Mother Mine

A word about mother not said before?

She’s been praised, berated, celebrated

And sometimes ushered out of the back door.

It’s true that If she weren’t always related

She would certainly be less of a boar.

Somehow, most days, we find that we love her.

Though she cries at church when her children speak

About her and would most often prefer

If the talk given was not a critique 

And had left some of her worst traits a blur.

Pity mother, we can’t live without her,

(To who else falls the mundane and diapers?)

And even though she is an amateur,

We wonder, if she were left to vipers,

Who would chauffeur, confer, or just concur?

Who’d pay the piper and be the dish wiper

If mother were missing, gone from our lives?

Who’d be the baker, the cookie maker,

Who’d keep the archives and give the high fives,

Buy ice cream and be birthday cake writer? 

We honor mom for prizing age thirteen,

That time when each new teen is always right.
Dear mom, who treats each burst with insight keen
And gently leads us 'til we see the light
While helping us to learn to be serene.

As we grow older we soon discover,
That she will leave soiled dishes in the sink
To babysit and to rediscover
That precious, intelligent, missing link
Who made her an angelic grandmother.

So one more praise for mother, this day’s queen,

Who loves her gifted children and their dad.

Who works to keep things clean and intervene

When all the world is sad and dark and bad
And never, no never, causes a scene.

Copyright by Myrna Trauntvein