SENSITIZE ©

I Can Make You

She gave me life,
a simple thankless gift
extended in peasant fingers,
the corns on her palms
rubbing warmth and sweat
into me. That first breath
came with her gift, those
first cries for help -
from hunger, the cut knees,
grazed dignity, broken egos
that spread from bairn to boy
to youth.

'I can make you proud, mummy!'
How often I said that
with real feeling - passion, desire,
intent behind every whispered word.

I sit now and wonder how
to set about the task,
how to make her proud.
Would she have me run for pope?
Or perhaps she wants a poet for a son?
Or just to smile a while in fond memory?

I hold her hand - so dry - in mine
and feel the coolness of her
and the stillness of her
and find it here in this room,
the art of merely being.

This poem stopped me in my tracks Mike. A stunning work and one that has made me take stock of all the love my own mother has given me. I have a lump in my throat right now and I am completely moved by this.

Thank you.

Ah yes, the 'art of merely being'. My own son just has to exist for me to love him so, so much.

I suppose, as a mother, I'm looking at your poem from the 'other side'. It's equally as moving. Wonderful writing, Mike.