Category Archives: Life

Poems for Mothers

mike and pat 1989 1


I desire to enfold
a precious new life
just sent from heaven
to our hearts

To delight in the exquisite
detail of hands, feet, fingers, toes,
the smooth contours of a tiny nose.
To ruffle scant hair atop her scalp

Where can I go to find
the little one my heart yearns for?


I clasp a fragile wonder—
toes perfectly formed
grasping my thumb,
curling around the pressure
of a caring touch.

I caress a newborn’s tiny foot,
hold an extremity of a miracle,
the little kicking message
saying “world, I am come”.


I Come to Be a Mother

Tied to an operating table
my emotions were flat, exhausted,
trammeled by a day’s long labor.
I felt no joy or grief
only a faint relief
the child was born, alive and whole.

His dark, quiet eyes stared briefly into mine
before the nurses bundled him away,
and the anesthesiologist deepened my sleep
while the obstetrician put my stretched abdomen
back in order.

Bonding mother to child,
love does not always come instantaneously
or easily. Sometimes it must grow
in slow infantile steps, moment to moment,
year to year.

Joys of motherhood come grudgingly
into a hectic career-oriented life.
I nursed the infant with my body as I
nursed the bonds of love that fastened
tightly into my heart.

Love grows fitfully, finds its own space
to develop. He is my child, I am his mother.
With care I nurture his life
and he nurtures mine.


Mother’s Day 2001

Prayer’s answer stands over shoulder high,
squirms impatiently under my arm.
Evidence God’s blessing breathing
into my daily life.

Tears I remember sitting
as mothers stood to be honored
on their special day
Inward cries of desire to share their gift.
A barren heart, home filled
with shrieks of delight.

In a circle of prayer, desires shared.
Humble hopes laid down,
picked up by a joining of hands.
Now here he stands twelve years tall.
A reminder, a witness God’s love,
His living light reflected into my life.

A Mother’s Heart

The heart of a mother
derives from a Father:
the Abba, Daddy
loving God of heaven.

She absorbs love
leaning against his knee.
She drinks compassion
into her soul from the cup
offered by His hand.

She croons her suffering child
into her breast,
smooths his wayward cowlick
with her cheek,
kisses his tears

Her fears she whispers
to Her Father
in almost silent prayers,
knows He understands.
She shares each concern
with Him.
He gathers her tears
in crystal spheres
adorning His throne..


c. Darlene Moore Berg



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Sir Dad

In honor of Father’s Day This was written about two decades ago while my father was still alive and coming
to terms with his humanity and fallibility…

Sir Dad

He reflected the sun, the moon, the stars to me,
His armor bright, polished, gleaming.
I shadowed my eyes with my hands
in order to watch him in full regalia
charge through life’s tourneys—
large and valiant, a hero—
my father, my knight.

Tarnished armor:
mirror-like silver, dull grey patina,
black, no light reflected.

Retirement. Discards of past victories
shelved away in labeled boxes in the hall closet.
Memories of Truth, Integrity, Honour—-
Forgive an old fool.
Sorrow of wisdom won—late.
The castle sold; milady moved.

The armor doesn’t fit anymore,
perhaps, it never did.
I pick up a piece of it, rub it with my sleeve.
Still silver underneath the black.

Not a hero, not a statue up on a pedestal,
not a knight pursuing some holy grail—
a man, my father.
A few dents on the breastplate, battle-scarred.

We walk together; his hair a helmet of dun grey metal,
mine a scarf woven with a thread or two of white.
We stroll across a bridge side by side.
Grandsons tug insistently on his wrinkled, greave-less hands.
We stand before the mirrored surface of a lake.
We may never understand completely our reflections there…
The choices we each have made.
The intensity of feelings fade— Pax Familia.

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My poet heart is in hibernation
words sleep beneath the cold days
dream perhaps, undisturbed
when shall it reawaken?
Demand ink and pen, breath?

Darlene Moore Berg

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Feed Love Roses

A photo prompt at Everyday poems had two hands full of rich red roses…

Feed love roses
one velvet petal at a time
Let her nibble on its fragrance,
perfume her tongue
Try a tentative kiss, just one
questing, a simple taste

Line her path to your heart
with freshly planted bushes
overflowing with perfect blooms.
She may decide
to pick a bouquet
and set it at your table.

And feed you her petals
one by one from her own palms


Roses fill palms
Balm of color, scent, a gift.
Lift to face, inhale

c.Darlene Moore Berg

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Ducks take the Right-of-Way

Ducks take the Right-of-Way

Pause in your self-absorbed stride—
there is more alive than just you:
a dozen ducklings waddle into view
struggling to stay in a straight line
right behind their matriarch
She knows where she is headed
a definite direction in mind
from pond to hiding place in the brush
nothing will deter her or get in her way.
Not looking back she loses not one
fuzzy ball.

What were you going to do after all
in such a hurry? Such single-minded flurry?
Scurrying into what destination?
Look up into a blue sky, pink petals
floating by fall from a flowering crab tree
into the midst of your awareness.
Spring into reflection,
re-creation of your priorities.
This is a day the Lord has made.
For one minute— stop. Rejoice in it.

c.Darlene Moore Berg

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Creep, Crawl, Cruise

Jeepers, Creepers!

Up on hands and knees, it’s a kick
rock the body back and forth
work on momentum
push with the hands and—
slide backward.
Push again, move the legs
and watch life recede.

Must work on this trick.
Rock faster, now pull,
grab the carpet with all ten fingers
and yowl, face first and down
for a count.

Never give up, baby.
It is time to crawl, to creep.
Try knee and hand coordination
and now — off, no stopping
the world in progress, got it made.
Fast and faster
here ‘m coming.

Laugh, raise a hand
in salutation.
You’re the man, the woman
of the day
and now you tell me
its time to walk?
We’ve got to talk!

c.Darlene Moore Berg


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Dress-up at Grandma’s

Dress up
grandma’s cedar chest
hats, gloves, scarves
an old fur stole
beaded sweaters
a string of yellowed pearls
the girls all line up in finery
before an oval mirror.
They curtsey to themselves
giggle, pantomime a cup of tea
the application of make-up.
Stand tall in ruby high-heeled slippers
and black patent leather pumps.
Dive for further treasures
deeper in the wooden box
and time itself stands briefly still
while they’re all in a hurry
to grow themselves up.

c.Darlene Moore Berg

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