Grandmothers are mothers who are grand,
Restoring the sense that our most precious things
Are those that do not change much over time.
No love of childhood is more sublime,
Demanding little, giving on demand,
More inclined than most to grant the wings
On which we fly off to enchanted lands.
Though grandmothers must serve as second mothers,
Helping out with young and restless hearts,
Each has all the patience wisdom brings,
Remembering our passions more than others,
Soothing us with old and well-honed arts.

Great bosses grant the glory they receive,
Offering their praise and their devotion.
On them the mantle settles like a cloak
Designed to shelter lots of little folk,
Bearing them along in its emotion.
Yet freely we give more than we receive,
Eager to float that ship upon our ocean.

If I could give my mom the world
Or anything she wanted,
I'd give her my own heart and soul
And leave my own heart haunted.
I'd take upon myself her life
With all its strife and pain,
And let her ease into some space
Where she could live again.

The pain for me would not be pain,
At least not for a while;
For I'd be doing it for her,
And I would see her smile.

I wish that I could take

Behold the mother with her newborn child!
An icon of a hope that never dies.
Death may label all we cherish lies,
Yet this love lies too deep to be defiled.
We clear an inner field where fate has smiled,
Letting play the pleasures of surmise,
Holding back all contrary replies,
As though our thoughts might turn the winters mild.
Despite the well-known travesties of time,
Each time a child is born we dream anew,
For only thus our losses are regained.
Though we must share the destiny of slime,
No passion in our palette is more true
Than that which cradles innocence unstained.

Families are created out of love
And live within the cup of love's large hands.
No momentary pain can love remove
Or taint the trust of one who understands.
We live at times at odds with those who love us,
Colliding in our anger like great waves,
Refusing to have anyone above us
Nor willing to give up what passion craves.
But anger is a storm we know will pass,
And freedom is the nature of the will.
We run like wild horses through the grass
Yet know we are constrained by hunger still.
Sometimes, obsessed with losses and with gains,
We turn towards home and find that love remains.

I am the family face;
Flesh perishes, I live on,
Projecting trait and trace
Through time to times anon,
And leaping from place to place
Over oblivion.

Wedding Poems