Ode to my mother

Whose feet were hardened by Philadelphia sidewalks.

Mother whose heart mid-beat

Has been frozen by tears–

She is the sweetness

of the last droplet of dreamsicle

Condensed in the corner of the wrapper

Smile crooked.

Grin wide

In defiance,

Lover of lilies

Orchids, roses

She is the Embodiment

of burnt orange sunsets and the awe that they insight.

Face of milk chocolate

Speckled in espresso


Mary Poppins’ carpetbag of solutions

She of intuition owl-like

From wisdom found in agony

Juggler of pain and purpose

balancing act of hope

She, whose life be not spared pain’s wintry fingers

Mother, fatherless

Father, ripped away by substance

Mother, of mother who serves as mother and father

Woman who took life’s tests

And passed with flying colors


Able to harness the sticky sweet dreamsicle moments

She DID have

And use those to fashion my life

Into one of happiness

Woman of the renaissance

Lady of the brush

Who can paint between worlds

Commanding canvas to buckle at the flick of her wrist

While painting primary dreams

To suck the sorrow

From my nightmares

Mother possessing the Midas touch

Not alone in fingertips, but in arms, in lap, in lips

Whose hugs are those of pillow softness

Whose lap served as portal to comfort

And escape from any trouble in my youth

Who can heal a scrape with one kiss

Once a girl of trouble, Now a woman of joy

Woman whose laughter

Will rumble any room

And spread smiles onto lips

Once certain they could only muster frowns


Who found a prince enduring equal suffering

And managed to join with him

And create a palace

Of salvation

For their two children

Everyone wants to be proud of their mother

But mine is the crown on my head

She’s been kicked down

Time after time

But she fights her way up

The dust clinging to her clothes

Falls away with every step into the starlight

Does not such a woman deserve an ode

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