Country Mama

by Heidi Kortman
©June 15, 2006, All rights reserved

 

Country Mama, original poetry by Heidi Kortman

She doesn’t need a rooster to tell her ‘time to rise’.
Young voices ask for ‘pancakes please’ as she rubs sleepy eyes.
Washing dishes, making lists, wiping baby’s grubby fists,
Solitude for dreams and silence vanishing like mists.

Mama, country small town mama, always wearing worn down shoes.
Mama, country small town mama, always hiding private blues.

She makes another trip to Walmart, walks the aisles in search of jeans.
Robby needs a robot costume, and she knows just what that means.
Back at home, she weeds the garden; time to pick a row of corn,
Watches as her neighbor, leaving, waves her hand and blows the horn.

Mama, country small town mama, always wearing worn down shoes.
Mama country small town mama, always hiding private blues.

Baby’s crying while the phone rings, seems this happens every day.
Fill the bottle, grab the checkbook, there’s another bill to pay.
Then she folds a load of laundry, sorting through the pairs of socks,
Finds a toy beneath the table, tractor made of Lego blocks.

Mama, country small town mama, always wearing worn down shoes.
Mama, country small town mama, always hiding private blues.

Here’s the school bus, Don and Robby, can it be that time so soon?
“Mom, I’ve got the best idea…” a lifetime’s dreams change like the moon.
Yes she’s recharged by sticky kisses, sees the world in boyish grins,
Freckles on her children’s noses, sagging Bandaids on their shins.

Mama, country small town mama, always wearing worn down shoes.
Mama, country small town mama, always hiding private blues.

One day soon, her sons and husband plan a trip “just for the boys”.
Smiling Grandma takes the baby, knowing long-awaited joys.
And she will gladly, freely take a day or so beside the lake
Without them all, a time to wish, to hear the waves and rested, wake.

Mama, country small town mama, always wearing worn down shoes.
Mama, country small town mama, always hiding private blues.


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