Long My mother Poems
Long My mother Poems. Below are the most popular long My mother by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long My mother poems by poem length and keyword.
In fields of gold, where wildflowers play,
A tiny gem, the light of day,
I wander through the meadow's green,
Where butterflies glide, soft and serene.
With wings like jewels, they drift and soar,
A wonder of colors, evermore.
They dance with sunbeams, dip and sway,
In warm, bright air they float away.
Oh, I could watch them all day long,
These fragile wings, a whispered song.
Among the grasses, wild and free,
They teach of beauty's mystery.
My mother calls, her voice so clear,
I race to her arms, so warm and near,
And feel my father's strong embrace,
In this safe world, my hiding place.
Just as the elements within our lives are inevitable to intercede
There are also uncontrolled forces that have to circle the world
Pride, envy, gluttony, lust, sloth, wrath, and greed
These 7 deadly sins are sold more than the blooded diamonds and pearls
With prayer and faith I stand next to my mother.
And with undoubted submission I'd give anything for my sister.
I'll forever go to war for and with my brother.
But ever since Cain killed Abel, family's have killed, and killers get richer.
Lord when you gather your souls back please grant us your mercy
Grab our hearts with the inner core of your palms.
We drink from a cup but Revelations still leaves us thirsty.
Deliver me like the light you spoke of in the beautiful book of Psalms.
Wash the pain, suffering, and betrayal from our flesh.
Let your light dry away the history of grieving within tears.
Invite me to throw away my sins as I ask with all my chest.
And forgive man as I will forgive myself when your flood crosses near.
I was just a little gregarious girl
wearing a lime green bikini
with a tiny red apple
appliqued on the top
splashing
in the plastic kiddie pool
covered in cartoon fish
Drops of cool water
I flung up in the air
reflecting the summer sunshine
falling
over me as if I were being showered
in sparkling diamonds
I climbed out of the water
grabbing my compact mirror
in the sky blue case
shaped like a seashell
a mermaid with blond hair
like mine painted on it
I had bought at the thrift store
with a quarter I’d found in the parking lot
I carried it everywhere I went
I had sat it on top of my tattered towel
I don’t recall what I had planned
to do with it
It slipped from my grip
onto the old cracked pavement of the patio
shattering
sharp shards of glass
shimmering in the sun
Seven years bad luck my mother said
Seven years that stretched
into ten, twenty, thirty
close to forty now
Can anyone see me?
Can someone free me from this
curse?
I have a grey shirt, grey short pants and grey socks.
The grey school with its grey toilet blocks and grey nuns
made my mother buy them,
which was understandable, because folks like us
were supposed to only buy grey clothes, and live in grey towns
for fear of going color-blind.
If ever we had understood
that the grey faces that ruled us
were all working for the Ministry of Greyness,
we would have run.
The Queen, the B.B.C. and all our betters
felt that too much color in our lives
might lead us to seek impossible rainbows,
and so, we were taught to know our place
on the color chart of life.
At ten, mum bought me a pair of long blue jeans.
I felt like I could ride a horse, or rock and roll
as good as Elvis (he was an American who lived far away
in a world of razzle-dazzle grace).
The girl next door, without prior warning,
took off her long grey dress and put on
a red short skirt dotted with colorful butterflies.
Neither of us being grey that day,
we gravitated together dangerously.
Dad warned us not to be too flashy,
but we went to the park anyway.
As we walked in a hand-held gentleness.
We saw the flowers turn their blooms to us.
We knew then that we were in an English poem
a poem that had never been grey,
but was forced into shapeless muted tones
by those who kept all the words to that English poem
for themselves.
Just One Of Those Things
David J Walker
The boxes of wide mouth Mason Jars
Still stood stacked in the back of the
Garage in neat racks of nothingness
Covered in dust, a slight hint
of rust in its rings and a dry emptiness
It’s just one of those things
I told myself thinking about
My mother earning her wings
As a child in the kitchen of a
Dustbowl depression farmhouse
holding fast to the last of an agrarian lifestyle
blowing away with tumbleweeds and topsoil
A dream in a recoil of better expectations
It’s just one of those things
I told myself thinking about the letter
Written to her son the soldier better
Then 50 years later still in my desk drawer
Telling me about home
Asking me about the war
“No rain again here today, dear son
I pray for you every day
It’s just one of those things
I told myself thinking about the book
Signed by everyone attending her funeral
Stacked neatly in a closet with the
Silver framed picture of her at 21
To whom should I bequeath these things
Jars full of emptiness
Letters postmarked 1972
books of names losing their meaning with
Each year passing
Will they wallpaper some trendy
Restaurant in some other city
And state of being
It’s just one of those things
October 16th
We lost one of the best people
I ever saw.
My beautiful, sweet, dear
Mother-In-Law.
She loved her children
She introduced them to God.
Constantly smiling
Even though her life was so hard.
"Blood Of Jesus"
Was her favorite thing to say.
She probably said it
100 times a day.
She loved The Lord
She was spiritually touched.
He loved her too
That's why he blessed her so much.
God gave her the Cadillac
That she coveted so.
She shared her blessings with everyone
She never said no.
She gave & gave
Even to people who did her wrong.
Revenge was not in her nature
Because her faith was so strong.
She loved to talk
She always had something to say.
She kept in real with all
Man that woman didn't play.
She was the rock of her family
Her strength kept me in awe.
She was her family's monarch
She was perfect, no flaws.
She was my "California Mommy"
It's so hard being without her.
There's not an hour, minute or second
That I don't think about her.
I know she's in Heaven
Turning Heaven out.
The Lord is happy she's there
I believe that, no doubt.
I look up for her
I hope she's looking down on me.
I want her to know what her loss
Has done to her family.
Her daughter who used to
Always have a smile on her face
Now has sadness in her eyes
& her smile's been replaced
With a slight little frown
Because she misses her Mom
I don't think she gotten over the fact
That her Mother is gone.
We all grieve
In our own little way.
I thought it would get easier
With each passing day.
It hasn't for her daughter
She watched her Mom's health deteriorate.
But her Mom fought to the end
Because her will was so great.
I miss her so much
But I know she's in a better place.
The mark she left in our lives
Could never be erased.
October 16th is a day
That'll stay on my mind.
That's the day
My Mother-In-Law went to Heaven
& left us behind.
I know she's watching over us
I know this for a fact.
There's nothing in the world
I wouldn't do to have her back.
*****
I Love You Mother-In-Law
2/3/1956-10/16/2014
I was raised in the storm’s mouth,
where walls learned to shudder before I did.
Nights smelled of whiskey and rage,
and the air, thick with silence,
was a hymn of waiting—
waiting for the door to slam,
for the curse to carve its way into the night.
My mother, a quiet soldier of suffering,
wore her silence like armor,
her eyes pleading with God
in the language of the unheard.
My sister, a bird with broken wings,
folded herself into corners too small for sorrow.
And I—
I memorized the rhythm of his rage,
the way it arrived like clockwork,
the way it turned our home into a battlefield
without a war, without a reason.
I swore to be different.
Swore I would build my hands into a refuge,
not a wreckage.
Swore my voice would never carry thunder
into rooms that only asked for quiet.
But now, I see it—
the way my fists clench at ghosts,
the way my voice rises without permission,
the way I become the very storm I once hid from.
I drink, and I tell myself, just one more.
I yell, and I tell myself, it was nothing.
I watch their faces flinch,
and I tell myself, I didn’t mean it.
But what is the difference between a man who destroys
and a man who never meant to?
I am becoming the thing I spent my whole life running from,
a ghost wearing my father’s face.
And I wonder—
is blood stronger than will?
Is pain something we pass down like a name?
Or can I carve him out of me,
tear his shadow from my skin,
and learn how to be a man without burning everything I love?
Tell me—
is there a way back?
Or is a man doomed to become the echo of his father,
no matter how much he swears he won’t?
Tell me, Father—
did you fight this war too?
Did you lose?
And am I doomed to do the same?
~~
I was born on a stormy winter day into a Roman Catholic family,
My parents took us to church on Sundays as they were taught;
My sister died when I was only four years old not understanding,
I was told God needed another angel.
I think that was the last time my mother ever went to church,
Although she never denied us and left that choice to each;
At school nuns drilled me on the Roman Catholic beliefs and rules,
But I am not sure I ever really understood.
I married young and soon I was a new mother with a baby,
A baby boy so very beautiful and then one day he just died;
Angry and full of hurt and pain I asked God, why, why, why, why,
And I was told God needed another angel.
At that moment I understood my mother so completely,
I did not turn my back but took a few confused steps back;
Sunday church became a thing of my past although I prayed,
God and I have fought a battle through the years.
There have been times and still are when I am very sick,
And it seems to me that each time God has been with me;
Giving me the courage to go on or was that me all the time,
Then my mother died and I was left hurt and angry.
And again I was told God needed another angel.
____________________
February 1, 2015
Poetry/Verse/God's Need For Angels
Copyright Protected, ID 15-637-469-01
All Rights Reserved, 2015, Constance La France
Written for the Standard contest, Fighting God,
sponsor Rob Carmack, Judged 02/2015
Sixth Place
Under the bright red umbrella
Whilst all around poured down the rain
I giddily kissed some fella
An attempt to forget my pain.
It was springtime there in Paris
The faint-hearted ran from the storm
Me, oh so hard to embarrass
Brazenly pranced in rare form.
Until a sudden loud ringing
My phone rudely ended my dance
The crushing news it was bringing:
My mother had lost her last chance.
The cancer she fought: aggressive
The treatment was iffy at best
Agonized cries inexpressive
Of my loss, of mom’s final rest.
I slumped in the rain for some hours
Tears soaking as much as the clouds
Until like rare winter flowers
Umbrellas all over the crowds.
Mom so loved the most vibrant hues
Her favorite always bright red
I figured I’d nothing to lose
Saw scarlet above a male head.
Under the bright red umbrella
Whilst all around poured down the rain
I giddily kissed some fella
An attempt to forget my pain.
November 3, 2018
My mother did not know what hit her when she agreed to travel with me
She had forgotten that I can transmogrify folks, so it is cheaper you see.
So I zapped her with my wand, and she became a cat or a mouse, whatever.
I could not turn her into something inanimate, for she would stay forever.
So today I had zapped her into a cat, and popped her into a friendly cat cage.
She was snarling and mean and bit me, showing her ungraceful age.
I did not care, she was the one who had insisted on coming along on this trip.
Pretty sure she is glaring because I can hear people following at a good clip.
Did not puncture air holes, because they were already there, but what a fuss!
Calm down Mom, for pulling up right in front of us is our blue travel bus.
Mom, if you make me miss this bus, tomorrow you will be a rainbowfish.
She immediately quieted, which I knew she would in that oval petri dish.
The best part of this trip was that no matter where I travelled later,
My mother did not say a word, remembering when I turned her into a gater.
It made sense at the time. We were in the everglades, now weren’t we?
It is fun now going on trips by myself, picking up chicks. I do it with glee.