Love PoemsPoetry

Solely For My Dearest Mother, Eunice F. Mogaji

My mother is a chī;
The canopy that houses wisdom
Wisdom that bears honey,
Honey that attracts ants of honour

My mother is supreme;
The asylum that accommodates understandin’
The balm that calms every pain
Betwixt her arms, there I find solace

My mother is a honeycomb;
Where knowledge makes a home,
and a pound where motherhood swims

My mother is a witch;
A rare Afrikan witch
That fights against the dart of ill-luck
Catapulted from the enemy of declination
With the aid of her effective weapon —prayer

My mother is a warrior,
Who gallantly stands in the warfront,
Combating with meekness and lowliness
For she is the Joseph of her home
That sees what was never was—clearly
Maybe a prophetess. Who knows?

My mother is a goddess
Maybe: the wife of God with no additional ‘S’
That does half in a moon—reproach
and the remains—to cuddle with love

My mother is a nurse;
The only nurse, who runs helter-skelter
As though a guardian angel
To safe me from dying at infanthood
and guards me like a hood in time of coldness
Caresses me to lie while she suffers insomnia

In the heart of my mother
Lies a still water
That endures stones of hurdles,
Arrows of humiliations
and logs of slanders
and tornadoes of pains
Yet, my mother remains still

My mother is a gold statue, a diamond;
A priceless treasure which glimmers
Like the reflection of a sun:
In the four cardinal directions of the cosmos

My mother is my mother,
Not anyone else’s own

My mother is my first lover—a dearest wife
At birth

Why not share?

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