Café Crem

Art, Music and Words around The Coffee Table

Joyce Marion Moore

 Joyce Moore 

A child of the thirties

Derbyshire born

Unconditional love

Smiles, soft and warm

Loved by her brothers

Numbering four

To school she would send me

With a kiss through the door

I remember her freedom

As we left the nest

The new job she relished

Doing her best

But the tears that she shed

As I got my own place

Were as nothing to the rivers

That ran down my face

As my dearest, my Mother

Crossed over at last

And I’m scared that the memories

Will fade like the past

I try and I try to recall her sweet smile

But the illness that took her

Indiscriminate and vile

Intrudes on my thoughts

And its hard for a while

But with patience that image recedes from my brain

And there, in the light, stands my Mother again.

Copyright Kev Moore 2008

I wanted to write some words about my Mother, and well, out this came.


January 11, 2008 - Posted by | death, health, life, love, Parents and Children, personal, poetry, random, women, writing | , , , , ,


  1. Kevin, this is so moving and beautiful. I truly have tears in my eyes. The love you had – and still have – for your mother is plain to see in every word.
    Thank you for sharing this beautiful poem with us.

    Comment by Bonny | January 11, 2008

  2. Your words take one through such a range of feelings! I can imagine you writing this while watching the storms of emotion blowing through you. How long ago did she die?

    Comment by Susan Cornelis | January 12, 2008

  3. Kevin. so touching as you play your words, like music, through all your emotions….

    Comment by psychscribe | January 12, 2008

  4. thank you for your kind words, ladies… my mum died 22 years ago. she’d been suffering from breast cancer like her mother before her, and had two mastectomys. I know that she hung on to see Hollie born and christened, then let go. Her and Dad had been on a two week holiday to Scotland, and she’d been wonderful the first week, then began to weaken. she was 52. it only really hit me when I returned to the family home and found the kitchen empty. My earliest childhood memories are of her baking, busying herself around the kitchen, and her lack of presence there was profound and the grief hit me in a great wave. later, on the night of her funeral, I played with my band. Some thought it bad, but I could just hear mum saying “don’t let the boys down, they need the money” plus, what would it serve to sit at home, brooding? It was my therapy. I believe my father didn’t deal with the sadness for 20 years.

    Comment by kevmoore | January 12, 2008

  5. Oh, how well I can empathise with your feelings, Kev! I’m fortunate enough to still have my mother (and I have the age of your mother, now…) but, unfortunatelly, not rich enough to visit her and my father more often (I brought them here to Canada for a visit in 2000 and was in romania to see them in 2004)… I also wrote a poem for her but in French! (I don’t know why in French…it just went that way…)

    Comment by iondanu | January 12, 2008

  6. I have the age of his mother, too, Danu, a very strange feeling… I wished so much I had known her!
    Do you send letters to your parents, Danu, do you call them, or how do you communicate?
    Did she read your poem? I mean, because of the French language…

    Comment by Miki | January 12, 2008

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