Frank James Ryan Jr (FjR)
A Mothers Anathema... - Poem by Frank James Ryan Jr (FjR)
Drawn from the concrete well
buckets pulled by rope-burnt palms,
the chilling bounce of a mothers screams
against the damp echo
of narrow concrete walls
where her young boy lays...motionless.
And she sweats streams of chaos,
as she frantically cries for help,
fingertips skinned and bleeding,
chanting the 'Litany of Saints'
her cry, haunting,
a crowd begins to form,
whispers of what had happened,
to wordless replies...just gasps,
and tears...for they knew this boy,
and his young loving Mother,
and how she'd walk him to the bus stop
each morning at seven-forty-five,
and wait with him,
and be back once again at two-forty-five
and the two would walk home like best friends,
joking, clowning, both wearing ear to ear smiles...
but not today.
And from this day forward...nothing for her
will ever be the same,
nor will the Town, a community, close and caring,
now gravely concerned
as she falls to her knees,
and watch in horror
as the woman begins tearing
fistfuls of hair,
from her vixed, jaded head;
the grief so intense,
she has lost all connection
to sanity...and the townsfolk see this,
a frightening sight, and rush to the well,
pulling her back,
grabbing hold of her hands
and gently removing wefts of torn hair
between her nail broken fingers,
and they hold her tightly
as fates hollow depth churns so deep-
within the cockles of her inner self,
tragically, as she walks home alone
to try and make sense
of what never will;
such grief in loss of a child
be so inconsolable!
Grieving mother donned in black-
veiled the same to shade her grief.
There be fresh dirt broken today-
on the grounds of Mount Xavierian.
'Why God, why my son', despite sedation,
chants the Mother to the Heaven's, helplessly;
tears soak the black veil 'pon her grief,
a numbness surrounds her bruised, heavy Heart.
An' ther' be silence in this woman's home tonight,
and every night, for a very long time.
How so deafening this silence be.
Frank James Ryan, Jr./FjR
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