Mothers poems from famous poets and best beautiful poems to feel good. Best Mothers poems ever written. Read all poems about Mothers.
Where are you, my beloved? Are you in that little
Paradise, watering the flowers who look upon you
As infants look upon the breast of their mothers?
One Christmas was so much like another, in those years around the sea-town corner now and out of all sound except the distant speaking of the voices I sometimes hear a moment before sleep, that I can never remember whether it snowed for six days and six nights when I was twelve or whether it snowed for twelve days and twelve nights when I was six.
Sweet dreams form a shade,
O'er my lovely infants head.
Sweet dreams of pleasant streams,
By happy silent moony beams
A child said, What is the grass? fetching it to me with full
How could I answer the child?. . . .I do not know what it
is any more than he.
Here, this smudge of blood,
Of a tender boy of eleven,
Soaked thru the tarmac,
Yet to be dried, still wet and warm!
A Letter To My Aunt Discussing The Correct Approach To Modern Poetry
To you, my aunt, who would explore
Do ye hear the children weeping, O my brothers,
Ere the sorrow comes with years?
They are leaning their young heads against their mothers---
And that cannot stop their tears.
The power of charity sows deep in my heart, and I reap and gather the wheat in bundles and give them to the hungry.
Seeing we never found gay fairyland
(Though still we crouched by bluebells moon by moon)
And missed the tide of Lethe; yet are soon
For that new bridge that leaves old Styx half-spanned;
Without you every morning would feel like going back to work after a holiday,
Without you I couldn't stand the smell of the East Lancs Road,
Without you ghost ferries would cross the Mersey manned by skeleton crews,
Without you I'd probably feel happy and have more money and time and
'Jack fell as he'd have wished,' the Mother said,
And folded up the letter that she'd read.
'The Colonel writes so nicely.' Something broke
In the tired voice that quavered to a choke.
Millions of babies watching the skies
Bellies swollen, with big round eyes
On Jessore Road--long bamboo huts
Noplace to shit but sand channel ruts
I WALK through the long schoolroom questioning;
A kind old nun in a white hood replies;
The children learn to cipher and to sing,
To study reading-books and histories,
The sun does arise,
And make happy the skies;
The merry bells ring
To welcome the spring;
Father dear father
I must have loved you
But to hear you
Leave me, my blamer,
For the sake of the love
Which unites your soul with
That of your beloved one;
Direct clay was turned into required elements
parts, sections, groups, classes in proportion
to set in every function in as pottery style,
osteoblasts turned into bones to form the cage,
I love African mothers
They are the best among all
Their skin glows amongst all
I love African mothers
Nations of starvation everywhere
as so many countries keep crying for food and medicines,
as mothers with their babies in hand keep sitting and staring,
waiting for food to feed their under-nourished children;
Have you ever seen
The eyes of a beautiful woman waiting to be killed.
The eyes of a mother who has lost her children?
To all the selfless Mothers of this world!
So proud to salute your untiring service,
So happy to bow down before your beautiful spirit!
'Happy Mothers Day'.
To those mothers unlike others.
Mothers unlike others,
They are mothering mothers
Who without conscience curse
The intriguing bloods that tend to
Flow into the wineskin of a foresight
Faith of our mothers, a lovely sight
Loving spirit and joyful gaze
Gentle soul and gentle breeze
Faithful heart and a prayerful life
On the mother's mad smiles the raindrops
patter down. On their beloved
mad faces the lanterns tap
their yellow fingers.
Pure raindrops and lanterns. And the mothers
draw near, blowing on their cold fingers,
moving their bodies
through filial bones, tendons,
And the intrinsic mothers calmly sit down
inside filial heads.
They sit there in slow and urgent silence,
and burning the images, fuelling the images,
while love keeps getting stronger.
Showering them in the face. Tender love.
And the mothers are ever more beautiful.
Think the sons whom the mothers levitate.
Violent flowers strike their eyelids.
Above and below they breathe
theirs faces gleaming in the spray
around the lanterns. In the continuous
pourring down of sons.
Mothers are the loftiest things
created by sons, since they dwell
in their sons' deflagration, since
sons are like dandelion invaders
in their mothers' terrain.
And mothers are oil wells in the speech of their sons,
spurting through them
from out of the earth.
And the sons dive, in rubber suits, into the depths
of myriad waters
with the mothers wrapped like octopi around their hands
and around their tenderest nerves.
And the son sits with his mother at the head of the table.
Through him the mother fiddles
with the teacups and the forks,
and through her he thinks
no dead is possible, and the waters
through his hand touching the mad face
of his mother who can sense his touch
and through love, in love, until it's only possible
to love everything
and it's possible to rediscover everything through love.
Today you are born and later you gave birth to us.
Your love you gave us first demonstrated by have the ability to carry us in your womb for nine month and that is per child.
You have given us the best care and protection.
Your love you gave us, those moments when you sacrificed to go hungry just because of us, you saw it fit that we had a meal because you always said that you are living for us.
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