M-O-T-H-E-R

a poem by Linda Bates Terrell, USA

Happy Mothers day to one and all,
Some are short, and some ever so tall,
Some sitting in church, family and all,
Some jogging home midday, from local bar,
Some washing and waxing the family car,

Some mothers cast upon their children guilt,
Some teach how to sew and quilt,
Some tackle their sons in football,
Some bake cookies with daughters, what a ball

Some sit on porches smoking cigars.
Some even race cars.
Some with skin like fresh drawn milk,
Some with scars white as silk.

Some paint pictures, of old times,
Some write poem of silly rhymes,
Some work every day,
Some stay home, kneel and pray,

Some drive kids to and fro,
Some have an uncle called Joe,
Some like softball, baseball, soccer too.
Some add Iodine to a stubbed toe, one or few,

Some build snowmen tall and proud,
Singing merrily soft then loud.
Sometimes singing to a crowd.

M-o-t-h-e-r's, no two are the same.
It's much more than a child's game.
To a photo, of each kind, one could frame.
But they're all spelled the same-- M-O-T-H-E-R.

By Linda Terrell
&
Matthew

May 10, 2009

corrected May 12, 2012

Happy Mothers day to one and all.




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