Woman, Wife, Mother—Mother Poems
Birth
A woman’s glory
begins with birth;
first her own,
then at the
covenant’s obligation, in
replenishing the earth.
As bellows from
sorrow’s sacrifice fan
flames of joy,
desires burn and
the spark of
life is lit.
Deep within the
stillness of the
womb, the tabernacle
of clay carefully
forms awakening the
miracle in embryo.
Eons of time
eclipse as heaven
rejoices with one
spirit at the
nearness of its
long-awaited birth.
In struggling for
mortality, the veil
is drawn as
past experiences fade
leaving the child
flesh-clothed, new.
Spirit alone cannot
reach eternal heights—
motherly love nourishes
the tiny soul—
a woman’s glory
begins with birth.
Birthright
I think somebody
once played a
joke on woman.
That somebody
slyly whispered in her ear that
if she used her own procreative powers
to provide a new life
she was only making an unnecessary sacrifice,
which just added to an
already over-populated world.
He told her
that using her talents and energy
to cuddle and care for a tiny child
was a meaningless responsibility
and waste of time,
which should be abandoned for something
more beautiful, glittering, and useful.
Many women
believed that somebody
without realizing to whom they were listening,
only to find as their life’s
days came slowly to an end
that they had sold their noble birthright
for a mess of pottage.
I believe that somebody was . . . Satan.
He deceived woman
the first time
nearly 6,000 years ago,
and he is still trying
to do it now
to me.
But, I refuse
to be deceived.
I simply refuse.
The Gift
I
shared with
you each breath
of air, each thirsty
drink, each bite I ate.
I
shared with
you the joy
I felt, the songs
I heard, words I spake.
I
shared with
you my womb’s
embrace as it said
goodbye and set you free.
I
shared with
you the gift
of life, knowing that
you’d be mine for eternity.
Divine Motherhood
Divine
motherhood is
the opportunity to
reach into eternal realms
while uniting our souls with
those of our children
and gently touch
fingertips with
Deity.
Dreams or Clouds
When I was fifteen I rode
horses and dreamed of the day
when I would gallop across beautiful
meadows with my own Prince Charming
who would love the feel of
the warm wind blowing through his
hair as much as I did.
One day that dream came true.
Tonight, I had a similar thrill
when my daughter, with big blue eyes
and sunlit blond hair brushed
off her forehead, clasped her hands
around my waist and pressed her
glowing face against my back as
we galloped together on country roads
and shared the intimacy and rhythm
of horse and blowing breezes as
mother and daughter. I could feel
the strength and independence of her
warm, little body as we rode
along enjoying each other’s closeness that,
for a moment, could not be
interrupted by anyone. Together we gazed
at the big blue sky and
laughed at the clouds floating above
us. She warned me though that
when too many clouds came, it
means it’s soon going to storm.
I agreed with her, wondering to
myself about her knowledge and understanding
and her desire to express herself
at that tender age of five.
Now I dream of the better
relationship I can yet develop with
this precious child. Oh, the thoughts
she will share with me if
I can stay close enough to
hear the words she wants to
say and if too many clouds
do not get in the way.
So Rich at Sunrise
The
work of
being a mother
is an overwhelming task
that offers few extrinsic rewards,
but it’s a challenge
I would never
think of
trading—
For
where else
can a woman
exhaust all of her
resources by the end of
each day and then
find herself so
rich at
sunrise?
Turning Forty-Nine
You say you are 49?
My mother 49 years old?
IMPOSSIBLE!
It seems like yesterday
you were chasing us
around the house and tickling us—
I thought you were old then!
It seemed that my life was so fun
that anybody who wasn’t exactly my age
just couldn’t be enjoying herself!
But as I got older,
you seemed to get younger,
and I can still hear you laugh and say,
“Life comes in phases.”
I didn’t really understand that when I was young—
I just hoped the phase I was in
would go on forever,
but I’m glad it didn’t.
With children of my own now to tickle and teach
how grateful I am
you were born
to be my mother—
a woman whose example and love
I could learn from each day.
When my own little ones
question the life
that is evolving around them,
I’m sure I’ll find the right answers to give.
You told them to me a few years ago,
and I still remember.
Thanks.
Wings
You
gave to
me wings when
giving me birth, knowing
that one day I would need wings
to take flight.
And
yet often
times I have
wished for more, seeking
that which you did not have to
ever give away.
For
you could
only pass on
to me the wings
once given you by the mother who
gave you birth.
So
now my
mind ceases to
question “Why?”—knowing that
in granting me life you gave me
everything you had.
Yes,
you gave
me wings at
birth, but it is
I who must use them and learn
how to fly.
Candlestick
I
was ten
and sometimes clumsy
as children often are.
I
did not
mean to bump
into it right then,
But
accidents happen
so very quickly,
and I was horrified.
Time
froze for
a moment as
my mother walked in.
Her
eyes surveyed
the total disaster
of broken, white ceramic.
“It
is only
a thing,” she
said to me softly,
But
she saved
all the pieces
in a small sack.
Twenty
years later
I caught the
significance of that act.
She
loved her
fragile candlestick, but
she loved me more.
Mother and Daughter
I felt the pain
that was boiling up
from the volcano of
your trembling, bursting heart.
I know how terrible
it hurts to be
growing up still feeling
so unloved and alone.
Although it’s hard for
you to realize it,
I was just your
age twenty years ago.
The girl I was
is still inside me,
crying when you cry,
laughing when you laugh—
Longing to reach out
to put her arms
around you and say,
“I understand . . . I do.”
That girl will always
be there, but you
will only know her
soul in brief flashes—
Until our two volcanoes’
fires unite in solidarity,
forging an unconquerable friendship
between mother and daughter.
Dear Son
If I could write a letter to you today it
would read something like this:
“My Dear Son, Since the time I carried you
within me, close to my heart,
I have wondered what you were thinking and feeling
as you struggled for your independence.
I knew you would have a world of your
own, which I couldn’t really share,
yet the longing remains now, not to invade your
privacy but to understand your heart.
Your quick, one-sentence-answers to my questions
over the years have merely been masks,
and so now the charade continues as we
each play a role that neither likes.
But, how does one climb down from the stage
and begin living as people again?
Yes, real people who know the gentle art of
communicating quiet love to one another.
I know I’ve rushed over times when you
have needed me to sit and listen,
and my priorities have not always been in
their right places as I’ve gone along.
For you see, I’ve been like a clown juggling
balls trying to keep everyone happy,
not realizing until recently that my concern over
my performance drew me away from you.
But now, realizing my mistake, I am willing
to change if you will help me.
Oh, it takes months to get out of a costume
and pack it away forever,
And it is not very easy to learn new
lines to say to each other.
Yet, the promise of a better relationship is worth
closing the curtains and starting over.”
Yes, my Son, this is what I would
write if I sent you a letter,
But I would rather put my arms around
you and tell you face to face,
For then you would understand much better than
a pen can simply express on paper that
“Dear Son . . . Love, Mother” are not just empty
words, but are my eternal commitment.
Castles
Clouds billowing white in the summer sky,
we raced from home out to our
hidden haven, behind the shed, where no
one could see what we had built.
A broken armchair had been placed here,
the table without any legs over there,
all old relics we were strong enough
to pull from the shed, we did . . .
Until utterly exhausted we had it finished.
Our beautiful castle was at last complete.
Then laying on royal make-shift beds,
we basked in the warm afternoon sun.
We were self-appointed Kings and Queens
in a happy world of our own,
free to soar in childhood day-dreams.
Now who could ask for anything more?
Years brought growth, maturity, and adult impatience.
Now as a mother, I looked outside
and thought angrily to myself, “What is
that child doing with all that junk?”
A blanket was spread on the grass,
surrounded by a chair without a back,
two baby strollers, the rusty green wheelbarrow,
the highchair, and the old box springs.
She stood in the middle of it
clad only in underpants and a radiant
expression on her face looking like an . . .
ah, yes . . . I remember now . . . a Queen.
In a happy world of her own,
free to soar in childhood day-dreams,
she was the queen of my yesterdays
who had just built her first castle.