April Moon

A glimpse of the moon last night reminded me it is upon us. Tonight. The gift, in full.

April Moon

The moon mid-Spring
Shown with flowers
And the scent of your hair.

Silver-lined clouds
Drawn past your being
Then and now are one.

Love soars higher
Than my understanding
April moon -- once more.

..

Searching Mother

Again, I'd like to honor the day. But what can I say that equals that love--a hgher form?

As a father, love for my daughters may approach that bond. I hope. Even loving them more than the conscious love for her. Guess I couldn't say it better than my best of past. What have I written in it's theme? Mother. Motherhood. Mothers Day.

I searched within this blog for the word Mother. One among them I'd like to share again.


Lonely Hours -- Two Recollections

The fist is mine written April 7, 1998:

I cannot remember it's start this time, but life is good for me. Times were good, and they were hard . . . I don't remember bad. There's a balance in its memory--playtime joy, fantasy adventure, even heartfelt hurt. I now treasure the hard times, for looking back, they're good.

I do recall at three, or four, or five years old, for sure. We walked the field, my sister and I, in sun, and flowers, and wind on wheat. We followed thistle and grasses wove in the fence--the rust-wire fence that led us post-by-post to the pasture furthest south and east from the house. In these two acres with the three oak trees, and bramble near the corner post outside the gate, the hours slipped by as we were blessed with bachelor button and dandelion--over the hill, down from the barn, by the creek.

We didn't hear Mom calling, or know her frantic search--or know why she shed tears upon our gift bouquets.

Nor did I understand my sobs, when later Mom would read the poem she wrote of this account: Lonely Hours. She read it many times to family and friends, and uncles and aunts. And never in that time, and to the age of reason, did I hear the poem without my heart being wrung and wrenched of tears. I'd often leave the room before its final lines. Or Mom would forewarn the reading, so I could retreat outside. But still within my heart, what was the pain I felt? Even in silence the oft repeated rhyme cried loudly for relief.

This morning I glanced at the portraits of my daughters on the wall. I paused and understood, as tears formed in my eyes. There is no shame in crying--for a mother's love. And no misunderstanding can hide a boy's heart from his mother, or his daughters' from their dad.

I wrote that piece after our daughters had left home already. At times someone would ask, Do you miss them? My answer is always: No. I love them. Same with my mother. I don't miss what lives in my heart.

Our girls are now about the age my mom was when she wrote of the above incident. Here is her poem:

Lonely Hours


My feet ache, still my heart is glad.
The small ones left; it made me sad.
I scolded them a while before
And all because they slammed the door.
It woke the baby and made him cry
And, oh, for peace so much longed I.
They asked me, then, what should they do?
I paid no heed. Before I knew
A silence rare fell all around --
Those little ones could not be found.
Perhaps they thought of what to do,
But where were they? If I just knew.
Oh, please, God, help and keep them safe
And I'll be good and never chafe
At little things they often do
And noise they make the whole day through.
I called and called -- no answer came.
I ran and ran 'til I was lame.
Down to the creek -- they were not there.
Where could they be, that tiny pair?
I called some more; the plane o'er head
Drowned out my voice. Oh, were they dead?
Up through the lane, top of the hill --
No children there, it was so still.
Hastening on farther away
Next through the field I made my way.
I called and called and called again --
Only the rustling of growing grain
Blown by the wind was all I heard.
Where was Mary? Where was Gerard?
I fear and hope I sped along,
Shies were clouding, the way was long.
Shading my eyes the better to see
Two objects small beneath a tree.
And there they were quite unconcerned,
Those two dear ones for whom I yearned,
Their tiny hands clenched with flowers
Gathered by them these lonely hours.
Thank God they're safe and I must weep.
Oh, happy heart, but aching feet! . . .

I have to say, I think mom's rendition is the better one. Another one of her poems can be read in my eulogy for her in August of 2006.

Mothers Day 2006

My brother sent this to me after her visit.
Mom by his azalea's. She loves flowers.

I wrote this one two years ago. Still, I can't love her like I feel I should--like she loves me. (I guess such love is for my daughters now.) When I call her today, and say, Happy Mother's Day!, she may say, It is? Even being with my brother celebrating the occasion, she won't remember why. Seems sad now. But it really isn't. Nothing negates a love lived fully. It's like money in the bank--still drawing interest. And she always remembers who I am.

At Your Breast

O Mother, at your breast
I first remember with my mouth and ear
Big, brown nipples, soft and heart beat on my cheek.
What nourishment you gave me!
And ever after
Every woman is a measure of your love.

O Mother, on your knee
I've seen the world through new eyes
By the song of your life
And the call of your smile's voice
See the bird. Touch the tree.
Read to me
And learned a measure of your love.

O Mother, at your side
Hand-in-hand. My first guide
Through baby steps and walking miles.
Early life a journey at your side
in memory of left turns right.
And then forgot
the first true measure of your love.

O Mothers Day has come and gone
some fifty times since I was born.
I've given you but small return on
The gift you've given me.
If I were judged as royalty
my worth could only be minute
by the measure of your love.

Here's today's haiku for Mom:

laundry day

against summer skies
silver maple quickens in breeze
she dances with shirts

My sister said it another way in Dance Lesson:












See also my other tributes to Mom in River-Tree Whispers.