My Mother's Hands

Poem By Richard L. Merila

My Mother's hands, oh, the memories of them bring a sadness to my soul!
Aged, wrinkled and worn, My Mother's hands; oh, the memories, how I love them so
The coolness of my Mother's hands upon my fevered brow...
My Mother's hands, where are they now?
A time to be remembered; a time to be forgotten;
The memories as my mother's hands held me, broken.
A time to cherish, a time to adore.
The memories of my Mother's hands when I came back from war.
Injured from service in faraway lands,
I was soothed with the touch of my Mother's hands.
I know My Mother's hands were folded in prayer at my bed.
I felt the Spirits touch caress my heated head.
My Mother's hands built her soldier, who lay like dead.
My Mother's hands upon my wounded head.
To love my God with all my heart;
To love my neighbor, her lesson will never depart!
Once fallen, I live to serve again
In another Force, that will have no end.
My Mother's hands, so used of God, I have no fear
Will touch me again in that land so dear.

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Kristin: My Wife

I prayed in the garden
For one lovely flower
That would brighten my way.
As He said, He gave me my desire.

Our Faded Roses

Scanning the cemetery, my eyes did focus upon
our Stone of Roses; so fair and so fair. Running my hands upon the Rose reliefs, tears of
forgotten years, came remorsefully down my
sorrowful cheeks. A Stone of Roses, given to Our Father and Mother,