Mum’s the word
Mummer’s paradise by way of Philadelphia
High School Marching Bands competing on who is the best
All out contest
Each having musical and entertaining themes
Marching Band Captain strides
Vibe of dazzle and pop
Capturing the audience eyes
Sparkle with a surprise
Mummers only know
They never let go
Reminder in realize
Tempo lifted up a notch
Movement through every coordination
Every theme getting the audience attention
One example of one marching band
“America on Independence Day”
Centennial moment
Suddenly a finale
Confetti as fireworks of Red, White and Blue
America in pursue
Then salute
I’ve always felt like ‘that boy’,
The scared little kid,
Nervous white fingers,
Clutched on his toys.
All the other kids play together,
I figured they’d invite me,
Every kid deserves as much as joy.
And every time I feel like,
‘Maybe I’ve grown’,
Life likes to remind me of humility and death,
God’s envoys.
My Mum’s love,
The prize treasured most by ‘that boy’.
Could’ve lost my mum,
The gun takes,
Leave me no choice.
Somebody else can choose,
To take my life,
And destroy.
I’m once again reminded,
On my passing days,
My mum might not hear my parting voice.
Feeling rather lost
my darling mother passed
my heart feels ripped out
leaving me empty inside
She was 96; weak at the end
I know she was glad to go
she missed my father
and was pleased to join him
She was one hell of a lady
very strong willed to the end
she hated it when I cried
told me not to be so silly
I struggle to accept she's gone
wish I could see her again
she lives on in my thoughts
my heart holds her close
for Betty Hillier 9th of may 1929 to 24th July 2-25
Feeling warm,
Mommy’s cold,
sense of duty,
Mommy stays,
First of four clouds,
She clears the sky,
So light can shine,
On the cloud she raised.
My mother’s hands
never told me they love me.
But when they touched me,
all my wounds
understood that love
needs no words.
Coocoo doodle I do,
Not every day I coo,
What Mum can do, I can –
My skin needs a sun tan.
My hair with homemade curls,
My makeup shines like pearls.
I'm just a baby, see,
Acting adult, maybe.
Bring napkins for wee-wee,
Ensure fun flows for free.
Tie me nappies for poo.
And bandage my boo-boo.
Baby guys will whistle,
Love – their own epistle.
While I sway my bum-bum,
Left to right like my mum.
Coocoo doodle I do,
Not every day I coo,
What Mum can do, I can –
My skin needs a sun tan.
No high-heeled shoes to wear,
I'd still swagger with flair.
I'm a baby with style,
Can't stop this cheeky smile.
Each night after the evening meal
there was never a discussion
as to who would wash the dishes
and who would do the drying up.
My mother was the washer,
my sister and I did the drying up.
Hot steam would rise from the sink
before plates were plunged
deep in foam and scrubbed
with a brush - we would wait,
tea towel in hand to pounce
on the first plates to come out,
rinsed and white -
dishes were easier to dry
than heavy pots
and fiddly knives and forks.
It was a time for talk, for laughs
and sometimes snuffled back tears -
everyday life lived within the space
of our touching elbows.
I can still feel the tea towel
in my hand wet and warm
with those blessed memories.
Seventy years on, I bend down
and load the racks of a dishwasher
with soiled tableware from
the evening meal. Its quiet whirr
will fill the winter silence
and play a soulless ditty when
the washing and drying up
is done.
'To Womb it may concern,'
tho' not quite the norm,
the gyno's form letter read,
'I am pleased to inform
you are not about to have a baby,
but instead,
in brief,
double your pleasure
double your fun,
it may be a relief,
so with no further ado,
not keeping mum
nor holding you on needles and pins,
with two for the price of one,
Madame, you are expecting twins.'
They say a mothers love Is everything You could say Infinite A key ingredient needed For the upbringing of her children
For a black mother Parenthood is a little different There are so many factors to consider Like racism and safety
They have to love their children extra harder Just to hide the noise of all the hatred They spend hours doing our hair just For the school system to say its 'distracting'
A constant battle between love and protection For us They cannot coexist as one It's either be soft And they become naive to the world Or be tough To teach them how to avoid racism It's a constant battle Switching from one to the other Trying to find the perfect balance
Trying to shield our innocence Whilst trying to instill resilience
Trying to make sure that they can always come home Whilst trying to make sure they come home
They may not be perfect But to me thats irrelevant Because when I see all they've been through and all that they've done They are stronger than anyone And their love for us more special Because its tough being a mother But almost impossible to be a black mother A job no one else could possibly do So to all the black moms I love you
She left me.
She left to abandon me in a vulnerable state.
In my weakest state.
The hurt and heart break was enough damage.
The words that were said felt said to abandon me.
She is a monster in everything she does.
I don’t know how to feel really.
Do I feel anger, abandon, sadness, happy?
I just know I was not here to abandon her like she did me.
A young age was the worst. I was 5.
She came back when I was 15. 10 years gone.
She left to abandon.
Shall I Compare You... ?
Shall I compare you to the sun?
Shining and warm, my dearest one
Shall I compare you to the moon?
Unique and bright, my greatest boon
Shall I compare you to the light?
Illuminating what not of sight
Shall I compare you to the knight?
in honour and dignity willing to fight
Shall I compare you to the Queen?
Admiring how you yourself preen
Shall I compare you to the heart?
You are the love bathing in my heart
Shall I compare you to life?
Of essence, lenient and tough
Shall I compare you to...?
You are beyond my similes and metaphors
You are above what I write of poetry forms
You are my mother
Of words I can add no other
Mother
sweetest bloom of all
heavenly Chrysanthemum
my guardian angel
the women of my lifetime
are women of a lifeline
they teach me kindness from bright minds
the ones who
despite it all
are still planting seeds
in this ugly world
turning fields of greed
into fields of green
and hate into lovely words
and that's sisters, mothers
girlfriends, lovers
the ones who'll
smother us in hugs
when we're down in trenches
plagued by what's above us
the ones who overcome adversity
and still standing with that weight
the women who had to wait
to be seen
cause change in the world
was running late
i want to rise for our women
move with the times for our women
because women are the ones
who lead with their vision
and i pray that i'll listen
every time she speaks
for the universe
was between her lips
In the quiet of the black night, beneath the white moon's glow,
My mother stands like Durga, fierce yet gentle in flow.
With a crown of stars and a heart full of grace,
She embodies strength in every embrace.
Her eyes are the wisdom of the ages from the past,
A guardian of affection, steadfast and vast.
With arms that protect me like the Goddess Kali,
She shields us from harm, fierce yet so free.
Her voice is a mantra, soothing and pure,
In her presence, our troubles find solace a cure.
Like Saraswati's wisdom, she guides my way,
In the light of her knowledge, we learn and we sway.
Her singing is like music, like temple bell's chime,
Resonating with joy, transcending all the time.
In the warmth of her hugs, I find my home,
With her strong spirit, I am never alone.
Oh divine mother, with love you empower,
In every small gesture, you bloom like a pink blossom.
You are the essence of life, sacred and wise,
A reflection of a goddess, in your tender guise.
To my mother, she is divine and bright,
Embodiment of grace, my guiding light.
In every heartbeat, in every prayer I send,
I honour you amma, love with no end.
My knees wear the dirt like a second skin,
bruised to the bone, bright as bitten apples.
You press your thumb to my wrist,
her laughter, once light, now flickers in the air—
a kiln and the clay, forever bound.
But the kiln runs cold, the clay cracks wide,
her voice, once honey-thick, now thins to thread.
She curls inward, brittle as paper skin,
her hands, once rooted, now waver like reeds.
Black branches, draped in quiet decay,
whisper the slow unbinding of a once-nurturing bloom.
Blurry and bright, like the mornings she zipped my coat, but the puddles still hold my face—
the colours bled before they dried,
blue on your hands, red on mine.
Mylie gnawed the table, and time settled like ash
in the gaps of her fingers.
Specific Types of Mum Poems
Definition | What is Mum in Poetry?
Poems Related to Mum
grandmother, mommy, parent, ma, mama, matriarch, matron, mum, child bearer, mumsy,