Long Mama Poems
Long Mama Poems. Below are the most popular long Mama by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Mama poems by poem length and keyword.
A holiday that's not the same
Grandma and grandpa held the family together
The family is scattered
Nobody call each other
12 siblings but yet so distant
No more family get together
Nobody bring a dish or two
No family travel to see each other
All there is strife, jealousy, backbiting
And gossip
Granny I miss your dressing
How you made it from scratch
Your collards greens you smell them a block away
Macaroni and cheese how moist it was
I miss you, I miss you so much
I miss doing your hair after you cook
Grandpa I miss your peach cobbler
how the crust melt in your mouth
I miss you calling me fat mama
I miss your wisdom stories
Your knowledge
Your strength
I remember our last reunion
Guess that's what memories are for
You’ll never forget them
When the roots died
The whole tree died
With thanksgiving
Cracker jack energy spit spot spit spot!
Jumping me awake
Energized, eager, energy galore.
I wake up to cartwheels, giggles and spins.
Open one eye and catch a half pirouette jump
Off the bed onto the dresser? Giggle, giggle.
Cracker jack energy spit spot spit spot!
A happy face shadows mine.
My eyes flash open.
I am looking into the eyes of two sprites.
No one should be this happy in the morning.
It is their M.O.
They are glad to be alive!
Glad I am their Mom. Giggle. Giggle.
Cracker jack energy spit spot spit spot!
My arms slowly rise up, and I yawn.
They see my traitorous mouth begin its upward corner dance.
I cannot help it! They are in my face, grinning like Cheshire Cat’s mama!
No one should be this pleased to be awoken at 5:30 a.m. but I am.
Because they are my world.
My life, my purpose, my mission, my boys.
Spit spot! Spit spot!
I jump up and race for the bathroom.
Two giggling boys right behind me.
I have not been in the bathroom alone
For four or five years.
No worries.
Written 8-24-2019
Contest: Wow Me
Sponsor Nina Parmenter
Dots and line and blips on a page.
Squiggles. Dashes. Swirls. Short and long ones.
Some with loops. Others just plain plain.
None meant anything to Charles. They never had.
He had gotten along fine in forty-six years without reading anything at all.
He knew numbers.
He could add and subtract.
Numbers was about money. They made sense.
Reading was a waste of time.
His mama had apparently been a reader,
but he never knew her. She died the day he was born.
He sat on the subway watching people stare at their squiggles and dots.
Most had flat screens now.
Some kids were sliding their hands across their flat cold screens,
and whistles and bells were happening.
Once in a while an old lady in the back
who was holding an old fashioned printed book would laugh.
No one looked up or even her way, when she did.
Subways are not places where people are friendly.
One guy had turned his book and shown Charles a cartoon once.
He looked at it, but it meant nothing.
The man looked miffed, and stopped speaking to him.
Reading was a language he did not speak.
He was not worried about it.
He stared out the window and thought about all the people in the houses.
Wondering what they were having for supper.
Wondering if the house children were loud like the subway children.
People used to smile sometimes on the subway.
Sometimes one would wink or grin at him.
Now they were all stirred up in their flat screens,
even their phones seemed to be intriguing to them.
Reading was a language he did not speak.
He was forty-six-years old now.
He did not need it.
When he got home he could listen to his TV.
His mama would have read a book to him he thought.
This made him smile.
You are mine;
My sweet banana wine;
With you alone, I will dine;
For you are too fine.
She calls herself your big fan,
Mama says you are her son,
To me, you are my first plan,
From which I learn.
For you, I will sit on a boda boda
Just to cross this boarder,
To a land broader,
Where you will be my holder;
Before any doing,
I take the reading;
To be sure about my feeling;
That you are more worth than a shilling
Daddy calls you his heir,
Coach says you are the best player;
To them, you are just fair;
A reason I don’t want just an affair;
We could sit under the pine;
And discuss about the lines;
If you do not mind,
I can always call you mine.
Mama, mama they don’t like me for the color of my skin;
Oh, daddy why won’t they play with me;
What’s wrong wit me;
Older brother Ronnie says they is…president
(He means prejudice)
Daddy I’m sick of it;
Mama they don't like me, for the color of my skin;
What Oh did I ever do to them...
Don’t I have two eyes, like them?
Don’t I have one mouth and two arms, and…
Don’t I have just one nose and…
Why? Just why won’t they be my friend, my friend;
Mama, mama they don’t like me for the color of my skin;
Oh, daddy why won’t they play with me;
What’s wrong wit me
My brown eyes are the same I can see them;
Yet some of theirs are blue, green and hazel;
Oh, God Oh God why don’t they play wit me;
Mama, mama they don’t like me for the color of my skin;
Oh, daddy why won’t they play with me;
What’s wrong wit me;
Mama they don't like me, for the color of my skin;
What Oh did I ever do to them...
I will end this song I will sing;
Lord God what is wrong wit me;
I’m pouty and upset…
Mama what is this thing called PREUDICE…
7/11/75
Written words & arranged music by
The Corinthian™ & James Edward Lee ©1975, 2019
Written for “Little Nicey”
Written, September 13, 2024
For the I Form - Imagism Poetry Contest
Sponsor, Constance La France
Quote: Childhood is the most beautiful of all life's seasons." By Poet
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The sight of the emerald lawn is exquisite_
lavender and azure threads intertwine,
elegantly placed in lines of budding leaves,
and young kids play and race with endless zest,
their upholstery is spread out in the yard.
And boxes laden with meals that Mama stuffed,
between biscuits, milk, cheese, jelly, and loaf,
Sunday outdoor activities are unforgettable.
In my mother's eyes I see my hero
I know fear is far at bay
In her words I feel protection
In her smile I see my face
Because She has loved me first
before anybody else
She carried me till the ninth month
so very close to heart
She breathed life into my lungs
Held my hand within her palms
Showed me guidance in every way
Made me who I am today
In my mother's eyes I see my hero
I know fear is far at bay
In her words I feel protection
In her smile I see my face
Her arms are always open
so I can curl within
For her I'm always special
Without my need to win
Her soul ever a rainbow
in hues of humankind
For She carries no prejudice
amongst the black and white.
In my mother's eyes I see my hero
I know fear is far at bay
In her words I feel protection
In her smile I see my face
Our days , lunchbox of memories
filled with tender loving care
Past nights, eternal bookmarks
of her fingers playing gently with my hair.
I know one time I'll wake up
in a world of all alone
In the stars I'd have to find her
because mama won't be home.
In my mothers eyes I see my hero
knowing fear is far at bay
In her words I feel protection
In her smile I see my face.
Not for the contest , but for those interested there is a contest about mum by Francine Roberts.
"Blessed Child"
No explanation why
trade marked self made
unsheathed sword didst try
to wreak havoc, sans
deep hurtful (severe) stabs,
no solution to
NON internal Quoi
yet, decades long inconsolable tears
inflicted toward self,
and family I cannot dee nigh
(of origin plus deux offspring
begat), oh my
whereat I clamped "hands"
over figurative "ears" obliviously,
and/or faintly aware
at times withholding
compassion, no lie
mercilessly depriving affection
from this fluky, kooky,
and quirky guy,
albeit the sole son
emotionally estranged
from his late mama, and
octogenarian widower papa, who I
rarely ever said "hi,"
when living under their roof
(at 324 Level Road,
long since demolished)
never inquired, nor
rarely ever acknowledged
appreciation (on a
regular basis), deep pry
ving expressing care and concerned,
whether kinfolk lived or didst die
(strong possibility linked thy
aver diagnosed with
schizoid personality disorder)
nope...not even
hugging me mum,
(whose desperate non
verbal plea ignored)
days before she passed away,
now as a father, (whose eldest
well on her way
to promising future)
her rebuffed overtures stung
at paternal resolution,
until this day, when
a singular sentence
she emailed as sent
ting genuine permission
for her to glimpse
a poignant poem,
perchance inducing my loving cry!
UNFOLDING
I was born in light of nature's splendor
The Almighty One is my soul Deliverer
I was born to rise with faith somehow
I am messenger goddess of the rainbow
I was born when the moon in her element bloomed
I came forth to song of rain, my heart in tuned
I was born a quiet stream, a whisper
On stage of life I learned to holler
I was born when summer began to simmer
Mama said, each September, Belizeans are happier
I was born the third of seven
Like dew in spring, I've grasped concept of heaven
I was born to voice and pen my opinion
I revel in thoughts given by One and only One.
*
By the turquoise waters edge
camping in the somnolent
breeze I sit writing on the
shore; trees whispering...
A rustling of leaves and I
look up to view, tiny fawn;
soon Mama comes into view;
eyes meeting mine, stalled...
She sees no weapon, only
me, my journal and a pen
carefully watches, standing
there and I don’t move.
A nose-nudge to her offspring
and both leap back into the
trees; I resume my writing...
finish, turn to see...
Mama behind me, just watching;
in my mind I hear a voice...
face says, “I know you won’t harm
us, I like you too”.