mothers
you may sing about the heroes,
the men who roamed the glen,
their names are in our histories
kept alive by our memories,
were it not for men’s longings,
not a song would be sung for women…
those who washed your clothes,
those who kept you fed,
those whose bodies bore you,
those who comforted you,
those who came into your life,
those who’ve gone,
side by side they fought and died
with the heroes of your songs…
but not a name among them
comes to mind tonight,
the autumn sun is sinking low,
pale moon rises over the meadow,
shining on unmarked graves,
these are the places they lay,
those who loved you, hate you most,
that is, if they at all remember
the old mothers’ ghosts.
September 10th, 2004 at 2:56 am
There is a name I remember:
Dorothea
By a driftwood fire,
With your spirit next to me,
The stars and ocean
Will be companion enough
To see me through the dark night.
Alone, with surf sounds
And memories of your love,
I watch the sky turn
Around the empty vessel
I have become without you.
No child ever loved
More deeply than I loved you,
Though I knew it not,
Until you drifted beneath
The waves and summer flowers,
That held your ashes;
Ashes drifting with the tide,
That carried me here,
To watch these waves wash over
Ashes of my driftwood fire.
September 10th, 2004 at 3:06 am
That’s beautiful.
September 11th, 2004 at 2:07 am
Praise from a poet is gratefully received.