The older I get, the more I feel gratitude for the gift of a loving mother and father. Life is difficult at times to maneuver, and I am not saying my parents were perfect, and I have made my fair share of mistakes due to a very hard head and a will like a rock, but I am saying I knew unconditional love, a rare gift, indeed. Because of that, my foundations were firm enough to withstand in spite of my self made earthquakes.
It wasn't until I became older that I started processing that my "normal" childhood was not as common or as "normal" as I assumed, and I learned of the pain and difficulty that permeates the lives of adult "children" who grew up without unconditional love. I believe that could be at the root of much of the anger directed at the world and each other today, hence the poem:
It wasn't until I became older that I started processing that my "normal" childhood was not as common or as "normal" as I assumed, and I learned of the pain and difficulty that permeates the lives of adult "children" who grew up without unconditional love. I believe that could be at the root of much of the anger directed at the world and each other today, hence the poem:
Someone Elses Mama
She played her tune on the
fiddle
as the children laughed
and shouted,
and danced so hard they
fell to the floor;
then they cried and whined
and pouted.
But they loved their dear,
sweet Mama
and they feared their dear,
sweet Mama,
as they twirled to the heat
of a song not so sweet
while the air left the
room with each beat.
She played her tune on the
fiddle
as the young kids danced
for the crowd;
they slipped and dipped ‘til
exhausted
then bent at the waste and
bowed.
But they loved their dear,
sweet Mama,
and they feared their dear,
sweet Mama,
as they twirled to the
heat of a song not so sweet
while the air left the
room with each beat.
She played her tune on the
fiddle
as the sons and daughters swirled,
but they never met in the
middle
and the chords were all
awhirl.
But they loved their dear,
sweet Mama,
and they feared their dear,
sweet Mama,
as they twirled to the
heat of a song not so sweet
while the air left the
room with each beat.
She played her tune with
no fiddle;
the adults in the room
looked grim,
but they whirled to the tunes
of their childhood
as the mama’s smile waxed dim.
They loved their dear,
sweet Mama,
and they feared their dear, sweet Mama,
as they twirled to the
heat of a song not so sweet
while the air left the
room with each beat.
Not one of my happier by products, but life is not always pretty. However, their is sufficient grace available for us all.
Peace,
Love, Linda
