Friday, December 16, 2011


Remembering he who walked dirt roads.
Mounted knolls to reach her house. By ways,
where heaps of fruits lay in ruins. Memories of
ashes to ashes and dust to dust.

Pains and sorrows gather tall, yet
she danced with sorrows, and all.
Moods bending and twisting, yet having a ball!
Lasting desire the only wallflower alone.

In her time, Momma's milk nurtured nine.
Springs sprung greens and fruits; the blazing
Summers ripened berries and plums; autumn's
Amber splendor signaled her work done.
Now winter renders cold and gloom.
No more seeds in spring, summers cold, autumn fell.
Now, harsh winter's gone but her venerableness lags on.

She marveled no more the vivid moon, nor
her smile as bright as the sun.
Joyce, her name and Joy passed away.
I Join this mournful dirge and wing with
the dove upon the morning cloud.

Her first, second, third, fourth and fifth,
sons were overcome by stark darkness
Though Momma's fruits perished outside her womb,
yet four aged- daughters left keeping the narrative alive.

I think this melancholy history is well worth reprising:
The melodic songs, lyrical poems, elegiac verses of
those once lived, and the four waiting
waiting for the roll of each dice...
Almedia Knight Oliver
Nasarudheen Parameswaran 30 December 2011
yes, the roll of dice.faitalism- echo
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Ida Harris 16 December 2011
A tale of a poem that only experience and wisdom can tell...
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