My Mother Poems

Zambia Was My Mother

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

My Mother Died

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

my mother thought me poetry unfortunately, fortunately

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

Look at the womb of my mother

From the top of my head to the bottom of my feet. I am flesh, made of bones and skin that can easily tare. That unhinged love is the most unconditional, I grow and deforme when all I do is obey. From the womb of my mother- I was born a blessing. While others see

I Miss My Mother

I pick up the phone to call her
But she is not there
her phone is disconnected

I miss her laugh
Her voice inflections
I miss knowing she is where she is supposed to be

It has been five years two months and twenty-two days
Yet in a way, it seems like she passed yesterday
or maybe this morning

I miss her beef and

A Letter from My Mother

Little girl, don't you give up now,
Unravel that quizzical brow. 

Run like a roar, not with dread,
Stand tall, hold high your head. 

Remember the words your mother said:
"O sweet daughter of mine,
Let the whole world see you shine,

Everything will be fine,
O sweet daughter of mine."

Become an alchemist,
See through the mist. 

Turn the pain into your

My Mother Is

My Mother Is
my blonde roots I’ve box dyed black since I was 17
a sunrise in Barcelona
a sunset on Highway 70
the stretch marks between my thighs
a ripe tomato, sliced and salted
an empty pantry
a school ceremony with no one in the crowd
moonlight on the levee
every Bob Dylan song
a redwood tree
an unlived dream

My Mother

Her face is a clock I know by heart,
laugh lines like sunbeams,
worry wrinkles like pencil marks
from all the times she erased my fears.
Her eyes are forget-me-nots,
blooming blue even on cloudy days.

Her voice is summertime,
warm as sidewalk chalk,
sweet as lemonade.
Her smile? That’s how love feels;
a breeze that sneaks in
to straighten my tangled thoughts.

Being with her is

My mother and sister cannot read

Childhood was to see my
mother get abused by my father 
and wanting to do something about it 
But it’s her who allowed that abuse 
It’s her who stopped me, 
but didn’t stop my father 

Adulthood is to see my 
sister getting abused by her husband 
and not being able to do anything 
because it’s her

What My Mother Does After My Father's Death

She finds a bird
fallen from its nest,
crashed like an apple

to the ground.
Sliding her fingers through
the rain soaked grass,

she scoops the quivering 
ball of feathers into her palm.
She takes it inside, to the same kitchen

where she wept
over her dead husband 
every night for nearly a decade.

She feeds it baby formula 
from an eye-dropper, whispering
I believe in

But why did my mother faint?

Mangoes, golden and full, their scent~
a whispered promise of mischief.
My fingers sticky, my heart pounding.
My mother’s eyes—wide, unblinking.

“Where did you get these?”
Her voice, a blade slicing the air.
A hush fell around us,
the mangoes cradled in guilt.

“Mum, I plucked them from a mango tree.”
Silence—a breath held underwater.
Five minutes, five hours,
eternity suspended on her brows.

“Were you alone?”
The

my mother was not a hugger

a hug seems to always be welcome if the recipient is a child
older people may be more hesitant, but they might warm up
my mother was not a hugger; but I began hugging her when I was fifty
she was seventy-one; she hugged back at seventy-five.
worth it.

my mother

My mother’s daughter  
“I’m not a monster. I’m a mother.” - 
every waking day l am my mother’s daughter. 
from the shining of the floors l sweep 
to the dusting of the mukwa furniture 
On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous (novel) 
I've always wanted to know who my mother was before she had me, 
before

My Mother 4-volume

4.	Everyone lives life in their own way,
But why am I spared, I’d often say.
Once more, my mother and the bearded elder,
Saved me from death, my life to shelter.

It was summer, the skies restless and wild,
Sun blazed, then thunder roared, tempers piled.
With my wife in a tub on the back of my ride,
I drove my motobike,

My Mother 3-volume

3.	Am I destined to face calamity,
Or is it my cursed fate, a harsh reality?
At ten years old, I met the old man once more,
At the gates of paradise, as I stood unsure.
At ten, we thought we were fearless and bold,
Driving sheep into water, braving the cold.
We caught the sheep as they swam in the deep,
One

• Short My Mother Poems
• Famous My Mother Poems
• Best My Mother Poems
• Read My Mother Poems
• Long My Mother Poems
• My Mother Quotes