137 Mother poems

My mother loves butter more than I do, more than anyone. She pulls chunks off the stick and eats it plain, explaining cream spun around into butter! Growing up we ate turkey cutlets sauteed in lemon and butter, butter and cheese on green noodles, butter melting in small pools in the hearts of Yorkshire puddings, butter better than gravy staining white rice yellow, butter glazing corn in slipping squares, butter the lava in white volcanoes of hominy grits, butter softening in a white bowl to be creamed with white sugar, butter disappearing into whipped sweet potatoes, with pineapple, butter melted and curdy to pour over pancakes, butter licked off the plate with warm Alaga syrup. When I picture the good old days I am grinning greasy with my brother, having watched the tiger chase his tail and turn to butter. We are Mumbo and Jumbo’s children despite historical revision, despite our parent’s efforts, glowing from the inside out, one hundred megawatts of butter.

“Take me with you” my mother says standing in her nightgown as, home from college, I prepare to leave before dawn. The desolation she must face was once my concern but like a bobber pulled beneath the surface by an inedible fish she vanished into the life he offered her. It stopped occurring to me she might return. “I’ll be back” I say and then I go.

The bad mother wakes from dreams of imperfection trying to be perfection. All night she’s engineered a train too heavy with supplies to the interior. She fails. The child she loves has taken on bad habits, cigarettes maybe even drugs. She recognizes lies.You don’t fool me

“Son,” said my mother, When I was knee-high, “You’ve need of clothes to cover you, And not a rag have I. “There’s nothing in the house To make a boy breeches, Nor shears to cut a cloth with Nor thread to take stitches. “There’s nothing in the house But a loaf-end of rye, And a harp with a woman’s head Nobody will buy,” And she began to cry. That was in the early fall. When came the late fall, “Son,” she said, “the sight of you Makes your mother’s blood crawl,— “Little skinny shoulder-blades Sticking through your clothes! And where you’ll get a jacket from God above knows. “It’s lucky for me, lad, Your daddy’s in the ground, And can’t see the way I let His son go around!” And she made a queer sound. That was in the late fall. When the winter came, I’d not a pair of breeches Nor a shirt to my name. I couldn’t go to school, Or out of doors to play. And all the other little boys Passed our way. “Son,” said my mother, “Come, climb into my lap, And I’ll chafe your little bones While you take a nap.” And, oh, but we were silly For half an hour or more, Me with my long legs Dragging on the floor, A-rock-rock-rocking To a mother-goose rhyme! Oh, but we were happy For half an hour’s time! But there was I, a great boy, And what would folks say To hear my mother singing me To sleep all day, In such a daft way? Men say the winter Was bad that year; Fuel was scarce, And food was dear. A wind with a wolf’s head Howled about our door, And we burned up the chairs And sat on the floor. All that was left us Was a chair we couldn’t break, And the harp with a woman’s head Nobody would take, For song or pity’s sake. The night before Christmas I cried with the cold, I cried myself to sleep Like a two-year-old. And in the deep night I felt my mother rise, And stare down upon me With love in her eyes. I saw my mother sitting On the one good chair, A light falling on her From I couldn’t tell where, Looking nineteen, And not a day older, And the harp with a woman’s head Leaned against her shoulder. Her thin fingers, moving In the thin, tall strings, Were weav-weav-weaving Wonderful things. Many bright threads, From where I couldn’t see, Were running through the harp-strings Rapidly, And gold threads whistling Through my mother’s hand. I saw the web grow, And the pattern expand. She wove a child’s jacket, And when it was done She laid it on the floor And wove another one. She wove a red cloak So regal to see, “She’s made it for a king’s son,” I said, “and not for me.” But I knew it was for me. She wove a pair of breeches Quicker than that! She wove a pair of boots And a little cocked hat. She wove a pair of mittens, She wove a little blouse, She wove all night In the still, cold house. She sang as she worked, And the harp-strings spoke; Her voice never faltered, And the thread never broke. And when I awoke,— There sat my mother With the harp against her shoulder Looking nineteen And not a day older, A smile about her lips, And a light about her head, And her hands in the harp-strings Frozen dead. And piled up beside her And toppling to the skies, Were the clothes of a king’s son, Just my size.

i didn't read to her enough i raised my voice i let her watch too much i worked too much i didn't work the mom guilt catalog is infinite and mostly fictional

I watch her sleep and she looks like the baby she was and the teenager she'll be at the same time this is what time looks like when you love someone growing

They made me breakfast which was actually cereal and a card that said hape muthr daye it's on the fridge and it's staying there