Tag Archives: Poem

I can’t believe my mother wrote this. She basically set me up to think of her all the time! She wrote this years before she died, but you really can feel her life presence throughout.  My mother-in l–aw read it at Mom’s wake. I am so lucky to have so many wonderful writings that my mom left me….even if so many make me cry!

Most Dearly Beloved

Mourn me not when I have left this earthly place—for I have enjoyed each precious hour and day and season—the first sign of spring, summers’ warmth, birdsong, nighttime sounds, mourning awakenings, autumns’ glow, and winter sunsets, first snowfalls.

My riches were boundless. Beloved parents who gave me all that made me worthwhile—an undeserved, but patient, kind and noble man to be my spouse—a sweet and gentle brother to love, respect and cherish through all the years—three precious, honorable, stalwart, thoughtful and loving sons—each unique and marvelous—each God’s special gift to me from the day they were born. My fringe benefits along with all else—the loyal, loving, understanding, friends of youth and later years.

I ask only happy memories that all of us have shared—and that a prayer be said for me in springtime—near flowing brooks and frothy streams—at sunsets, at moonrise—when lilacs bloom after summer rainfall—now and then at eventide when daily tasks are done—on Christmas Eve perhaps—on Easter moon—whenever soft winds rustle the leaves-when stars come out and always when church bells ring—when trees grow tall and nearly touch the clouds.

Contentment, peace and happiness have been mine and God has been so good to me with joy and laughter in greater measure than tears.

Love each of you ad infinitum.

Betty Ann Fisher

Two Poems my Mom wrote about her Mom, yet they are true about how I feel as well.

My Truly Special Mom

by Betty Ann Fisher

And when she smiled—
‘Twas as if the world was new,
And when she laughed
Our troubles all seemed few.

She cried but seldom
And ah, she hid the tears
Or wiped them quickly
That none would know her fears.

If steep her path,
She wore no outward sorrow
But kept the ache within herself
Not bitter on the morrow.

She’d never stoop to deed unkind
Nor would she hurt another
Nor hold a grudge within her heart
My sweet and gentle Mother.


by Betty Ann Fisher

A fitting tribute to her memory—a statue struck in bronze? An impressive gravestone in the churchyard? Which of these shall I choose?

I think that I shall always remember her in the first bright flush of dawn, whenever I see a clump of Lilies of the Valley in a quiet glade, when the first Crocus peeks above the ground, in the scent of early Lilacs, when the first Robin makes his appearance, when the earth smells sweet after a summer shower, when the trees swish in a gentle breeze, when I hear a Bob White call.

When the smell of autumn is in the air, when the first frost sets the leaves aflame, when snowflakes fall from Heaven, and when the sunset comes. I’ll remember her when I hear the laughter of children at play or see nuns at prayer. When I hear a lullabye, when a music box tinkles a merry tune. Whenever I smell Violets, I’ll feel that she is near. And when the thaw sets free the mountain brooks and streams, I’ll think of her.

When church bells ring at Easter-tide, when Christmas carols are sung, when I see a cozy kitchen or a warm and glowing hearth, when a kettle sings on a stove, when the crickets chirp and when the stars come out.

Whenever I’m happy I’ll wish that she could share, and when I’m sad I’ll long for the comfort that only she could give. For my triumphs—if only she might prideful be and my faults could help correct. When someone else says, “Mother” I’ll remember mine.