Poems about Mothers

Poems about Mothers

Mother's Smile
by Michael R. Burch

There never was a fonder smile

than mother's smile, no softer touch

than mother's touch. So sleep awhile

and know she loves you more than "much."

So more than "much, " much more than "all."

Though tender words, these do not speak

of love at all, nor how we fall

and mother's there, nor how we reach

from nightmares in the ticking night

and she is there to hold us tight.

There never was a stronger back

than father's back, that held our weight

and lifted us, when we were small, 

and bore us till we reached the gate, 

then held our hands that first bright mile

till we could run, and did, and flew.

But, oh, a mother's tender smile

will leap and follow after you! 

Originally published by TALESetc

Love Is Not Love
by Michael R. Burch

for Beth

Love is not love that never looked
within itself and questioned all,
curled up like a zygote in a ball,
throbbed, sobbed and shook.

(Or went on a binge at a nearby mall,
then would not cook.)

Love is not love that never winced,
then smiled, convinced
that soar’s the prerequisite of fall.

When all
its wounds and scars have been saline-rinsed,
where does Love find the wherewithal
to try again,
endeavor, when

all that it knows
is: O, because!

Childless
by Michael R. Burch

How can she bear her grief?
Mightier than Atlas, she shoulders the weight
Of one fallen star.

Delicacy
by Michael R. Burch

for all good mothers

Your love is as delicate
as a butterfly cleaning its wings,
as soft as the predicate the hummingbird sings
to itself, gently murmuring―“Fly! Fly! Fly!”

Your love is the string
soaring kites untie.

Such Tenderness
by Michael R. Burch

for loving, compassionate, courageous mothers everywhere

There was, in your touch, such tenderness―as

only the dove on her mildest day has,
when she shelters downed fledglings beneath a warm wing
and coos to them softly, unable to sing.

What songs long forgotten occur to you now―
a babe at each breast? What terrible vow
ripped from your throat like the thunder that day
can never hold severing lightnings at bay?

Time taught you tenderness―time, oh, and love.

But love in the end is seldom enough ...
and time?―insufficient to life’s brief task.

I can only admire, unable to ask―

what is the source, whence comes the desire
of a woman to love as no God may require?

I Cannot Remember My Mother
by Rabindranath Tagore
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I cannot remember my mother,
yet sometimes in the middle of my playing
a melody seemed to hover over my playthings:
some forgotten tune she loved to sing
while rocking my cradle.

I cannot remember my mother,
yet sometimes on an early autumn morning
the smell of the shiuli flowers fills my room
as the scent of the temple’s morning service
wafts over me like my mother’s perfume.

I cannot remember my mother,
yet sometimes still, from my bedroom window,
when I lift my eyes to the heavens’ vast blue canopy
and sense on my face her serene gaze,
I feel her grace has encompassed the sky.

Erin
by Michael R. Burch

All that’s left of Ireland is her hair―
bright carrot―and her milkmaid-pallid skin,

her brilliant air of cavalier despair,
her train of children―some conceived in sin,

the others to avoid it. For nowhere
is evidence of thought. Devout, pale, thin,
gay, nonchalant, all radiance. So fair!

How can men look upon her and not spin
like wobbly buoys churned by her skirt’s brisk air?
They buy. They grope to pat her nyloned shin,
to share her elevated, pale Despair ...
to find at last two spirits ease no one’s.
All that’s left of Ireland is the Care,
her impish grin, green eyes like leprechauns’.

The Poem of Poems
by Michael R. Burch

for Beth

This is my Poem of Poems, for you.
Every word ineluctably true:
I love you.

Frail Envelope of Flesh, from "Poems of the Nakba"
by Michael R. Burch

for the mothers and children of Gaza

Frail envelope of flesh,
lying cold on the surgeon’s table
with anguished eyes
like your mother’s eyes
and a heartbeat weak, unstable ...

Frail crucible of dust,
brief flower come to this―
your tiny hand
in your mother’s hand
for a last bewildered kiss ...

Brief mayfly of a child,
to live two artless years!
Now your mother’s lips
seal up your lips
from the Deluge of her tears ...

Note: The phrase "frail envelope of flesh" was one of my first encounters with the power of poetry, although I read it in a superhero comic book as a young boy (I forget which one). More than thirty years later, the line kept popping into my head, so I wrote this poem. I have dedicated it to the mothers and children of Gaza and the Nakba. The word Nakba is Arabic for "Catastrophe." The children of Gaza and their parents know all too well how fragile life and human happiness can be. What can I say, but that I hope, dream, wish and pray that one day ruthless men will no longer have power over the lives and happiness of innocents? Women, children and babies are not "terrorists," so why are they being punished collectively for the "crime" of having been born "wrong"? How can the government of Israel practice systematic racism and apartheid, and how can the government of the United States fund and support such barbarism?

The Poet's Condition
by Michael R. Burch

for my mother Christine Ena Burch

The poet's condition
(bother tradition)
is whining contrition.
Supposedly sage,

his editor knows
his brain's in his toes
though he would suppose
to soon be the rage.

His readers are sure
his work's premature
or merely manure,
insipidly trite.

His mother alone
will answer the phone
(perhaps with a moan)
to hear him recite.

The Greatest of These ...
by Michael R. Burch

for my mother Christine Ena Burch

The hands that held me tremble.
The arms that lifted
fall.

Angelic flesh, now parchment,
is held together with gauze.

But her undimmed eyes still embrace me;
there infinity can be found.

I can almost believe such love
will reach me, underground.

Heroin or Heroine?
by Michael R. Burch

for mothers battling addiction

serve the Addiction;
worship the Beast;
feed the foul Pythons,
your flesh, their fair feast ...

or rise up, resist
the huge many-headed hydra;
for the sake of your Loved Ones
decapitate medusa.

Dawn
by Michael R. Burch

for Beth, Laura and all good mothers

Bring your peculiar strength
to the strange nightmarish fray:
wrap up your cherished ones
in the golden light of day.

  Amen

Love has a gentle grace
by Michael R. Burch

for Beth on Mother’s Day

Love has a gentle grace; you have not seen her
unless you’ve looked into your mother’s eyes
and seen her faith
―serene, composed and wise―
that you’re the center of her very being
(as once, indeed, she carried you inside.)

Love has no wilder beauty than the thought
that you’re the best of all she ever sought.

(And if, perhaps, you don’t believe my song,
can your mother be wrong?)

Your Gift
by Michael R. Burch

for Beth

Counsel, console.
This is your gift.
Calm, kiss and encourage.
Tenderly lift
each world-wounded heart
from its fatal dart.
Mend every rift.
Bid pain, “Depart!”
Save every sorrow
for your own untaught heart.

Will There Be Starlight
by Michael R. Burch

a poem for good mothers everywhere

Will there be starlight

tonight

while she gathers

damask

and lilac

and sweet-scented heathers? 

And will she find flowers, 

or will she find thorns

guarding the petals

of roses unborn? 

Will there be starlight

tonight

while she gathers

seashells

and mussels

and albatross feathers? 

And will she find treasure

or will she find pain

at the end of this rainbow

of moonlight on rain? 

Originally published by Grassroots Poetry, Poetry Webring, TALESetc, The Word (UK) 

The Desk
by Michael R. Burch

for Jeremy

There is a child I used to know

who sat, perhaps, at this same desk

where you sit now, and made a mess

of things sometimes.I wonder how

he learned at all...

He saw T-Rexes down the hall

and dreamed of trains and cars and wrecks.

He dribbled phantom basketballs, 

shot spitwads at his schoolmates' necks.

He played with pasty Elmer's glue

(and sometimes got the glue on you!) .

He earned the nickname "teacher's PEST."

His mother had to come to school

because he broke the golden rule.

He dreaded each and every test.

But something happened in the fall ―

he grew up big and straight and tall, 

and now his desk is far too small; 

so you can have it.

One thing, though ―

one swirling autumn, one bright snow, 

one gooey tube of Elmer's glue...

and you'll outgrow this old desk, too.

Originally published by TALESetc

Lullaby

by Michael R. Burch

for Jeremy

Cherubic laugh; sly, impish grin; 

Angelic face; wild chimp within.

It does not matter; sleep awhile

As soft mirth tickles forth a smile.

Gray moths will hum a lullaby

Of feathery wings, then you and I

Will wake together, by and by.

Life's not long; those days are best

Spent snuggled to a loving breast.

The earth will wait; a sun-filled sky

Will bronze lean muscle, by and by.

Soon you will sing, and I will sigh, 

But sleep here, now, for you and I

Know nothing but this lullaby.

Success

by Michael R. Burch

for Jeremy

We need our children to keep us humble

between toast and marmalade; 

there is no time for a ticker-tape parade

before bed, no award, no bright statuette 

to be delivered for mending skinned knees, 

no wild bursts of approval for shoveling snow. 

A kiss is the only approval they show; 

to leave us ― the first great success they achieve.

Reflex

by Michael R. Burch 

for Jeremy

Some intuition of her despair

for her lost brood, 

as though a lost fragment of song

torn from her flat breast, 

touched me there... 

I felt, unable to hear

through the bright glass, 

the being within her melt

as her unseemly tirade

left a feather or two

adrift on the wind-ruffled air. 

Where she will go, 

how we all err, 

why we all fear

for the lives of our children, 

I cannot pretend to know. 

But, O! , 

how the unappeased glare

of omnivorous sun

over crimson-flecked snow

makes me wish you were here.

Just Smile
by Michael R. Burch

We'd like to think some angel smiling down

will watch him as his arm bleeds in the yard, 

ripped off by dogs, will guide his tipsy steps, 

his doddering progress through the scarlet house

to tell his mommy "boo-boo! , " only two.

We'd like to think his reconstructed face

will be as good as new, will often smile, 

that baseball's just as fun with just one arm, 

that God is always Just, that girls will smile, 

not frown down at his thousand livid scars, 

that Life is always Just, that Love is Just.

We do not want to hear that he will shave

at six, to raze the leg hairs from his cheeks, 

that lips aren't easily fashioned, that his smile's

lopsided, oafish, snaggle-toothed, that each

new operation costs a billion tears, 

when tears are out of fashion. O, beseech

some poet with more skill with words than tears

to find some happy ending, to believe

that God is Just, that Love is Just, that these

are Parables we live, Life's Mysteries...

Or look inside his courage, as he ties

his shoelaces one-handed, as he throws

no-hitters on the first-place team, and goes

on dates, looks in the mirror undeceived

and smiling says, "It's me I see. Just me."

He smiles, if life is Just, or lacking cures.

Your pity is the worst cut he endures.

Originally published by Lucid Rhythms

Child of 9-11
by Michael R. Burch

a poem for Christina-Taylor Green, who was born

on September 11,2001 and died at the age of nine, 

shot to death...

Child of 9-11, beloved, 

I bring this lily, lay it down

here at your feet, and eiderdown, 

and all soft things, for your gentle spirit.

I bring this psalm ― I hope you hear it.

Much love I bring ― I lay it down

here by your form, which is not you, 

but what you left this shell-shocked world

to help us learn what we must do

to save another child like you.

Child of 9-11, I know

you are not here, but watch, afar

from distant stars, where angels rue

the vicious things some mortals do.

I also watch; I also rue.

And so I make this pledge and vow: 

though I may weep, I will not rest

nor will my pen fail heaven's test

till guns and wars and hate are banned

from every shore, from every land.

Child of 9-11, I grieve

your tender life, cut short... bereaved, 

what can I do, but pledge my life

to saving lives like yours? Belief

in your sweet worth has led me here...

I give my all: my pen, this tear, 

this lily and this eiderdown, 

and all soft things my heart can bear; 

I bear them to your final bier, 

and leave them with my promise, here.

Originally published by The Flea

For a Sandy Hook Child, with Butterflies
by Michael R. Burch

Where does the butterfly go

when lightning rails, 

when thunder howls, 

when hailstones scream, 

when winter scowls, 

when nights compound dark frosts with snow...

Where does the butterfly go? 

Where does the rose hide its bloom

when night descends oblique and chill

beyond the capacity of moonlight to fill? 

When the only relief's a banked fire's glow, 

where does the butterfly go? 

And where shall the spirit flee

when life is harsh, too harsh to face, 

and hope is lost without a trace? 

Oh, when the light of life runs low, 

where does the butterfly go? 

Frail Envelope of Flesh
by Michael R. Burch

―for the mothers and children of Gaza

Frail envelope of flesh, 

lying cold on the surgeon's table

with anguished eyes

like your mother's eyes

and a heartbeat weak, unstable...

Frail crucible of dust, 

brief flower come to this ―

your tiny hand

in your mother's hand

for a last bewildered kiss...

Brief mayfly of a child, 

to live two artless years! 

Now your mother's lips

seal up your lips

from the Deluge of her tears...

Performing Art
by Michael R. Burch

Who teaches the wren
in its drab existence
to explode into song?

What parodies of irony
does the jay espouse
with its sharp-edged tongue?

What instinctual memories
lend stunning brightness
to the strange dreams

of the dull gray slug
―spinning its chrysalis,
gluing rough seams―

abiding in darkness
its transformation,
till, waving damp wings,

it applauds its performance?
I am done with irony.
Life itself sings.

Originally published by The Raintown Review

Published as the collection "Poems about Mothers"