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KateTheGreat's avatar

Can you help me find a good poem about mothers?

Asked by KateTheGreat (13635points) May 7th, 2011

I am trying to make my mum very happy this mother’s day. She is very stressed and lonely and she deserves all that I can give her. I already baked her a beautiful cake and decorated it, but I was thinking writing a huge letter to my mum for Mother’s Day. I want to include a sweet poem that will melt her heart but I am HORRIBLE at poetry. And I mean absolutely horrible. So I would prefer to have a poem by somebody else and write one myself. And I will not use the poem as my own.

Can you please help me? I am desperate!

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11 Answers

yankeetooter's avatar

Do you have any specific requirements? Rhyming vs. not rhyming?, etc…

KateTheGreat's avatar

@yankeetooter As long as it seems heartfelt and touching, I don’t care. I just don’t want anything super cheesy.

AmWiser's avatar

Come on Kate, don’t make us write a poem for you. Google search mother day quotes or mother day poems, and there will be a myriad of words you can use. Only you know what words you need to speak to your Mom as she is only special to you. Go…look at some poems…use one, or a combination of several. You can do it. I’m rootin’ for ya!

yankeetooter's avatar

I found this one on the internet…my poem writing skills are not worthy of your mother, I’m sure (at least not tonight when I’m brain dead)

You Were There

Anonymous

You were there when we took our first steps,
And went unsteadily across the floor.
You pushed and prodded: encouraged and guided,
Until our steps took us out the door…

You worry now “Are they ok?”
Is there more you could have done?
As we walk the paths of our unknown
You wonder “Where have my children gone?”

Where we are is where you have led us,
With your special love you showed us a way,
To believe in ourselves and the decisions we make.
Taking on the challenge of life day-to-day.

And where we go you can be sure,
In spirit you shall never be alone.
For where you are is what matters most to us,
Because to us that will always be home…

KateTheGreat's avatar

@AmWiser I did and all I found were some super cheesy ones!

KateTheGreat's avatar

@yankeetooter That’s a really good one!

yankeetooter's avatar

I just stumbled on it (ow, my toe!). It was the second one I read. I’m glad you like it…

Judi's avatar

When I was a kid I bought my mom a plaque that said this:
To one who bears the sweetest name
And adds a luster to the same
Long life to her for there’s no other
Can take the place of my dear Mother

everephebe's avatar

@KatetheGreat And I was under the impression that you hate poetry for some reason.
Unless, of course it’s read by me. :D

KateTheGreat's avatar

@everephebe My mother likes poetry, so I’m doing it for her. I still hate poetry with everything in me!

If you read me poetry, I might just die. Your voice makes me giddy.

Foolaholic's avatar

For your poetic consideration; The Lanyard, by Billy Collins

The other day I was ricocheting slowly
off the blue walls of this room,
moving as if underwater from typewriter to piano,
from bookshelf to an envelope lying on the floor,
when I found myself in the L section of the dictionary
where my eyes fell upon the word lanyard.

No cookie nibbled by a French novelist
could send one into the past more suddenly—
a past where I sat at a workbench at a camp
by a deep Adirondack lake
learning how to braid long thin plastic strips
into a lanyard, a gift for my mother.

I had never seen anyone use a lanyard
or wear one, if that’s what you did with them,
but that did not keep me from crossing
strand over strand again and again
until I had made a boxy
red and white lanyard for my mother.

She gave me life and milk from her breasts,
and I gave her a lanyard.
She nursed me in many a sick room,
lifted spoons of medicine to my lips,
laid cold face-cloths on my forehead,
and then led me out into the airy light

and taught me to walk and swim,
and I, in turn, presented her with a lanyard.
Here are thousands of meals, she said,
and here is clothing and a good education.
And here is your lanyard, I replied,
which I made with a little help from a counselor.

Here is a breathing body and a beating heart,
strong legs, bones and teeth,
and two clear eyes to read the world, she whispered,
and here, I said, is the lanyard I made at camp.
And here, I wish to say to her now,
is a smaller gift—not the worn truth

that you can never repay your mother,
but the rueful admission that when she took
the two-tone lanyard from my hand,
I was as sure as a boy could be
that this useless, worthless thing I wove
out of boredom would be enough to make us even.

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