Poet's Home             All Poetry       Sign Up!  Login
© 2000-2019 Individual Authors of the Poetry. All rights reserved by authors.   320981 Poems Read.

Search for Poetry


Read Poetry
The Hoping

Home, Ghuey, Sweet Home

Some Children Have Nightmares (tentative title)

Night Train


wandering the rolling hills ...(written for his model)

All The Changing....


Lonesome Love

two out of three people

A Start Again...(I Green-Dreamed Again Last Night)

The Little Bird Said

cat speech

Funny, Not Funny

All You Have To Do Is Breathe....


A Dog Should Have His Tail...

Enough to Clear The Clouds Away 4/13/2019

Checking Out


Hope Is Sometimes The Best Of All You've Got (definition poem)

Last Night

Someone Send Out A Search Party

Crows...writing exercise in honor of April /National Poetry month


Only The Choice To Be

When People Go

The Day You Left (Words From A Half-Remembered Dream)

Wake Wake Wake

It Is In The Rain

Dream Goblins Of The Night

Wake And Remember

More Poetry >>


  Sign Guestbook

Read Guestbook


the Mother I am and am not

I'm no Mother,
but I've been described
as maternal.
I have birthing hips,
but no child has ever sprung
from them.

I wonder where this characterization comes from.
They say if you answer you hate your Mother on the
MMPI the entire test becomes invalidated.
I wonder what fool ever drew up
that conclusion?

Certainly no one who had my Mother.

I loved her and I hated her equally at times.
It wasn't her, my therapist said, but her behavior.
You make the distinction after this poem,
I  would say to that therapist.
And why in the hell am I in therapy anyway?
I would not have been there if it were not
for my Mother.

Someone has said at one time or another
to many women:

"You're not a woman until
you've experienced childbirth."

My Mother would've had a differing opinion
on that. Me??
Yes, I would have a differing opinion, as well.

Oh, but
I've birthed other things,
other passions,
stories, words,
in that way,
my way, a Mothering way.

I am
a Madonna and
a woman.

My Mother was a woman, but a Madonna,
that is stretching it. Maybe, I am stretching
things too, for poetry's sake.

Madonnas cherish the earth,
all creatures,
the sky and water.

I have loved all of these things
myself. I learned the earth appreciation
stuff from my Mother.

But I've also learned
to love
with forgiveness
and a forgetting mind
a skill I mothered within
(and must continually relearn to practice)
very slowly with other teachers,
other mothers
over time.

I wonder if my own Mother simply pretended
at this skill?

I am Motherless, now.

Sometimes, I've
suffered as all motherless children do...
who must learn
the skill of

I believe for my whole life that
I am a human rocking chair.
I am certain
my Mother never rocked me, though my Father did once
in a hospital ward when I was almost five.

I remember my Mother,
flawed as she was.
I'm thankful
for her lessons.
Ones of love,
of color, creativity, music,
of small things and nature.
And of the one
that is hardest of all...
that you are lost if you do not learn to
love yourself.

My Mother was always lost.
She was a desperate kitten crying in the rain
hoping to be let in.

Even so, tonight,
I'm hopeful that
she will whisper
gently into my right ear
as I dream.

May this be,
every night.

May she feel more like a Mother,
more loved than she ever understood
in her entire abbreviated life.
Greeting her,
I will hug her
with the whole of my heart.

Copyright May 11, 2014 All Rights Reserved By This Author
All Poetry/Stories/Prose is the legal property of this Author
Meloo/Melissa A Howells  site: Tilt-a-World

Vote for this poem

Please Comment On This Poem


 Email Address


Vote for this poem