Poem For Mom

~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!"

 


 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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allets's picture

'nuff said

The art of knives - a skill acquired over time in actuality and metaphoriclly and artistically. Memories, yes! ~Lady A~


 

 

allets's picture

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~