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Two Poems from our Mother, mom, mommy Poetry Collection
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| MAMA'S POCKETBOOK |
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| Author: |
Seleta Johnson
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| Poem: |
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It always hung on the wall beside her favorite wooden chair,
By the warmth of the old tin heater, You could find her sitting there,
Anytime of night or day, you would see her fingers sewing,
Sometimes in the darkened night, the kerosene lamp was glowing,
Flickering almost synchronous to the Grand Ole Opry,
A country music radio station in Nashville Tennessee.
A steaming cup of coffee she could never be without,
And it sat upon the table that my daddy made from scraps,
The walls aligned with pictures, many graying now with age,
Relatives and family friends, too many passed away.
As mama sat there sewing, thinking what was yet to come,
She would rummage through her pocketbook for a stick of Wrigley's gum.
Doublemint or spearmint, no others she would chew,
And in that pocketbook, she always kept a pack or two.
A metal shelf stood in the kitchen, filled with special treats,
Candy corn and orange slices, Yes, Mama loved her sweets,
Christmas was a special time, with red and green balloons,
The old Victrola playing our favorite christmas tunes,
A cedar tree with lights and tinsel, balls and bells galore,
Was always found in Mama's house behind her bedroom door.
Summer months were hot and dry, but Mama didn't care,
Gardening her vegetables, each day you'd see her there,
Mason jars were filled with beans, tomatoes, corn and beets,
Fruits and veggies canned for winter, gave us food to eat.
Summer days of school time, afternoons i rode the bus,
Daydreaming of the yummy supper mama made for us,
As i step off of the school bus, a sweet aroma filled the air,
I walk into the kitchen, finding homemade biscuits there.
Yes, i can almost smell them now, the aroma lingers on,
But time has set the old house free, so i won't be going home,
But inside my head are memories,None could ever be much sweeter,
Than to still see mama's pocketbook, hanging there behind the old tin heater.
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More Mother, mom, mommy poems |
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| A sharp |
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| Author: |
Heather Hubbard
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| Poem: |
A sharp |
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A lingering soul In the world alone As beautiful as the music- Just listen to the music. A throbbing cello, Their heart is breaking; A crying violin, Their tears are spilling. The music of their heart Cries out its loneliness, No longer holding back What's hidden deep inside. To turn back the hands of time, Only to feel a loved one's embrace, To turn back the hands of time, Only to remove the heart's eternal scars. Slowly they rise above the fall, As beautiful as a dove; The heart tells a tale of woe, Then lonely it goes on. To linger in the pain, To let their hearts bleed, Through the crescendo and retardando- Just listen to the music.
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