On Mother's Day no flowers to give
for mine has passed away
no chocolates or special treats
to spoil her on this day
But though with tinge of sadness
I recall the life she had
the happiness and laughter
there means I am mostly glad
Happy Birthday my Mother
you'd have been ninety today
but forever instead
eighty-seven you'll stay
The time of your passing
though sad was still right
but I still shed a tear
on occasion at night
But on fifth of September
remembering clear
I see that you're smiling
so Happy Birthday, my dear
My mother didn’t make it
to see my sixty years
when she passed away in May last year
amongst the smiles and tears
That saddened me (of course it did)
but it’s other times I miss
like the joy of giving flowers
on Mother’s Days like this
Yet the solace that I take away
from all the days I’ve cried
is the ever joyful knowledge
that she’s by my Father’s side
As her eldest son, I wrote this as the eulogy for my late Mother’s life celebration on Friday 14 June last.
Ruth Eunice Shrimpton
Was Croucher, Nee Dainton
is having a whale of a time
So I thought I would capture a bit of her life
for you in some syntax and rhyme
Seven and eighty years is a
good innings to have for a start
And whilst we don’t have the time
for all of that here
These words have come from my heart
The sunset is over
the fading has passed
the evening slip-slides away
We’ve said our goodbyes
and shared in the peace
that we saw at the end of your day
The red and the gold
have flooded the sky
The evening of life is now done
We’ve each kissed your head
and held your sweet hand
as the end of your life has now come
Dear Mama, how you doing? It’s kind of hectic here.
I am doing a real good job, though why ain’t always clear.
Mama don’t you worry; there’s nothing that I lack.
My platoon is the very best, and we’ve got each other’s back.
When you lay your heart out, open in your hands in front of you to share, hoping that by sharing, another’s pain is diminished. Somehow by being closer to love shared by knowing the heart of Jehovah God, then maybe, just maybe, healing will begin in those small pieces of pain shared.
An Angel, A Heart, A Christmas Prayer
Often I sit and wonder of knowing a mother’s love for a child.
Thoughts and emotions taunt of wanting ever to be bequiled
An early rose on Mother’s Day
appropriately there
exuding beauty in its form
combined with love to share
Fragrance subtle, petals frail
A heart concealed, yet strong
with influence and calming
for an early springtime song
She gave of herself with no expectations
We seldom heard her ask for very much
You could make her smile with just a hug
She always returned such a gentle touch.