Hi All
We’re rushing through the year - careering into May like little souls possessed.
Inbetween all this hurtling, loads and loads of you had time to write poems about your mums or grandmas. It was quite a job coming up with the winning poets as I would have liked to have chosen half a dozen or more but at least you are able to read the pick of the bunch on this blog.
I promised my own poem on Mother and here it is:
Mother
We used to be two different people
You were you and I was me
Through time we are gradually merging
It began when I opened my mouth
and heard your voice
Your words
Directed not at me but at my own child
‘Why? Because I said so, that’s why’
‘I never spoke to my mother like that’
‘I’ll treat you like an adult when you start acting like one’
Until today
I looked into the mirror
And saw your face
Smiling back at me
The winning poet for Barnet Borough Times is Melanie Newland with her poem Being Mum:
Being Mum
by Melanie Newland
The light was dim but still she sat
sewing name tags into coats and hats.
And though tired out she was still able
to set the plates for the breakfast table.
Lunch in boxes, clothes washed and pressed
all ready to get the children dressed.
A kiss goodbye, they'd gone in seconds
no time to lose, as hoovering beckoned.
The after school activities,
sports days and nativities
And when she thought they'd flown the nest
a student loan to add to debt.
To watch them grow and make their way
into the world would send her grey.
But though the worry was never done
she'd always cherish being "mum".
JD Milaric is the winning poet for Harrow with The Best Club in the World.
THE BEST CLUB IN THE WORLD by JD Milaric
Whether you are a grandma or grandpa
A granny or granddad, nana or papa
Or you’ve been called a silly sounding
Name, which they have been using
Since when they were first talking
Whatever it is, for sure, you’re truly blessed
When that little boy or girl
Calls you, as you know that you’re in the best
Club in the world
When he or she calls you one of those
Names, then your love for them knows
No bounds
No joining fee or annual subscriptions
Health criteria or age restrictions
Apply to members - just apply yourself with,
All of the love in the world that you can give
To that little girl or boy
So that you can enjoy
A lifetime’s membership of which is, surely
The best club in the world for any family
I’m a papa and it’s true, take it from me
It was a close run thing because Rose Wilson was a very close runner-up with her delightful poem, The Young Mother.
The Young Mother by Rose Wilson
Not every modern miss would choose to be a single mother.
Young Mattie though, quite selflessly, longs to adopt another
Doll or teddy bear into a brood diverse and sweet.
Whose playful, naughty antics help make her life complete.
There’s no need to raid the piggy bank for outings to the park.
It’s an imaginary picnic for this canny matriarch.
Floppy Poppy, so unladylike she will not sit up straight
With the tea set out before her dives nose first into the plate.
Home schooling brings its challenges, she often has to scold
That truant draught excluder snake who slinks off when it’s cold.
Of all the siblings one alone has learned to call her “Mummy”.
But only on the pressing of a button in its tummy.
Woolly brained Mutton Geoff, poor lamb, who sadly lost both ears
Won’t do a thing he’s told since an encounter with the shears.
Cute Sindy’s jaw is broken – Barbie pushed her off a stool!
Yet her smile remains intact, an inspiration to us all.
The infants all refuse to walk on tootsies small and bare.
So cradled in protective arms they’re carried everywhere.
Mattie couldn’t love them any more if they were hers by birth
And despite their imperfections is the proudest mum on Earth.
Until friends call to play outside, while they wait at the door
She grabs her shoes and coat and drops her cherubs to the floor
MARGARET REILLY wrote:
I googled your name and nothing came up
No accounts of heroics or any such stuff
So I've wrote this little poem to sum you up
A short little woman her hair up in a. bun
Who loved to see us kids having fun
Golders Green Park and Southend on Sea
Still bring those happy memories back to me
Worked so hard for her living
Washing up in many a cafe
Returning exhausted with sweets in her pockets for us
Embarrassing at times I mean who screams on a merry-go-round
Or introduces a rather large me as her wee daughter
No matter how many times bad news knocked at her door
She bounced back up to carry on as before
No medals given her here on earth
Peace and rest I hope she's been granted now
A queen in her new world
Sparkling and bright
Waiting to welcome her wee ones when the time is right!
The Willow Tree in Waterlow Park
By Ian Bloom
When I was small, people were tall,
But the willow was taller still.
We'd go to the park, mother and me,
Where I'd happily play at her knee.
Then I'd climb that tree, hide in its branches.
Mum was the cowboy, I, the Indian chief
High above her, a tiny Swaying Bull.
The years slipped by. I moved away.
Though when David was young, I'd return
So he could romp in Sydney's space.*
Now I was the cowboy and he, the chief.
Only if he was shielded by leaves
Did the old willow and I quietly weep
For my missing mum. I hope she's at ease.
*Sir Sydney Waterlow bought and, in 1889, gifted
the small park in Highgate Village to the LCC as
a "garden for the gardenless". Waterlow Park is
now maintained by the London Borough of Camden.
Mother by Don Reuben
A pretty little lady
Always smiling
Hair well groomed
Neatly clad
Colours well coordinated
Skin as smooth as a baby
Full of goodness and purity
Kind and gentle
Trustworthy in all her dealings
Helpful to friends and family
Would not do anything wrong
Good moral conscience
Loved by most
Cares about people
A humble soul
A woman with dignity
Generous to those in need
Good religious values
Worth more than gold
That's my mother
Granny by Michael Gerstein:
Her wrinkled hands held a photo frame.
The gold wood honoured his handsome face.
below, in pencil, he had put,
“With love”, and signed his name.
In oval sepia he smiled in uniformed grace.
Hunched in her nostalgic room
she sat in a wine, velvet armchair,
with memories that float away like a balloon;
alone, with no one to share.
Light from an unwashed window filtered down
and danced with dust;
but dancing light cannot show
how hard her loss,
and how unjust.
He gave her the photo before the War;
love and friendship both had found.
But her treasured love she would have to store
till he got back safe and sound.
Her cracked lips touched this one memento
in heart breaking anguish!
Dear God, where is her compensation!
The War stole her love, like a thief;
her whole life crushed by a brutal nation!
Why did she stay in this place
despite her bitterness and hate?
And she knew as she gazed at his kindly face,
it was somewhere deep in her heart
that she kept her love and best mate.
In Praise Of A Very Special Grandmother Written Over Fifty Years After Her Death In 1969
by Patricia Tausz
My grandmother though small in stature had a heart of gold
She lived until she was almost eighty-seven years old
Dressed always in black she looked elegant and smart:
I really loved her with all my heart.
She arrived in England when I was barely three
I was as fond of her as she was of me
So many skills she brought to us living in our flat
‘With people of all walks of life she enjoyed a chat’
She loved to cook, to knit and to sew
Had the patience of Job when I had a go
Only at weekends with us en famille would she eat:
On Friday afternoons a chocolate éclair would she buy me as a treat.
She enriched my life by teaching me French when I was seven
When in her company I felt I was in heaven,
In our family life she never interfered
By one and all I learned she was revered.
Though she had seen joy and tragedy in her long life
I had been told she had been an exemplary mother and doctor's wife
But to me for twenty-two years I knew her as Granny, the lady with a heart of gold
Proudly living to the ripe age of almost eighty-seven years old.
What is a Mother? by Howard Lambe
What is a mother?
She is the heart and soul of the family
The giver and maker of life
It is to her we turn in times of strife
A fountain of wisdom when things get tough
The rock to rest on when life is rough
The secrets of motherhood are in her remit
The joy of her children she will readily admit
Love and affection are her tools of the trade
A calming voice when tempers are frayed
Patience and tolerance are her natural gift
If someone is low their spirits she will lift
Tiressley she runs the home through good times and bad
Accepting all the responsibilities if there is no dad
Working all hours without complaint
To her family she is next to a saint
Regardles of what some might say
Her family come first come what may
When seeking advice she is our first call
As without her there can be no family at all
The Mothers and Grandmothers
by Shanaz Hosany
Dum-
To the women,
Who have,
Embraced life,
And given life,
Dum-
Without the
Mothers and Grandmothers,
Our hearts will,
Not beat,
Dum-
To the women,
Half of the world,
Thrives,
Due to,
Dum-
These women,
Who I want to be,
And will be in the future:
The Mothers and Grandmothers.
Ba-dum.
T'S A KIND OF MAGIC - by Richard Adam
Your kitchen was your castle.
Scrumptious salmon cutlets, rich meatballs in thick gravy,
Hot fresh succulent chicken with cauli on Sunday for lunch.
You knew exactly how long to brew my tea.
You never left my childhood bedside table through measles,and whooping cough,
You drove me wherever I wished to go,
Bought me books and always took my side against others.
Sent me socks and money when I was at University.
Looked after devotedly your blonde hair and your Mother, my Gran
And your dad and our beloved pug who worshipped you.
You heart broke when your sister Joyce passed away.
She loved you , you were with her till her final days.
Please God,bring my Mum back into the kitchen
To create perfect steaks and full flavoured cups of tea.
Mum, you really are
A special kind of magic to me.
Kusum Hars
She hurried to the station accompanied by an old man
Today she was meeting the person who had given her birth
She was anxious, for years she had imagined this day
What would she look like, will she be able to recognise her
Or that person her 'mum' recognise her in return
How would she know her mum, will she be able to hug her.
She remembered the day she left her and her siblings
And just took the youngest, a baby still, with her.
Nothing was explained to her, she was just eight, and was told
Mum is going away for a while to rest in her father's house.
So she bade her farewell not realising she will never be back.
Every time she searched for her mum in faces of strangers
But alas never found her until this day fifteen years later.
The train had arrived, the crowd at the station was thinning
The restroom was empty except for two ladies huddled in a corner.
As soon as she entered they looked up, one a tall grey haired lady
Looked at her and then hesitating and almost in whispers
Addressed her by her pet name. She could not contain herself
Tears flowed from her eyes and with it all the grief of all the years
She hugged her mum for the first time in years.
TO MY MOTHER , ON MOTHER'S DAY, 1989 Peter Collins
What can, I say my mother dear
That hasn't been said in yesteryear,
You're always there to give your love,
Your radiance shines like the sun above.
Whenever I'm sad or shed a tear,
I always know that you are near,
Your good advice, your common sense,
Relieves the pressures when I am tense,
You're always positive in all that you do,
Dear mother, I wish that I was like you.
It's nearly two years since we lost Dad,
The saddest times we've ever had,
We still can't believe that he's not here,
To spread a smile, to raise a cheer,
But you have the strength and I hope it will last,
To make a bright future, and still think of the past,
Of the good times that were shared by all,
Through winter, spring, summer and fall,
I wish you good health and happiness, you're like no other,
I couldn't ever wish for a better mother!
TO MY MOTHER AGED 90 (2005) by Peter Collins
At times like these it's difficult to say,
How much you mean to me,
You look so well, no one could tell
That you're not how you seem to be.
You always have a smile on your face,
You always stand the test,
You are so positive in every way,
You simply are the best!
And as we reach another year
And it's Mother's Day again,
I know without a shadow of doubt,
That I'm the luckiest of men.
To have a mother like no other,
So loving and caring, it's true,
I'll know that you'll live for many more years,
I could never love anyone like you!
My Mum by Jeff Edmunds
It’s difficult not to be sentimental about you, Mum…
You were strong when strength was needed
You were soft and gentle when for painful cuts and
bruises you interceded
You always had something to give me when I was hungry
You soothed me when I got angry
You sat with me by my sick bed
You comforted me until my nightmares fled
You had stories and smiles
You had sad songs that went on a while
You had faith in my ability
You gave me independence, but always corrected me
You answered my strangest questions
You distracted me in my turmoil with nice suggestions
Above all, mum, you were exactly who you needed to be
My loving mum…
Forty Winks by Ian Herne
She'd seen it all from her window on the street.
Nothing amazed her although she claimed it did.
Forty winks were her words, forty winks is what she said.
She called it forty winks and to me it was her sleep,
her catnap without a cat. It made her perky in the
evening.
She led a long life, loved by everyone. Mama, Granma.
Hair, silky smooth and white floss mop atop a face
so bright and full of fun. Never angry, never cruel. An example
to us all who talked to her on how to live. Not casting
aspersions. 1975 was an awful year. She died just before
the cat.
And I recall her fondly buying me little racing cars in
Woolworths with pension money that should have been
buying weekly provisions and a jar of honey. It was a time
of bacon counters and cheese, cut with piano wire, and
Liptons tea and sculleries and larders with shelves made
of love.
And like all Mothers in the Blitz
She sang the songs of all the hits
From Vera Lynn to Amazing Grace
As sinister bombs left their permanent trace.
Hope you enjoyed this selection. Think you could do better? Next month’s subject is Queen - royalty, rock group or drag …. it’s up to you.
Have a good month
Judy Karbritz
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