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Pravin Kumar
Age: 64 Zodiac: 
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 Posted: Wed May 07, 2008 4:24 pm |
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Mothers Day Poems
"M" is for the million things she gave me,
"O" means only that she's growing old,
"T" is for the tears she shed to save me,
"H" is for her heart of purest gold;
"E" is for her eyes, with love-light shining,
"R" means right,
and right she'll always be,
Put them all together, they spell "MOTHER,"
A word that means the world to me.
-Howard Johnson (c. 1915)
Mothers Day Poems
"Beauty"
by BJ Pearce
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I see you now…
smaller, more fragile,
balancing yourself when you walk
with the wind at your back,
unkind to the wisp of strength
that still clings to your fervent spirit.
I marvel at you every day;
the little things you remember,
the others you forget.
You're content to read grocery ads now,
find an occasional Western on television,
be treated to a Sunday afternoon lunch,
be remembered on Mother's Day.
I remember when you wanted more,
required meatier tasks to occupy your mind,
found strength in doing, doing, doing.
We repeat ourselves to you now,
explaining again, those things
you cannot deem as important
in a mind crowded
with so many poignant memories.
I pray for patience,
for understanding,
for compassion,
seeing myself in you,
in say, another 20 years.
You walk ahead of me,
striving to maintain your independence.
I trail behind, unbeknownst to you,
watching, guarding,
lest you might find a need for me.
I watch you, little by little,
slipping away from me.
edging closer to your own idea of Heaven,
that grander piece of Paradise
that holds the promise of better things to come.
I store the memories of you every day,
struggling to hold on to the vibrance
that you once were,
grasping, with both my hands,
what little bit of life that remains inside of you.
I fear to lose you,
and yet I have, already,
piece by piece,
until a little more of you
is taken from the heart of me.
You walk ahead, I know,
the thin, white hair, unruly now,
the back since bowed,
the skin, an ashen shroud,
that whispers of your fortitude.
And there, in the cruel reality of senility,
I see intermittent flashes…
of the blue eyes that captured untold hearts,
that tempestuous hair that fell flirtingly
across your cheek when you laughed,
the Dresden complexion
that glowed with youthful expectation
at the mere prospect of Life,
and I remember you,
the way you were,
the way you
will always be
to me.
Yes,
I remember…beauty.
--For my mother, Betty
Mother, what to say about her,
She is a friend?
A sister?
Or is she everything to us?
Mom, a loving soul,
Working night and day
Leading us away from foul,
About her, what to say,
She is like the moon,
Cowering from the limelight,
She is like the moon,
Shying away from the light.
She wears specs gilded,
Over often flashing eyes dreaded,
But she lets us have our way,
In spite of much cry and sway.
She does her work quietly,
Like a breeze,
Never does she speak complainingly,
Leading our family without a crease.
A lamp, she is, true and old,
With a heart truly of gold,
Never will her heart waver,
More than the dying soldiers, braver.
A lamp, whose light will never dim,
Even if the sun and the moon perish,
Even if we become dim,
She turns us bright in a flourish.
Love you, O mighty soul,
Who will protect us even from a ghoul,
Carrying on her work,
Without the slightest jerk.
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