Poems about Mothers

Flowers + a Poem = THE PERFECT GIFT FOR MOM!

God made a wonderful mother,
A mother who never grows old;
He made her smile of the sunshine,
And He moulded her heart of pure gold;
In her eyes He placed bright shining stars,
In her cheeks fair roses you see;
God made a wonderful mother,
And He gave that dear mother to me.

M... is for the million things she gave me,
O... means only that she's growing old,
T... is for the tears she shed to save me,

H... is for her heart of purest gold;
E... is for her eyes, with love-light shining,
R... means right, and right she'll always be.
Put them all together, they spell "MOTHER,"
A word that means the world to me

The daughter of a manic-depressive mother writes:
My Mom was Bi Polar (Manic Depressive) so growing up with her was like a scene from Mommy Dearest. She was self medicating and quite frightening when she was on a rip. As a child I would write poems about her. This is one I wrote to her for Mother's Day. In her later years
she stroked and it blew out all her mental illness. We had 18 wonderful years together before she passed away. Those years made up for the horrible childhood years. They were a gift.

M is for the manic moment memories.
O is for the Oedipus Complex too
T is for the tiny little traumas
H is for horrific hours I knew.
E is for my ego you deflated
R is for the room without a view

Put them all togther they spell Mother,
My analyst is getting rich on you.

Happiness is not the song I'm singing:
Of mothers' joy a jagged piece is pain.
To love is to be amply burdened, bringing
Hearts with gifts to an uncharted plain.
Even so, one longs to be a mother,
Remembering a richness unreserved
'Ere one could barely recognize another,
Sustained by love unsought and undeserved.
Deeper than oneself is one's communion,
A revelation reached alone by union
Yet yearned for, though through years of love well served.

Mom's smiles can brighten any moment,
Mom's hugs put joy in all our days,
Mom's love will stay with us forever
and touch our lives in precious ways...

The values you've taught,
the care you've given,
and the wonderful love you've shown,
have enriched my life
in more ways than I can count.

I Love you Mom!

If I were hanged on the highest hill,
Mother o' mine, O mother o' mine!
I know whose love would follow me still,
Mother o' mine, O mother o' mine!

If I were drowned in the deepest sea,
Mother o' mine, O mother o' mine!
I know whose tears would come down to me,
Mother o' mine, O mother o' mine!

If I were damned of body and soul,
I know whose prayers would make me whole,
Mother o' mine, O mother o' mine!

When the moon appears
and a few wind-stricken barns stand out
in the low-domed hills
and shine with a light
that is veiled and dust-filled
and that floats upon the fields,
my mother, with her hair in a bun,
her face in shadow, and the smoke
from her cigarette coiling close
to the faint yellow sheen of her dress,
stands near the house
and watches the seepage of late light
down through the sedges,
the last gray islands of cloud
taken from view, and the wind
ruffling the moon's ash-colored coat
on the black bay.

2

Soon the house, with its shades drawn closed, will send
small carpets of lampglow
into the haze and the bay
will begin its loud heaving
and the pines, frayed finials
climbing the hill, will seem to graze
the dim cinders of heaven.
And my mother will stare into the starlanes,
the endless tunnels of nothing,
and as she gazes,
under the hour's spell,
she will think how we yield each night
to the soundless storms of decay
that tear at the folding flesh,
and she will not know
why she is here
or what she is prisoner of
if not the conditions of love that brought her to this.

3

My mother will go indoors
and the fields, the bare stones
will drift in peace, small creatures --
the mouse and the swift -- will sleep
at opposite ends of the house.
Only the cricket will be up,
repeating its one shrill note
to the rotten boards of the porch,
to the rusted screens, to the air, to the rimless dark,
to the sea that keeps to itself.
Why should my mother awake?
The earth is not yet a garden
about to be turned. The stars
are not yet bells that ring
at night for the lost.
It is much too late.

Sonnets are full of love, and this my tome
Has many sonnets: so here now shall be
One sonnet more, a love sonnet, from me
To her whose heart is my heart's quiet home,
To my first Love, my Mother, on whose knee
I learnt love-lore that is not troublesome;
Whose service is my special dignity,
And she my loadstar while I go and come
And so because you love me, and because
I love you, Mother, I have woven a wreath
Of rhymes wherewith to crown your honored name:
In you not fourscore years can dim the flame
Of love, whose blessed glow transcends the laws
Of time and change and mortal life and death.

Happy Mother's Day, dear daughter!
All my love to you!
Praised be those who give themselves,
Poised to part the sea!
Years of loving need no quarter,
Making passion do,
Offering a trove of selves,
Though vicariously.
How beautiful the gift of giving
Each the unspent whole,
Returning, turning, like a tide,
'Ere the moment wanes!
So beautiful, the act of living
Densely through a soul
Alight with wonder at the ride,
Yet soon to take the reins!

I call you "Ma," though you are not my mother,
But more a ma than any ma could be.
I've come to love you more than any other;
You took me in your charge and set me free.
You let me run and kissed me when I fell;
You kept your eyes on me and let me stray.
I learned things hard, which means I learned them well,
And got to know myself along the way.
My hope and faith and pride are all from you.
My roots are in your heart; you are my home.
You will be part of everything I do,
In all my thoughts a wise and lovely poem.
For all our lives we'll have this common ground:
You were my rock when else I would have drowned.

If I could give my mom the world
Or anything she wanted,
I'd give her my own heart and soul
And leave my own heart haunted.
I'd take upon myself her life
With all its strife and pain,
And let her ease into some space
Where she could live again.

The pain for me would not be pain,
At least not for a while;
For I'd be doing it for her,
And I would see her smile.

I wish that I could take her heart
And cleanse it with my tears,
And make her sorrow go away,
And answer all her fears.

I wish, I wish, but then I can't,
As I watch helplessly,
And take her in my arms and say
I wish that it were me.

But loving is a hard, hard way,
With all the pain it brings.
And yet there is no other way
To touch the heart of things.

A Squidoo Lens Dedicated to Mothers:

Mothers Day Poems and Quotes

A Tribute to My Own Mother's Sacrifice:

A True Mothers Day Touching Love Story