46. I'm telling Mom....

Bonne fete des meres! Well, French Mother's Day isn't until June 3rd, at which point we'll back in the land of Moon Pies and Cheerwine. But today is Mom Day in Les Etats Unis, so whoo hoo. In its honor, I have not one but two sonnets.

 I wrote one for my mother last year. According to reports she has kept it secret; not even my dad has read it. But I wrote another for this year, and she has graciously allowed me to share it with the world, perhaps because it has a somewhat universal appeal for all moms who have ever thought or said, "You'll be sorry..." :

 Though 'neath the bridge a year entire has passed,

I find it hard to bring into my head

new verse to supersede what I wrote last

without reiterating what I said.

Instead, in case quoth never I “You're right”

I'll take this day to validate your thoughts

'bout opportunities I gave the slight

that now reside in files called “shoulda oughts.”

In ceasing I, to take piano, erred.

I wish I'd kept it up; was likewise bitten

by bugs that make you stupid when I dared

to say no to a college term in Britain.

You let me make my choice, though your eyes glistened.

It's true, though; to your voice I should have listened.

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This second one is more general, more a love poem for moms everywhere, no matter their species:

They keep us sacrosanct throughout three seasons

though doing so wreaks changes quite complex,

With mornings sick, no booze, and other treasons

while all the father suffers through is sex.

The honeyed hive, and Ellen Ripley's foe;

the alligator, lurking near her nest;

the octopus, who dies to guard her roe;

the girl who tends her sick child without rest.

We've just the one, we love her without doubt;

and though we fight, our words like hateful darts,

while Disney tends to kill or write her out,

her strength remains, undimmed, in all our hearts.

We have one thing in common, if no other:

remember, even Grendel had a mother.