by Leonard M Hawkes

Old Mother,
You are with me always.
I bear you especially
Upon my Tongue, but
My usual thought,
My custom,
My scholarship;
They too
Are mostly you.

And I Know, know
That I have known you,
And have even
Vaunted you
In my years of labor--
The weak and unwilling
Even (pedagogically)
Witnessing the sheen
Of an unsought blessing.

But in this cold,
This distant darkness,
This Far Western winter,
I know you best.
For in the old Songs,
Seasonal lyrics
Of the holy Light,
I Sense the blood, the bone
From whence I've grown.


Author's Note: Christmas carols

Posted on 12/24/2004
Copyright © 2023 Leonard M Hawkes

Member Comments on this Poem
Posted by Jim Moore on 08/17/07 at 06:28 AM

There are times when a piece of poetry defines a writer--takes them to another level in their work. I think you've more than accomplished that here.

Posted by Kristina Woodhill on 07/25/09 at 05:22 PM

Jim mentioned this, Leonard, in one of the forum threads on "talent". I came straight away to read it and am not disappointed. Thank you. You give words such dignity, history, considered use.

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