THE BLOG
01/29/2015 09:37 am ET Updated Dec 06, 2017

Mother

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Of all the words
there could ever be
titles and fashions of the lady
I love, Mother shines way above
the beauty of all tragedy.

Of all the mountains climbed,
the bumpity bump of life's humps
A mother of mine rings her chime
with a ding and dong, a ding with her ling!
She knows her worth, she knows her thing.
She tells of hers, ours, all those births she's seen
for whatever it is worth, she rides the ride of her life.

When all is lost and gone,
and friends dwindle on,
Mother is the one
who basks in your love
her love grown from the mourning dove
and shows you what's up- way above
the night and day cover her up
yes, she was your first lover.

Go on, mother dear,
move on, sweet and clear,
you catch me deep in my sleep
dreaming your touch over me
draped in the night light- an incredible sight
of a moon sliced bright, slivered gems of crystal delight.

I love you so ever much as stars a'shining
with the humming wheels of a cosmos so real
that turn inside, that say you're alive, you know the deal-
as stardust, i trust, is a bite of the earth's crust-
that tell me you are the dancer, alive and well,
as you dance and dally, you must, you swell- I'm well!

Rolling hills of curves, and places that live
inside the minds of the intelligent kind
you sputter and speak, the words that leak
brilliant bright beams of bombastic
fantastic elastic monastic time.

Mother is mine.