Songs for a Mother’s Heart

Posted by Aubrey Lively | 0 comments

On Having it All

You said that we could have it all, we didn’t have to lose
The job, the spouse, the babies:
Every mother has to choose.

I drop my daughter off among the twos,
Come back, and find she’s been lost among the keys.
You said that we could have it all, we didn’t have to lose.

I watch my son, he’s changing hues,
Losing himself with ease.
Every mother has to choose.

What I am missing is what this ruse
Will not let me seize
(You said that we could have it all, we didn’t have to lose):

The talk of God and death and stuff that spews
Spontaneously from these:
Every mother has to choose.

I was not prepared to pay these dues,
And these sacrifices drive me to my knees.
You said that we could have it all, we didn’t have to lose;
Every mother has to choose.

Children in My Lap

Holy, holy, holy,
My children in my lap:
I sing slowly.

Quietly we nap,
And I wrap my arms around them,
My children in my lap.

“Sing the song again,”
My little boy asks.
And I wrap my arms around them.

I’ve abandoned all my tasks
To sing:
My little boy asks.

I am here before the King,
And the children He has lent me now,
To sing.

With my life, my lap, my song, I bow:
Holy, holy, holy!
And to the children He has lent me now,
I sing slowly.

Ode to Old Green Beans

I have loved thee long, green beans, though not well,
Since thy days in darkness I have squandered,
Seeking other, fresher goods from the dell,
While thou, waiting, hoping, my love pondered.

Long hast thou lived in the stank repose of death:
Thou hast seen holidays and merriment
Beyond the fleeting dreams of life’s stale breath,
More than legumes before you ere they went!

But today the dirge is finally sung,
Thy plastic coffin I joylessly rend:
It looks as though thou wilt again be young
In the fungal afterlife without end.

Green beans, string beans, I will remember you
Until trash be taken, whilst your smell I rue.

Heaven’s Parking Lot

The soul bares
Itself when I’m least expecting it:
I hear truth in whispered prayers.

When the day is barely lit,
“Is this heaven?” my child asks
Itself when I’m least expecting it.

His cars and trucks complete their tasks
And park in heaven’s parking lot.
“Is this heaven?” my child asks.

“Yes,” replies the truck he’s got.
“Let’s go meet God,” it says,
“And park in heaven’s parking lot.”

His question before me lays,
Itself the answer to be learned:
“Let’s go meet God,” it says.

To God my heart is turned.
The soul bares
Itself, the answer to be learned:
I hear truth in whispered prayers.

The March of the Laundry

Turn your socks, your shirt, your pants right side out,
The soap cannot get what it does not see:
Wash, and thou shalt fold: t’aint the easy route.

When day is done, and dark is all about,
You put pajamas on, and hear my plea:
Turn your socks, your shirt, your pants right side out.

Cleaning your room, let there remain no doubt,
As you rate your clothes’ defiled dignity,
Wash, and thou shalt fold: t’aint the easy route.

Good children, in the bath, your bare skin flout–
Splash and wash and play–after you with glee,
Turn your socks, your shirt, your pants right side out.

Come in from church to play without a shout,
Change your clothes, but remember ‘ere you flee:
Wash, and thou shalt fold: t’aint the easy route.

With cheerful face and ne’er a single pout,
Remember the advice I gave for free:
Turn your socks, your shirt, your pants right side out,
Wash, and thou shalt fold: t’aint the easy route.

Like a Little Child

Words so simply styled,
From the Savior ring:
“You must become like a little child.”

A newborn babe to me bring–
A teacher’s songs
From the Savior ring.

Little one to Him belongs,
But sent to sing
A teacher’s songs.

In the presence of the King–
At peace in paradise,
But sent to sing

For me. Sent to mirror my own vice,
Sent so I might one day be
At peace in paradise.

Sent so I might see
Words so simply styled;
Sent so I might one day be
Like a little child.

Sibling Rivalry

Don’t ask me how I’d rate it:
She hid candy beneath my bed.
Sibling rivalry is not complicated.

His desire to play Barbies sated,
He dropped bombs and left the Barbies dead.
Don’t ask me how I’d rate it.

She ate potato chips I hated
And for a full bag left an empty one instead.
Sibling rivalry is not complicated.

When crimes upon their heads were inundated,
They both blamed me and fled!
Don’t ask me how I’d rate it.

Games that I’d created
Were too much like “robbery,” they said.
Sibling rivalry is not complicated.

When for trouble I was fated,
And “stories” had to tell, not from one of THEM a tear was shed.
Don’t ask me how I’d rate it:
Sibling rivalry is not complicated!

Aubrey Lively is a homeschooling mama with a loud one-room classroom filled with four children, aged ten to two. She likes a Saturday morning with her husband and his guitar, a good cup of coffee, and a fresh sheet of paper. She has a BA in Literature and a MEd in Teaching, but more importantly, she thinks outside the box. (She believes the box is a conspiracy.) Visit Aubrey online at http://aubreylively.blogspot.com.