shed many sweet tears hearing his laughter so loud;
oh, he couldn't see her mommy's face through his tiny eyes,
and it will be long before he'll will utter the first word, " Mom."
Now that baby sleeps under the attentive look of his mom,
who's too young to become a mature woman;
many visions of this birth crossed her gleeful eyes
she dreamed of the very same words whispered at each dawn,
repeating them in her silly head as if they sounded too loud...
while cradling a pretty doll in her folded arms.
Will she be welcomed home by her parents opening their arms?
Will they reprimand her and not consider her a legal mom?
Perhaps they will not be angry and speak not so loud:
girls are supposed to be girls, not suddenly turn into woman...
So this innocent girl, deceived by a bad boy, must wake up at dawn
when her baby cries and feed him with scary, childish eyes?
Nights seem longer for her, trying to stay awake rubbing her eyes,
what she beheld in those exciting eyes, now it's a burden in her weary arms;
she remembers that pain was too unbearable, but joy more sublime at dawn...
how will she learn how to care for the infant by watching her mom?
She must have seen a nursery or read a book how to think like a real woman,
and can anyone imagine how she keeps that secret instead of revealing it loud?
She must gather enough courage inside to feed her baby who can't cry loud,
but for now she must carry that baby without sighs of distress into her bright eyes;
and her parents can see the changes making her a loving person already woman;
they may ask questions to why she has gained weight and holds dolls in her arms...
no, they aren't anticipating great news and in doubt, they await a splendid dawn.
Mother and daughter closely together amazed by the coming dawn,
any concealed secret can be easily spoken...somewhat joyful and loud;
they imagine the infant's futures will be part of grandma and mom!
Their reunited hearts come together to show love in their delighted eyes,
and they'll take turns feeding the new-born, tenderly lulling him in their arms;
what if forgiveness hadn't been there to deny her all of the joys of woman?
Would a mother deny her daughter compassion as a good woman?
Even God hurried dawn to offer that gift into her gracious, tender arms...
and those arms accepted it with the gentleness and kindness of mom.
Copyright © Andrew Crisci | Year Posted 2010
Alberta “Jean,” the different one was she
since her birth and among her family.
This redhead born of parents with dark hair
had felt herself an odd plain duck; in prayer
she’d kneel and on her father’s farm was awed
by nature. In the fields, she’d pray to God.
With fervent adoration for her God,
she searched for truth. A maverick was she.
She left her parents’ church, for she was awed
by teachings not those of her family.
The Gospel she discovered through deep prayer
dismayed her folks, as had her bright red hair!
Upon her birth, because of her red hair,
her folks had joked she wasn’t theirs, but God
would lead her to a new life. On a prayer,
she traveled west. A restless soul was she -
the one to leave her home and family
to find her niche; by her bold move I’m awed.
By all the things she did back then, I’m awed.
She joined the Navy. Jean, with bobbed red hair,
would meet my dad and start a family.
Great trials came to her. She called on God.
To go back home then was the answer she
was given after long and pleading prayer.
She had to leave my dad. I know through prayer
this answer came to her. Again I’m awed
because with us, her four small daughters, she
became a single mom. She wore long hair
up in a bun, worked hard, had faith in God,
and married someone else with family.
Eight children then were in our family.
My mother taught her step kids about prayer,
affecting all our lives. Her trust in God
is never-ending, and we all are awed. . . .
She’s 80, widowed, and still has red hair
and goes out dancing!! Rare indeed is she!
With faith in God, Jean raised a family.
No need of fame has she, for she has prayer
and grandkids awed now by her still red hair!
* see about poem for more info on Jean
*I tried to make this one like a rhyming Sestina. Instead
of choosing just any six words to repeat at the end of
each line, I decided to use three pairs of words that
rhymed with each other. The position of the words
changes from stanza to stanza, but I think the rhyming
aspect still holds strong.
for the Tell Us About Your Mom Contest of Judy Konos
Copyright © Andrea Dietrich | Year Posted 2012
I spend my time changing diapers
Wiping tiny faces and drying little tears
My days are filled with giggles and wails
Nights are symphonies of snuggles and hugs
Never do I get time off or a needed vacation
Even sick days are not granted to my position
But I would never leave my position
Not even if it meant no more diapers
Or a three week long tropical vacation
I don't mind quieting the tears
I love getting paid in kisses and hugs
Though I could still do without the wails
I would love peace but I take the wails
Because they come as part of the position
They are often at least paired with the hugs
Yes, I get tired of wet, stinky diapers
But I get to be there to ease the tears
And a toothless grin is better than a vacation
Time at the park is like an all day vacation
Sometimes those days pass with no wails
And unless we skin a knee even no tears
Then we get to cuddle in a sleepy position
With sand and gravel still stuck to the diapers
Holding each other tight in hour long hugs
I love when they wake up and bring me hugs
Naps are my own little mommy vacation
Then off come grimy shirts and wet diapers
Of course taking off tops always bring wails
Until they see the bath toys all in position
Then immediately giggles replace the tears
We scrub away dirt and wash away tears
Wrap up in soft cotton towels and hugs
These are the moments I love my position
And cannot image why I would need a vacation
Then clothes being put on bring still more wails
As they wiggle and turn while I fasten diapers
Soon they won't need me for tears and I'll be able to take a vacation
But I'll miss all the hugs and I'll even miss the I need you wails
So I'll cherish every moment of my position until the next stinky diapers
Copyright © Christi Kopp | Year Posted 2010
Every boy has his toys,
and each girl her dolls;
and as they grow they are put away where light can't enter:
there in that closet, which often memory recalls
how delightful and merry their days were,
but wishing for a return is a constant, useless prayer...
Everyone once had the possessions of a younger age,
some were precious and memorable, others simply painful and vacant;
and who can remember being hugged and truly loved by all?
Many still reminisce the sad thought of having been offered none at all,
and how they longed to have felt a little, sweet taste!
Nobody desired that more than I did, and only mother provided that!
Blue-bells seemed blither than I.. colored flowers that have no feel,
no soul to express their joy or sorrow, had I become like them?
Larks and mockingbirds weren't as malcontent as I was indeed;
all they wished for was some rain and the quietest place to rest!
Oh, how much sympathy I felt...with no one loving them, but their Creator;
and my circumstances affirmed how true that really was for me to declare!
An evil doer can be a father, who denies his children profound affection;
malice or thoughtlessness scars the hearts of the tender ones,
to become a malady or blight that leaves many fragments of broken lives;
and shouldn't someone grab them by the scruff of their necks,
and put some sense into them when they intentionally induce pain?
This snarl...rebelled at such atrocity, although no slaps could prevent those tries!
Husbands love your wives devotedly,
mistresses are the cause of your adultery;
would the faithful ones pursue an extramarital affair?
And what are the consequences of your sin and surliness?
A curse from God for many generations,
to deny your little ones the possessions of a younger age!
Copyright 2009 by Andrew Crisci
Copyright © Andrew Crisci | Year Posted 2009