My son rarely gives a gift, so when he does, I save it
like the paper butterfly, (in second grade he gave it).
The lack of funds were often low when he was a little boy,
when I wanted so much to give him a special Christmas toy
But could not afford the prices that his wealthy friends paid.
It broke my heart to substitute something just homemade.
Although the gifts were wrapped with love, I often let him down,
and disappointment rankled harshly in those eyes of brown.
I thought back then perhaps he would never come to understand
how much care was in the giving of those things I made by hand.
The years went by so quickly; he left home and grew to be a man.
Life on the Bering Sea chafed tenuous in cold hardworking hands.
I never knew from day to day what fate would be his lot,
then a bell came, painted fleur de lis, in blue forget me nots.
What I know from all those years, his heart he rarely gives,
but there's a special place inside it where his mother lives.
I may not deserve that treasure which gives my life some worth,
but I could not, would not, trade that spot for all the gold on earth.
Author notes
I didn't expect these memories tonight to surface in a rhyming poem.... and not technically one my best, but there you have it, unvarnished and real.
Comments
1 - 7 of 7
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Excellent
A very creative and well written poem. And good use of rhyme. Thank you for sharing
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Rhyming couplets is [imo] most appropriate for your theme - it has just the right folksy down-home feel. The poem itself provoked bittersweet memories for me: my late mother wrote a poem about me, though I didn't get to read it [or even know of its existence] until after her death. She wrote:
Virgin clay moulded with love
Gentleness and compassion folded in
Dreams of tomorrow
Dimpled hands clutching at my heart-strings
Now grown big, creeps beneath my elbow
Guiding me through life’s highways
Remember, son, I love you well
So remember me in the dead of night
As we went hand in hand through life
Now they are gone and in their place
Nothing but despair: but, at least,
There are marks to show that I passed through
I was raised in a poor family in post-war Britain and presents were in short supply and often home-made. I recall one such present. My mother knitted me a pair of swimming trunks. I hated them - they were horridly itchy though in those days you wouldn't dare say such a thing. The first time I wore them at the sea-side I took a dip in the sea. The damned things became waterlogged and heavy and slip inexorably down my legs to my acute embarrassment. My poor mother was mortified at my distress, but I knew she'd done her best!
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What a beautiful poem, meic. I'm so glad you shared it with me and the others who come to my page. I can imagine how awful that must have been! My mother used to knit things for me quite often, but not a swim suit. My son is a busy man these days, and I can't keep up with his pace. He can buy most things that he really wants now, within reason, but the things that truly mattered then were not always things, yet still beyond my power to provide. Thinking about what she writes of you with dimpled hands, I know just how she felt, and I hope the marks I leave trace my heart. My son has teenagers of his own now, but sometimes I still make peanut butter cookies for him. He doesn't say much, but the light softens in his eyes and I can see the pleasure. So some homemade things still mean home.
It's nice to know you are still on site. It's been a long time!
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Gee Karen you make me tear up.
Sucha special gift this poem. I know he loves you
more than you know.
Joe
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Thank you for reading, Joe. One thing, talk is never cheap between us when I get the rare chance to spend a moment with him. He walks according to his own light these days, and it makes me happy when I see a glint of laughter and happiness in his eyes from time to time.
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It may be "unvarnished", Karen, but it has the invaluable merit of being from the heart, and therefore sincere. Your mother-love shines through in every single word.
Warmest wishes,
Bill
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I appreciate the gentle thoughts, Bill. I would love to spend more time with my son these days, but he's here and gone quite often and I am blessed that he is nearby.
Karen
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