Best Motherhood Poems
I bet you didn’t know about the fairies
assigned to all the infants that are born.
At night beside her precious charge each tarries
while softly crooning lullabies till morn.
An extra special fairy will be sent
to first-time mothers of a girl or boy,
for when the harried fretting mom is spent,
she only has to look upon her joy.
As magic dust releases from above,
the mother sighs and holds her baby near.
Then particles illuminate the love
of one who coos while cradling her dear.
As fairies go, there simply is no other
as blessed as she who serves the child and mother.
Have you heard about a certain fairy,
the one assigned to infants newly born?
Unseen, beside her precious charge she’ll tarry
softly crooning lullabies till morn.
She is the special fairy that is sent
to first-time mothers of a girl or boy,
for when that harried fretting mom is spent,
and as the mother looks down at her joy,
the fairy sprinkles dust down from above.
The mother sighs and holds her baby near.
Those particles illuminate the love
expressed by mother cooing to her dear.
As fairies go, there simply is no other
as blessed as she who serves the child and mother.
By giving birth you've lost much loveliness,
but thou art lovelier now in fullness.
Edited: From hugeness to fullness accdng to sir A.
Awe inspiring moments
Beautiful, blissful mess
Chaotic confusion; Calamitous
Devotion, broken hearts healed
Mother's love revealed
To be a mother is to be
rain and sunshine at once
to drown oneself while saving another
and to give hope while being hopeless.
To be a mother is
exciting and scary
with bouts of anxiety and care
preaching self love while hating self
To be a mother is to be
a safe haven and a shield
to endure and suppress needs
while giving off self without restraint.
To be a mother is nights of sleeplessness for a sick child
and sorrowful prayers when it gets worse
to wake up tired and exhausted yet smiling
to tend and nurse
To be a mother is to be everything at once
to see and understand without any clue
to finish sentences and endure tantrums
to want to cry, disappear and yet cook at the same time.
To be a mother is to blamed for not doing enough
and accused of doing too much
to sacrifice and still be sacrificed
to know pain deeply like a first name
To be a mother is all this and more
it is rewarding, fulfilling and unnerving
a gift and a semi curse
it is a blessing mixed with pain, pride, grief and sacrifice.
To be a mother is to want to be a god
And yet fail
it is to read this poem and relate to it
and to pick a line and say - this is me.
They say happiness is a flame,
brief as a match struck in rain.
I held it once—
a home, two sons,
a husband who smiled like promise.
Until his arms curled elsewhere.
Until his mouth tasted betrayal.
Until I learned beauty
was something I could not hold
no matter how tightly I bled.
The dragon woke in me that night.
Not scaled, not winged,
but clawed in grief,
fire burning holes through my ribs.
If he could snatch away my joy,
I would scorch his world in return.
My children—
his children—
became the tinder.
Their laughter, their small hands,
their faces shaped like his,
drowned in my fury.
But when the river stilled,
their silence came back louder.
My vengeance collapsed into ash.
I touched their lips
and begged them to breathe,
to forgive.
And when the willow trees bowed
like mourners on the shore,
I followed,
slipping into the water’s mouth,
hoping death would undo
what rage had done.
They say I weep at night.
They say I call for them,
cursed to wander, cursed to wail.
But tell me this—
what do you call a woman
whose heart became a dragon,
and whose bones still burn
with the tears she cannot shed?
Dear Mother,
I didn’t understand before,
As much as I understand now.
No matter how cruel a mother you may be,
You are still my mother.
You wore me down to my brittle bones,
And continued to gnaw at the little marrow that was left.
Go on, finish me off, and eat the rest.
Birth me again, and maybe this time it will be different.
Remember when I was a little girl, and I would catch
You critiquing your reflection in the mirror?
You told me you hated how you looked. Did you know
That people tell me I look so much like you?
You didn’t know, it wasn’t your fault.
It wasn’t your fault you were born screaming,
In perfect unison with your mother,
And that you never learned to stop,
Not until I was born, screaming just the same. I forget
You were a girl once, too. Also
Making lemonade for quarters,
Splitting clementines with your friends,
And begging for your mother’s attention.
We were so angry
At each other. I was afraid
Of becoming you, and you were
Afraid of me becoming better.
I didn’t understand before,
As much as I understand now
That I want so desperately
To crawl into your lap and never leave again.
I’ll rot there and be silent,
If it means that you will smile down at me,
The same way you did the day I was born. With
Your eyes wild and full of compassion, unknown of who
I’d become, if not a mirror of yourself,
Holding the same knife of rage you held at me.
Rock me, Mama,
I promise I understand now.
Flowers beneath my feet
Happy clouds above my head
Barefoot and pregnant me
By emerald emotions I’m lead
Walking into motherhood
Like a deer caught in headlights
Feeling optimistic and good
Despite first time jitters fright
Will I be enough as babe blooms
Can I do motherhood right
Baby in my blessed womb
I’m excited to give you life
I worry about the world here
That it may not be so safe
But God doesn’t give me fear
Whenever I kneel and pray
I feel your lovely little limbs
As you swim in my tummy
Looking forward to your whims
And making faces so funny
Growing you I grow with you
In spirit in every delightful way
I love you as big as the sky blue
Excited to hold you one day
As I walk in the grass so green
I look forward to your arrival
I will give you love in entirety
You are my heart legacy tribal
Baby
sleeps at her breast
These intimate moments
stay in a mother’s memory
always
contest: Sara Kendrick - Cinquain Contest
06~08~15
You were born in December
And you wear your trouble like a rough petrifying plum and carry the sadness of 1000 unsung voices
That's about as much as I know about you
Where are the poems about the sorrows of ordinary people?
You are 23
And gazing upon skyscrapers
You breathed in the air of a new America
And searched for your mother's eyes across the canvas of solemn Church ladies
To deal with your depression, you bought a new air fryer, a CD player and unused glassware that still lingers in the depth of our kitchen cabinets
You won't let us touch it
You are 25
And endure the searing of knuckles into skin
Like pillars of stone
A tightening grip around your neck,
hot breath from lips of silk and honey
You are 31
And your hands can heal broken bones
Ready to intrude upon unsuspecting colds, unsuspecting falls and unsuspecting men
Elegant in their form and function,
they create beauty out of nothing
and hold the bronze black skin of my face with calloused fingertips and so much love summer blooms from my cheeks
Black mother's hands are unyielding
You are 37
You bathe the boys
and groan at the sound of me
You are 38
and sorrow follows you into every room like a dark silhouette
You are 45
and have cut yourself in half
Your body ages
and your anger burns into a seam
Your CD player has broken
It is easy to become a praying woman
“Do you still love me?”
I ask searching, for an answer,
Trying not to beg
expectations blurred the page
of motherhood. I thought it through,
each point of view. My plans were laid
a shade of pink, a hue so new
would come upon the heels of two
who sketched my world with shades of blue
I'd framed her world for my display
a trophy of my fantasy
chiseled clear, I saw it all,
beyond the stage of snakes and snails
growing boys, trucks and toys
tossed across my pregnant form
doing mindless daily chores, I crafted dreams
rehearsed the themes, disarming tales of nursery rhymes
I'd plan her life to suit my theme
but, who was I to redesign
a perfect child, I thought I owned?
sowing selfish schemes, she'd be
cloned to be a form of me - I'd live my dream
through her, all mine, to hone, redo
a mother's fragile paper doll
I did lose sight of destiny
compared, alike, - we shared a trace
resemblance of hair and face
presumptions swept between the lines
she was not meant to be defined
this child of God withheld her dreams
of ways to make the stars align
this aquamarine was never mine
what stirred her heart - vast worlds apart
she felt the sun within her soul
and thus, I've learned
I must let go
she must be free, not who I own
I've closed a chapter to that book
one looks in awe, as she became
a person who can touch the soul
beyond my dreams, she brings to all
a million lights, they've never seen before
emerging stars are bright with gold
hers comes alive. old dreams are cold
no two alike, as it should be
each one a star with different poles
I've owned the fear of letting go
____________________________________________________
4/20/16
Contest: OWN IT!
Sponsor: Cyndi McMillan
In Memory of Motherhood
Pain scribbled signatures in mothers buttocks
announcing the beginning of sunset
sun rays remained un vomited from the beauty of rainbows
war tied ropes of struggle round their necks
many rhymes of suffering sung and unheard
in congregations marching townships and mountains
in search of freedom seeds
seeds of their wombs yearned for freedom far to be harvested
motherhood a definition of honesty hearts
with breasts carrying scars ,laughter ,smiles, and hope
those dimples signatures of resilience
thighs with grafitti of bullet bruises
valleys of their backs smell blood of sons,
sons long buried inthe barrel ofviolence
life stolen in its greenness
motherhood her hands trust red clay soil , even
during cloudless seasons
the womb that breathe rays of this dawn ,today
scribbling this memory on the walls of the rainbow
Shoulders of motherhood carried journeys and hope
how many times hope die ,rise and ripe
erase propaganda from her shoulders
delete the baggage of slogan from from breasts
abort the luggage of war from her womb
bring pastures that she reap fruits of freedom
motherhood how many times you cough sorrow
how many seasons you sneeze hunger
you have eaten enough poverty
and licked the rough hand of war long unforgotten
motherhood freedom is no
When he pulls my hair
When he steps on my feet
When he throws a fit
Oh, the joys of motherhood
When he screams for hours
When he spits his food at me
When he, well you know, in his diaper
Oh, the joys of motherhood
When he looks up at me with those big green eyes
When he smiles real big with his five teeth
When he puts his head on my leg to let me know he is tired
Oh, the joys of motherhood
When he gets excited to see me
When he gives me a great big hug
When he says mama, or at least tries
Oh, the joys of motherhood
When I can't wait to pick him up
When I think that I wouldn't change a thing
When I see his beautiful face
I know I am experiencing
The joys of motherhood.
A beacon of strength, my mother dear,
Always by my side, always near;
A leader and guide, that's what she's been,
In all of life's journey, through thick and thin.
Her adventures have taken her far,
On boats and planes, to distant shores;
A woman of sacrifice, dauntless and strong,
Her love and care, a fire that burns long.
In the coldest of nights, she keeps me warm,
Her love molds mountains, reshapes every form;
She held my tiny fingers with tender care,
Guiding me through life, always there.
From the pain of childbirth, she bore me,
A mountain of strength, none could foresee;
Her shadow follows me, shining bright,
She's the only one I've known, day and night.
She lit my path, when I couldn't walk,
Supported me, through every block;
Fought for me, even when I was wrong,
A mother's love, forever strong.
To wake up early, happily merged with morn,
while feeling pep rushes sun-energy surged,
was to feel my eager heart joys fully merge
with each new rising ray brightly incurred.
Early mornings held no unreasonable stress -
in fact, I danced right into my dress or pants.
When motherhood arrived, I was morn-cuffed to
unyielding, demanding and hectic schedules
that blurred morning glee out of sight from me.
My heart still holds fine love for early time zeal
and remembers their fueling, exciting strums.