When Love Turns to Mothers Wrath

The overwhelming joy of birth, in painful acts endured, as new parts of them are born,

The daunting challenges of childhood, with so many knocks, along roads already worn.

In a minefield of emotions let loose, of loves frustrations, worry, concern, and fatigue,

The tireless task, of building bonds so strong, bound within the ancient mother’s league.

Forged in the fires of maternal matrescence, in antenatal acts of evolving motherhood,

Facing the forbidding fears of failure, with an ounce of neglect, an inherent likelihood.

Dutifully watching, over each part of them, in the menacing world, of risk and threat,

Each infant, facing the challenges set before them, bumps and bruises, blood and sweat.

The teenage years, a step above the rest, a period of rapid change, and very little thanks,

As the adolescent voice becomes louder, and attempts to split, from the childhood ranks.

Then, as the tired mothers utmost fear approaches, that there will come the final day,

Within her hands the world, that she holds, each part from her, will finally break away.

When, she can no longer hold on to forever, the day she must, set her beloved doves free,

To soar in the sky of hope, amidst the clouds breaking blue, to rise above the raging sea.

Alas, war has never held a place, within a mother’s heart, somewhere beyond her dreams,

As wicked men, would like to pocket, what is not theirs to take, in their reckless schemes.

To take sons and daughters, and squander all their childhood dreams, lost in wicked war,

To feed them to the wolves, before the youngsters really know, what they are fighting for.

As the mother’s progeny is torn apart, the inconsolable grief, becomes too much to bear,

The part of her, she loved so much, is laid to waste, in deaths decay, gone beyond repair.

And she is left, to abide in woeful wake, over the love now lost, the strong bonds broken,

Flesh and blood, wrenched from her core, replaced with ruthless anger, rudely awoken.

She will turn to face the thunderous storm, with the grieving mother’s wrath unbound,

Full of bitterness and scorn mothers revolting, venting hate on Putin’s hallowed ground.

Sending the callous form, on into the pit of hells eternal fire, where his evil soul awaits,

As the mother’s purge Russia, of his band of wicked disciples, through their iron gates.

In their hearts, the place where they held the precious ones, once in proud embrace aloft.

Within the arms empty cradle, is a wretched well of pain, where boils the mothers wrath.

Written By: Alan.Clark@WW1POET (May 2023)