STRENGTH IS A MOTHER
She awoke with tired reservations,
Stumbling out of bed.
Her hair unkempt upon her head.
She made her way to the kitchen,
To make breakfast for her child.
The many plans for the day on her mind all the while.
She cleaned, rearranged, dusted, vacuumed
Washed clothes and mopped the floors.
Hung damp laundry from the tops of the doors.
She rushed through the isles of the grocery store,
Banging her shin on the cart.
Sat waiting in the rain, when the car wouldn't start.
Once again she entered the kitchen,
This time dinner to prepare.
Then laid it out for her family, with but moments to spare.
She bathed her children,
Read them a tale of make-believe.
Smiled lovingly at her son, as he wiped his nose on his sleeve.
She laid awake late into the night,
Checking locks on windows and doors.
Sighed, as she listened attentively to her babe's gentle snores.
She was not hired for this job,
The pay is lousy at best.
She works it nineteen hours a day, with very little rest.
Her last vacation from her concerns,
Was a year before her first was born.
There between her smiles, her face looks a little worn.
She understands time's unforgiving hand,
As it marches by her steadily on.
Her childhood, her adolescence, her youth, all of them gone.
She weary, so weary, at the end of the day,
Never forgets to kneel in prayer.
Her prayers for all. Unselfish and aware.
She, who is strength, and subtle frailty.
Yet she awakes, with tired reservations,
And she continues on until the next rising sun.
(To all mothers who understand what the job truly
AS I WATCHED MY SON
I watched my son,
The other day flip head-over-heels, then stand.
He laughed aloud,
And clapped his hands--turned to try it again.
He saw me looking,
He waved to me and cried, "Momma did you see what I did?"
My smile was weak, as I assured him
I had. Then cautioned care, as he ran and slid.
His energy high, his elation full.
His joy in his accomplishment complete.
But my heart had stopped.
My knees had jellied, and I hastily took a seat.
While I continued to watch him,
The thought occurred, that once upon a time that was me.
The one whom danger held no sway,
Who attempted the impossible feat.
And in the doorway stood my mother,
Smiling with her eyes full of alarm.
Calling me frantically to her side,
Then clasping me tightly within her arms.
Age, they say is a great teacher.
Being a mother teaches you more.
I'd never known all the many things
She'd taught me. Until it was I, who stood at the door.
MY LOVE FOR MY MOTHER
I had a thought yesterday, and the anger it foretold
Rushed upon me, nearly choking off the cry, I found hard to hold.
But I do love her. Can loving her be enough to ease the pain?
Frequently I re-experience the horror. I anguish over what I lost.
My childhood, my innocence, my trust, my dreams. All paid for at a terrible cost.
But oh, so much do, I love her. Has there ever been a time when I did not?
Loving her does not erase the anger, not does it ease the pain.
But never in all my self-reproach, self-pity, self-doubts, did my love for her not remain.
So, if my childhood got shuffled around, and was mislaid and gone in the blink of an eye.
In my adulthood I continue with this life. Having learned to leave behind the lonely tears that I cried.
It's fair to say that I do love her, for hating her could never sustain in this heart of mine.
When it was not she, who abused me, so in retrospect not her crime.
Her fault lay only in not knowing, the degradations, that her absence allowed.
Her fault was in trying to---yet failing, to protect the innocence of her child.
So, yes my mother, I love you. Even when the anger arise.
I can say it quite freely, and mean it.
I love you, my mother.
Signed your child.
(I needed this expression of love to my mother, at a time when I feared it was gone)