Array ( [sid] => 183493 [catid] => 1 [aid] => mick [title] => Loving The Idea Of Love [time] => 2016-09-02 00:46:01 [hometext] => For my mother...she earned this [bodytext] => My wife/'/s box of Kleenex empty but for air,
now fifty scattered clumps of puffy tears;
mine unopened, rested near,
no need for eyes so dry through memory/'/s stare:

My Mother/'/s postcard Christmas begging to be made,
tinseled tree so green, beneath, bright presents lay,
eggnog, pondered, for each coaster placed
/'/round a tree so bright, but like her, that night, a fake.

My wife, sweet and blessed can cry, can feel what movie makers hope,
but for me those endings don/'/t; they/'/re when fantasy and dreams elope;
My mom never loved or felt, failed to slip from her own rope,
but one Christmas I played a role; I became her memory/'/s soap.

Mom loved the thought of Mommy-hood,
strolled perfect streets in her mind where life is good;
the one she threw away, for a moment very real; her children-(child) and fifth husband stood,
propping a scene unearned; I hoped just once she might feel, but her acting showed she never would. [comments] => 5 [counter] => 260 [topic] => 23 [informant] => Invierno [notes] => [ihome] => 0 [alanguage] => english [acomm] => 0 [haspoll] => 0 [pollID] => 0 [score] => 0 [ratings] => 0 [editpoem] => 1 [associated] => [topicname] => FamilyPoems ) Your Poetry Dot Com - Loving The Idea Of Love


Loving The Idea Of Love
Date: Friday, 2nd September 2016 @ 12:46:01 AM AEST
Topic: Sad Poetry

Contributed By: Invierno
My wife/'/s box of Kleenex empty but for air,
now fifty scattered clumps of puffy tears;
mine unopened, rested near,
no need for eyes so dry through memory/'/s stare:

My Mother/'/s postcard Christmas begging to be made,
tinseled tree so green, beneath, bright presents lay,
eggnog, pondered, for each coaster placed
/'/round a tree so bright, but like her, that night, a fake.

My wife, sweet and blessed can cry, can feel what movie makers hope,
but for me those endings don/'/t; they/'/re when fantasy and dreams elope;
My mom never loved or felt, failed to slip from her own rope,
but one Christmas I played a role; I became her memory/'/s soap.

Mom loved the thought of Mommy-hood,
strolled perfect streets in her mind where life is good;
the one she threw away, for a moment very real; her children-(child) and fifth husband stood,
propping a scene unearned; I hoped just once she might feel, but her acting showed she never would.

This poem is Copyright © Invierno


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