My Mother’s Voice
Today is my mother’s birthday. It is also the day she left us.
Her circle of life was both figuratively, and literally complete.
I always make a point of saying: the best thing that ever
happened or will happen to me is that I was born at the right address:
the home of my mother and father, Marie and Elmer Cartwright
of Baytown, Texas. That one, seemingly ordinary event, over which
I had no control made all the difference in my life. The road that led
me to become an engineer, author, inventor, composer, screenwriter,
tinkerer and ‘thinkerer,’ began with them and the invaluable lessons
they taught.
My Mother’s Voice
© 2003-2011 Gene Cartwright
She spoke to me in a calming, melodic voice,
though I yet longed for first breath.
Even then, my heart beat to the rhythm of her soul;
It marched to the cadence of her pure spirit.
It flourished in the still comfort of her being.
And I heard my mother’s voice.
She spoke to me in a quiet and sure voice,
though I had yet to touch her sweet face.
Even then, my heart beat to the rhythm of her soul;
Her blood flowed to the reaches of my own eternity.
Her breath filled me with life, everlasting.
And I heard my mother’s voice.
She spoke to me with an endless, eternal truth,
though I had scarcely seen first light.
Even then, my heart beat to the rhythm of her pulse;
It soared with the lift of her tireless wings.
It rejoiced in the glow of her guiding light.
And I heard my mother’s voice.
Know this. I am the fruit of shared love,
brought forth by unseen, yet unfailing hands
that shaped the universe.
I am a solemn song of ceaseless prayer,
voiced without end; an answer bestowed long before the
Amen, granting my own Genesis, and even my Revelation.
She spoke to me in a thousand tender ways,
though I answered with only needs and wants.
Even then, she gave beyond her own possessions,
with the eternal love and vision of an angel;
without a want for merit or mention
And I heard my mother’s voice.
And still she speaks, in a voice that fills my being,
though her face eludes my sight and touch.
Even now, my heart beats to the rhythm of her soul;
It marches to the cadence of her pure spirit.
And I still hear my mother’s voice.
Yes, in deepest dark or brightest light,
I still hear my mother’s voice.
And when I am no more, and not even my deepest
footprints remain for young eyes to see,
Even then, hearts will beat to a rhythm they did not compose.
They will march to a cadence, not their own.
And they will hear their mother’s voice
Yes, even they will hear their mother’s voice.
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(from book of poetry “Still Dreaming”)
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