Best Apron Poems
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.
Susannah Wesley’s Apron
No pilgrimage to Israel;
No cloistered cell;
No holy retreat.
Not with ten tumbling children
rumbling through the house.
Despite the chaos and noise,
the never-ending grind of
making ends meet,
the demands of Motherhood.
She made time to talk with God.
Under her own ‘Temple of Meeting’
fashioned from her simple apron
draped over her head, she prayed.
In that holy place, like Moses in the desert,
She met with God.
Mamma wore an ample apron
To cover her clean dress.
She’d tell you that’s what it was for
If you’d 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.
Her apron could bring giggles
In a game of peek-a-boo
With her newest, sweet grandbaby
As she hid her face from view.
That apron dusted tables
And shooed away the flies
And 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 Mamma
Abiding in each fold.
Won a no. 1 in John's contest.
Lifted by soft wings
My tame little one
Released from loose strings
With praise freedom won
Opened hand run way
Fly fast to the sun
Sponsor: Nette Onclaud
Contest: Design Your Tableau
Written by:Sara Kendrick
Date: October 16, 2014
Quote from Antonine De Saint Exupry
1. "You become responsible forever for what you have tamed"..
GRANDMA'S APRON
Grandma's apron dabbed my tears and wiped the baby dry.
Carried wood and eggs and fruit when she would work outside.
We'd run and hide behind it when scared or needed warmed.
It smelled just like the bread and pies she baked in early morn.
She waved good-bye and cooled the food her apron like a flag.
It was really torn and tattered. Was a cradle for my dad.
It's uses were so many. Just like another hand.
But now it hangs just resting beside her frying pan......
By :MAFLongfellow
When I was young,
I often clung,
to many little things.
I'd reach up high,
again retie,
my mama's apron strings.
I sometimes did,
what mom forbid,
although she'd make it clear.
Thoughts still linger.
I remember,
through each fleeting year.
Acquainted still,
her stories thrill,
with many left untold.
I can't go back,
though mem'ries track,
to years I'd rather hold.
I'm lost in thought,
it can't be caught,
despite my futile search -
mama singing,
mama bringing,
this small boy to church.
Though I was touched,
and changed so much,
through Christ, the perfect One -
I cannot stay,
time slips away,
from all that she had done.
I try to grasp,
and hands I clasp,
around those many things -
but mem-ry strands,
slip through my hands -
just like those apron strings.
I miss her so.
Emotions show.
There's moistness in my eyes.
I can't withhold,
though I am old,
my oft guilt-ridden cries.
Though sometimes sad,
I'm always glad,
whenever I think of -
my mama's cares,
my mama's prayers,
and her most precious love.
©2011 louis gander / ganderpoems.org
“The Butcher’s Apron,” often called,
My countries flag, I am appalled,
For Union Jack, inspiring cloth,
Once doused the world in bloody froth
That’s not to say, it’s all been bad,
It did produce my mum and dad, and now
I’m here, produced by them; I produced
A son called Shem
And when we go to sad parades, the flag
Flies high, in restful glades, and though the
Apron’s always there, we’d like to think, the
Jack’s been fair.
Written for flag contest 15/7/15 Peter L Holmes (UK)
("the Apron" refers to a stage apron)
In this life,
two types were made..
the type in the crowd,
and the type on the stage.
The crowd consist of haters,
groupies, and fans..
Keep this type at a distance,
you could never be friends.
They were created to admire
and see from afar..
They follow. They don't lead;
and no one knows who they are.
The second type is on stage;
they were made to amaze.
To shift the shape of our culture
and the way the crowd sways
They lead and create,
they were meant to be great.
Getting too close to the crowd
will only hinder their fate.
It hangs there on the kitchen wall,
A tattered apron, that is all,
But there is something I recall,
The love when Mother wore it.
From early morn 'till setting sun,
Her work, it seems, was never done,
Us children kept her on the run,
That apron, I adore it.
It tells of when I tried to flee,
When chased by angry bumble bees,
And then my Mother rescued me,
And in the process tore it.
It tells of when I stayed home ill,
With burning fever, then a chill,
And on her apron, tonic spilled,
Because I tried to pour it.
My mother had no fancy clothes,
With satin ribbons, lace or bows,
But in that apron, love she showed,
And we could not ignore it.
And now it hangs upon the wall,
What looked so large, appears so small,
A mem'ry since I learned to crawl,
I know now why she wore it.
March 16, 2017
for Premier Contest max 25 lines
Grandma's Apron
In the corner I see a folded apron, brown with years of stain.
As I draw it to my searching eyes, I see the sweat and feel the pain.
All the years of toiling is over, the apron will never wrap around.
The time is past for the pressure, no more soil will there be ground.
The sweat is from the hot summers, when there was only blistering air,
The room was filled with heat, so hot it climbed the stair.
I watched her cooking from on high, quietly perched on the top step,
For I didn't dare to bother her, or Grandpa would beat me with a strap.
Grandpa was not a very nice person, he was always growling and yelling,
And on a few rare occasions, he would beat her, but I'm not telling.
He said it would be very bad for me, if I told my mother the real story.
Why grandma's arm was broken, grandma told me not to worry.
She would just turn her eyes toward heaven, and mutter a silent prayer for him.
Why she didn't pray for herself, that subject seemed so dim.
But now she isn't around anymore, to toil all day in the kitchen.
With all the pots and pans silent, her thread and needle for quick stitching.
What she said the day before she left; I will think of now and ever.
She said that she loved him still, and she would love him forever.
Now I have my own kitchen, where I go to cook a meal.
I go to that place quite often, where remembrance I do steal.
As I take a pot off the hook, I turn the air conditioner off.
I like to feel the heat on my face, so hot it makes me cough.
I try to see my grandma's face, always smiling and full of cheer.
Though her row was full of weeds, I never saw her shed one tear.
God has her now, in His kitchen, I'll bet that He appreciates her cooking.
As fine as any as He has ever had, I can tell you that without looking.
by Allen R Cleveland
06/22/98
Painting #8
L'Enfant au Tablier Rouge, 1886 by Berthe Morisot
Her Red Apron
Tied to your apron strings
she wandered, wondered
wondrous things
about the snow
covered trees.
Put your mind at ease
now, once and for all.
Her young mind
is colorful and curious,
more privileged than most,
spoiled but respectful
and courteous as
a little princess
in fairy tale land.
She will dream
unlike your dreams
for her, but her own.
She shall flourish
in time, her red apron
reflecting the color
of her love
for you.
Like hungry wolves with ribs showing, men huddle at her heels.
Waiting for any little drop of inspiration from her paintbrush.
Like a wet dog shaking its coat droplets spray everywhere.
Bluffing they have the power and not the need.
Every woman has mother's potential for nurturing , feeding , nourishing.
Where does Inspiration to paint come from? Why is painting sacred?
Why are they so hungry for mother's attributes and blessings?
Is it because she is a creator , to carry and grow a soul inside her?
To carry , bear nurture and raise many souls for generations to come.
So then how is painting and creating akin to the creation of childbearing?
she loves mi
beyond my scope or scale
she loves mi
and speaks it in sultry detail
I have love
for someone
I'm
in love with
connected by the heart
I miss her when we're apart
I love you
I love you
I really: really
love you
love so their my lover
so their my lady
so their my bestest freind
I love you
I love you
I really do
...........................
4 cups of beef brisket
2 cups of kidney beans
2 cups of kernaled corn
2 cup of chopped tomatoes
for the roux...
1 1/2 cup each of the following
flour ( add 3 tablespoons of cayeene pepper, 2 tablespoons of cumin, 2 Tablespoons of chili powder )
olive oil
green peppers
celery
onions
make a roux, cook unitl the veggies are transluscent, once roux appears to brown remove it from the heat.
add one gallon (minus 3 cups ) of beef broth/ stock
bring to a simmer.
once the mixture thickenes, or if need be make more roux to thicken,
add beef, beans, corn, tomatoes
serve with sour cream and chives and rice or grits
When I was just a small tot
I remember lying on my Grandmother’s lap
Face down in her apron of old sack cloth
Scents of her cooking ingrained in its depth
I was carried off to a peaceful slumber
Those are times I fondly remember.
She rocked babies from her children of seven
On an old straight back chair we thought was heaven
All the while still sweetly singing
An old lullaby song that’s still ringing
In my memories yet
Sundays we gathered around our grandparent’s table
Watching her use that old apron
To take hot pans from a cast iron stove
To us, no better food could be served
Than what Grandmothers’ hands made with love.
She gathered eggs, and vegetables from her garden
Feeding the chickens with the corn gathered
Up in the folds, and the bottom
Of that old sackcloth apron she wore .
Grandmothers over the years have done the same
Though memories fade over time it seems
This memory for me is one clear and sweet
I look forward to that time we’ll meet
In Heaven’s kitchen with loved ones we know
Eager to see Grandmother in that old apron she wore.
©?Deborah M Kelly
Aug 2021
I look at that old picture hanging stately on the wall
Old Gray-haired Granny’s apon, the glue that stuck it all
It’s faded, almost white, as the years battered the brown
Days are few, indeed, when grandma’s apron wasn’t around
I know that spot on her bosom, where I lay my little head
That apron wiped away many a tear that stained every
thread
It did its duty as a blanket that kept little babies warm
A pad, to hold a coffee pot at breakfast on an early morn
A flag to scatter the chickens from the old weathered door
Carried eggs to the kitchen, lifted tea pitchers, pots, pan galore
It became a grip to open a jar, never seemed to strain
Even doubled as an umbrella to keep off a summer rain
Just an old apron, the fabric stained and rough
It was the tool of all tools, in her world good enough