15 Poems for Mom

Mother, simple and sweet word, that despite being a substantive can be designated as a verb, referring to the action of love.

Blood mother, adoptive mother, godmother, grandmother mother, aunt mother, sister mother, teacher mother, friend mother, several are the personifications of a mother. With her representativeness in society, a day was assigned on the calendar to honor her: Mothers Day, on the second Sunday of May.

Some writers translated the feelings of their children, through letters and in the form of poetry. Look 15 poems for mom:

poems about mother

Mother by Mario Quintana

MOTHER…
It's just three letters,
Those of that blessed name:
Three little letters, nothing more...
And in them fits infinity
And such a small word
Even atheists confess
You are the size of the sky
And only smaller than God!

To praise our mother,
It's okay to say
It never has to be this big.
Like the good she wants us.

such a small word
My lips know well
that you are the size of the sky
And only smaller than God!

Forever, by Carlos Drummond de Andrade

Why does God allow
that mothers leave?
Mother has no limit,
it's time without time,
light that doesn't go out
when the wind blows
and rain falls,
hidden velvet
on wrinkled skin,
pure water, pure air,
pure thought.
dying happens
with what is brief and passes
without leaving a trace.
Mother, in her grace,
it's eternity.
Why does God remember
— profound mystery —
to take it off one day?
If I were King of the World,
downloaded a law:
Mother never dies,
mother will always stay
with your son
and he, old though,
will be small
made from corn kernels.

Mother's Vigil, by Cecília Meireles

Our children travel the paths of life,
by the salty waters from far away,
through the forests that hide the days,
through the sky, through the cities, into the dark world
of their own silences.

Our kids don't send messages from where they are.
This passing wind can give them death.
The wave can take them to the ocean realm.
They may be falling apart, like stars.
They may be being torn apart in love and tears.

Our children have another language, other eyes, another soul.
They still don't know the ways to return, only the ways to go.
They go to their horizons, without memory or longing,
they don't want prison, delay, goodbyes:
they just let themselves like, hurried and restless.

Our children passed us by, but they are not ours,
they want to go alone, and we don't know where they are going.
We don't know when they die, when they laugh,
they are birds without abode or family
on the surface of life.

We are here, in this inexplicable vigil,
waiting for what doesn't come, the face we don't know anymore.
Our children are where we do not see or know.
We are the sore of the evil that maybe they don't suffer,
but their joys never reach the solitude we live in,
your only gift, abundant and endless.

Lamentation of the orphaned mother, by Cecília Meireles

Run away into the night
relearns to have feet and to walk,
uncross your fingers, dilate your nostrils to the cypress breeze,
runs between the light and the marbles,
come see me
enter this house invisible, and your mouth
back to the architecture of words
get used to it,
and your eyes to the size and customs of the living!

Come closer, even if you're already falling apart
in leavens of the ground, disfigured and decomposed!
Don't be ashamed of your subterranean smell,
of the worms you cannot shake off your eyelids,
from the humidity that combs your thin, cold hair
affectionate.

Come as you are, half people, half universe,
with fingers and roots, bones and wind, and your veins
on the way to the ocean, swollen, feeling the restlessness of the tides.

Don't come to stay, but to take me, as I once brought you,
because today you own the way,
you are my guide, my guard, my father, my son, my love!

Lead me where you want, to what you know, - in your arm
receive me, and let us walk, strangers hand in hand,
dragging pieces of our life into our death,
learning the language of these places, looking for the lords
and its laws,
looking at the landscape that begins on the other side of our corpses,
studying again our beginning, in our end.

Teachings, by Adelia Prado

My mother thought study
the finest thing in the world.
It is not.
The finest thing in the world is feeling.
That day at night, the father working the night,
she spoke to me:
“Poor guy, until that time in heavy duty”.
He got some bread and coffee, left a pan on the fire with hot water.
He didn't talk to me about love.
That luxury word.

Half impressions of Aninha, by Cora Coralina

(mother)
Renewing and revealing of the world
Humanity is renewed in your womb.
raise your children
do not hand them over to daycare.
Day care is cold, impersonal.
will never be a home
for your son.
He, little one, needs you.
Do not disconnect him from your motherly strength.

What do you want woman?
Independence, equality of conditions…
Employment outside the home?
You are superior to those
that you try to imitate.
you have the divine gift
to be a mother
Humanity is present in you.
Woman, don't let yourself be castrated.
You will be an animal only of pleasure
and sometimes not even that.
Frigid, blocked, your pride shuts you up.
Tumultuous, pretending to be what you are not.
Gnawing your black bone of bitterness.

My mother, by Vinicius de Moraes

My mother, my mother, I'm afraid
I'm afraid of life, my mother.
Sing the sweet song you used to sing
When I ran crazy to your lap
Afraid of the ghosts on the roof.
Nina my sleep full of restlessness
Lightly patting my arm
That I am very afraid, my mother.
Rest the friendly light of your eyes
In my eyes without light and without rest
Tell the pain that awaits me forever
To go away. Cast out the immense anguish
Of my being that doesn't want and can't
Give me a kiss on my sore forehead
That she burns with fever, my mother.

Cradle me in your lap like before
Tell me in a low voice: — Son, do not be afraid
Sleep in peace, your mother doesn't sleep.
Sleeps. Those who have been waiting for you for a long time
Tired have gone far away.
Next to you is your mother
Your brother, who the study fell asleep
Your sisters stepping lightly
So as not to awaken your sleep.
Sleep, my son, sleep on my chest
Dream happiness. I flee.

My mother, my mother, I'm afraid
I am terrified of resignation. tell me to stay
Tell me to leave, O mother, for nostalgia.
Chase away this space that holds me
Chase away the infinity that calls to me
That I am very afraid, my mother.

Mother, by Sergio Capparelli

On roller skates, on a bicycle
by car, motorcycle, plane
on butterfly wings
and in the eyes of the hawk
by boat, by bicycle
riding a thunder
in the colors of the rainbow
on a lion's roar
in the grace of a dolphin
and in the germination of the grain
your name I bring, mother,
in the palm of my hand.

On My Knees, by Florbela Espanca

Blessed be the Mother who bore you
Blessed is the milk that made you grow
Blessed is the cradle where he rocked you
Your mistress, to put you to sleep!

Blessed is this song that cherished
Of your life the sweet dawn...
Blessed be the moon, which flooded
Of light, the Earth, just to see you...

Blessed be all who love you,
Those who kneel around you
In a great boiling mad passion!

And if more than me, one day, you want
Someone, blessed be that Woman,
Blessed be the kiss of that mouth!!

Mater, by Olavo Bilac

You, great Mother... of the love of your children, slave,
For your children you are, on the path of life,
Like the band of light that the Hebrew people guided
Far away Promised Land.

A luminous river flows from your gaze.
For, to baptize these blossoming souls,
Let that affectionate gaze cascade
All the Jordan of your love.

And spread so much brightness the infinite wings
That you expand over yours, loving and beautiful,
That their great flash rises, when you shake them,
And you will be lost among the stars.

And they, by the steps of wide and holy light,
Flee from human pain, flee human dust,
And, in search of God, they go up that ladder,
Which is like Jacob's ladder.

Poem to Mother, by Eugénio de Andrade

Deep inside you,
I know I cheated, mom

All because I'm no longer
the sleeping portrait
at the bottom of your eyes.

All because you ignore
that there are beds where the cold does not linger
and noisy nights of morning waters.

That's why sometimes the words I say to you
are hard, mother,
and our love is unhappy.

All because I lost the white roses
that pressed close to the heart
in the picture frame.

If you only knew how I still love roses,
maybe you wouldn't fill the hours with nightmares.

But you forgot a lot;
you forgot that my legs grew,
that my whole body has grown,
and even my heart
It's huge, Mom!

Look — do you want to hear me out? —
sometimes I'm still the boy
that fell asleep in your eyes;

I still hold my heart
roses so white
like the ones you have in the frame;

I still hear your voice:
Once upon a time a princess
in the middle of an orange grove...

But — you know — the night is huge,
and my whole body grew.
I came out of the frame,
I gave the birds my eyes to drink,

I haven't forgotten anything, Mom.
I keep your voice inside me.
And I leave you the roses.

Goodnight. I go with the birds.

Mother, by António Ramos Rosa

I know your strength, mother, and your fragility.
Both have your courage, your vital breath.
I'm with you mom, in your permanent dream in your uncertain hope
I am with you in your simplicity and your generous gestures.
I see you girl and bride, I see you mother working woman
Always fragile and strong. How many problems did you face,
How many afflictions! Always a force lifted you upright,
always the breath of your faith, the prodigious breath
what is called God. That exists because you love it,
you want it. God feeds you and floods your fragility.
And so you are in the midst of love like the center of the rose.
That longing for love of your whole life is an incandescent wave.
With your human and divine love
I want to melt the diamond of universal fire.

The Traveling Companion by Paul Celan 

Your mother's soul floats ahead.
Your mother's soul helps the night to sail, choice after choice.
Your mother's soul lashes out at the sharks in front of you.

This word is your mother's discipline.
Your mother's disciple shares your tomb, stone by stone.
Your mother's disciple bows down to the crumb of light.

From mother, from Conceição Evaristo

The care of my poetry
I learned from a mother,
woman to fix things,
and to assume life.

The softness of my speech
in the violence of my sayings
I got it from my mother,
woman pregnant with words,
fertilized in the mouth of the world.

All my treasure was from my mother
all my earnings came from her
wise woman, Yabá,
water was drawn from the fire
out of weeping he created consolation.

That half smile came from a mother
given to hide
whole joy
and this distrustful faith,
because when you walk barefoot
every finger looks at the road.

It was a mother who let me down
for the miracle corners of life
pointing me the fire in disguise
in ashes and the needle of the
time moving in the haystack.

It was a mother who made me feel
the crumpled flowers
under the stones
the empty bodies
close to the sidewalks
and she taught me,
I insist, it was her
to make the word
artifice
art and craft
from my corner
of my speech.

Song for my mother, by Miguel Torga

And without a gesture, without a no, you left!
Thus the eternal light was extinguished!
Without a goodbye, even, you say goodbye,
Betraying the faith that united us!

Earth plowed and warm,
Lap of a creative poet,
You left before the setting sun,
Sad as seed without heat!

I went, resigned, to rot
In the shade of autumnal rose bushes!
Color of joy, song to be born,
You would trade for pine cypresses!

But I came, disillusioned goddess!
I came with this spell that you know,
And I touched this macerated meat
Of the throbbing life you deserve!

Because you are the Mother!
You left one day screaming and jerking,
And you will still give birth for the time beyond,
Even being a mother and with white hair!

You are and will be the beech that sways in the wind
And it doesn't break or sag!
If I asked you for the peace of oblivion,
Also the strength to fight asks you!

So breathe the sap of duration,
In my lungs even, if you got tired;
But I feel my heart beat
In the chest where you rocked me as a boy.

Read too: Special Poems for Mother's Day