UNCA Literary and Art Magazine
To My Mother
by Wilma dykeman
To a person who's strong throughout his days
The world for long has heaped up praise;
But here's to a woman who's strong, yet kind,
Idealistic without being blind,
Who can lead and push and sympathize,
Flaunt faith in the world's sarcastic eyes;
Who neither writes nor paints nor sings,
And yet sees beauty in simple things.
Here's to a woman the world does not know,
And yet, without her small, steady glow
The world would much less beauty have known,
In a wife, a daughter, and a mother–my own.
Two roads there are
by Wilma dykeman
Two roads there are that I may take–
One winds and dips and rises;
The other, straight and shadeless, ending
Offers greater prizes.
Two cups there are from which to drink–
One sparkles, shimmers, bubbles;
The other, clear and very still,
Does not disguise its troubles.
Two songs there are by which to dance–
One sways and lilts and drifts;
The other, sweet but melancholy,
Buoys up and lifts.
Two people there are that I may be–
One sees and hears and sings;
The other, lonely, happy,
Feels the beauty of all things.
personal history
by Wilma dykeman
Three things there are that I can't comprehend:
Men, fractions, and a treacherous friend.
Three things there be that I’ll never do:
Eat carrots, swear, and marry you.
Three things there aren't that I wish might be:
More beauty, more money, your love for me.