Mah

For my Mah, the proud Granny-nanny,

Grandbabies are better than any litany.

But I’ll try to find the words that work best,

That one would find in a Mother’s Day text. 

Cuz Mah doesn’t want flowers, chocolates, or money

On this day that weather-guy promised would be sunny.

She’d rather have warm rays, and kick-back with a brew,

Oh, and later, we’ll shell out for ribs—specifically barbeque.

She’s been a mom of three for most of her life,

Triple the headache for a nurse and housewife.

She loves to read, consuming book-after-book,

And doesn’t stop…til she decides to cook.

She’s at the age of retirement, but I think she’d get bored,

And, anyway, her co-workers make her feel adored.

She loves to watch T.V. shows with cops and scientists,

Her favorite has F.B.I., and some quirky anthropologists.

She’s had some back issues lately, and spends time at home,

But it’s not so bad with a flat-screen, and oxycodone.

However, she’s itching for the day she can go for a walk,

Just her and her Sony playlist, where she doesn’t have to talk.

Cuz solitude is her thing, and so is rock-n-roll,

But it can be a bitch, when she has to stop and scroll.

She understands me when I get on my soap-box and rail,

But also tells me to hold on, when she checks her voicemail.

She’s a Baby Boomer; born the week Animal Farm hit the U.K.,

What a significant moment, for remembering your birthday.

The raunchy part of this poem, is I hooked her on Fifty Shades of Grey,

But I’d rather not entertain that she’d get into THAT sort of horseplay! 

When she’s not ‘in a mood,’ she’s an easy-going mom,

Though I wouldn’t go so far as to say, “She’s da bomb.”

She still shares her chocolate-stash, even though it’s sugar-free,

And never guilts me about grandchildren, cuz she knows I’m a childfree.

I really have no complaints about her, as a mom, a confidante, or friend,

Even when I know she was groomed to be a Baptist clucking hen.

As a minister’s wife, she was held to a standard by righteous appraisers,

Meanwhile…well…shucks! Everyone knows P.K.’s are hell-raisers!!

And there was a time when her stubbornness made me furious,

But now I’m at that stage where I can’t help but be curious.

About my bloodline that involves so many ancestral turns,

It’s telling to know I’m related to poet Robert Burns.

So while she’s walking this Earth, I’d better find out all I need.

Not just about, "Where’s your will, life insurance policy, and the Deed?"

I mean about the stuff that you can’t know from an album or picture frames,

Unlike Vito Corleone—no, Andolini!—our ancestor deliberately changed names.

Cuz I know she has stories she has yet to tell me about,

And me-n-my bros. will believe we have the clout,

That each of us know Mom better than the other,

But we’ll definitely agree, she was NEVER a ‘Smother’!