You were my mother and my friend,
Which was unusual.
Somehow our characters still blend:
Your wisdom and my will. I turned,
and you were there for me;I spoke,
you understood.
I felt cared for,
but also free;
You loved, and I was good.
I'm fortunate that I was born
To someone just like you;
I love you still.
Though you are gone,
You live in what I do.
Copy write by
Nicholas Gordon

My mother, the queen of my heart,
Reigns in my sky like a moon,
Pulling the tides of my senses,
Lighting the paths of my dreams.
All melodies hence will play subtlyAgainst this first,
dominant themeThat will turn their most delicate graces
Into harmonies they'll never hear.
Nor can I visit the gardenWhere once I lay wrapped in her arms.
The doors of the past will not open
Though I live 'neath a dome of pure joy

The moon never beams without bringing me dreams
Of that wonderful mother of mine.
The birds never sing but a message they bring
Of that wonderful mother of mine.
Just to bring back the time, that was so sweet to me,
Just to bring back the days, when I sat on her knee.
I pray every night to our Father above,
For that wonderful mother of mine.
I ask Him to keep her as long as He can
That - wonderful mother of mine.
There are treasures on earth,
that made life seem worthwhile,
But there's none can compare to my mother's smile.
You are a wonderful mother,
dear old Mother of mine.
You'll hold a spot down deep in my heart,
'Till the stars no longer shine.
Your soul shall live on forever,
On through the fields of time.
For there'll never be another to me,
Like that wonderful Mother of mine. -

Clyde Hager

SUCH beautiful, beautiful hands,
They're neither white nor small;
And you, I know, would scarcely think
That they were fair at all.
I've looked on hands whose form and hue
A sculptor's dream might be,
Yet are these aged wrinkled hands
Most beautiful to me.
Such beautiful, beautiful hands!
Though heart were weary and sad
These patient hands kept toiling on
That the children might be glad.
I almost weep when looking back
To childhood's distant day!
I think how these hands rested not
When mine were at their play.
Such beautiful, beautiful hands!
They're growing feeble now,
And time and pain have left their mark
On hand, and heart and brow.
Alas! alas! the nearing time--And the sad, sad day to me,
When 'neath the daisies, out of sight,
These hands must folded be.
But, oh! beyond the shadowy lands
Where all is bright and fair,
I know full well these dear old handsWill palms of victory bear;
When crystal streams, through endless years,
Flow over golden sands,
And where the old are young again,
I'll clasp my mother's hands....
Emma M. H. Gates

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