Finally, we come to write of specific people in our lives who had more influence than most. Who else had more influence on this existence than the women who carried, nurtured and bore us. We give the first nod to our mothers in this week’s poetic prompt. (This should give a clue as to two other upcoming prompts.)
“HOW DO YOU VIEW your life? – POETIC BLOOMINGS MEMOIR PROJECT
Part 13: Mamma Mia – In verse and song, our Mothers have been extolled. Be it in the simple hug and “I Love You, Mom,” to the burly football player’s television acknowledgment (Hi Mom!), we’ve always found a way to return the love so given from birth and throughout our lives. For this prompt, write something about your mother and your relationship with her.
MARIE ELENA’S MOTHER
MOM
When I was a baby, my mother was my world.
No one else could feed me,
change me,
hold me,
rock me —
No one else would do.
As a young girl, my world expanded.
Yet, I missed her terribly if we were apart
For even short periods.
As a high school girl, I appreciated
And respected
My stay-at-home mother.
Her grandchildren love her above all.
Her nieces and nephews value her presence.
My father tells me that as a mother,
I remind him of Mom.
I’ve tucked that notion deep in my heart
For safekeeping,
Retrieving it for reassurance
Whenever I doubt myself.
I want her to know – to tell her how much she is loved –
But my brain lacks the words
My heart possesses.
Copyright © – Marie Elena Good – 2012
WALT’S MOM:
GOODNIGHT IRENE
You never slept,
always waiting, crocheting,
swilling to excess on coffee,
and searching for a few more puffs
to satisfy your nicotine craving.
Always saving everything
for everyone else, and denying
what you needed; your love exceeded
all expectations, and these revelations
were late in coming. Summing you up
was always hard, for with every flower,
or hug, or card we made for you,
your love stayed true. You played games
with me, wee hours and round after round,
I found your acumen at Yahtzee! ® or Scrabble ®
would have me unraveled when morning came.
But all the same, I am no one without your
tender heart and re-assuring hand.
I stand here today because of all you gave me!
You had truly saved me. You were gone too soon!
For Irene Marion (Kura) Wojtanik, 1930-1986
Copyright © – Walter J. Wojtanik – 2012
POETIC BLOOMINGS 
Responses
Not all of us have had positive relationships with our mothers and the grief came with them living, not with their death, but finding the positive remains important.
We are one you and I
We are One, you and I.
Formed of the same flesh
and dreams, and fears;
made in the shape of Woman.
I inherit you and you me.
So long in the making,
beyond both of us,
the drawing in of all
the Mothers and the
Daughters; the
knitting of the shawl
which we unpicked
each night, because
we were waiting
for a man to make us
Whole.
When all the time
it was what we made
Together
that mattered.
It lay in our laps and
we admired it, but
not for what it was.
We saw it as a means
to an end, and
missed the gift it gave.
It is a shared thing
although
we did not know it
until dusk, the late time
of living
when the dreams
march past
in solemn walk
and we see
for the first time …
We are One, You and I.
…sadness…
You’re absolutely right, Ros.
Beautiful write. Thank you for sharing it.
Marie Elena
As I wrote on facebook:
It is a pleasure to respond to this prompt, as I have been blessed with a loving, nurturing, selfless mother. Walt and I both have, and are thankful beyond words — poetic or otherwise.
Sadly, we realize that is not always the case, and our hearts go out to those few who may have to dig deeply (or elsewhere) to find mother-love. In either case, we invite you to share freely. We will celebrate with you, or share virtual hugs.
Marie Elena
So true. I took for granted that my mother’s love would always be there, and when I was 33 and pregnant again, my mother died suddenly. I hurt for those who are writing out of the pain of not knowing a mother like yours and mine.
“When all the time
it was what we made
Together
that mattered.”
Sad and lovely lines as are all of the lines of this poem, Ros. Hold on to those positive thoughts.
I agree it can be difficult to find the positive sometimes, but this really touched me.
Thank You, Rosross – I was wondering how to express my relationship also. Best – look for the postive, ’cause they were there too. 🙂
Beautiful, Walt and Meg!
Thanks much!
Marie Elena
Then and Now
All
of those
days…we found
her there…when we
looked.
{I Love you for your Presence, Mom ❤ }
❤
Perplexing…
Hi Laurie, I think we can get so very busy with our lives and our own little families that we can sometimes take our Mom for granted… but, it is so comforting to know that she is always there… <3!
My mother has been gone, now,
for as long as I knew her. If I could
go back to her, what could I change?
Wow. “My mother has been gone, now, for as long as I knew her.” Achingly powerful.
And what timing for this prompt for you. Happy birthday, Barbara!
Warm hugs to you!
Marie Elena
Wise and sad, Barbara. Except for losing a child, and perhaps without exception, there is nothing more devestating than losing your Mom, no matter what your age…
…just lovely…
The use of could instead of would stands out to me.
Good.
MOM
Mom, the thunderstorm, back then, when you
said don’t worry and I didn’t.
Mom, when my dress caught fire and you threw your precious coat around me and took me, carried me all the way home, running like a mad, crying.
Or Mom, when some boys took my school bag and you went out there, but returned with a scaring smile saying: Now nobody will ever tease you again.
Or Mom when you lit your yearly cigar on Christmas Eve.
Oh, I for so many say “mission completed.”
We’re still smiling.
Wow! Packed with powerful imagery, strength of mother’s love, tragedy, and humor. Bravo, Andrea!
Marie Elena
Thanks Marie Elena
So wonderful that your strongest bond is that smile!
Thank you Linda, My mom said, only I’m not sure how it translates so hopefully I get it right here: “Smile to life and life will smile back to you.”
I just couldn’t get her words in there, so thanks for giving me this chance to say it. If there’s an English proverb saying the same, please tell me.
The closest I can come to an English version is, “Laugh and the world laughs with you, cry and you cry alone.”
Thanks Linda
… that comforting place where you can fall with Trust… very rare to find this place… “…when you said don’t worry, and I didn’t…” it is my personal legacy to those that I Love… Beautiful, Andrea …. ❤ !!
Yes, Henrietta. I’m so glad that you saw it and I’m so glad that you made it your personal legacy to those who you love. You make me smile, thank you.
!! ❤ ❤ !!
Such wonderful memories!
Yes Laurie, and thank you.
What an endearing tribute to a unique woman. Great job Andrea.
Iris, yes, I feel my mom was unique and I’m so glad to see that we are so many who also had unique moms. Thank you so much.
ALL: I will be offline for the better part of this week. Hugs to all, and I’ll catch you on the flip side.
Write on!
Marie Elena
((hugs)) to you too, Marie…have a great week! ♥
! ❤ !
Smiles.
I’m in tears…Marie, your piece from the part when your father says you remind him-on…wow…so special…that sounds weaker than how I feel and Walt…the end of your’s too, equally moving. Such an important part of this journey…integral.
For me, this is complicated and emotional to write about and I’m in a time squeeze to get ready and pick up my grandmother for church. I’ll be back to join you all though.
Also, apologies for my lacking presence for last week session, the week certainly zipped by…wow. Smiles to all and happy writing!
Hannah, I just know that your translation will be exquisitely Beautiful… ❤ !!
Mom’s Gift
After school, sugar cookies and milk,
a chat about my day, a moment of love,
then alone until the three-course meal
while piano tunes floated upstairs
through my bedroom door, the flats and sharps,
off-key notes like fingernails on a chalkboard.
Still, instilled in me this love of music
from a young age, an eclectic mix;
I will cherish forever this gift from my mom.
What a wonderful gift to have been given–one that gives forever!
… oh, music… yes… ❤ !!
Thanks for your comments Linda and Henrietta.
ALWAYS THERE
You were always there
when I came home from school,
when I had a problem,
when I just needed to talk.
You were always there
to make me do my homework,
to comfort me in illness,
to teach me difficult tasks.
You were always there
for kissing me goodnight,
for correction when needed,
for moral guidance.
You were always there
writing me letters in college,
giving advice in child rearing,
holding hope when things were tough.
You are always there
even though you have left this world behind,
you are in my thoughts, in my heart,
in my actions, and in my soul.
Oh yes, Linda – our moms stay with us forever.
🙂 Indeed….I hear her suggestions in my head when I have a problem, and I know that it is exactly what she would have said if she were here.
…yesss…
Very touching… and yes they do live on in our heart and soul.
Great one!
This is a great poem Linda! Beautiful.
Thanks all.
This time I wanted to try to write a poem that rhymes. I haven’t had much success with this in the past. It always feels forced to me when I try… but, here I go…
Mom
Sometimes when I look in the mirror
I see her face, staring back at me
It’s in those moments that I hear her
Whispering… now I hope you can see.
I understand now, what was in her heart,
Better than I ever thought I would
It was hard for her to fulfill the part
That she believed she should.
Four young children were her’s to raise
Long after her man had passed
He left a hole, a broken place
To fill it was her task.
She had so much that was on her plate
So little she gave herself
Her wants and needs, they had to wait
She put them on a shelf.
I learned that life was hard at best
Her sacrifice I noted
She rarely had a moments rest
And how she was devoted.
Her children were her everything
Though time with them was rare
She worked, she struggled hard to bring
What was needed home to share.
She felt she had to be it all
Where her children were concerned
And on her knees she would often fall
Her need for him still burned.
I learned of love that doesn’t end
Even after the hymns were done
Her man, her husband, her closest friend
She still with him was one.
And so she gave us all she had
And still does to this day
She smiles and says “It wasn’t so bad,
I taught you how to pray”
Wow, Jackson, the heartfelt beauty of this poem really touched me. I would call your rhyming poem a triumph!
Thanks, Linda
YES!!
Powerful! You have a very good mother to teach you how to pray!
Beautiful! Well done on the rhyming!!
This made me smile, Jackie, and this is your first try at rhyming? You’re a natural!
You know I love you.
Marie
I’ve written a lot of poems about my mom. So with this one, I’m using the form I used for myself.
Ginny
H umble? Yes, mostly. But she did like to don swimsuit, negligee or dress to take pictures.
E nergetic? Yes, but never understood, “Get up and work!” didn’t inspire us.
L oving? Always. She cared for everyone she met, often writing to them for years.
E nthusiastc? Mostly about housework and family, especially her husband of fifty years.
N eurotic? In her later years she was preoccupied with sickness, always thinking the worst.
V ictorious? I think she stands before God and hears, “Well done, good and faithful servant.”
I maginative? Yes, she painted flowers on papers plates and wrote hundreds of poems.
R eligious? Both in the common and pure meaning of the word.
G orgeous? Yes, black hair, brown eyes, legs that once won an award in high school.
I nteresting? She was a city girl who loved a country husband, sort of like Lisa on Green Acres.
N urturing? Maybe overly so. She wouldn’t rest, even on vacations.
I nventive? Yes. She made instant hot chocolate before it came out, calling it quicky cocoa.
A dventurous? Somewhat. She’d be up for anything Dad wanted her to do, such as hunting.
H elpful? Always. Even when she was busy raising five daughters.
U nderstanding? Mostly, but she didn’t seem to get her children’s problems were real to us.
R eliable? Yes. Meals were at 7, 12 and 4 and she was always there when we came home.
S ister? She had two brothers and three sisters, all but one lived in our area.
T hankful? Yes and she’d say so often.
S acrificial? She always put her family first. One time she tore up good sheets for tomato ties.
H opeful? Maybe overly so. One sister called her “the Queen of Denial”.
A miable? Yes, she enjoyed visiting with friends and strangers alike.
N otorious photographer? She took pictures of everyone including solicitors and salesmen.
N imble? For the longest time she could do cartwheels in the yard.
O pinionated? Mostly she kept her opinions to herself, except for writing to the president.
N ice? Always.
WONDERFUL!! 🙂 !
Sounds like a wonderful mother you had!
One of the sweetest and nicest acrostics I have ever had the pleasure of reading.
“Mom’s Secret Gardens”
I.
She left it as a treat when I thought
all I wanted was a story,
The Secret was the Garden inside
pages and pages of intrigue,
a white-gloved ball-gown, a lilt of
stutter, she never knew she released
the flight of doves a little girl traveled
behind catching the sprays of phrasings
and metaphor in their wake, I was the tail
after all, inhaling their labor, sipping on
my mother’s casual offering, the gift
she did not recognize as life inside gilded
pages.
II.
Her hand under a sewing pattern pinned
for a cotton dress, a tweed vest, and the
newest needlepoint of Christ’s cross
and hobbyhorses of purple gardens,
a washing of whites and simple verse,
a subtle supplication for love from
everyone, a drama or a tragedy, a prayer
and a shared coffee, a dream,
she dreamed she always dreamed
she had a dining room to hostess
dinners on china, cloth napkins, and
laughter, but she settled for shepherds,
schnauzers, setters, bald carpets
—unconditional canine love and
chewed affection..
A great tribute…
Thanks, Laurie.
“…but she settled for shepherds, schnauzers, setters, bald carpets—unconditional canine love and chewed affection,..” YES!!! ❤
Oh, I know. We all need canine LOVE!
Excellent !!! Who doesn’t love a dog lover.
Oh, my, this is a deep well we navigate today. This one refers to my mother’s alzheimers and memory’s part in honoring our loves. I’ve posted this one before and truly, I don’t know how to say this better, but I’m trying to do something more specific to the prompt today. I’ll be back. In the meantime, here is one of my favorite (of manymanymany) Mama poems.
Chances
Some days my memories with you fog,
and I cannot imagine your voice
or mine, as we were when you were
most yourself. Still, my hands are yours,
worn and busy, stained with foliage,
and my hair, white long before its time,
traces a gene back to your mother.
I carry you in me, as I concentrate
on opening earth to seedlings,
trying to sense seasons’ change,
smelling soil and new buds,
spring rains and twilight,
checking old growth bark for new life—
all learned from you.
I gather words together, arranging them
like posies, pruning and shaping
just as you taught me,
a poem helping us share a moment
of observance, a recognition
of overlooked wonders in need
of second chances: the first crocus,
a jay’s feather, a gnarled twig like a cross,
a stone laced with red veins pulsing
the heart of the earth,
a dead hummingbird
curled like a small fist,
lying still and iridescent
among wild flowers.
I know when you became uprooted
from yourself, you longed for death,
but I could not wish you gone,
even knowing all I’d learned
of pain and loss, that death is not
the worst thing, still I could not imagine
a world depleted of you.
I cannot now say “never” in a line
that has you in it. You are ever.
As long as I can remember,
I will feel you living in me
and take every spring’s resurrection
as a chance to hold you again.
Brings tears to my eyes.
Yes, tears — but more than that. My throat tightened and I could not swallow when I read your first thought: “Some days my memories with you fog, and I cannot imagine your voice
or mine, as we were when you were most yourself.” Yet your memories and how you hold her close always is such a beautiful thing, Jane. Gorgeous, gorgeous tribute.
Marie Elena
So Beautiful…
The Order of Things
Clothing, hair, makeup,
attitude, manners and character.
These were the things that always
needed to be in check.
Look your best, and wear lipstick.
(no wonder I still iron everything and can’t
leave my driveway without color on my lips!)
No matter the task, always do your best.
(yes, I am slightly anal-retentive!)
Be polite, even when others are not.
(I’ve perfected “tone” to make my point…
with a smile of course!)
Behave!
(certainly made some mistakes, but nothing too big!)
Pray!
(I did, especially if I failed at #4…)
Of all the lessons she instilled in me,
the one that matters most was,
Seek and serve God!
(I’m striving to do that one every day.)
© KED – October 2012
Good lessons indeed!
Oh, yes!!
And You Still Love Me
It humbles me to think
Of all the things you’ve borne
And said
And done for me;
Of all the times you covered me
Of all the things
You’ve shown
And taught and given me.
To think of all the things
I haven’t done for you,
All the times
I’ve hated you
And let you fix my problems.
Bu with everything I’ve done,
Or worse, not done at all,
You’ve loved me all this time,
With a love so constant,
Tender,
A love so understanding,
Patient,
It flows from God above.
Christ is in you, for me.
I love you Mom
And you still love me.
That’s a mother’s uncondtional love to a T.
Yes… beautifully stated… <3!
Just one for now, Marie and Walt. This is a difficult subject for me right now and I’m trying hard to comply with need.
Enigma
Those who knew her knew
Little of her heart or spirit.
She lived between our lives.
Afternoon naps, regardless of season,
Taught conservation of energy.
Woods lore taught nature’s
Need for man’s conservation.
Mother was many people.
Her art began with kitchen duties
Where dough could feast a king
And candies could grace a shop.
Her fingers and heart could heal
Children as easily as abandoned
Wildlife, all within her kitchen.
Tin-snips and aluminum cans
Declared a purpose for recycling
With tiny furniture vignettes she gifted.
Watching her paint brush flow across
Her china and color the evening,
And seeing how her fingers shaped clay
Into figures, taught the meaning of art.
Stern when necessary, smiling else,
Mom saw beauty in other’s trash,
Purpose in nature’s offerings,
And value in things from the past.
Quiet of spirit and long seeing,
She tutored by example, whether
With needle, herb, act, or word.
“…She tutored by example, whether With needle, herb, act, or word.” Lovely…
Thanks, Henrietta.
Yes. I love this line as well. The entire poem touches me, Clauds, and makes me feel like I understand you better. In many ways, I see your mother in you.
Beautiful.
Marie Elena
This poem is very sweet and special. Loved it Claudsy!
Thank you, Mike. I’m glad.
I don’t know about anyone else, but it is hard for me to proofread my poems carefully and to keep lines close to each other in size. I do hope I have time to revise some more before the final forms are created for this project.
Mother and Me
When I was young and dependent
she was Mommy, but when I
was sixteen that name embarrassed
me, so she became Mother,
one to be respected. Mom was
not an option I considered.
She was to be obeyed,
but often when she said no
to a request for a friend to
stay the night, my pleadings
changed her mind
reluctant though she was.
She thought my main job was school
and did not teach many housekeeping
skills considering my lack of interest.
I was mainly required to set
and clear the table and to help
with Saturday morning cleaning.
I felt cared for as she worked
around the house. I knew I was
loved without a word. It puzzled
me when a friend once told her son
she loved him. She was his mother.
Loving is what mothers do.
I was never a rebellious teen,
but as a young adult I considered her
too possessive and smothering.
I refused to call her when arriving
At my apartment from dinner together, but
now my kids call me after they fly home.
She moved in when Michael was a baby,
thirty-three years ago. For years she was
a live-in companion coming home
on weekends. She could nag and interfere
as we tried to raise the kids, but she also taught
them to give as well as to receive.
Now at ninety-one she can still drive.
It is her main way of helping. At tines she needs
our guidance when her sense of direction
is lacking. Her back hurts too much to stand
at the sink. She depends upon me for many things,
but she is still my mother.
Ohh… how wonderful that she is still here with you!
Mini Shirley Temple
My mother loved
Shirley Temple
Like I loved
Cheeseburgers.
Not that she wanted
To eat her up;
More like she was part
Of her childhood.
So when I came along
With my long black hair
My mother knew exactly
What she should do.
She twirled my hair into long
Lengths of cotton, round ‘n
Round to dry into tight
Ringlets of curls. I was her
Mini Shirley Temple
🙂 ❤ !
I had Shirley Temple curls as a girl, too. My hair WAS blond, however.
reconciliation
some mothers live in
lace and photographs,
make memories for play
and regulate the universe
against the watershed,
the day their children fly away
slick winged and innocent
the harbingers of spring
but this home echoed softly
of a tragedy endured
a second try at life
a single child ignored
or so it seemed and hardly touched
as if in fear the knife
would fall again if ever pride
or hope were shown abroad
so many children know the world
to be a drama played upon
their every sacred breath.
In time I came to see
my growing years were
gathered close and pushed away
within a mother’s sorrow
at her beloved daughter’s death.
… hugs to you, Andrew…
Andrew, this is beautiful from beginning to end. I love it, sadness and all.
Jane captured my thought: I love it, sadness and all. An amazing write, Andrew. Just amazing.
And adding my hugs.
Marie Elena
Andrew, I’m with Jane. Thank you for a beautiful and touching poem.
You Shall Not Lie
My Mother said, “Don’t ever lie to me.
For when someone lies, they lose all my trust.”
These words sunk in deep and they will not rust
nor ever flake away, they’ll always be
a part of me, this I can guarantee.
Her words worked well, I didn’t want her mistrust
but being young, a fib sometimes was just.
A small fib but I was never guilt free.
For I knew what I did and that taxing
weight brought me down and turned my mood so sour
but those words stuck and I find I’m the same
a bit unforgiving, no relaxing
intolerant of lies, do not cower
just tell me no lies, then there is no shame.
…good teaching…
Indeed!
Marie Elena
Best Friend
We are a lot alike
we have the same taste
same salt and pepper hair
same hips – a bit of a disgrace.
We talk almost every day
just to share the news,
we love to create
we just follow our muse.
I think she’s the best
she thinks I’m pretty great too
of course she created me
and that’s what mothers do.
She is my Mom
and I’ll love her forever
I wouldn’t trade her in
not for gold, nope never.
Sweetness…
In-valid
How you described yourself, pale
Face on a pale pillow, propped up
So you could breathe
Your fragile heart, fluttering
Sometimes you would look at your hands
When I lay next to you, so delicate
Your thin legs next to mine – I was your strength
You said, you wanted me to go
Everywhere you had dreamed about
I cannot remember the time when I was not aware
Of death’s bleak presence lurking in that room
Milestones were accomplished with surprise
I finished elementary school, on to junior high
The doctors did not hide their pleasure as your heart
Beat on beyond their expectations
What did they know then, those men of medicine
Who had saved so many wounded with their miracles
The world of antibiotics did you little good, perhaps
It slowed the inevitable failure of your heart
The valve that leaked. Ten years past your death
An operation would cure all prolapsed mitral valves
We couldn’t know it then. I remember that last November
Its weak sun’s rays straining through the curtains.
December and still no snow. I was in tenth grade.
Rode the Cleveland transit bus to school.
And back again. The neighbors, you blessed their souls
Checking on you, bringing food.
My father, the mailman, did what he could do. A lady came
Once a week to clean. The visiting nurses taught me
How to bathe you in your bed, wash the bedpans, though
I knew you would cheat and sneak to the bathroom,
You liked to say “Well, almost absolute bed rest” later
The whole protocol for heart patients would change
For you it came too late.
You had told me that your wish was to be buried
Back in old Kentucky with your kin. Impossible,
You admitted. So on a snowy day, they laid you
With my father’s folk. Close to his sister who had
Passed away with the great flu. An asassinated president,
A baseball star struck by a wayward ball – all of Cleveland’s
Great lie with you there. Across from the family plot
A hill of daffodils bloom their hearts out every spring.
My older girls have visited this place
Breathed in its history. Now all that family
Lies closely encamped.
You, the outsider in their midst.
But bones decay. The soul flies on, that invisible
Butterfly – its destination secret and divine.
… I can’t even find a single word to say… ❤ !
Marian, this poem is so rich in personal and local history, making meaning of your relationship with your mother so powerfully. Lovely.
Oh my yes. Marian, every time you touch pen to paper, your words speak immeasurably and beautifully.
… and “blooming their hearts out” did not get lost in the richness of your piece.
Marie Elena
OK, here’s a try. She’s too big to articulate.
Old Souls
My mother lives in my hands and arms, as I plant and tend, mix and knead, stitch and embroider, write and play piano. She guides me to good books, good poems, good people, good food, saying, “Look there!” An early iris, a watercress like a green snowflake spread across the ground, a wooly worm, a calf face to face with a turtle, a stranger’s knowing smile, a beautiful freak of nature. Wonders everywhere, she shows me. My mother lives in my eyes and nose, as cinnamon and apples converge, as small offerings become bounty, as flowers find their places in a vase where each can both shine and harmonize in a choir of colors. My mother lives in my face and hair, those lines around my eyes from laughter and pain, my hair white since my twenties, both of us refusing the dye of our youth. What is, is, we said. My mother lives in my paints, poems, brushes, sketches, remembering her scribbling lines on the backs of envelopes or making a palette and working in oils, untaught but convicted, a vision in her head. She lives in my words, observations, shyness, candor, love of people and beauty, faith in goodness and the greater than. Her body died in 2003, but she is here with me now, alive and vital, my access to the wisdom of an old soul, living in me.
Old souls are sisters
finding one another, time
after time, kindred.
Oh yes… Beautiful souls you both are!!!
So, so rich…
“Too big to articulate” says so much in itself.
Marie Elena
Beautiful memories and a continuation of life and love to treasure.
[…] “HOW DO YOU VIEW your life? – POETIC BLOOMINGS MEMOIR PROJECT […]
Molecular Mother
Submerged in violet velvet
dweller of this silken cave
I traced tenderly purple-lit lines,
veins of your amethyst-hued womb.
I felt your joys and sorrows then
fed much more than just nutrients;
felt your emotions,
tasted your tears and smiles.
I heard the echo of your voice,
the low slow song of comfort
your soothing…was it for me?
My first human relationship
and how wish I could remember
more of the all along times,
how I hope to recall all of the good things
erase the imprint of cobalt curses;
that we’d revive the surge,
motherly love to live again in this shared strand.
Now sick…estranged
ingrained, I still feel your presence.
Yes, somehow I believe I experience inklings
your passing happiness, heartbreak
inexplicable pain…fear
your refusal to become well
to allow yourself to be a part of this…us.
Submerged in violet velvet
dweller of this silken cave
I traced tenderly purple-lit lines,
veins of your amethyst-hued womb.
Your voice still echoes,
woven into the silken threads of my DNA.
Can you sense me…are you hearing me, too?
Copyright © Hannah Gosselin 2012
Ohh Hannah… ❤ !!!
Thank you Hen…and also for your sweet comment on Sunday…it was in remembering your words that I felt an extra push to challenge myself and let this be written. So thank you. ♥
It’s true… your writing is just soo exquisite, Hannah ❤ ❤ !! Have a lovely rest of your week! 🙂 !
Hen, your presence and encouragement here mean so much to us all!
…
And sweet Hannah … all I can do is echo Hen’s “Ohh Hannah…”
Hugs…
Marie Elena
Hugs, Meggy ❤ !!
Thank you SO much and Marie is right…it really does mean a lot….thank you both so much for the ♥ around this piece and for the hugs…you’re both so sweet and kind. ♥
Yes, Hannah – sometimes writing is a GREAT challenge, but it is in meeting the challenges that we grow and better understand other — and ourselves. …and we learn, and make our own (better) choices within the family we produce. Blessings.
Yes, I hear your sentiment and I agree but also would like to add that when one is in a situation that seems that one is dead-ended in a relationship it can be extremely painful…almost as if one must grieve as though they were gone. Thank you and blessings to you as well.
Our Mother
There will never be another
like our dear and reverent mother.
Always there to give us peace of mind.
Lifts us up and keeps us grounded.
Made sure we were raised well rounded.
She is truly one of a kind.
Mom is such a blessed soul.
Goes extra miles to keep us whole.
Family is the center of her life.
Lives each day for all that’s good,
doing well more than she should,
as sister, daughter, mother, friend and wife.
By Michael Grove
Copyright 10/24/2012
Beautiful, Michael… I was just thinking about you yesterday… and here you are this morning… 🙂 !!
Good Morning Henrietta! and thanks.
!! 😀 !!
I hate to reiterate Ross’ comment, but my most pregnant memories of my relationship with my mother are not exactly good ones.
Quilting Scars
The first square has been aged past insignificance,
the patterns chiseled at daily by the rising sun,
incrementally exhaling the first donning
of my moonsilver breastplate,
dripping from it the hoisting
of my belasted body atop the inherited destrier
in a vortex of metalically-tinted gasps.
No one sews a quilt like us, such a
glorious spectacle;
“Laissez aller”- once again we charge,
the joints of my armor hammered together
by silk-garbed beats of my carotids, faithfully
drummed against my gorget.
The decried quest is for first blood and
did we ever draw it,
embroidering it around each perceived square with
needles rising and falling industrially,
clanging beats resonant of swords,
upon the illiterate jeers expelled by the bloodthirsty crowd.
So many squares to joust for …
Here, first blood from your lance
laced through my candid visor.
There, a largely unintelligible chink between
your cuirass and fauld graced by my sword
with spewing forth its first blood.
Dextrally, the first blood ever craved
from my ankle.
Sinistrally, another first blood
(sixty-first, seventy-first?)
from the surprise ambush of your teeth
upon your innermost lip
as I rudely spun you from atop your horse.
When the sun bores of our art,
packs up its fondness of us to spread it anew
among other jousting fields within the bowels of the earth,
a tent flap is lifted.
Unable to disrobe of the armor
traditionally welded to her flesh for safekeeping,
the day’s unhorsed brings offerings of peace
to soothe the violet, boiling tint
of the freshly-tailored scars
between your squares and mine.
An ointment concealed between the folds
of a new doublet,
a healing potion swirled inside a glided chalice,
a rare tome of mending spells,
a new horse, a purse of gold.
Yet the frozen night never yields to us
and this carcass of a quilt dilligently festers its
squares above us,
blooming its boils with a
chilly sort of certainty which leaves me
searing for some warmth.
Longing for the morning,
the traitorous bearer of a new square to be sewn,
another resounding “Laissez aller”,
our needles glistening like lances
raised against the tapestry of an expectant sun.
© Andra-Teodora Negroiu, 2012
…wow…
Thank you, Henrietta!
Andra, I had to look up “Laissez aller.” Then it all came together.
Overflowing with imagery and emotion — it leaves a hollow feeling in my gut. Your last stanza is especially full.
Marie Elena
Thank you, Marie Elena! These emotions were hard for me to write, as well.
Mother
If my mother had lived,
she’d be 92 today,
and who could know how
she’d see the world..
If my mother had lived,
would she be in awe,
or, like the most of us,
take what we have for granted?
If my mother had lived,
she’d have seen so many
wondrous things, like
trips to the moon and
a vaccine for polio, like
electric cars and
a black man as president, like
Dick Tracy fantasies become
Steve Jobs realities, like
Valium and artificial hearts,
both of which might have
helped her live.
But my mother did not live,
and she missed so many
other things, like
her son in Marine dress blues, and
her son beneath a college mortar board , and
her son so beautifully married, and
her son at peace in a lovely life.
Of course, she also missed
too many needless wars, and
too many hungry souls, and
too much thoughtless avarice, and
too much not being done about it all.
I am sorry that she missed it all,
even the bad, even the worst.
I am sorry, Dr, Seuss, but
I can’t smile because it happened.
It did not happen long enough.
Oh, Daniel, what a nostalgic piece. I am sure she must look down on you and smile. I believe she did see you earn your degree and your weddding day. She must be proud of you. Great poem.
Yes!!
“her son in Marine dress blues, and
her son beneath a college mortar board , and
her son so beautifully married, and
her son at peace in a lovely life”
As the mother of a son — be still my heart …
Marie Elena
Quiet and calm, with hands always busy
So strong for a lady but you were a farm mom
Yet I can still feel the gentle touch of those hands
My earliest and best memories include your smile
What I would not give for one more hour
Or even a minute to sit beside you and hear
Your voice once more say my name
The first word I learned to spell
Was Mom and I thought it spelled love
I guess it did.
This is soo touching… and sweet… <3!
Iris, this is also a tribute to a unique woman and thank you. Let’s just say that farm moms are the best, right?
I spent the week thinking about what to write, and when I did write, it seemed cold with a lot of negative stuff. Trimmed, rewrote, adjusted…. Being poetic just didn’t work. Maybe later I can refine it, and perhaps even be poetic. I ended up with fact – just the facts.
JUST SOME FACTS ABOUT MY MOM
1922 Born second of three children
1932 Lost father to pneumonia
1935 Her mom remarried.
1938 Mom married to escape unhappy home situation.
1943 Age twenty-one, younger brother died of long-time illness, had three daughters, gave birth to a boy that died, and married to her second husband.
Without any job training, and limited education, she worked hard.
1945 While working as a store clerk, a kindly woman befriended mom and taught her bookkeeping skills. She was a full time bookkeeper until she retired in the 1980’s
1953 Met and married her third husband. They were together until she died in 1999
Strong willed and opinioned, she instilled in us certain ideas, and criteria to live by.
Most importantly: Graduate from college, and acquire job skills that would support us if we ever ended up ‘alone.’ Next came marry, and then babies.
She encouraged us in church activities and taught us leadership skills by example and job assignments. She wanted us to have a better, easier life than what she experienced.
Much as she loved us-girls, she was not active as a cuddlier or talker. She sewed many of our clothes, taught me (us) how to sew, and escaped life by reading. She loved camping trips, and Family Camping Reunions. As full-time RV’ers in their sixties and seventies, they traveled all over the US.
She, like her mother, dealt with depression without the help of 21st century doctoring, therapy, understanding and medications. In her later years, we wondered if she was ever happy. If I look in the mirror when I feel beat, depressed, unhappy – I see the face of my mom.
“Being poetic just did’t work.” I SOOO get that, Marjory. Thank you so much for writing about your mom, regardless. And more of it is quite poetic than you give yourself credit for. You are a poet. This reveals itself even in listing facts. 😉
Marie Elena
Thank You Maria
Oh yess, friend, Meg knows her poets… Your words ring poetically… Your Mom was a good, decent, wise human being… you were Blessed, dear. <3!!
Thank you Friend. I appreciate you comments more than you know. Lots of Hugs. 🙂
Very late to the party–however, I wanted to say to both Marie and Walt that I loved their poems and the photos of their moms! Such joy in those faces–wonderful. And here’s mine. Picture eyes that twinkle with delight, a mouth just twitching at the corners to lift into a grin, and let loose with lots of laughter.
WOW
Appropriate, yes?
Turn the word Mom
Upside down and you
Get “Wow”
Wow, you worked full time
Cooked every night
Made our lunches every day
Cleaned, washed, mowed,
Trimmed, sewed
And late into the night
You danced
Because that is what
You taught at the college
But you taught so much
More
How to bake, cook
Refinish furniture
Load a dishwasher
Pull the weeds
(by the roots or they come right back)
Balance accounts
And spend freely
Sing “She’ll be Coming Around the Mountain”
How to, to, to
Do everything and
Still have energy to laugh
At silly jokes,
Wrap us in hugs everlasting
Grimace at messy rooms
And how to always, always, always
Look for silver linings
Awww! She sounds wonderful, Sara! Nice portrayal. And thanks for the compliments.
Marie Elena
[…] this installment, we are asked to look into our relationship with our mothers and pen down the thoughts articulating […]
[…] Written for Poetic Bloomings Prompt #78 (Memoir Project – Part #13): Mamma Mia! […]
Don’t worry about it
My grandfather
A wise man
A tall man
A very, very handsome man
Once told me this:
“If it’s going to bother you
In six months
Or, perhaps a year,
Then
Don’t worry about it.”
Wonderful advice
From a wonderful man
It cut my worries
To a manageable amount
And I’m happier for it
Thanks, gramps
I’ll see you in Heaven
Of that
I’m not worried.
(C) 2013 Earl Parsons