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.
(“Blue Egg in Red Sea”, 2020, original oil)
My mother was a car and I a lawnmower
My mother was a spatula and I a spoon
My mother was a can of beans and I a fart
My mother was always one step ahead
And I tried at every step to keep up
But in the end it was I who simply floated away
(8/22/26)
She's a rose,
Beauty in every dose.
With petals of patience
And a heart full of care,
Don't mistake her kindness
For weakness to spare.
For no rose is made
Just for the gaze,
Like every rose,
She has thorns in her ways.
My mother is an oak tree.
I sleep beneath her sunlit arms,
My skin dappled with light.
I know she is my mother because she is warmth.
I have never known a warmth like this,
sleepy and sunlit
How could I?
My mother is an oak tree.
My mother’s alive
She’s there when I brush my hair
We don’t truly die.
I am clairaudient; I hear spirit
Usually a man, but sometimes I cannot tell
I have never heard a woman
Being clairvoyant, I sense my mother-in-law though
She can operate like a poltergeist
slamming the kitchen cupboards to make a point
My husband and I both heard her do that once.
“It’s my mother,” he told me.
If he had not said that I would not have known who it was.
My blood stopped running at the time.
I thought an intruder was in the house.
“She did not like my tone with you,” he told me.
His mother always loved me the best.
#Mme
Wells of my heart are ever flooding, ignite in me never cease to lit, greatness and gratitudes forever apprehend my reactions, to cloud 9, expressions in me, trigger rockets in my heart, feel ruptures in me, cracking and leaking self control, running loose, uncontrollable.
I am talking about a WOMAN, Statue of my soul, this hope in my breath, reason I live. Please don't cut my wings nor control my adrenalin, here I'm absorbed, by gratitude and overwhelm. I'm drowning in tender, motherley abstract sooth
I'm talking about a MOTHER, my MOTHER, blade holder, asegai of my amour, my survival, piercing through my thick and thin, casting stones of my better livelihood, like creation, remaining absolute to my being. PLEASE! GOD, keep her for us, we, her son's and daughter's, flesh of her flesh and bones of her bones, the pulse in her heart, that echoes in our strength, humans we are, reflections we are, her body that nurished us, forever in us, she lives, in dreams we share, common bond of our birth, we are commended, by God and heaven. OUR MOTHER! Mme.
#Poetic_Ink
73.
My Mother
My Mother, maybe like the others
Is conscious in family matters
I know her rags-to-money story
And money-to-rags-tragedy
When I began to be world conscious
Her presence – I was sometimes anxious
For she used to be irritable
Making my simple flaws terrible
Occasionally, she shouts at me
Eventhough I am not far from thee
Yet, my mother's ever generous
She's the one who used to buy me toys
Like Tatay, she'll not make me hungry
That's my parents' greatest legacy
Besides that, to her I attribute
My college institute
She worked for almost twenty-four hours
Burned too much her delicate eyebrows
I regret I still can't compensate
Everything she had done for me great
If given chance to reincarnate
I want for myself to be a straight
So that I'll not be again her guilt!
-11/28/2011
(Dumarao)
*First Incubus Collection
My mother and her lovers
After my mother divorced my father, who
I faintly remember, but for his cruel remark to my mother
pointing at me, saying, "Whose son is he?"
She threw him out
Over the years, she had several lovers, most of them
moved in, which made sense, they were working
class and had no proper home
So they stayed for a while and contributed to
the overall expenses, but I suspected that she
got bored with them, they had no, unlike my mother
who was well read, nothing to say
She was an ardent communist and blamed our
The political system leaves many in poverty
When she was in her fifties, she met a man who had
a house he inherited from his parents
For many years, they had a good life, but nothing
lasts forever, he died, and his mother is not easy to
Being around was left with few visitors
Her life had been hard; two of her children
died young, and the youngest one preferred to
live in another country, struggling with problems
caused by his childhood
Interaction of butterfly,
Sparking of fire beetle,
Choice of Moth,
And honey bees greatness,
All fit with you "Oh beauteous presence"
Beauty of rose,
Fragrance of jasmine,
Love of cosmos,
And gentle sunflower's essence
All fit with you "Oh beauteous presence"
Speaking of parrot,
Walking of chakor,
Humming of dove,
And pigeon innocence
All fit with you "Oh beauteous presence"
We both know the weight of the eyes of the world.
We’re both afraid of how our peers would whisper and stare.
Believe me, I know the hesitance all too well
But what if my mother doesn’t care?
We know that society says that it’s wrong
Friends and foes with fangs would come after me and you
But what if I take your hand and we hide somewhere dark?
There, in the quiet, we can start something new.
Alone in that dream, in our private abyss,
We’d be freer than ever before.
Because all of this pretending is getting exhausting
When every word makes me want you more.
Whispers and shouts will blend together in a blur
“They’re an example of what not to do.
“Do you see how disgusting that is, how far apart?”
But we both know their words aren’t true
Because none of it matters,
Not as long as you’re there.
When the two of us are happy,
And my mother doesn’t care.
My mother is the woman I most admire.
As a preteen she lit my inner strength's fire,
With the words, "You have a strong spirit,"
After I told her how I bear with all of it.
My mother is the most beautiful woman,
In looks and in how she does all she can.
She always taught me to be independent.
We share memories of times we had spent.
My mother is the one who saved my life
Three times in childhood epilepsy so rife.
She taught me what love is and isn't,
Even when our moments were unpleasant.
My mother is my own secret role model,
Because I can never be on her same level
Due to my neurodivergent frame of mind,
But her sincere love for me is forever kind.
Zambia was my mother—
shaped like a butterfly resting in the heart of Africa,
her wings curved not by nature alone,
but by the lines of empires
who came to take what was never theirs.
They called her Northern Rhodesia,
after tasting the sweetness of her soil
and stealing the copper from her veins.
Her rivers run wild with spirit—
the Zambezi roaring with ancient songs,
Victoria Falls spilling the Smoke that Thunders,
blessing the weary and healing the broken.
She faces the Scorpio Sun,
and her children, like copper,
are strong yet quiet—
holding centuries in their silence.
Kenneth Kaunda once walked her soil,
weeping for Africa when she was in chains,
rejoicing when she rose again.
Zambia holds the bones of my ancestors
and the dreams of the unborn.
Her wilderness breathes with lions,
her sunsets bleed crimson into the night.
Africa cradles her,
and she cradles me.
When I return to dust,
let me rest in her copper-red earth—
for Zambia was my Mother,
and Africa is my Heaven.
my mother died,
i was to die with her.
that was the pact, you see,
my dad & i made together.
while my mother died,
i never left her side;
over & over calling her name ,
hoping to send a spark to the flame.
but still my mother died.
now i'm naught but a shell;
because the day my mother died
i cursed my soul to hell.
i'll never be free
of this wrath brought on by me,
for every hardship i suffer
lets her know how much i love her.
but since my mother died
i wonder if she can hear
my screams of pain & anquish,
wishing she were near?
and though she's dead & gone
i swear forever long
tears for her I'll always cry
until the day i die.
with less words
risen are the river's current
melody in minnow's swimming
hollow that's able to hallow
climax of a cliche film
xerophile for desert's scene
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