75 Mother’s Day Poems To Warm The Heart Of That Special Person

"To My Mother"

For all the times you gently picked me up,
When I fell down,
For all the times you tied my shoes
And tucked me into bed,
Or needed something
But put me first instead.
For everything we shared,
The dreams, the laughter,
And the tears,
I love you with a "Special Love"
That deepens every year.

"A Mother's Love"

There are times when only a Mother's love
Can understand our tears,
Can soothe our disappoints
And calm all of our fears.

There are times when only a Mother's love
Can share the joy we feel,
When something we've dreamed about
Quite suddenly is real.

There are times when only a Mother's faith
Can help us on life's way,
And inspire in us the confidence
We need from day to day.

For a Mother's heart and a Mother's faith
And a Mother's steadfast love,
Were fashioned by the Angels
And sent from God above.

"Mother"

We had a wonderful mother,
One who never really grew old;
Her smile was made of sunshine,
And her heart was solid gold;
Her eyes were as bright as shining stars,
And in her cheeks fair roses you see.
We had a wonderful mother,
And that's the way it will always be.
But take heed, because
She's still keeping an eye on all of us,
So let's make sure
She will like what she sees.

"If Roses Grow in Heaven" by Dolores M. Garcia

If roses grow in heaven,
Lord please pick a bunch for me,
Place them in my Mother's arms
and tell her they're from me.

Tell her I love her and miss her,
and when she turns to smile
place a kiss upon her cheek
and hold her for awhile

Because remembering her is easy,
I do it every day,
but there's an ache within my heart
that will never go away.

"You Were There"

You were there when we took our first steps,
And went unsteadily across the floor.
You pushed and prodded: encouraged and guided,
Until our steps took us out the door...

You worry now "Are they ok?"
Is there more you could have done?
As we walk the paths of our unknown
You wonder "Where have my children gone?"

Where we are is where you have led us,
With your special love you showed us a way,
To believe in ourselves and the decisions we make.
Taking on the challenge of life day-to-day.

And where we go you can be sure,
In spirit you shall never be alone.
For where you are is what matters most to us,
Because to us that will always be home...

“My Mother Would Be a Falconress” by Robert Duncan

My mother would be a falconress,
and I her gerfalcon raised at her will,
from her wrist sent flying, as if I were her own
pride, as if her pride
knew no limits, as if her mind
sought in me flight beyond the horizon.

“Prayer for a New Mother” by Dorothy Parker

Let her have laughter with her little one;
Teach her the endless, tuneless songs to sing,
Grant her her right to whisper to her son
The foolish names one dare not call a king.

“Butterfly Laughter” by Katherine Mansfield

In the middle of our porridge plates
There was a blue butterfly painted,
And each morning we tried who should reach the
butterfly first.
Then the Grandmother said, “Do not eat the poor
butterfly.”
That made us laugh.
Always she said it and always it started us laughing.
It seemed such a sweet little joke.
I was certain that one fine morning
The butterfly would fly out of the plates,
Laughing the teeniest laugh in the world,
And perch on grandmother’s lap.

“Mama Never Forgets Her Birds”

Mama never forgets her birds,
Though in another tree —
She looks down just as often
And just as tenderly
As when her little mortal nest
With cunning care she wove —
If either of her “sparrows fall,”
She “notices,” above.

“To My Mother” by Lucretia Maria Davidson

O thou whose care sustained my infant years,
And taught my prattling lip each note of love;
Whose soothing voice breathed comfort to my fears,
And round my brow hope’s brightest garland wove;

To thee my lay is due, the simple song,
Which Nature gave me at life’s opening day;
To thee these rude, these untaught strains belong,
Whose heart indulgent will not spurn my lay.

O say, amid this wilderness of life,
What bosom would have throbbed like thine for me?
Who would have smiled responsive? —who in grief,
Would e’er have felt, and, feeling, grieved like thee?

Who would have guarded, with a falcon-eye,
Each trembling footstep or each sport of fear?
Who would have marked my bosom bounding high,
And clasped me to her heart, with love’s bright tear?

“Rock Me to Sleep” by Elizabeth Akers Allen

Over my heart, in the days that are flown,
No love like mother-love ever has shone;
No other worship abides and endures, —
Faithful, unselfish, and patient like yours:
None like a mother can charm away pain
From the sick soul and the world-weary brain.
Slumber’s soft calms o’er my heavy lids creep; —
Rock me to sleep, mother, — rock me to sleep!

“The Mother of a Poet” by Sara Teasdale

​​She is too kind, I think, for mortal things,
Too gentle for the gusty ways of earth;
God gave to her a shy and silver mirth,
And made her soul as clear
And softly singing as an orchard spring’s
In sheltered hollows all the sunny year,
A spring that thru the leaning grass looks up
And holds all heaven in its clarid cup,
Mirror to holy meadows high and blue
With stars like drops of dew.

“To My Mother” by Robert Louis Stevenson

You too, my mother, read my rhymes
For love of unforgotten times,
And you may chance to hear once more
The little feet along the floor.

“Sonnets are full of love, and this my tome” by Christina Rossetti

Sonnets are full of love, and this my tome
Has many sonnets: so here now shall be
One sonnet more, a love sonnet, from me
To her whose heart is my heart’s quiet home,
To my first Love, my Mother, on whose knee
I learnt love-lore that is not troublesome;
Whose service is my special dignity,
And she my loadstar while I go and come
And so because you love me, and because
I love you, Mother, I have woven a wreath
Of rhymes wherewith to crown your honored name:
In you not fourscore years can dim the flame
Of love, whose blessed glow transcends the laws
Of time and change and mortal life and death.

“Mother” by Lola Ridge

Your love was like moonlight
turning harsh things to beauty,
so that little wry souls
reflecting each other obliquely
as in cracked mirrors...
beheld in your luminous spirit
their own reflection,
transfigured as in a shining stream,
and loved you for what they are not.

“The Reading Mother” by Strickland Gillilan

I had a Mother who read me tales
Of Celert the hound of the hills of Wales,
True to his trust till his tragic death,
Faithfulness blent with his final breath.

I had a Mother who read me the things
That wholesome life to the boy heart brings-
Stories that stir with an upward touch,
Oh, that each mother of boys were such.

You may have tangible wealth untold;
Caskets of jewels and coffers of gold.
Richer than I you can never be —
I had a Mother who read to me.

“Mother’s Way” by Abram Joseph Ryan

If our home be bright and cheery,
If it holds a welcome true,
Opening wide its door of greeting
To the many — not the few;
If we share our father’s bounty
With the needy day by day,
‘Tis because our hearts remember
This was ever mother’s way.

“The Mother’s Kiss” by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Life grew so radiant and so opulent,
That when her fragile body and her brain
By mortal throes of agony were rent,
She felt a curious rapture in her pain.
Then, after anguish, came the supreme bliss —
They brought the little baby for her kiss.

“Wanderer’s Song” by Meng Jiao

The thread in the hand of a kind mother
Is the coat on the wanderer’s back.
Before he left she stitched it close
In secret fear that he would be slow to return.
Who will say that the inch of grass in his heart
Is gratitude enough for all the sunshine of spring?

“My Mother” by Ann Taylor

Who sat and watch’d my infant head
When sleeping on my cradle bed,
And tears of sweet affection shed?
My Mother.

When pain and sickness made me cry,
Who gaz’d upon my heavy eye,
And wept for fear that I should die?
My Mother.

Who drest my doll in clothes so gay,
And taught me pretty how to play,
And minded all I’d got to say?
My Mother.

Who ran to help me when I fell,
And would some pretty story tell,
Or kiss the place to make it well?
My Mother.