Post more comments
Want a gift card for being active Forum member? Post comments and win $25 gift card every week.
Rules:
PoemHunter.com will be giving away Amazon.com gift cards (worth $75 in total) every week to first three members ($25 each) who participate most in our forum discussions. You just have to post comments on forum pages, poet pages or poem pages anywhere inside PoemHunter.com
Comments posted needs to be in different pages. Posting more than 1 comment on the same page will only be counted once.
Members can not post comments without being logged in.
PoemHunter.com has the right to cancel or edit this contest.
PoemHunter.com has a right to disqualify or ban member(s) without providing any type of reason, belief or proof in regards to any type of illegal activity or fraud.

Deva De Silva


Colourful Umbrellas


I draped on my mother walking to school
My rightful place as her little girl
My fingers buried in her soft elbow
In the crook of her arm where sweat buds pooled

Her sari blowing in the wind
Flapping at the back of my head
Its silkiness caressing my skin
Wrapping me with a wholeness
Assumed as my sole privilege
Skipping along to keep up with her pace
My head touching her waist
Walking by her side, feeling safe

Amma held the umbrella, our haven, our shade
Shielding me from prying eyes, sun rays, monsoon rains
Our treasured ritual where she was the shepherd
And I was the obedient sheep that tailed

Every few months our umbrella changed
From new to shabby with time
Plain black to colourful designs
Violet flowers in a green background
Bold yellow tones and red checked lines
Yet, the arm hoisting it up purposefully
Remained the same

As I reached her forearm, as tall as her
Time passed by, our gait matched in rhythm
Then came the time I grew taller than she
Six inches in all, beating her in strength
Yet, nothing changed as she still strained
Guiding me, hoisting the umbrella over me

I cannot recall when the hand holding it swapped
From hers to mine in a silent pact
She was petite, I was robust and tall
Tangled as one, walking to school
I still held on to her and she led me!

One sunny day we happened by
Known eyes that stopped in surprise
I still remember the concerned probe
'Is your mother alright? 'in a shrilly voice

As the realization dawned it made us smile
We chuckled silently, bursting out together
My eyes tearing, her bloomed middle squirming
Walking beside me she looked wan and sickly
Clinging on to me, unable to walk on her own
Instead of her being my power, my rock in life
To the world it appeared as if she was fragile

Outgrown my rightful place as her little girl
It felt awkward to drape on her from then on!

Submitted: Wednesday, November 14, 2012
Edited: Wednesday, November 14, 2012

Do you like this poem?
0 person liked.
0 person did not like.

Read this poem in other languages

This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.

I would like to translate this poem »

word flags

What do you think this poem is about?

Comments about this poem (Colourful Umbrellas by Deva De Silva )

Enter the verification code :

There is no comment submitted by members..

Top Poems

  1. Phenomenal Woman
    Maya Angelou
  2. The Road Not Taken
    Robert Frost
  3. If You Forget Me
    Pablo Neruda
  4. Still I Rise
    Maya Angelou
  5. Dreams
    Langston Hughes
  6. Annabel Lee
    Edgar Allan Poe
  7. If
    Rudyard Kipling
  8. I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings
    Maya Angelou
  9. Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
    Robert Frost
  10. Invictus
    William Ernest Henley

PoemHunter.com Updates

New Poems

  1. Posting Photos On The Facebook, I Feel I.., Bijay Kant Dubey
  2. corrosion, oskar hansen
  3. TO HIS BOOTYLICIOUS MISTRESS, Israel Dammy Ipaye
  4. Post Photos of Beautiful Girls On The Fa.., Bijay Kant Dubey
  5. To A Young Man, Edgar Albert Guest
  6. Little Feet, Edgar Albert Guest
  7. The Common Touch, Edgar Albert Guest
  8. The Newspaper Man, Edgar Albert Guest
  9. Ideal Indian Wife, Jyothirmia Uppu
  10. Accomplished Care, Edgar Albert Guest

Poem of the Day

poet George Gordon Byron

I speak not, I trace not, I breathe not thy name;
There is grief in the sound, there is guilt in the fame;
But the tear that now burns on my cheek may impart
...... Read complete »

   
[Hata Bildir]