~Poem For Mom~
I remember when we were children
and too young to realize
we were naive and poor.
You handled the knife
and cut the apples
because you were the oldest.
We sat on the stoop of the shack
provided by navy housing,
and shared the apple pieces.
Dad was at sea.
The sun was nice.
The apples pieces were sweet.
The unseen monster down the street,
its two-syllable chant with its
pile-driver voice from nine to five
frightened me, but you were older
and braver than I, and kept it away.
I'm all grown up, now,
and cut my own apples,
but they never taste as sweet
as the ones you sliced,
and whenever I hear the monster
I just smile and say:
"She's still here. Watch out!"
'nuff said
The art of knives - a skill acquired over time in actuality and metaphoriclly and artistically. Memories, yes! ~Lady A~
Poor & Crazy
Just reread the poem, the line about not know you were poor and crazy struck something - a memory, thoughts of relatives and neighborhood starstrucks - ahhh, I emote - ~allets~