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Mother's Day

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  • Jim Lamoreux
    It s good to celebrate, it s good to mourn. I often wondered what people did on Mother s Day who had lost their mothers. A few years ago I had the sad
    Message 1 of 6 , May 8, 2011
      It's good to celebrate, it's good to mourn. I often wondered what people did
      on "Mother's Day" who had lost their mothers. A few years ago I had the sad
      opportunity to find out. This is a piece that came to me as I lay awake in
      the small hours of this morning. This poem is a combination of things not
      necessarily biographical to me, but close enough so that I can feel the
      message in the poem. This is for all of us who have lost their mother. I
      hope this is not a poem of loss, so much as about the gift of remembering,
      and how people can return to you...as long as you never forget them.



      Mother's Day
      By Jim Lamoreux

      In the distance
      Lightening plods across the wet land
      And thunder trails like angry calves.

      The clock
      Is moving its cold metal arms
      Across the open face,

      And now it's five seconds
      Into "Mother's Day."

      In the living room
      The fire snuffs out and smoke
      Drizzles up the chimney.

      On the couch is a picture book,
      Some cigarette butts sleep huddled
      In a ceramic ash tray
      Near a stained, empty cup of coffee.

      It is five minutes into "Mother's Day."

      The rain
      Pats the roof
      And marches across the sated lawn
      Touching the things she bought
      The elves, the deer, things chosen to be with her
      In the morning
      When the sun rose and she fed the birds.

      Now the elfin forest
      Weeps.

      Rain makes dimples on the cold surface
      Of the bird bath water.
      Lightening illuminates the lawn
      Flashing across the colored bird houses.
      The clock ticks, the refrigerator hums,
      Her clothes hang in the closet,
      Her shoes rest on the floor.

      It is fifteen minutes into "Mother's Day."
      The dog stirs in fitful sleep.
      He has waited so long,
      And though he was patient and good
      She hasn't returned.

      Twelve thirty,
      And it has been "Mother's Day"
      For thirty minutes



      Without her.
    • Diva
      (smiles) Jim, This is beautiful. I am reminded of my late Mother in her garden. Thank you. Marge ... From: Jim Lamoreux Subject:
      Message 2 of 6 , May 8, 2011
        (smiles)

        Jim,
        This is beautiful. I am reminded of my late Mother in her garden.
        Thank you.

        Marge

        --- On Sun, 5/8/11, Jim Lamoreux <jlamoreux@...> wrote:

        From: Jim Lamoreux <jlamoreux@...>
        Subject: [ticket2write] Mother's Day
        To: ticket2write@yahoogroups.com
        Date: Sunday, May 8, 2011, 9:45 AM

         

        It's good to celebrate, it's good to mourn. I often wondered what people did
        on "Mother's Day" who had lost their mothers. A few years ago I had the sad
        opportunity to find out. This is a piece that came to me as I lay awake in
        the small hours of this morning. This poem is a combination of things not
        necessarily biographical to me, but close enough so that I can feel the
        message in the poem. This is for all of us who have lost their mother. I
        hope this is not a poem of loss, so much as about the gift of remembering,
        and how people can return to you...as long as you never forget them.

        Mother's Day
        By Jim Lamoreux

        In the distance
        Lightening plods across the wet land
        And thunder trails like angry calves.

        The clock
        Is moving its cold metal arms
        Across the open face,

        And now it's five seconds
        Into "Mother's Day."

        In the living room
        The fire snuffs out and smoke
        Drizzles up the chimney.

        On the couch is a picture book,
        Some cigarette butts sleep huddled
        In a ceramic ash tray
        Near a stained, empty cup of coffee.

        It is five minutes into "Mother's Day."

        The rain
        Pats the roof
        And marches across the sated lawn
        Touching the things she bought
        The elves, the deer, things chosen to be with her
        In the morning
        When the sun rose and she fed the birds.

        Now the elfin forest
        Weeps.

        Rain makes dimples on the cold surface
        Of the bird bath water.
        Lightening illuminates the lawn
        Flashing across the colored bird houses.
        The clock ticks, the refrigerator hums,
        Her clothes hang in the closet,
        Her shoes rest on the floor.

        It is fifteen minutes into "Mother's Day."
        The dog stirs in fitful sleep.
        He has waited so long,
        And though he was patient and good
        She hasn't returned.

        Twelve thirty,
        And it has been "Mother's Day"
        For thirty minutes

        Without her.

      • Jim Lamoreux
        ... skills set. Still you can love something and appreciate it without creating it yourself. (smiles) Jim, This is beautiful. I am reminded of my late Mother
        Message 3 of 6 , May 8, 2011
          ---Thanks Marge. My Mom loved flowers but growing a garden was not in her
          skills set. Still you can love something and appreciate it without creating
          it yourself.

          (smiles)

          Jim,
          This is beautiful. I am reminded of my late Mother in her garden.
          Thank you.

          Marge

          --- On Sun, 5/8/11, Jim Lamoreux <jlamoreux@...> wrote:


          From: Jim Lamoreux <jlamoreux@...>
          Subject: [ticket2write] Mother's Day
          To: ticket2write@yahoogroups.com
          Date: Sunday, May 8, 2011, 9:45 AM



          It's good to celebrate, it's good to mourn. I often wondered what people did
          on "Mother's Day" who had lost their mothers. A few years ago I had the sad
          opportunity to find out. This is a piece that came to me as I lay awake in
          the small hours of this morning. This poem is a combination of things not
          necessarily biographical to me, but close enough so that I can feel the
          message in the poem. This is for all of us who have lost their mother. I
          hope this is not a poem of loss, so much as about the gift of remembering,
          and how people can return to you...as long as you never forget them.

          Mother's Day
          By Jim Lamoreux

          In the distance
          Lightening plods across the wet land
          And thunder trails like angry calves.

          The clock
          Is moving its cold metal arms
          Across the open face,

          And now it's five seconds
          Into "Mother's Day."

          In the living room
          The fire snuffs out and smoke
          Drizzles up the chimney.

          On the couch is a picture book,
          Some cigarette butts sleep huddled
          In a ceramic ash tray
          Near a stained, empty cup of coffee.

          It is five minutes into "Mother's Day."

          The rain
          Pats the roof
          And marches across the sated lawn
          Touching the things she bought
          The elves, the deer, things chosen to be with her
          In the morning
          When the sun rose and she fed the birds.

          Now the elfin forest
          Weeps.

          Rain makes dimples on the cold surface
          Of the bird bath water.
          Lightening illuminates the lawn
          Flashing across the colored bird houses.
          The clock ticks, the refrigerator hums,
          Her clothes hang in the closet,
          Her shoes rest on the floor.

          It is fifteen minutes into "Mother's Day."
          The dog stirs in fitful sleep.
          He has waited so long,
          And though he was patient and good
          She hasn't returned.

          Twelve thirty,
          And it has been "Mother's Day"
          For thirty minutes

          Without her.
        • Wings081
          Hi Jim Re: Beautiful without creating it . Give me a bucket of paint and a brush or roller and I ll spruce up your home to make you gasp in admiration but
          Message 4 of 6 , May 9, 2011
            Hi Jim

            Re: "Beautiful without creating it".

            Give me a bucket of paint and a brush or roller and I'll spruce up your home to make you gasp in admiration but stick me in front of a canvas on a easel, give me a camel hair brush and a mahl stick and I wouldn't know where to start.
            I admire the beauty of `La Gioconda' by Leonardo da Vinci and the famous enigmatic smile, probably the most famous painting in the World.
            Some say the model was Leonardo's male apprentice and lover.
            Admitted there is a resemblance to a young man's face, but I will always subscribe to the theory the sitter was Caterina, Leonardo's mother.

            Debutante or fish-wife , a mother will always remain beautiful to her children.

            As always
            Wings









            --- In ticket2write@yahoogroups.com, "Jim Lamoreux" <jlamoreux@...> wrote:
            >
            > ---Thanks Marge. My Mom loved flowers but growing a garden was not in her
            > skills set. Still you can love something and appreciate it without creating
            > it yourself.
            >
            > (smiles)
            >
            > Jim,
            > This is beautiful. I am reminded of my late Mother in her garden.
            > Thank you.
            >
            > Marge
            >
            > --- On Sun, 5/8/11, Jim Lamoreux <jlamoreux@...> wrote:
            >
            >
            > From: Jim Lamoreux <jlamoreux@...>
            > Subject: [ticket2write] Mother's Day
            > To: ticket2write@yahoogroups.com
            > Date: Sunday, May 8, 2011, 9:45 AM
            >
            >
            >
            > It's good to celebrate, it's good to mourn. I often wondered what people did
            > on "Mother's Day" who had lost their mothers. A few years ago I had the sad
            > opportunity to find out. This is a piece that came to me as I lay awake in
            > the small hours of this morning. This poem is a combination of things not
            > necessarily biographical to me, but close enough so that I can feel the
            > message in the poem. This is for all of us who have lost their mother. I
            > hope this is not a poem of loss, so much as about the gift of remembering,
            > and how people can return to you...as long as you never forget them.
            >
            > Mother's Day
            > By Jim Lamoreux
            >
            > In the distance
            > Lightening plods across the wet land
            > And thunder trails like angry calves.
            >
            > The clock
            > Is moving its cold metal arms
            > Across the open face,
            >
            > And now it's five seconds
            > Into "Mother's Day."
            >
            > In the living room
            > The fire snuffs out and smoke
            > Drizzles up the chimney.
            >
            > On the couch is a picture book,
            > Some cigarette butts sleep huddled
            > In a ceramic ash tray
            > Near a stained, empty cup of coffee.
            >
            > It is five minutes into "Mother's Day."
            >
            > The rain
            > Pats the roof
            > And marches across the sated lawn
            > Touching the things she bought
            > The elves, the deer, things chosen to be with her
            > In the morning
            > When the sun rose and she fed the birds.
            >
            > Now the elfin forest
            > Weeps.
            >
            > Rain makes dimples on the cold surface
            > Of the bird bath water.
            > Lightening illuminates the lawn
            > Flashing across the colored bird houses.
            > The clock ticks, the refrigerator hums,
            > Her clothes hang in the closet,
            > Her shoes rest on the floor.
            >
            > It is fifteen minutes into "Mother's Day."
            > The dog stirs in fitful sleep.
            > He has waited so long,
            > And though he was patient and good
            > She hasn't returned.
            >
            > Twelve thirty,
            > And it has been "Mother's Day"
            > For thirty minutes
            >
            > Without her.
            >
          • David Roth
            Jim, I don t respond to things here as much as I should, but I just got around to reading it and it moved me very deeply. I think your mother would have loved
            Message 5 of 6 , May 9, 2011

              Jim,

               

              I don't respond to things here as much as I should, but I just got around to reading it and it moved me very deeply.  I think your mother would have loved it.  It is a fitting tribute to a loved on as well as a deeply moving look into the heart of one who has lost a loved one.  Thanks for sharing this.

               

              Dave

               

              ---


               

               

              Mother's Day

              By Jim Lamoreux

               

              In the distance

              Lightening plods across the wet land

              And thunder trails like angry calves.

               

              The clock

              Is moving its cold metal arms

              Across the open face,

               

              And now it's five seconds

              Into "Mother's Day."

               

              In the living room

              The fire snuffs out and smoke

              Drizzles up the chimney.

               

              On the couch is a picture book,

              Some cigarette butts sleep huddled

              In a ceramic ash tray

              Near a stained, empty cup of coffee.

               

              It is five minutes into "Mother's Day."

               

              The rain

              Pats the roof

              And marches across the sated lawn

              Touching the things she bought

              The elves, the deer, things chosen to be with her

              In the morning

              When the sun rose and she fed the birds.

               

              Now the elfin forest

              Weeps.

               

              Rain makes dimples on the cold surface

              Of the bird bath water.

              Lightening illuminates the lawn

              Flashing across the colored bird houses.

              The clock ticks, the refrigerator hums,

              Her clothes hang in the closet,

              Her shoes rest on the floor.

               

              It is fifteen minutes into "Mother's Day."

              The dog stirs in fitful sleep.

              He has waited so long,

              And though he was patient and good

              She hasn't returned.

               

              Twelve thirty,

              And it has been "Mother's Day"

              For thirty minutes

               

              Without her.

               

               

               

               

               

               

               

               

               

              ------------------------------------

               

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