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Today is my late mother's birthday. The following poem, at the beginning of my novel, 'Half Moon, Full Heart,' is my tribute.

I am often asked how, given my background in engineering (BSEE in another life), I came to write. I respond by blaming/crediting the fact I was born at the right address in a small Texas town: my mother and father lived and loved there. Except for that fact, my life may have been woefully different. My dear mother taught me to read at the age of three. That was all I needed to realize the power of imagination, and the ability to see no impossibilities. I have always been a reader/writer/imagineer.

I have now authored four published novels. Two more are complete, and three more are in various stages of development. All have one thing in common, amongst many: a poem in the beginning. Here is a reprint of the poem at the beginning of 'Half Moon, Full Heart'

My Mother''s Voice

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..

Copyright © 2007 Gene Cartwright
Falconcreek Publishing Company


Gene Cartwright
Founder/CEO, iFOGO.com | iFOGO Village | Gene's Novels

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Comment by Barbara Hart on August 19, 2009 at 10:55am
Gene, that was heart felt and truly nice.
Barbara

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