Poems for mom that move: the best gift for mother’s day, birthday…

The mother – Gioconda Belli

Mother

has changed clothes.

The skirt has become trousers,

shoes in boots,

the wallet in backpack

He no longer sings lullabies,

sing protest songs.

She is disheveled and crying

a love that surrounds and overwhelms her.

He no longer loves only his children,

nor is it given only to their children.

She wears on her breasts

thousands of hungry mouths.

She is the mother of broken children

of little boys playing tops on dusty sidewalks

she gave birth to herself

feeling –at times–

unable to bear so much love on the shoulders,

thinking of the fruit of his flesh

–far away and alone–

calling her in the night with no answer,

as she responds to other cries,

to many shouts,

but always thinking of the scream only of his flesh

which is one more cry in that people’s shouting that

the flame

and rips off even his own children

of the arms

Mother, take me to bed – Miguel de Unamuno

Mother, take me to bed,

mother, take me to bed,

that I do not have standing.

Come son, God bless you

and don’t let yourself fall.

Don’t leave my side

sing me the song that one.

My mother sang it to me;

I forgot when I was a girl

when I squeezed you to my breasts

I remembered it with you

What does the song say, my mother,

what does the song say?

He does not say, my son, pray,

pray words of honey;

pray dream words

they say nothing without him.

Are you here, my mother?

because I can’t see you…

I am here, with your dream;

sleep, my son, with faith.

Verses of the mother – Gloria Fuertes

close your eyes,
my snow boy
If you don’t close them
sleep does not come

Up in the clouds
the stars sleep;
and below, in the sea,
the fish are dreaming

My naughty boy,
my child does not sleep
sleeping birds,
the wind rocks them.

sleepy, your dream
it spreads over you.
Guardian angel,
tell me what you have

let the moon come
that rocks the star:
that this child of yours
star looks like

The mother now – Mario Benedetti

twelve years ago
how long did i have to go
I left my mother by the window
looking at the avenue
now i get it back
only with a cane difference

in twelve years passed
before his window some things
parades and raids
student breakouts
crowds
rabid fists
and gas from tears
provocations
shots away
official celebrations
clandestine flags
alive recovered

after twelve years
my mother is still at her window
looking at the avenue
Or maybe he doesn’t look at her
just review your insides
I don’t know if out of the corner of the eye or out of the blue
without even blinking

sepia pages of obsessions
with a stepfather who made him
straighten nails and nails
or with my French grandmother
who distilled spells
or with his brother the unsociable
who never wanted to work

so much detours I imagine
when she was a manager in a store
when he made kids clothes
and some colored rabbits
that everyone praised him
my sick brother or me with typhus
my good and defeated father
for three or four lies
but smiling and bright
when the source was gnocchi

she checks her insides
eighty seven years of gray
keep thinking distracted
and some accent of tenderness
it has slipped away like a thread
that has escaped him like a thread
you don’t meet your needle

how I would like to understand it
when I see her the same as before
wasting the avenue

but at this point what else
I can do that amuse her
with true or invented stories
buy him a new tv
or hand him his cane.

Genealogy – Erika Martinez

The day I was run over
my mother, in the consultation,
he felt that he cracked
suddenly the hip,
my sister the clavicle,
my niece the warm one,
my poor cousin the doll.
They were followed by my four aunts
and my firm grandmothers,
with his ribs and his molars,
with their respective surprises.

Among all, that strange day,
they divided
bone for bone
the skeleton
that I did not break.

I am forever grateful to them.

I will write my mother’s name five hundred times – Elena Medel

I will write my mother’s name five hundred times.

With a white dress I will trace each of its letters on the

walls of my bedroom, on the floor of the courtyard of the

school, down the corridor of the oldest house. For

remember my origin every time I live.

In all places I will be able to kiss their clean cheeks

crystal, although she sleeps far away:

his nearby cheeks that will hurt wherever I caress

your written name.

So many days, so many nights will have to feed me

lovingly with his barefoot parable;

my mother will come to tuck me in, woman of smoke, with her eyes

shivering with luck,

and in each dream my last names will hurt like a poster of

welcome to a different home.

On my hair, blonde like my mother’s, the crown that

I gird myself as the firstborn daughter of Denmark.

I will call myself Empty, in honor of my dead; I will see how

the acrylic palms of my hands frolic, it will bleed

my tongue at the disposal of my dead.

I will shout five hundred times the name of my mother for whom

want to hear it, and I will write that I bless this medium

heart in strike of mine, because I do not forget:

I was born to mourn the death of others.

Mother, dress me! -Raphael Alberti

Mother, dress me in the style

of the sea lands:

bell bottom pants,

the ultramarine blue blouse

and the miracle tape.

Where are you going, sailor?

through the streets of the earth?

I go through the streets of the sea!

Mom: you don’t have birthdays, you fulfill dreams – Elvira Sastre

You have been more than half a century
behind the back
but in your eyes
some days,
in mid afternoon,
when the clock shadows
with your book and your coffee,
Your eyes are flooded with spring…
and for a moment it seems
that you are back in your girl’s room,
that the curls shake your shoulders
while you conquer some swing
and the parks and the books and the snack
They become your best allies.

You also carry several bodies full of love on your back:
one fell in love with you
like a crazy poet
and stopped looking at the moon
every time you open your eyes
-can still be seen at night
with the window open
looking at your sleeping face

Others
they came out of you
how miracles come out
clenching fists
and closing my eyes
while you spread those wings
that do not fit in your chest,
and they loved you
-they love you-
even when they fly away
of your arms
because you taught them to live.
One of them
is beauty made flesh,
how not to be if it has your face
and your walk
and that look so yours
that hides so much mystery
that even the blind want to see it.

Other,
keeps hiding behind your legs
every time you go out on the street,
look for your fingers in her hair
because only you fill her hair with such tenderness… that there is only peace in her head,
bury their nose in your embrace to have you when you’re not in the next room,
she cries when her left breast explodes but it goes away on the third beat
because he knows that you are still there, that you are his house,
and that there is no better place in the world than you.

What I want to say mom,
is that while you have a birthday
The rest of us fulfill dreams with you.

Seeing you laugh is an attempt against tears;
to see you live is to know that no war will come to our trenches.
To see you,
definitely,
is to learn love and life.

Do not stop celebrating years,
do not stop fulfilling us,
don’t stop living
Don’t ever leave Mom.

The mother – Dámaso Alonso

Do not tell me

that you are full of wrinkles, that you are full of sleep,

that your teeth have fallen out,

that you can no longer handle your poor swollen oars,

deformed by the poison of rheumatism.

It doesn’t matter, mother, it doesn’t matter.

You are always young

You are a girl,

you are eleven years old.

Oh yes, that’s what you are to me: a naive girl.

And you will see that it is true if you dive into those slow waters, into those powerful waters,

that have brought you to this desolate shore.

Dive in, swim against the current, close your eyes,

and when you arrive, wait there for your son.

Because I too am going to plunge into my ancient childhood,

But the waters that I have to go up almost to the source,

they are much more powerful, they are cloudy waters, as if stained with blood.

Hear them, from your sleep, how they roar,

how they want to take the poor swimmer.

Woe to the swimmer who divers and dives in that salty sea of ​​memory!

…You see: we have already arrived.

Is it not a wonder that we both have arrived at this prodigious shore of our childhood?

Yes, this is how sometimes two ships anchor on the same day in the port of Singapore,

and one comes from New Zealand, the other from Brest.

This is how we both arrived, now, together.

And this is the only reality, the only wonderful reality:

that you are a girl and that I am a boy.

Do you see, mother?

Never forget that everything else is a lie, that this is only true, the only truth.

True, your very tight braid, like that of those girls just combed now,

your braid, in which the brilliant lobes of the braid are marked so well,

your braid, at the end of which hangs, improbably, a little red bow;

true, your blue stockings, ringed with white, and the laces of your trousers peeking out from under your skirt;

true, your happy face, a little red, and the sadness of your eyes.

(Ah, why is sadness always at the bottom of joy?)

And where are you going now? Are you on your way to school?

Ah, my child, mother,

I, child too, a little older, will go to your side,

I will guide you

I will gallantly defend you from all the brutalities of my companions,

I will look for you flowers

I will climb the walls to pick you the blackest blackberries, the most full of juice,

I’ll look for you real crickets, the kind whose cri-cri is like a clash of silver bells.

How happy the two of them are, on the banks of the river, now that it’s going to be summer!

The green frogs are jumping in our path,

The green frogs are jumping, they are jumping into the water:

It’s like a continuous thread of green frogs,

that was repulsing the shore, basting the shore with the river.

Oh how happy the two of them together, alone this morning!

You see: there is still night dew; our shoes are full of dazzling droplets.

Or is it that you prefer me to be your little brother?

If you prefer.

I will be your little brother, my girl, my sister, my mother.

Is so easy!

We will stop for a moment in the middle of the road,

for you to pull up my pants,

and for you to blow my nose, which I really need

(because I’m crying; yes, because now I’m crying).

No. I must not cry, because we are in a forest.

You already know the delights of the forest (you know them from the stories,

because you should never have been in a forest,

or at least you have never been in this delicious solitude, with your little brother).

Look, that blonde flame that rattles the branches of the pines very quickly,

that flame that is dropped to the ground like lightning, and that now jumps to my shoulder from a boat,

It’s not fire, it’s not flame, it’s a squirrel.

Don’t touch, don’t touch that jewel, don’t touch those diamonds!

What lights of fire they give, of the purest green, of the saddest and virginal

yellow, the creative white, the most hurtful white!

No, don’t touch it! It’s a spider web, covered in dewdrops.

And that sensation that you now have of an invisible absence, like a

beautiful sadness, that rhythmic and very light rumor of distant feet,

that emptiness, that sudden premonition of the forest,

it is the flight of the roe deer. Have you never seen running roe deer?

The wonders of the forest! Ah, they are innumerable; I could never

teach them all, we would have for a lifetime…

…for a lifetime. I have looked, suddenly, and I have seen your beautiful face full of wrinkles,

the torpor of your dear deformed hands,

and your tired eyes full of tears that tremble.

My goodness, don’t cry: live me always in a dream.

Live, live me always…