Best Deathmother Poems


Summerland

She loves her family... 
her husband, her children, her pups and kitty. 
She loves the color purple. 
She loves the Goddess, 
all her special potions in their fancy bottles and jars. 
All her spices and herbs, 
sorted so neatly, labeled and placed just so. 
Her candles in their holders placed in their places around her alter.
She gets angry when anyone litters.
 "We must all respect Mother Earth, 
she takes care of us, we need to take care of her."
She likes everyone she meets, until they give her a reason not to.
She showed me where the fairies live. 
She taught me to believe in them, 
lest they die.
From Mother Earth we came, thus to Mother Earth we must return. 
She returned.
She went to the Summerlands. 
She walks on grass so cool and green, 
butterflies and fairies flitting about, 
fragrant, sweet purple flowers 
so thick, you can't help but step on them, 
but when she turns around to look, she sees they are unhurt, 
it's as if noone had passed by at all... 
of course there are purple flowers... she loves purple.

Mother

i call for mother
for she is sleeping on the sofa 
i look more close for death has come to call on this sunny spring day
"mother , "mom" "mommy"
no words will wake her for death has made his final round
my breaths shall not save her no matter how hard i pump
my pleas nor cries will bring her smile back out from behind her blue lips 

i stand before mother in her favorite dress and i hold her cold hand as those around say it 
was for the best
i lay in mother empty bed smelling her perfume waiting for her just to walk though the door
i wait in darkness for my heart has no light 

my days are full with routine but i am dead on the inside my smiles are fake and my laughs 
are brittle
"just one more day to get though"
i am lifess and joyless i am pointless

my children grow but i am blind 
i grow older but my grief ages me even faster
my face i no longer recongize though the mirror

long roads and dead ends but i can start to breath again
recovery is so hard mother but recover is a must 
my smiles are real and i can now laugh without crying 
no longer do i look to the door waiting
some days are long and i must really work at it
some days are so easy that i never want them to end

i stand with flowers in my hand and the spring breeze ruffles my hair 
i look to your grave and 
i can finally say i will  be fine
i will be ok
© Dana Teske  Create an image from this poem.

The Man In the Window

He crawled thru our window
A man with no hair
Standing four feet tall
Every night he was there

We moved to this house
Not knowing of its lore
Not hearing of the evil
That lurked there before

A murder took place 
By a man and his mother
A sibling was killed
He stabbed his own brother

He would walk to our bed
Night after night
With evil in his eyes
And our hearts filled with fright

In a lab coat of white
And blood on his chest
He told us he'd kill us
For this was his quest

Only in this room
Would he always appear
To fill me and my brothers
With breathtaking fear

When we moved to another
The room would be clean
Neither mother or her son
Would ever be seen

My mother would tell us
It was only a dream
Til his mother she saw
With a blood curdling scream

The front door was locked
But like a phantom magician
She walked thru the walls
This ghostly apparition

She sat in a chair
And rocked while she laughed
My mother was paralyzed
By this witch and her craft

"You can't move can you dear?"
The woman replied
She said the death smell was sickening
From this woman who'd died

In the middle of the night
Doors would open then close
Who's coming and going?
None of us knows

The neighbors all knew
Of the things that occured
But all were too scared
To utter a word

My father would sit 
By our bedside each night
Til we all fell asleep
Then turn out the light

This story is true
I was six years old
The house is still standing
And the story still told

Each Halloween season
This house will appear
In our town's local newspaper
To fill us with fear

Though now it stands empty
Many families passed thru
And all will attest
That what I've told you, is true


For Amy's I saw with my own eyes contest
© Larry Belt  Create an image from this poem.


Get a Premium Membership
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a Premium Membership.
Book: Diverse Voices: The Poetry of Human Rights and the Pursuit of Peace