The complete spectrum of emotions resides in this complex and intricate person we call Mom. She may be a saint in our eyes, or the bane of our existence. But, no matter which she is, there is no doubting that a Mother will have a first and lasting impression on our lives.
MARIE ELENA’S BLOOM
I agree with Walt. Is there a more critical relationship in a child’s life than a parent … whether present (in every aspect of the word), or absent? Your writing this week is emotionally intense, and full of beauty. Among the outstanding pieces, I chose today to highlight one that is simple and speaks to a mother I wish every child that ever lived or ever will live could relate to: A mother who is strong, yet gentle, and who inspired this: “The first word I learned to spell was Mom and I thought it spelled love. I guess it did.” My Beautiful Bloom goes to Iris Deurmyer for her precious little untitled tribute.
Untitled (by Iris Deurmyer)
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 poem selected confronts a mother’s pain. It is apparent that all the love and nurturing a mother’s heart possesses, can mask great anguish that manifests itself in mysterious ways. The work of ANDREW KREIDER in this piece expresses this quite well. A powerful and heart-breaking poem indeed, worthy of a BEAUTIFUL BLOOM.
reconciliation by Andrew Kreider
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.