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her body
was my first home,
my life was built there
bone by bone

curling small
I swayed inside,
in her embrace
I never cried

slowly growing
limb by limb,
finger, fibula,
eyebrow, chin

she crafted me
from flesh and blood,
an artist's finest
sculpting mud

in fertile loam
a seed was sown,
my life was built there
bone by bone

in that moist womb
I safely moored

until the cutting
of the cord

by Michelle Krueger (2010)

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by Janie Lazo

You  grasp my hand
I pull away.
In toddling steps, I run, I play.
You hold me close.
I squirm and squeal.
So much to see; to smell; to feel.
You linger as I head to class.
Just go, I say- my tone is crass.
You sit up late. You pace the floor.
I silent pass. I close my door.
You see my tears.  You hear me cry.
You worry, fret, and wonder why.
Just leave me be! What do you know-
Of love and boys and how things go?
Time marches on.  I move away.
Our visits brief- a week- a day.
We've changed it seems-not you,  but I.
I'm not sure when, or how, or why.
But now alas- I clearly see
A love most pure you shared with me.
You grasp my hand- I grasp yours too.
So much I want to say to you.
I need advice- to you I turn.
A wealth of knowledge I can learn.
My mom- my friend - my confidant
A bond I need, and truly want.

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Thank you, Momma
on my way to school
you ducked behind bushes
never let on, so I could feel
independent.
Thank you, Momma
you held me tight
the day my dog died
and filled me with love on
my saddest day.
Thank you, Momma
you taught me how
to give without getting
to love amongst lost
thank you, Momma.

Robyn Campbell

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Momma’s hugs,
warm as a gust of summer air
soak up my fears
like a sponge
leaving me brave enough to fling myself
back again
into this glorious,
yet unkind world.

(c) Charles Waters 2016 --all rights reserved.

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Julie's Glasses: an almost absolutely true story

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Julie's Glasses: an almost absolutely true story

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by Linda Mitchell

Julie lost her glasses
with her first dive off the dock
She just forgot to take them off
the August sun was so dang hot.

She swam up to the surface
and let out a soggy cry
my glasses dove right off my head
without a wave good bye!

We cousins tried to help her
taking jumps into the pond
we tiptoed through the squishy mud
those glasses sure seemed gone.

My mom was sitting on the dock
lifeguarding without worry
She said we’d be back tomorrow
When the pond was not so blurry.

After breakfast the next morning,
she got out a monster pickle jar.
She added two big heavy rocks
then hunted for some wire.

Stretched wire became a handle
but, before screwing on the lid
Mom found every flashlight in the house
then stuffed them in while lit!

Gently she lowered the pickle-light
into the dark pond’s murky depths
flat on bellies, eyes open wide
we searched, holding collected breaths.

Then, a glimmer beneath the water
Out from the dock about two yards
A glimmer of a fish tail, gills and fins
Where light from the pickle jar was

Mom pushed the pickle-light out
as far out as she could manage
Where a fish was reading comic books
While wearing Julie’s glasses.

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In my

ugly

duckling

stage, mom

only saw beauty. You know,

ten or eleven, tall and gawky,

not quite here, and not quite there.

Mom only saw beauty. Halloween rolled around,

did I want to dress? I’m too big mom, I sighed.

But mom only saw beauty. Waiting on my bed

after                      school

was a                     funky,

lamb,                      outfit

for me!                  Cause

mom  only             saw beauty.

Michelle Kogan © 2016

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by Rosi Hollinbeck

If I could see you one more time
and hear your laugh,
husky and low,
daring everyone in the room
to stay silent in the face of it,
I would remember how no one
could defy your glee.

The contagion would spread,
first with a tittle,
then with a snort,
a whoop and guffaws,
all joining your deep,
sweet laugh. For you saw,
in nearly every moment,
some joy, some bliss,
some scrumdillycious fun.

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For all you didn’t say – thanks.

The stiletto heels I bought for too much money

and the blisters they left behind.

The dangerous-looking boy who turned out to be

less Mr. Right and more Mr. What Was I Thinking?

The nights my friends and I stayed up

far too late laughing far too loudly.

The strange diets.

The stranger mood swings.

College applications.

Job applications.

For all the times I know you wanted to say,

No. Wait. What are you thinking?

but didn’t – thanks.

Your loving silence helped me find my own way.

Keri Collins Lewis

Copyright 2016

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"We cannot all do Great Things but we can do Small Things

With Great Love."
–St. Mother Teresa

All with Great Love

Sew fashionable Barbie doll clothes.

Build tall cities with Legos.

Color page after page of cartoons.

All with Great Love.

Make our favorite potatoes.

Bake brownies (from a box).

Roast family-size turkeys.

All with Great Love.

Send cards for every occasion.

Select the perfect birthday gift.

Show up whenever needed.

All with Great Love.

by Kathleen Mazurowski

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You never won a trophy,

of that we can agree,

I’m giving you a trophy,

for all your wins with me.

A personal best for sewing

the clothes I could not buy,

a skillful way of baking

the sweets I wished to try.

The stories that you wrote

and read to me at night,

then Toora-loora-looras

to tuck me in real tight.

As I grew up, your cheers

that sent me on my way;

the notes, the hugs, the words

created my good day.

You deserve a giant trophy,

a shiny sticker, too.

On it is carved the special words,

“BEST MOM” from Me to You.

Linda Baie ©All Rights Reserved

My mother has passed, and I still miss her, feel blessed that she was my mother

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Throughout all the years,

you’ve always been my biggest fan,

my own cheerleader.

Kristi Dee Veitenheimer
copyright 2016

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by Karen Eastlund

She moved her hands deftly

Working the dough until

Smooth

Shiny

Elastic

Rounded

Redolent

Then placed it with precision

In the pan

I wish I could watch her again

Try once more to mimic her magic

Still elusive to me

To again

Smell that sweet aroma

And hear the hollow thump

That signaled bread was done

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In Lake Placid

In a hotel room

Crowded with the

Pieces of your heart

For once gathered

All under one roof

You danced

Uncharacteristically

On a table

For your delight

Bubbled up

And would not be contained

And since kidlings

And company took up

All sensible space

And your joyful jig

Needed space to call its own

The table

As stable and round

As any hotel table ever is

Was your stage

And laughter and applause

The only accompaniment you needed.

Of course

It was a long drive from Michigan

With a husband

Bickering twins

And a left out little brother

So maybe

You were just glad to be out of the car.

Rebekah Hoeft - October 17, 2016

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Mom wore her hair in a French twist.
A practical carefree style for a nurse
who put patients first and fashion last
with her family sandwiched in between.

A practical carefree style for a nurse.
She worked nights while dad worked days
with her family sandwiched in between.
She slept during the day with everyone at school.

She worked nights while dad worked days.
Mom found time for a weekly ritual.
She slept during the day with everyone at school
then drove to the beauty parlor on Main Street.

Mom found time for a weekly ritual,
A tiny treat she afforded herself,
a drive to the beauty parlor on Main Street
to get her hair washed, dried, and set.

A tiny treat she afforded herself,
she who put patients first and fashion last
to get her hair washed, dried, and set.
Mom wore her hair in a French twist.

© 2016 Jone Rush MacCulloch all rights reserved

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Beautiful lady, you have blessed, my life. You have held me in your nurturing arms. Your prayers have carried me this far through life. Each tear you’ve cried for me I have cried too. We have walked through each other’s lives. Each passing year has brought us closer. Like Mary, You stand at a distance letting climb life’s mountains. You’ve taken me in when others turned away from me. You believe in my dreams and helped nurture them. You held me in your arms and felt my pain inside your heart. You are not just a beautiful lady, you are my mother, you are my best friend, and as I feel your pain I cry your tears. I want to hold you in my arms, but I watch from a distance as you climb life’s mountains. You are my strength, my joy, my beautiful gift from God. You are my mother and I love you with all my heart.

Poem By Jessica Bigi

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I cannot imagine
A stronger woman, wife, mother.
I was, and still am,
Determined to be like you.

You were not
Brought up the way most
Kids were.
In a tough life
You grew all
The more determined
To survive and thrive;
A different person
Than those around you.

I would never be abandoned;
I would get no coal at Christmas -
Jokes would be funny not hurtful;
My questions would have answers.

As a child,
I could not comprehend
The enormity of the difference
In my life
Made possible
By your young heart’s decisions;
But now I know.
Thank you for
Not just surviving,
But loving life,
Changing lives,
and
Loving me more
Than you should have been able.

Determined to be like you,
I was, and still am
A stronger woman, wife, mother -
I cannot imagine.

by Donna JT Smith, Oct.14, 2016

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I feel my mother near

in a garden
leaves trembling,
like my heart,
as a butterfly lights
on a concrete goddess.
She is the light
shining through leaves,
the cooling breeze,
the serene goddess
watching,
loving,
but cold.
I light a candle
and tell her of her
grandchildren on the
curling smoke.
She hears,
so I believe
and feel her near.

by Brenda Davis Harsham

Copyright 2016

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We have our ups and downs,
but when I need you,
there you are. Driving me
to think, plan and cherish.
Lending your strength. With a
strong, tight hug
and words to lighten,
sooth and brace.
My mother,
lost at four,
is forever
remembered as a goddess,
just how I saw her.
You have been

my lightning rod for
grief, anger,
uncertainty,
sadness, confusion
and adolescence.
Now, I see you hug
my kids, love shining
on your gentle face.
Now, I see only
the future,
not the past.

by Brenda Davis Harsham

Copyright 2016

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From a desk at Rockefeller Center

to the plywood desk surface painted ick green,

balanced over black metal filing cabinets,

you organized, strategized the days

in your Irish ways.

Your kitchen aromas were from

Constant Comment tea,

hot carrot pudding,

baked meat loaf.

You stayed up late reading

The Bible, Shakespeare,

Robert Frost, Carl Sandberg,

Edna St. Vincent Milay,

Christian Science Monitor,

Newark Evening News

Readers' Digest, Saturday Evening Post,

the country weekly,

John D. MacDonald, Irving Wallace,

James Michener, Anne Morrow Lindbergh

and every book in every bookcase. There

were five bookcases. The book in the car

was Peterson's Field Guide to the Birds.

You called me outside to the backyard to see

a battle of ants - the red army were residents,

the black ants arrived from the woods next-door.

You planted tulips.

You wrote me,

"Here's a little something to have fun on your

birthday. Guess Whoooo?"

I made sure you never had to guess

whoooo loved you.

c. 2016JanGodownAnnino

all rights reserved.

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From a desk at exceptional education

to the kitchen dining table

piled with bills to pay,

you organize, strategize,

in your Italian ways.

Your kitchen aromas are from

hot yeast braided bread,

a garlic garland

almond cookies.

You read prayer cards, the local

paper, the shopper. You stay

up later than I can, listening to the

neverending news.

You plant basil.

You write me

Good health, good luck and happiness.

May you have the blessings of God on your birthday

and Always.

And I love you,

Mom #2.

c. 2016JanGodownAnnino
all rights reserved.

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by Mindy Gars Dolandis

Mom is four score and seven years worn

Seen her children’s children’s children born

Her body is agile, her eyes eagle sharp

She sits and knits daily, small gifts from the heart

Tiny, brimmed pink and blue hats to be worn

By a bevy of babies who’ve just been born

Tick..tick, click..click

Second hand moves, arthritic hands stitch

Once a month she drops off her donations

Baby hats for the next generation

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Looking back on a life of service is what I think about when I remember my mother. With love I dedicate my poems to send Mom's love back into the world. You can find my shape poem and #imagepoem that has been digitalized at http://beyondliteracylink.blogspot.com/2016/10/tribute.html

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I carry her memory in my heart,

displayed in loving tribute in my

home and retrieved in dreams.

I touch the palms she wove,

I thank Michelle Barnes, the creator of Today's Little Ditty challenge and poet Kenn Nesbitt for creating the following challenge: Write a poem for your mother. Write it for your mother and give it to her. It can be any kind of poem you like, as long as it's especially for her.

For those interested in seeing the October challenge and Michelle's interview with Kenn Nesbitt, please click You can find other's poetry on the topic on Michelle's October 2016 padlet .

While I cannot give this poem to my mother for she passed away in 2009, she is ever-present in my life. Looking back on a life of service is what I think about when I remember her. With love I dedicate these poems to send Mom's love back into the world.

Thank you, Michelle for providing the space to create a living tribute to my Mom who was lovingly known by the neighborhood children as Grandma Kay.

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I carry her memory in my heart, displayed in loving tribute in my home and retrieved in dreams. I touch the palms she wove, I thank Michelle Barnes, the creator of Today's Little Ditty challenge and poet Kenn Nesbitt for creating the following challenge: Write a poem for your mother.

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The consummate martyr, you
gave up career, happiness,
like a good Catholic girl.

Stranger to affection, loved
a son nearly never born,
save for a sense of duty

to institution. Nothing
could have prepared you for this
obligation you fulfilled

lovingly, imperfectly.
Only you know the tangled
emotions you long ignored.

Now, half a century since
conception, you sit; tired, frail,
awaiting a guest, or meal,

and smiling the most honest
smile you have ever dared show
when he brings the grandchildren.

- © 2016, Matt F. Esenwine

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She taught me gin rummy and badminton,

to make Chef Boyardee Pizza

with a crust ten-cent thin.

She taught me to make my bed
before I was out of it,
to clean my room,

that homework came first.

She taught me to cook,
together we learned to sew.

She taught me to practice piano,
to listen, and not get caught talking.

She taught me justice, but without

mercy that makes it redemptive.

She taught me to be truthful, but

she meant her version,
and it was seldom spoken in love.
She taught me that getting your own way
hurts the ones close to you.
She taught me silence
is not golden when it shuts people out.
She taught me that touch is tender,
not tenuous.
She taught me that kindness is more

important than the appearance of kindness.
She taught me when bitterness takes root,
you can lose your best friend.

She taught me to be a mother.
Sometimes knowing
what not to do is the best lesson.

Today I sat beside her bed and read.

I held her withered hand in mine,
kissed her wrinkled brow
because I know what it means
to need those things.

She taught me that.

© 2012 Doraine Bennett

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Mother, mine,

gone from me too soon.

It’s hard to catch a glimpse of you

in my mind’s eye—

your face blurring,

then disappearing with the years.

My brothers tell me,

“You laugh just like Mom.”

Relatives whisper,

“Who does she dress like?”

and, “If she isn’t the spittin’ image…”

as they elbow each other

in shadowed corners.

On the telephone I always get,

“You sound just like your mother.”

Do people honestly think

it doesn’t bother me to hear that?

The trouble is, they aren’t thinking.

When I sobbingly question my father

about his now sidelong glances,

he admits, “I find it difficult

to look you full in the face.”

I run for my room.

Everyone else,

apparently,

sees her in me.

Maybe it’s the only way

I have of truly seeing her.

B.J. Lee (c) 2010
Note: This poem is a remembrance of the time period just after my mother's untimely passing when I was 17.

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The big take-away:
she would have loved this
steady stream of visitors
--most I've never met.
People who understood
her for whom she was
to them not for what she
failed to be for me.

© Diane Mayr, all rights reserved.

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January 22, 2012 The Night After My Mother's Funeral

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January 22, 2012 The Night After My Mother's Funeral

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We rifle through cabinets,

sorting piles of photographs and ancient souvenirs.

A flimsy box overflows with home movies,

mold wafts through the air.

My brother lifts a spool

and threads it through the dusty movie player,

assuming the role of boy-who-could-be-trusted-with-machines

once again.

The light flickers and our parents return,

younger than my memory spans,

at a beach house I cannot remember,

with carefree smiles I do not recognize.

My brother and sister race in and out of surf,

build castles,

bury toes,

strut their school-aged independence,

wandering farther and farther from the beach umbrella

where I shiver,

my four-year old self

wrapped in a warm towel

and my mother’s arms.

–Buffy Silverman

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this little piggy stayed home

for so long we were

together all the time

together all alone

together all among

open the doors and see all the people

four gray geese in a flock

for so long you listened to every word I

began to say

forgot to say

dared to say

wire briar limber lock

we parted  disintegrated

remembered  recombined

apple seed and apple thorn

for so long now we are

winding threads

dropping threads

picking up threads

sit and sing by a spring

there were two old Indians crossing the Mississippi

ripping a seam here and there

putting right sides together

stitching farther rivers

would you like to hear the rest?

~Heidi Mordhorst

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Your things

from clothes to china mug

to paper snippets and crumpled Kleenexes

under the recliner

have all been carted away.

Your room

once signature with pictures, pillows

pill bottles and plants

has been stripped to anonymity.

Now I am obliterating you

in other ways

cutting up credit cards

removing your name from mailing lists

cancelling, erasing, rubbing you out.

But the hole of you

is much more

than empty

zero

nothing.

How easily I fall into it –

that once-warm spot where you lived

replaced by a now-familiar

cold ache

though I have salvaged

several of your sweaters

to wrap me in their arms.

© 2007 by Violet Nesdoly
(I wrote this about a month after Mom died in 2006. It was published in 2007)

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Born in the dying season

of umbers and vermillion

junipers berries and frost

Come, lie with me

in the deer beds

We’ll nestle in their quiet whorls
of parched grasses that grow
close to the edge of the sea

Come, lie with me

in the deer beds

We’ll warm our bodies next to theirs
and the rising tendrils of heat smoke

from soft wildness

Come, lie with me

in the deer beds

We’ll awaken to the swoosh
of wings taking flight
from these sacred earth mandalas

Come, lie with me

in the deer beds

Sarah Ragsdale (c)All Rights Reserved

My mother has passed on and I wrote this poem after walking the marsh fields near the sea daily the year after her death. There is never a morning or a night that I don't think of her and I am profoundly grateful we were so close for so long.