MOTHER'S OF THE EARTH… (an ode)

I think of you as the founders of peace, limitless affection for children as you look upon your own and upon those outside of your arms reach.
(You would hold them, too,
Press the quivering child to your breast,
Conceal the innocent of any suffering or
War, away from the vile thievery of their soul.)

I think of mothers as the final resting place for all those exhausted of spirit; the displaced, the sick, the dying, as a warm respite for the bright eyed living.
(In Africa and Palestine yours is the voice of
What is possible; if it can be dreamed,
You seek out its thrumming center,
Stoking new belief and nurture what’s missing.)

I think of mothers as nothing short of absolute. Unwavering, boundless loyalty to an oft erratic planet. Devoted, not just to your own, but to all the earth’s offspring.
(Young and old, satisfied and hungry,
Glimmering of hope or faces beset by gloom;
The slums of Harlem, the streets of Sderot,
Woods of Kentucky, excavations of Tehrān.)

I think of you as the waters that course our common ground, warm winds that float in our dreams, the flowers. Women dangling love like necklaces.
(Women, whose hearts move with nature
And whose love lights the darkness
Of horror and the grim shadows of deceit,
From coast to coast and sea to shining sea.)

I think of you when madness grips my breathing, when the dreaded counting’s still afoot and the use of this world seems unwilling to wait. You stand at the rescuing door of cities that move deep from end to end of the sun.
(Your balance, undisturbed by fear,
Wrenches us to safety from ourselves
And from those that would usurp our affection.)

I think of mothers as the founders of peace, keepers of the entryway to love’s bosom. I celebrate you with words that fall short of your creed in mankind.
(I celebrate all women, for you are the harbors
Of our breathing, the beacons of our dreams,
The keepers of all children. You furnish us the
Much needed strength to resist the crow of failure.)

© 2008 mrp/thepoetryman

ODE TO MOTHER

(A Poetic Justice Photomontage)

Thou art nourishment.
Let this world surrender to thee.
Arise and take thy place at the gate of stars…

Thine is the crown of affection. O laugh laugh blue skies
Delight may soothe our errant shells,
Our infected creature and imperfect soul.
We should not tire of thy loves demonstration,
Instead we need hover to the center of its heaven
And kindly bathe in gentle ocean’s offspring.

Thou art nourishment!
Let this world surrender to thee!
Arise and take thy place at the gate of stars…

Summon us forth of thy wonderment. O weep no more!
Our birth, even thine own, we owe to thee,
Needing, even now, to enter thine arms embrace,
To be rescued of ourselves. Consoled. Loved.

There is no other miracle so desirable as our beginning.
Arise now and we toward yearning arms shall move.

© 2007 mrp/thepoetryman

Julia Ward Howe, Poet / Activist
Born: 27 May 1819
Birthplace: New York, New York
Died: 17 October 1910

Best Known As: The abolitionist who wrote The Battle Hymn of the Republic
Julia Ward Howe was a poet who co-published the anti-slavery newspaper The Commonwealth with her husband, Samuel Gridley Howe. In 1861 she wrote the words to The Battle Hymn of the Republic, which became the recognized theme song of the Union during the Civil War. After the war Howe continued writing, became active in the woman's suffrage movement and advocated world peace. In 1908 she became the first woman elected to the American Academy of Arts and Letters. Here's a must read - Mother's Day Proclamation by Julia Ward Howe.

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OCCASION FOR ALL NATIONS

We move swiftly to the call of our great nation
Past our half-empty-truths of an infant history
Balanced beyond the gaze of Lady Liberty
Inundated with the gape of knowing eyes
And the weight of truth under the murmuring sky.

O! America we are too immediate with judgment,
Overwhelmed in our wolf-jawed thinking
So harsh upon our dim view of the world;
A willfully ignorant Plexiglass shroud
Merciless to those deemed an axis of evil.

We do not much think of others, save for the dead,
Or the not quite living shells of our craving.
Have we not urged our soul toward the abyss?
To a reckoning if we ignore the plea of fellow man
And wet not the desiccated lips of our neighbor?

Are we not alive, tasting the future of blazing night,
Gazing in awe at the horrific bearing of our despair?

That we are estranged of our creation’s intent
Should give us bleeding thoughts of providence,
Striking our temples in agonizing white-eyed flesh.

Let the brown heifer search for the better meadow,
The flowers seek out their own seed’s beginning,
Waters time to heal of our most warred commodity,
Give occasion for all nations to mourn their dead
And daybreak to find its way through our mantle of night.

Copyright © 2006 mrp / thepoetryman