I am a daughter.
I am a wife.
I am a mother.
Yes, I am a woman—
the creator of life,
the one who gives birth to an entire generation.
But beyond these relationships,
do I have an identity of my own?
As a daughter, I am expected to sacrifice.
As a wife, I am expected to compromise.
As a mother, I am expected to give endlessly.
Everyone sees the relationships I carry,
but who sees the woman behind those relationships?
Why must my identity always begin with
“someone’s daughter,”
“someone’s wife,”
or “someone’s mother”?
I was not born merely to fulfil roles.
I was born to live, to dream, to choose,
and to create an identity of my own.
It is time for women to step beyond the boundaries
that society has created for them.
Let us recognise our own worth,
raise our voices,
follow our dreams,
and build our own identity.
I am a woman.
I am not someone’s shadow.
I am an identity in my own right.
And now, it is time for every woman to say:
“Know me not only by the relationships I carry,
but by the person I am.”
Absorbed in a story
disengaged from the world
Embryo position assumed
the wonder of birth
Characters larger than life
plot nary a stall
Mother smiles fondly
she, who’s directed it all
Mommy, I’m Home
Rictameter
Dear mom
I remember
When I was still a lad
Always want to stay by your side
If I cry I run to you, tears you wipe
But I left you when I grew up
I’m back, own tears I wipe
Stand by your side
Can’t see.
Re-post
lavender blooms sway
beside Mother's weathered porch
its pale fragrance gathering.
years have drifted by,
yet one breath of purple bloom
brings her through the garden gate.
Who's love is compared
to that of a life manual?
One who wakes up
at any sound you make.
One who stays up all night
Rocking you to sleep.
One who cries behind closed doors ,
But put on a façade in my presence,
One who Is worth more than anything.
One who gave me this thing called life.
Who am I not to honour my mother?
Weather rich or poor,
She will always be my mother.
She is the one who takes
the place of others
but her place can never
be filled by anyone.
Her heart as pure as snow,
In her warmth I find hope,
In her warmth I find peace.
In her word I find wisdom.
In her word I find knowledge.
She whom your smile is her
Utmost joy and happiness.
Every prayer she says is a blessing,
Everything she touches is gold.
A queen in her own kingdom.
An angel with glorious wings.
A beauty beyond imagination.
The bravest of all.
She who walks through storms and lightning with high heads.
Fight battle with love,
Nurture with patient,
And love with tenderness.
Take a moment to celebrate her,
Cause she deserves to be celebrated.
More and more,
Over and over.
She deserves to be happy
The sad foliage of farewell each year
makes Summer's glory fade away too soon-
and letting go acknowledges the fear
of losing those young verdant leaves of June.
So blessed are Summer scenes that last full term-
complete their fullness by the start of Fall.
But often nature fails to reconfirm
next season's entry includes one and all.
And yes, dear Mom, your Summer went too fast,
without a chance to complete Autumn's scene.
At fifty-five, that Summer was your last;
you left us on September-day fifteen.
I live each season with the thought of you
beneath the leaves of Fall and Winter snow.
But come September, realize it's true;
you rest in peace of your last Summer's glow.
Father, I have left school as the smartest.
Are you proud of me?
I have conquered the known world.
Father, are you proud of me?
I have created kingdoms and religions where all bow to your surname.
I ask, Father, are you proud of me?
Mother says she is proud of the person I have become.
Yet I look to the stars: Father, are you proud of me?
I have sacrificed so many days and nights, now they are just memories I forget.
Father, are you proud of me?
The woman hadn’t slept for days.
Blood-curdling screams
Crawling from under the door,
Lurking down the stairs,
Seeping into her eardrums,
Turning her stomach
At the mere thought
Of her baby in distress.
She made her way
To the nursery.
Just as the tips of her fingers
Grasped the cold shock
Of the doorknob,
A silence fell.
The woman opened the door.
A draft of icy air
Sending shivers through her skin,
Only to be swallowed
By the frozen emptiness
The nursery had wrapped around her.
The silence lingered
As she approached the crib,
Only to be broken
By the creaking of the mobile.
She reached
For her bundle of joy,
Laying peacefully in its slumber,
But her arms sank
As the blanket collapsed;
She cradled her sorrows instead.
She notes how the days
have grown shorter.
A cacophony of grackles
near a cornfield fills the air.
A farmer across the road
walks along his field
checking his corn before harvest.
Leaves rustling
in the wind sing.
The construction crew
has passed her driveway.
She asks the flagger to
help her daughter across.
The school bus arrives
late afternoon. Lights flash
She rushes onto the porch
and hugs her daughter
who wears a backpack.
The mother notices
the sky is gold
as she looks out the window
and cooks supper on the stove.
Her daughter sits in a chair
hands folded on her lap.
So good to see her daughter
she thinks after letting go
in the morning and waiting
for a late afternoon embrace.
it does not matter what your discourse
lost in the marble folds of la pieta
mother holding her son
rises above mere human differences
the sorrow of a mother holding tragedy
mauled as a common animal
the fruit of her womb
it began in the encounter, his road to calvary
her vigil as he passed
watching her son forced to abandon life
the outstretched arms, hands bleeding
the wound in his side, feet anchored with nail
Simeon's sword has come to pass
no matter the discourse herein, a mother's sorrow
she is not alone, a plethora of mothers
know too well this aching heart
as the smoke clears and cannons rest in silence
across the bodies now motionless
we hear a desperate plea
mother, mother, no cry dearer
9/15/26
Moon, well rounded,
far more approachable
directly than the sun,
a severe Father – melting
with grading glare.
But your gentle
mother nature, willing to
overlook, hide and protect, to love
in shadows as well as light –
Able to ponder and choose
my best stars for safe distance,
having found less glitter often
more appealing, more revealing
than any impatient Truth.
My mother tells me
the ways the world used to be.
She says—
it used to snow on Christmas Day
the trees would turn red and orange
and yellow in the autumn months.
She tells me of a great reef in the ocean
dressed and dazzling in more colors than a child could dare
to dream
My mother tells me
of something she calls “bitter”
that it chilled the bone
and left frost on the morning grass in place of dew
My mother tells me
of bird sounds in the morning
the screech of owls and twitters of robins and blue jays
greeting the rising sun,
carried by breezes
My mother tells me
of bees in spring
and dandelion-green-and-yellow knees in summer
And sometimes, in the early morning light,
I can almost recall
a wanderlust from a home I’ve never known
Memories that fade and fall like snowflakes and the ice at
the edge of the world
And I—
I cannot help
but to cradle them in my warm, warm hands,
melting them,
picturing how the world must’ve looked.
The missing letters are feared lost better calls shrieked into the mossy night where hovering the moon delights, in wolfish cries and another bursts the devil called and answered Ms. Hearst so while the nighttime day's mirror... cries are heard! They said that amber was a rock no more, for if serendipitously defined then hulking over the river is the divestment of the vines, but modern day America hasn't won the currency war, the Euro has it's place ensured, and though we wile through rows of corn our hearts aflutter as others mourn, be crisp beneath that blotted out apple tree, the asylum loves apple juice for free.
Mexican worker traveling home
Mexican worker was not traveling alone
Lived here for a decade, twice
driving, he skidded on some Ice
Mexican worker and his son are now gone
Like a morning after
But with a new born now in tow
The euphoria of birth’s endorphins
Not yet downed by postpartum blues.
Forget the labor unions
And their favored status this holiday
This is really a national holiday
About women, and what they are best at
And indispensable for
Children!
Mother’s Day is great of course
As a Hallmark celebration
But Labor Day is equally about mothers
But because of what mothers
Are actually mothers of
Children!
Happy post Labor Day everyone
Because we are all someone’s child.
(9/8/26)
Mother Categories
Read wonderful mother poetry on the following sub-topics:
child, daughter, love, mothers day, son,
and more.
Definition | What is Mother in Poetry?
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