Saturday, May 11, 2013

Mother's Day Poem


























Mother’s Day Poem

I remember my mother, her old house,
the miracle of her love, her fingers
on my cheek brushing away the night,
the world coming home for breakfast,
her eyes asking if I’d been on the road
for long and was the traffic heavy.

Nothing speaks of love like her kindness,
not the birds swirling in the mountains
nor starlight in the trees.  Nothing speaks
of hope like her silent prayers for me
in the morning before school or the bread
and soup she placed before me at night.

Some people seek comfort in a priest,
the way he washes his hands in holy water,
raises his chin to drink the wine.  But it’s mothers
who divide the loaves and fishes, collect
the crumbs, sweep the floor, and find lost coins.
One day they’ll call us home for the last supper. 

___________________________________

To read more about my mom and her life please click on the following:  a blog I did called "Remembering My Mother."  

6 comments:

Sheila Luecht said...

Extraordinarily moving. I come from a background where these words ring very true. Thanks for sharing this John.

oriana said...

The last stanza is so wonderful.

Sandra Kolankiewiz: Autism said...

the usual chills at the end of one of your poems. the lightness of the mother's touch in all the mother gestures. a crack of light comes in. she will be one of those calling us back to the last supper. it always is the myrrh bearing women who hold it all together......

Bruce said...

it doesn't rhyme

Henryk Cierniak said...

I like the expression :"her fingers
on my cheek brushing away the night,".I think the many feel like you in this poem. Really, not bad. Thank you!

Urkat said...

Simply lovely