"For there is no friend like a sister,
in calm or stormy weather, to cheer one on...
...if one goes astray, ...if one totters down,
to strengthen whilst one stands."
- Christina Rossetti
POEM OF THE MONTH
by John T. Hitchner
1944
The siren wailed only once,
then fell silent.
The boy’s mother and father turned off
all lights in the house,
closed curtains,
and pulled down all window shades.
“I’ll be back soon,” the father said,
as he left the house
and closed the door behind him. The mother cuddled the boy.
They sat in the living room
dark as the boy’s nightmares.
He did not cry as he asked,
“Why did Dad leave?”
“He has to check other houses
to be sure no lights are on.”
“Why?”
“So German planes won’t see us.”
1950
In a passenger train car
the boy sat beside his mother again.
In front of them a man held a newspaper:
The headline read,
TRUMAN SENDS TROOPS TO KOREA. “Are we going to fight in Korea?” the boy asked.
“I’m afraid so,” his mother said.
“Will Dad have to go?”
“No.”
1954
The boy, now 13, listened to morning news.
The newscaster reported civil war
in French Indo-China and a long battle
at a place called Dien Bien Phu.
Many French soldiers were killed.
Will American soldiers have to fight
at Dien Bien Phu someday?
the boy wondered.
1964
On the beach that summer
the boy, now a young man,
wondered why Buddhist monks
would intentionally immolate themselves.
A month later he read that U.S. naval vessels
were fired upon in the Gulf of Tonkin.
“It’s coming at us,” he said to no one.
1967
Visiting his parents one weekend,
the young man saw a black sedan stop
in front of the house next door.
Two soldiers and a minister got out of the car
and walked to the front door.
“It’s here,” the young man said quietly.
“What did you say?” his father asked.
“The war’s right next door now.”
To himself, the young man said,
“But we knew that all along,
didn’t we.”
2005
In the fall, the man, now a father,
read his son’s e-mail from Iraq.
“Black smoke in the sky adds to the ambiance
of this place,” his son wrote.
That December the man’s son came home.
Now
Memorial Day weekend
the man and his wife visit
Arlington National Cemetery.
They stand beneath a tree.
The man sees the white cross:
“The crosses, so many. So, so many,”
Like rows of snow upon grass.
The rows end and begin again,
like war always coming toward us. Always.
But we know that, don’t we.
We’ve always known that.
Or have we?
We still pack gear, mount up, ship out.
Some of us come home.
Some of us come here,
to another row and another cross.
Always.”
“I want to see him again,” his wife says.
~~~~~
Looking over the neighbor’s fence
Basking in the sunshine
Overwhelmed by magnolia scents
Dogwood beauty complements.
Pink and white blossoms, cool blue sky
Relaxing in my lawn chair --
It’s the month of May, oh, my
How the warmth of spring is nigh!
A day in May, a day in a trance
Enthralled by nature’s beauty
Cirrus white clouds join the dance
The garden of life to romance.
Each day in May we all embrace
peace and good feelings
The weather brings out many faces
Change of pace and breathing spaces.
The month of May is meant to distract
From problems or diminish them
Surrounded by blooming blossoms
Each day in May is awesome!
FLORIANA HALL is the author of twelve books, six nonfiction and six inspirational poetry books. Her nonfiction book, FRANCIS, NOT THE SAINT has recently been translated into Spanish (FRANCISCO, NO EL SANTO). Her new poetry book SELECT SANDS OF RHYME AND REASON and young children's book SIMPLE PLEASURES are now available at Cyberwit.net and Amazon.com. Floriana teaches poetry at www.LSSWritingSchool.com under YOU, ME, AND POETRY. Contact Website Website
Overwhelmed by magnolia scents
Dogwood beauty complements.
Pink and white blossoms, cool blue sky
Relaxing in my lawn chair --
It’s the month of May, oh, my
How the warmth of spring is nigh!
A day in May, a day in a trance
Enthralled by nature’s beauty
Cirrus white clouds join the dance
The garden of life to romance.
Each day in May we all embrace
peace and good feelings
The weather brings out many faces
Change of pace and breathing spaces.
The month of May is meant to distract
From problems or diminish them
Surrounded by blooming blossoms
Each day in May is awesome!
~~~~~
JACQULINE'S SONG
by Cathy Quaglia
As winds caress and sunlight fades
She sits atop clouds smiling, watching us
sending flowers out to mother ocean
on tides flowing in and out, again and again
As winds caress and sunlight fades
When the mists arise to blind our eyes
may beauty shine through the rain to comfort
faith lift us up on gentle waves of memories
a flood of healing for our hearts and souls
As winds caress and sunlight fades
Let us whisper words of remembrance
to honor her love, her life, to give us hope
and wish sweet peace in her heavenly home
with us forever in our dreams, an Angel on Earth
As winds subside and sunset falls
~~~~~
by cm
don’t want to get into
why
it felt so damn bad
that we were poor
why
i wore ugly shoes
and pants
that fit too big
with holes
CHARLES MARIANO is the author of THE WHOLE ENCHILADA: Recipes, Photos and Stories from Merced, CA, available at Amazon.com. Charles is, in his own words, "Elusive, reclusive, and otherwise quiet." Contact
BILL ROBERTS writes at least one poem a day in fifteen minutes, coaches others on how to do it too, then prepare poems to go to market. He has been nominated both for a Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net, and currently does readings with friends on "Strong Voices, Strong Women: A Celebration of Women Poets." He, a wife of 53 years and two restless dogs live quietly in Broomfield, Colorado. Contact Website
SHIRLEY SECURRO has been published in fourteen anthologies along with other poets and is currently working on her own manuscript for publication. She has designed/illustrated two book covers for other poets/writers and does poetry readings for churches, weddings, funerals, and meetings. Contact
subtlety
it felt so damn bad
that we were poor
why
i wore ugly shoes
and pants
that fit too big
with holes
that brown duplex
on 12th and K
we lived in
government housing
for those
woefully without
why
it bothered me
yesterday
when i drove by
saw every building
leveled
an empty lot
i stopped
took it all in
the air
hauntingly quiet
it’s all gone now
like mama
and my childhood
nothing’s forever
family gatherings
mama cooking up a storm
in that small kitchen
the black neighbors
the Harris’s
the McDaniel’s
magnificently poor
like us
shared tables
best friends
a variety of music
Trio Los Panchos
Nat King Cole
James Brown,
blared
out our windows
the sweet smell
of capirotada
and barbecue
wafting, curling
a framed picture
of JFK,
next to the Virgin Mary
a lit candle
in the middle
Thanksgiving, Christmas,
countless birthdays
that ugly house
filled to the brim
with warm memories
every loving inch
don’t want to get into
why
this empty lot
bothers me
why my chest aches
for every last
precious piece
i see mama
at the window
her foodstained apron
hair in bobbypins
her scarf
wrapped tight around her head
like aunt jemima,
waving goodbye
we lived in
government housing
for those
woefully without
why
it bothered me
yesterday
when i drove by
saw every building
leveled
an empty lot
i stopped
took it all in
the air
hauntingly quiet
it’s all gone now
like mama
and my childhood
nothing’s forever
family gatherings
mama cooking up a storm
in that small kitchen
the black neighbors
the Harris’s
the McDaniel’s
magnificently poor
like us
shared tables
best friends
a variety of music
Trio Los Panchos
Nat King Cole
James Brown,
blared
out our windows
the sweet smell
of capirotada
and barbecue
wafting, curling
a framed picture
of JFK,
next to the Virgin Mary
a lit candle
in the middle
Thanksgiving, Christmas,
countless birthdays
that ugly house
filled to the brim
with warm memories
every loving inch
don’t want to get into
why
this empty lot
bothers me
why my chest aches
for every last
precious piece
i see mama
at the window
her foodstained apron
hair in bobbypins
her scarf
wrapped tight around her head
like aunt jemima,
waving goodbye
~~~~~
THE UNFINISHED BOOK
by Bill Roberts
by Bill Roberts
So many photos of her asleep
in her favorite chair at our place,
book still propped up in hands,
I could fill a whole album.
Mouth open, snoring midday,
dead to the world, not a care
in the world, at least not while
sleeping in that contoured chair.
Her problems were many - back
East, mainly family, dwindling
business she had taken over
when her husband died suddenly.
Aging of course, too, the pains
we, her children and in-laws,
couldn't fathom until the years
passed and we took our inheritance.
Alzheimer's finally snuck up on Mary,
my mother-in-law who was a saint
on earth, taking to that chair like
white icing on a chocolate cake.
She stopped bringing anything to read,
stopped coming altogether, so we
had to go visit her, she no longer able
to recognize, read us like a book.
in her favorite chair at our place,
book still propped up in hands,
I could fill a whole album.
Mouth open, snoring midday,
dead to the world, not a care
in the world, at least not while
sleeping in that contoured chair.
Her problems were many - back
East, mainly family, dwindling
business she had taken over
when her husband died suddenly.
Aging of course, too, the pains
we, her children and in-laws,
couldn't fathom until the years
passed and we took our inheritance.
Alzheimer's finally snuck up on Mary,
my mother-in-law who was a saint
on earth, taking to that chair like
white icing on a chocolate cake.
She stopped bringing anything to read,
stopped coming altogether, so we
had to go visit her, she no longer able
to recognize, read us like a book.
~~~~~
A MOTHER
by Shirley Securro
Nothing on this earth compares
With the love of a mother who cares
The sun, the moon, the stars above
The magnitude of all her love
A mother, a rose, a garden flower
Refreshes like a summer shower
by Shirley Securro
With the love of a mother who cares
The sun, the moon, the stars above
The magnitude of all her love
A mother, a rose, a garden flower
Refreshes like a summer shower
~~~~~
by Jason Sturner
Eyes, her eyes and green,
Eyes, her eyes and green,
like meadows green.
To see those eyes…
I’ve seen.
Lips, her lips and red,
like wine stains red.
To kiss those lips…
in bed.
To know this woman—
To be her man—
To live my life—
To have this dream—
Skin, soft skin and white,
like satin sheets pulled tight.
To hold her with love…
by candlelight.
Perfume, her perfume and breeze,
like wind through summer trees.
To inhale her being…
I truly breathe.
To taste her colors—
To adore her scents—
To know such beauty…
it’s all a gift.
Love, our love and life,
like a world without strife.
To kneel before a girl…
make her my wife.To see those eyes…
I’ve seen.
Lips, her lips and red,
like wine stains red.
To kiss those lips…
in bed.
To know this woman—
To be her man—
To live my life—
To have this dream—
Skin, soft skin and white,
like satin sheets pulled tight.
To hold her with love…
by candlelight.
Perfume, her perfume and breeze,
like wind through summer trees.
To inhale her being…
I truly breathe.
To taste her colors—
To adore her scents—
To know such beauty…
it’s all a gift.
Love, our love and life,
like a world without strife.
To kneel before a girl…
JASON STURNER was born and raised in the western suburbs of Chicago, and currently lives in Knoxville, Tennessee. He has published four books of poetry, and his work has appeared in Nomad’s Choir, Time & Space Magazine, and The DuPage Valley Review. Contact Website
~~~~~
A MOTHER'S PRAYER
by Amye Nicole Bird
I beg of thee,
Do not take this child from my grasp,
While my eyes are shuttered and I rest,
Do not reap unseen upon this night,
To better his body is now my only quest.
I beg of thee,
Do not ferry him across the waters vast
Into the ocean fathoms of eternal time.
Do not usher him out of this fight,
Do not make straight the heartbeats line.
I ask of thee,
Perhaps a bargain might I strike?
Or give instruction so may I swiftly make amends,
Or that I shall lay myself within his tender place,
And without due haste you inter my soul instead.
I beg of thee,
Even a thousand farewells could not make content
This heart that would surely lose its clasp on sanity,
For without all souls to stand collectively to represent,
Our family belovedly whole would forever cease to be.
While my eyes are shuttered and I rest,
Do not reap unseen upon this night,
To better his body is now my only quest.
I beg of thee,
Do not ferry him across the waters vast
Into the ocean fathoms of eternal time.
Do not usher him out of this fight,
Do not make straight the heartbeats line.
I ask of thee,
Perhaps a bargain might I strike?
Or give instruction so may I swiftly make amends,
Or that I shall lay myself within his tender place,
And without due haste you inter my soul instead.
I beg of thee,
Even a thousand farewells could not make content
This heart that would surely lose its clasp on sanity,
For without all souls to stand collectively to represent,
Our family belovedly whole would forever cease to be.
AMYE NICOLE BIRD is a thirty-six year old lifelong resident of Utah. She is a happily married, stay at home mother of four young children. It is her wish to inspire the love of reading and writing poetry in her children as it has always inspired her. Her poetry has appeared in The Story Teller, Northern Stars Magazine, Write On!! Poetry Magazette, The Sheltered Poet, The Poets Haven, Eye On Life Online Magazine, and is scheduled to appear in The Poet's Art, Westward Quarterly, The Pink Chameleon Online, The Stray Branch and Love's Chance Magazine. Contact
~~~~~
AT THE 'CHICK FLICK'
by Ronald Charles Epstein
At the “chick flick”…
Doug buys some popcorn
that he will Eat.
When it is gone,
he starts to Pray.
When it is over,
he will find Love.
RONALD CHARLES EPSTEIN was born in Bogota, Colombia in 1956 and has lived in Toronto, Ontario since 1959. His first publication appeared in Piedmont Literary Review in 1982. He has also been published in Harvard Review, The Antigonish Review, The Toronto Star and Expresso Tilt. Contact
~~~~~
BEARING WITNESS
by Maralee Gerke
In fractured conversation,
she rambles like a wind-up toy
with a half-broken spring.
Standing rigid, hands clenched
and jaws tight, we try to
communicate.
Blood vessels pulse
their inexorable job
of eradicating her memory.
We scrutinize each word, phrase,
and sentence for recognition
of our own aging.
In her wheelchair,
she sits like a wounded gladiator
dueling with the future.
Is this our duty? To witness
the blood sport of dying,
the decline, the slide.
She hangs on, trying to
make sure she still exists,
not recognizing herself.
We squirm inside
waiting for the final,
the mutual release.
by Maralee Gerke
she rambles like a wind-up toy
with a half-broken spring.
Standing rigid, hands clenched
and jaws tight, we try to
communicate.
Blood vessels pulse
their inexorable job
of eradicating her memory.
We scrutinize each word, phrase,
and sentence for recognition
of our own aging.
In her wheelchair,
she sits like a wounded gladiator
dueling with the future.
Is this our duty? To witness
the blood sport of dying,
the decline, the slide.
She hangs on, trying to
make sure she still exists,
not recognizing herself.
We squirm inside
waiting for the final,
the mutual release.
MARALEE GERKE is a poet and gardener from Madras, Oregon. She has published two books of poetry and her poems have appeared in Calyx, Exit 13, Windfall, Avocet, and other poetry journals. Her work can been seen online at Long Story Short, Mu, and Moontown Cafe. Recently she recorded four poems which can heard online at oregonpoeticvoices.org. Contact
~~~~~
A MOTHER'S LAMENT
by Abigail Wyatt
When you were young I watched you play
by Abigail Wyatt
When you were young I watched you play
and overheard your tears and prayers;
I laughed at all your tantrums,
~~~~~
by Michael Lee Johnson
I’m electric in the spring sun
~~~~~
by BRASH
Whatever little lies This boy tries
To realize,
His mama can always tell
Very well
By observing him
To see if shadows dim
His bright and laughing eyes.
BRASH is known for writing poetry inspired by art, in association with the Washington, DC extravaganza ARTOMATIC, and by invitation to participate in various gallery events, readings, and performances. Her latest work includes creating and performing companion poetry to the book ADDICTION AND ART and the project’s show at Blue Elephant Gallery in Frederick, Maryland.BRASH will lead workshops at The Writer’s Center in Bethesda, Maryland this year. Hear excerpts from her lyrical collaboration with Daisy Birch for Ahmad Nadimi's “SUITE FOR PEACE,” Read Frederick News Post interviews BRASH for the ADDICTION AND ART SHOW. See her claim to fame under “Notable Artists” on Wikipedia. Contact
~~~~~
A WOMAN'S ROLE
by Floriana Hall
Ah, women, alas, are makers of men
Females continue the cycle again
Sweet baby boys and girls grow up
To be their own personalities
To fill half empty or half full cups.
A woman’s task is never done
She tries her best from sun to sun
Nothing is too good for her children
No one is good enough for her children
Mothers try to show love equally
Children still say, “Mom prefers you over me.”
When mothers grow old and weary
Children look for signs of minds dreary
Mothers must sigh and remember
Her children will understand her
When they grow old and see clearly.
Mothers have influenced Presidents,
Kings, Queens and home residents
The sun shines like halos on heads
Of mothers who do or don’t make beds
Who practice love in every way
Who are good examples every day.
Not to worry, not to fret
Life goes on with generations of no regret
When mothers form a child’s early life
To be free of too much worry or strife
I laughed at all your tantrums,
and I soothed your night-time fears.
The paintings that you made I kept:
an orange dog, a purple tree;
the photographs, the school reports,
the silk-screen print you made for me.
A Christmas card with kisses
from the year you started school,
a clay tyrannosaurus rex,
a painted cardboard daffodil.
All these sweet ghosts I laid away
as if, somehow, they’d keep you near;
I couldn’t guess you’d grow so fast
or go so very far from here.
And now how long ago it seems
when I could make you smile
and help you steer your ship of dreams
safe over misty miles
ABIGAIL WYATT writes for her life in the shadow of Carne Brae in Cornwall. Formerly a teacher of English, she is now a freelance writer whose poetry and short fiction have been published in a wide range of magazines and ezines, both in the United Kingdom and overseas. These have recently included Words with JAM, Word Salad, and Ink, Sweat & Tears; Kohinoor, Phoenix and One Million Stories. Her poetry is also regularly featured in Poetry Cornwall. Abigail is the 'house ' reviewer for Palores Press in Redruth. Her poetry collection, MOTHS IN A JAR, was published in October, 2010. Contact
ABIGAIL WYATT writes for her life in the shadow of Carne Brae in Cornwall. Formerly a teacher of English, she is now a freelance writer whose poetry and short fiction have been published in a wide range of magazines and ezines, both in the United Kingdom and overseas. These have recently included Words with JAM, Word Salad, and Ink, Sweat & Tears; Kohinoor, Phoenix and One Million Stories. Her poetry is also regularly featured in Poetry Cornwall. Abigail is the 'house ' reviewer for Palores Press in Redruth. Her poetry collection, MOTHS IN A JAR, was published in October, 2010. Contact
ELECTRIC IN THE SUN
I’m electric in the spring sun
nomad in the summer dust
my lantern burns
without fuel,
I lie in the deep grass
with microphones tossed
over my ears-
and feel like I’m on a high-
psychedelic
blue-green grass
pink sunglasses in my left hand,
teeth pearly white ivory tusks,
muscle tee shirt, with brown sash
from shoulder to hip,
crazy beads around my neck
yellow-orange shaped like
candy corn-
life is but a blitz,
I’m electric in the sun,
and there is no cell phone
by my side.
AUTHOR’S NOTE: An audio MP3 is available for this poem.
MICHAEL LEE JOHNSON is a poet, freelance writer and small business owner of custom imprinted promotional products and apparel at www.promoman.us from Itasca, Illinois. He is heavily influenced by Carl Sandburg, Robert Frost, William Carlos Williams, Irving Layton, Leonard Cohen, and Allen Ginsberg. His new poetry chapbook with pictures, entitled FROM WHICH PLACE THE MORNING RISES, and his new photo version of THE LOST AMERICAN: FROM EXILE TO FREEDOM are available at http://stores.lulu.com/promomanusa. The original version of THE LOST AMERICAN: FROM EXILE TO FREEDOM and his new chapbook CHALLENGE OF NIGHT AND DAY, AND CHICAGO POEMS are available. His two previous chapbooks are available at http://stores.lulu.com/poetryboy. Michael has been published in over 23 countries. He is also the editor/publisher of four poetry sites, all open for submission which can be found on his website. All of his books are now available on Amazon.com, and Borders. Audio MP3 poems are available and Michael is open to interviews. Contact You-Tube You-Tube
by BRASH
Whatever little lies This boy tries
To realize,
His mama can always tell
Very well
By observing him
To see if shadows dim
His bright and laughing eyes.
AUTHOR’S NOTE: This poem was inspired by artwork at ARTOMATIC in Washington, DC in 2009, and specifically to artist, Greg Scott for his work known as “BRIGHT EYES.”
BRASH is known for writing poetry inspired by art, in association with the Washington, DC extravaganza ARTOMATIC, and by invitation to participate in various gallery events, readings, and performances. Her latest work includes creating and performing companion poetry to the book ADDICTION AND ART and the project’s show at Blue Elephant Gallery in Frederick, Maryland.BRASH will lead workshops at The Writer’s Center in Bethesda, Maryland this year. Hear excerpts from her lyrical collaboration with Daisy Birch for Ahmad Nadimi's “SUITE FOR PEACE,” Read Frederick News Post interviews BRASH for the ADDICTION AND ART SHOW. See her claim to fame under “Notable Artists” on Wikipedia. Contact
by Floriana Hall
Females continue the cycle again
Sweet baby boys and girls grow up
To be their own personalities
To fill half empty or half full cups.
A woman’s task is never done
She tries her best from sun to sun
Nothing is too good for her children
No one is good enough for her children
Mothers try to show love equally
Children still say, “Mom prefers you over me.”
When mothers grow old and weary
Children look for signs of minds dreary
Mothers must sigh and remember
Her children will understand her
When they grow old and see clearly.
Mothers have influenced Presidents,
Kings, Queens and home residents
The sun shines like halos on heads
Of mothers who do or don’t make beds
Who practice love in every way
Who are good examples every day.
Not to worry, not to fret
Life goes on with generations of no regret
When mothers form a child’s early life
To be free of too much worry or strife
Smiling and laughing through it all.
FLORIANA HALL is the author of twelve books, six nonfiction and six inspirational poetry books. Her nonfiction book, FRANCIS, NOT THE SAINT has recently been translated into Spanish (FRANCISCO, NO EL SANTO). Her new poetry book SELECT SANDS OF RHYME AND REASON and young children's book SIMPLE PLEASURES are now available at Cyberwit.net and Amazon.com. Floriana teaches poetry at www.LSSWritingSchool.com under YOU, ME, AND POETRY. Contact Website Website
~~~~~
_________________________________________
VOTED ONE OF WRITER'S DIGEST'S
FLORIANA HALL is the author of twelve books, six nonfiction and six inspirational poetry books. Her nonfiction book, FRANCIS, NOT THE SAINT has recently been translated into Spanish (FRANCISCO, NO EL SANTO). Her new poetry book SELECT SANDS OF RHYME AND REASON and young children's book SIMPLE PLEASURES are now available at Cyberwit.net and Amazon.com. Floriana teaches poetry at www.LSSWritingSchool.com under YOU, ME, AND POETRY. Contact Website Website
FAREWELL, A LETTER
by Cathy Quaglia
Sorry I left you
so suddenly
but God called
and I said “yes.”
Wish I could have
heard your voice
held your hand
gave you a kiss
just one more time
to say goodbye.
You couldn’t come along
but know in your heart
that I am happy and at peace
safely back home at last.
So when you wonder
smell new spring flowers
watch clouds gather and pass by
listen to the wind’s song
feel snowflakes in your hair
it is Me there in every moment.
CATHY QUAGLIA grew up in New York and moved to Killington,Vermont in 1975, establishing Aspen East Ski Shop with her husband, Lee. With the emergence of snowboarding, they started Surf the Earth Snowboards, and continue to run their retail and online stores together. During this time, she was a certified professional ski instructor and resort real estate broker. She has hosted many events at the shop, including book signings with best-selling authors, Linda Greenlaw, Reeve Lindbergh, Karen Lorentz and Wendy Clinch, and The Ski Channel’s movie THE STORY to a large audience at The Summit Lodge in January 2011. She created WATERCOLOR WORDS, a collaboration with fellow Killington Arts Guild member, artist Alice Sciore, combining Cathy’s poems, “ODE TO SKIING,” “REFLECTIONS ON SNOW,” and “MOUNTAIN HOME” with watercolor paintings that Alice created for them, which are now available for sale as art prints. She is working on a book of poetry and images called LIGHT ON LIFE. Contact
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
may celebrity poet
Christina Rossetti
(1830-1894)
nationality: english
 |
Christina Rossetti - Credit: Public Domain source: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Christina_Rossetti_3.jpg |
SONNETS ARE FULL OF LOVE
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.
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.
Read the entire poem at:
For the poet’s biography, see:
Quoted for educational purposes only.
All work the copyright of the respective authors.
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