My mother, Margaret Boissineau, just turned 100 years young on January 9, 2013. She had been a teacher in public school as a young woman, as well as playing the organ at church for more than 70 years of her life. Her last time playing at church was when she was 99, on Christmas Eve.
On November 11, 1918, my mother was five years old. Her mother and dad woke her up at almost midnight and gave her a pot and a wooden spoon and sent her outside in the street to bang on the pot. The Great War in Europe had finally ended. This was her first memory.
I tried for months to find the perfect present for her, for her 100th birthday. Nothing seemed suitable. I asked her what she would like, and once again she gave me her talk about giving verses getting, as she has done many times in the past. My mother's discussion of giving inspired the following poem, "Mother's Tears," which I wrote for her 100th birthday party.
Gary Boissineau

Mother's Tears

Oracles from Old Olympus Peak
Tell of paths that we should seek
On our earth there's famous sites
Where pagans spoke at ancient rites

Seers relate about the eye and camel gate
The way to go – before too late
Prophets point to show the way
And speak about the donkey's day.

Sages old and very wise
Say a woman in the west will rise
Bring a message wrapped in tears
But only once a thousand years.

God looked down upon the earth
I see my world's in need
He opened up the heavens
To plant a tiny human seed.

The seed it grew – a pretty lass
As time went by a maid
There at church she often played
Until at last a teacher made.

Life is tough with all its pains
And through her time her knowledge gains
Consoling friends with her tears
So do pass the many years.

God gave her music for her soul
A gift for her to keep
But once inside her head
You'll find her thoughts are deep.

If one attempts to be so wise
The only way but open eyes
One must rage the dying light
This mother has with all her might.

Crooked fingers on the keys
Sore and old and tired knees
Far off on the world's rim
The candle flickers and grows dim.

The host looks down from pearly gate
The time has come – the hour is late
It's been said from early days
He works in strange and wondrous ways.

Wisdom gleaned from all her years
And tempered in a fire of tears
The world is old – the ox is slow
It won't be long – her words will flow.

Salt of the earth and truly wise
This old girl tells no lies
Hear my maxim "You must get
I'm still kicking' – I ain't dead yet."

There are those that live among us
They amass and horde their wares
They can never spare a dime
Most grow old long before their time.

Here they walk among us
They have sadly lost their way
They cache and stash and save
Better if they gave.

This mother gives but all away
It echoes off her friends
No matter just how fast it goes
It comes right back again.

The message rings across the sands
And finally reaches distant lands
God smiles down from up above
Again my world is filled with love.

When at last her time is spent
We must return what God has sent
But what of words from Mother's tears
They go on a thousand years.   Submitted By: NULL