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Examiner
  • Poems for Mothers Day from Examiner readers

  • Readers contributed poems for Mother's Day.

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  • Old Spoons
    It’s a gradual process
    Mother said.
    You take a spoon
    a wedding gift
    weighed for balance
    shaped to fit comfortably in your hand.
    You ladle oatmeal for the kids
    stir a thousand gravies
    make certain seasons of vegetables
    don’t scorch.
    You develop an edge.
    Silver round diminishes
    to a practical slant
    to fit a pan.
    What happens to the metal worn anyway?
    It become a measuring
    of how a life is spent.
    Silver conducts warmth to bellies
    settles in tongues and throats
    strengthens backbones
    lightens hair.
    Spoons don’t wear easily
    Mother said.
    It takes half a life
    to slant a spoon.
     

    – Jean Morrison Baker

    ----
    Bread
    For two weeks before her 80th birthday
    Mary talked about bread
    How she was going to bake each week
    give a loaf to anyone
    who dropped by.
    Lots did.
    Her eight kids had multiplied
    like yeast spores.
    For her birthday
    along with a chiffon nightgown
    she would fold away in a dresser drawer
    some dusting powder she would give away
    and checks totaling three-hundred dollars
    she got fifteen pounds of stone-ground
    whole-wheat
    and six packets of Fleishmann’s.
    Mary said this was best of all.
    She started. Kneaded and punched.
    Called on God to bless each batch.
    She baked when her feet were sore
    and when the almanac said wait
    for the moon to change.
    And people kept coming...daughters, sons
    grandchildren, neighbors.
    Some just to inhale real deep
    but each got a loaf of crusty homebaked.
    One crisp Monday she started early.
    By noon a dozen loaves
    decorated the kitchen table
    the last were in the oven.
    She set the timer
    eased down into the rocker by the window.
    About sundown
    a neighbor found Mary
    in her floured apron
    an oven full of charcoal
    the timer screaming.

    – Jean Morrison Baker
    ----
     
    Her hands are bent and gnarled now.
    Hands that over fifty year ago
    Changed my diapers and fed me,
    Page 2 of 2 - Clothed me, sewed for me.
    Hands that made pot roast
    And chocolate cake for my birthday.
    These are the hands of my mother.
    We celebrate this day to honor her
    And all the others like her.
    To those who toil and labor,
    Rest your weary head.
    Lean upon my shoulder.

    – Gloria Effertz

     

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