Ode To The Mother Poem by Masiela Lusha

Two angels sit in your womb,
& in their rosy chamber
They weigh your name
Like rhyming treasures:

“If there were a word, mightier
Than Love, ‘Mother’
Would be mightier, & far more
Loyal. & if a single word
Can command from Kings
A pause or tear, what word
Is greater, & far more dear? ’”

“A word far loftier
Than that humble praise, ”
The other angel plays.
“’Fate’ hangs high above
This cradle in which we stir,
& concurs all kings, both vile
& sincere. Fate concurs all,
‘Fate’ is the word.”

“Fate may steer
Happiness we bestow,
& so I bow
With respect
For your word.
But can this ‘fate’ collapse
Three allied gods
Of love, faith,
& moral dynasty?
Can this word you hold so dear,
Quake immortality
With pathless fears?
‘Mother’ can combat
This drifting shadow,
My word is armed with love.
‘Fate’
Can breed & die with work,
But love is the child of mother.
& mother is saved by child.
As mother cradles
The child in youth,
The child shines her name
With proof…
Above the ‘fated’
Eclipse of death.
This vital truth of ‘Mother’
Weighs far greater
Than the common
Mapping of your stars.
This humble word
I proudly pronounce
‘Mother’
Hugs your ‘fate’
As time hugs the scars.”

The other angel stirs...
“Please consider
My word, ‘Fate’
Is armed
With much: Joy, death,
Envy, & a mask
Of love, we draw
As Obsessions-
It is the fate of one
To not love the other.
But what stirs
My word’s work
Is a single measure
Bound to every person,
& even in your child
Of love—
& that is this occasional
Poison we mourn as hate.
My word can command
Such venom, I sadly admit,
Such venom indeed
That eats away
At the tender crafting
Of this child’s faith.
Through my ‘fate’
Your child of love
Has learned to hate.
& if there is no love,
Is there a ‘mother’?
If love is to abandon
Your word,
Your word serves mine
Through mortality.
Through my word,
Yours can die,
‘Mother’ is but folly
To the hidden demons
Of my ‘fate’ & lives as long,
As my stars can trace.”

“I disagree, ” the first angel boasts
with light. “I disagree
With your value of love.
With what esteem
Do you shame & weaken
This seed, which first bloomed
Into infantine humanity?
Was it hate, this weapon
You justify with praise,
That which nurtured
The birth of progress?
Was it hate that united
Brothers & sons?
That bred kings
& marked countries & seas,
& fed healthy passions,
& rising charities?
Was it hate that men valued
Consistently above self,
& still attempt to concur
Through philosophy & art?
Was hate their light?
Was hate their purpose?
Does man count the stars,
& scour for hate?
No, to this you must agree,
It was 'Mother'...love of country,
Of self, of companionship,
& immortality,
(A dagger to ‘fate’)
That nurtured our progress.
& my word,
‘Mother’
Taught the trade of love
To members of progression—
So man has means to dream.
After all, aren't all dreams
Cultured by desire?
Desire nurtured by some love,
All love nurtured by ‘Mother’
Mother nurtured by progress,
Progress nurtured
Back to desire…
& so the wheel
Of immortality spins.
The force behind the work,
My constant word of
‘Mother’, the ivory pillars
Of birth,
Love, & dreams.”