Poems by ModPo’ers: Therese Pope

Mothers of Poetry
Who is this mother?
She sits and waits by a window
Tears streaming down her cheeks
With bratty babe sniffling at her sleeve
Is she Jane Austen’s melancholy, forlorn side-kick
The kind who reads too much weepy Shakespeare
By candlelight, on a stormy night?
A hopeful Romantic
Now withered by form
Is her blood noble
Or is she strong and brazen
Stein-like, contemplating sentences?
A wild vixen who shushes grammar
Sinister, slinking
Sneaking up behind you
To scare the daylights out of rhyme
Look how she poses
Dabbing at her cheek
Who are these mothers?
Dancing around silky syllables
Accenting hazy lines
Plying us with
Diatribes that never really speak
These mothers of poetry
Sit,
Slumping in overstuffed chairs
That never fade with time
Forcing a half-smile
And with a woeful wink,
They wait for us

Words pressed to silent lips.

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