just a sombre reflection
She used to swivel her hips in the kitchen
Singing along to 80's movies soundtracks,
Or fight a cry while Janis yowled.
But now her days are silent.
Occasionally, a brick red sunset finds
Her for me, moving along that boulevard
Or this boulevard.
More and more she looks like a woman
I do not know, would not talk to,
Might give spare change.
Perhaps she remembers the words
To her favorite song as she carries on;
Her tired bones.
Perhaps she remembers home, or what once was home.
Perhaps her children's faces rush through her mind
As does the drug through the blood.
Perhaps it is foolish to hope to one day hear my mother sing again.
Poetry by halfjack
Read 1215 times
Editors' choice
Written on 2013-05-24 at 04:13
Tags Mother Loss Homeless
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my mother never listens to music anymore
My mother never listens to music anymore.She used to swivel her hips in the kitchen
Singing along to 80's movies soundtracks,
Or fight a cry while Janis yowled.
But now her days are silent.
Occasionally, a brick red sunset finds
Her for me, moving along that boulevard
Or this boulevard.
More and more she looks like a woman
I do not know, would not talk to,
Might give spare change.
Perhaps she remembers the words
To her favorite song as she carries on;
Her tired bones.
Perhaps she remembers home, or what once was home.
Perhaps her children's faces rush through her mind
As does the drug through the blood.
Perhaps it is foolish to hope to one day hear my mother sing again.
Poetry by halfjack
Read 1215 times
Editors' choiceWritten on 2013-05-24 at 04:13
Tags Mother Loss Homeless
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text
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Lawrence Beck |
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Editorial Team |
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shells |
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Elle |
