Wish and Envy

My night time reveries called dreams are cut short.
My eyes open wide abruptly escaping the pleasantries
of my thoughts and memories
for I wish these, again, to be realities.

Like the first time I walked amidst the trails
between those alpine covered mountains
that pierce through the hanging curtains of the skies
and that feeling comes o’er me of gasping air,
with pleased and tear filled, grateful eyes.

Like music when it filled our youthful ears
and all of life before us,
of friends together as we played
in muddy fields or in dance halls
when we would jump about in fearless fray
then hug each other, all, at the end of the day.

Like quiet walks when first we met,
holding hands feeling each others wet perspiration
that comes from the warmth of our desires.
Like all lovers must feel on their initial strolls
down pathways by the rivers bend,
we stop and face each other, place hands on each others waist,
staring in each others eyes without words being spoken,
our expressive swollen lips gently touch
and tongues searching like keys inserted into doors
awaiting entryways, openings, into lust filled spaces.

These moments now just memories
filling my dreams and daytime reveries
with envy and desires that they would be realities
once again and that my eyes would remain closed
enjoying the comfort of this restful sleep
that usurps the pangs of loneliness.

Free

‘Nature’: The everlasting things are these;
The ageless skies and wrinkled seas,
The silvery beacons of the night,
The fickle moon of transient light.
Unresting winds that seldom sleep
Rocks that external silence keep.
Earth’s mighty sons, the mountains, stand
Unmindful of Time’s withering hand.
Indifferent to the worlds brief woes,
The sun, aloof, forever glows.
Though mortals yield to Death’s decrees,
God’s everlasting things are these.

E.G. Beaudry

‘Love’: That gasp or gulp of air that gathers in the chest
and marries with a smile,
it dances with a palpitating heart,
feels the warmth of an embrace,
human or otherwise,
and in it’s absence nurtures
it’s memory by the trickle of that
teardrop that slowly gathered in
the corner of one’s eye,
blinks and it's released
yet another will soon gather, in memory.

M.L. Arellano

Physical Therapy

Doing my inclined leg presses on the ‘total gym’, the name given to the inclinable bench, I was concentrating on the necessary focal point of this perfunctory exercise, my newly replaced prosthetic hips. It was my last day of physical therapy after my second total hip replacement and twenty four weeks of physical therapy, twice a week twelve weeks for each hip after each surgery. High angst and many frustrating days getting both surgeries done within an eight month period (“ wah, wah, wah!”). Next to me was another empty, yet not for long, total gym. Feebly yet determined, this small of stature, maybe being that she walked with her shoulders curved pronouncedly forward, came to sit on the ’total gym’ exercise bench next to me. After being assisted on to the table at an incline, she began doing the knee bends. My curiosity of course observed her but only through my discrete periphery. She labored with every knee bend some painful distress as it showed in her cringing of the eyelids, tilting of the head as she rhythmically exhaled with every bend and lift of her legs. As I noticed her facial expression, while exhaling, she would struggle with taught lips and her tongue curling in between the upper and lower false teeth to bring them back in. At that moment it reminded me of my Mother when she would do the same every time we would laugh deeply about the silliest things.
This lady next to me looked to be around the octogenarian age group. I thought to myself as to why at that age would she be getting such a drastic surgical procedure. My curiosity got the best of me so I asked her “….what did you have done“? She very cautiously and without turning her head to look at me said “ I had a total right knee replacement”. Without me having to as a follow on question she continued “ My husband has been pressing me to get it done because of the pain I’ve been complaining about”. “ We finally decided to get it done which was just three weeks ago”. She said that with resembling quiet pride after I had complimented her on how well, seemingly, her progress was coming along. She then proceeded to tell me about how her husband has also been trying to get her to buy a new car because her fifteen year old Buick was beginning to show disrepair and he was concerned of her safety. She went on to say, “ I finally got a new, used, Impala, a person that we know who is a car salesman just dropped it off at my back garage”. I asked her well how do you like it? “oh, its ok, I liked my Buick better”. “What does your husband think about it” I asked her? She softly and with a noticeable quiver in her chin said “… He never saw it, He died six weeks ago”. She paused. “ We were married for fifty five years”. I calmly without attending to too much dramatics said “ I’m very sorry”. She didn’t even look my way but kept looking forward, exhaling finally her timer went off for her to go on to her next exercise. Her physical therapist came to assist her off the ’total gym’ and she just looked forward with an octogenarian pride as she was assisted to her next exercise. I could hear her tell her therapist “…phew, that was all I could take of that exercise”.

The Link

There’s a simple link that connects
A desire to live and appreciation of it.
If the strength of its content ceases to hold
the weight and to absorb the tension,
the value of life no longer has that silent glitter
like the stars that hold the night, or
the day no longer grapples with outstretched arms of Sun.
That link must always hold a sense of longing
even amidst the grey and cold
of seasons changing too fast
for even the spirit and heart
to grab and to hold .

We so clumsily handle the link provided
because we rely on understanding
rather than just appreciating.
When we look out upon the ocean waves
we don't attempt to guess how high
or when the next wave will come in
but we watch while they dance and jump
always trying to touch the sky.
We look up into the starry night
and question not what holds them up
but thankful for their sensorial delight.

Some things in life we will never understand;
Like the history of bloodshed man has imposed upon its kind;
Unresolved religious and spiritual fantasies
we wish may have answers to that hunger within,
of the pain, of the tears, of our joys, of our fears
whether this short Life sojourn shall have
meaning in the end.

This link, the breath, the strength of its fiber,
the reason to live, its content is called by the name, Love.

Relationships

Relationships like Life are so fragile. When Life is lived with “verve”; when all the senses are keen and all the challenges in Life are exercised with the passion of a ‘snorting hoof kicking bull’; when their’s conflicts or setbacks, they are felt as if the bull has charged and gored. When one lives passionately all is felt in the same. Like the hurricane winds that blow and the grasses are forced to lay down and then the wind changes direction the grasses do also and with the same force. In this realm of passionate existence when family conflicts arise they are like mountainous obstacles even the small disagreements. Sometimes the passions of conflict revel in their own mire and they sink into its odorous abyss. Relationships with friends many times evaporate if these impassioned conflicts arise. Family members cannot dissipate in the like because they will always be of common genes and blood but the damage of the heart can be so deep that cries of ‘disownment’ can be loudly heard.

Conflicts of political ideologies, religious convictions amongst acquaintances and friends become a bifurcating force that may never be ameliorated. Among family, seemingly,insuperable conflicts separates and creates distance but can never or should ever be a “disowning” lever to be applied. Only death can physically abort this relationship and even then the soul never departs from its mundane or spiritual connection.

The passions of the heart and its emotional character sometimes dramatizes one living a life with verve. The cerebral interpretations of the ‘passionate man’ in many cases have much disconnection and are misunderstood. Those that seldom see or share the tears of the heart, also, seldom feel the warm breath of life and never inhale its exuberance. Their eyes open but never witness the ’sol’ of the soul.

The irony of the ‘Relationship’ between ‘Life and the ’passionate man’ and ‘Life’ and the ‘cerebral man‘; is that when ’Death arrives the ’passionate man’ with great resistance wishes not to shake it’s hand but when the dispassionate or ‘cerebral man’ attends to ’Deaths’ presence, he shakes its hand and does not care to understand.

Sun Shines for Someone

The sun shines today evoking my spirit to once again dance.
The winter and cold this year has been bold
the weather has challenged the souls of man
caused them to question their faith,
dried up the caverns where tears were stored
human hearts truly felt from Divinity, they’d been scorned.

Amidst this dark cloud left from the wrath of natures hand
the humans resilient spirit sang songs in the streets
in the face of the storm with hands around the world
coming forth with a gentle hand of shelter, food and warmth.

The suns wondrous fingers pierce through my window pane
reawaken is my spirit of song lost in the midst of that storm
but depressed is the soul of those still without homes
awaiting relief from the pain and the scorn.

Be mindful, those who read these words
whose hearts they touch, whose thoughts incite;
There are those of us who live amongst the tree tops,
the sun touches and nutrients befall
and those who live in the shadows cast
who can see the sun above
but to share in its radiance, they’ve little hope.

I ask that you not wait for an extended hand
but from within of thy inherent kindness
share thy wealth not just from thy pot of gold
but of thy health, provide the strength and compassion
to rebuild their land

Deprivation

Deprivation

It exists within me now

That which once I had

In the presence of joy

Escaped

A feeling of loss abounds

Emptiness surrounds

Yet this brings forth moments when all my senses are keen

I hear the tones of music in pitch and in key : mellifluous

Baron are the darken branches of the winter tree resting against the grey white canvas of the sky - visual clarity astounds

my heart emotes with anxious appreciation awaiting the love I have inside

Soon to link in a moments time with the heart of those who have survived the lonely presence of my void and my desperation

Lucid understanding of that which soon will come along with times inevitable marriage of its past and present

Until then

There’s that sense of Deprivation

Sometimes I Wonder, If

If mine eyes have witnessed the pleasure
of that gold filled sun that slowly gathers back
it’s fingers it had laid upon the day
and now pulls the night’s blanket o’er it’s head

If the mirror like reflection upon the garment of the sea
slowly waves gently goodbye as the sun
pulls away for it’s rest
as a winged contour of an ospreys silhouette
can be seen trying to find it’s resting nest
flying toward a rose colored veil rolling into the horizon

If the memory of my hearts fluttering as it shares this vision
along with a soft and gentle warm embrace of another
as the day departs while upon the shore the cool wet sand
sifts between our naked toes, we lay together holding hands

If the caws of seagulls fill the dusk
and intermittent roars of the sea
running toward the shore reminding us it never sleeps
and the tiny tinsel pricks of light begin to form those mythical
figures in the blacken space above
and the crispness of the air I breath in deep
so as to save within my heart, my chest,
the memory of this moment;

So, If and when my mortal body shall become
part of the earth and sand and it washes into the sea
and the waves carry what’s left of me
far out to where the sun lays its breast upon its evening resting place,
and my memory of the beauty my eyes beheld,
the passions my heart had felt and the sensual touch upon my hand,
this spirit of mine who has shared all this,
will it live on amongst the ‘eternity’ and the ‘everlasting’
tiny sprinkles of light that hover in the vastness of the night
and as it gives way once again to the waking day,
will my spirit also rise along side the sun from it’s horizon bed?

Time Bring Tears

I say, “I can’t wait”
But now as time has crept,
I no longer look forward.

Now I anticipate with enthusiasm
Yet disdain time past

I’ve polished my eyesight,
Honed my hearing,
More gentle is my touch,
Greater I can feel.

Saline drops fall from my eyes
Seemingly too fast they come
now days.

I seem to cry: when birds can’t fly
or dogs have but three legs;
when my Tetra floats
no longer swimming
their breath is lost,
their fins no longer moving.

I had heard and had read
that seeing sad things many times
would lessen feelings after long
but I have found that with time,
the heart, the mind
the eyes, the touch,
come closer to humankind.

Today, this moment,
Now.
I can hear my breath

Slowly, the Gray

If I ask the sun to hurry and shine upon the gray
that has now lasted for too long
time will go by faster,
Should I ask that of the day?

The dread of Monday comes
And we wish for it to pass
We look for Wednesday, ‘hump day’
Halfway through the week
Soon the Friday we yearn to greet.

When we do this, our weeks and months fly by so quickly
Soon our years pass and we regret it
We ask, ‘where did time go?’
In retrospect, that’s what we asked for.

I now enjoy the gray
Both in my hair line
And the day.
When the sun now arrives
and smiles upon the shadows
Made of clouds
I ask of ‘father time’
To be kind and 'Not' rush
The soaring clouds
And speed past the day.

Awake, Alive

When my eyes open in the wake of morn
I now become part of the day,
Much like the birds at play,
Much like 'el sol’ and it’s dancing rays,
Much like the wind that incessantly swirls.
The sounds of children far away
and then the absence of sound,
the silence, resounding in my ears,
brings me back reminding me
that amongst all this in a timeless light:

“The endless things are these,
The ageless skies and wrinkled seas;
The silvery beacons of the night,
The fickle moon of transient light.
Unresting winds that seldom sleep;
Rocks that eternal silence keep.
Earth’s mighty sons, the mountains, stand
Unmindful of Time’s withering hand.
Indifferent to the world’s brief woes,
The sun, aloof, forever glows.
Though mortals yield to Death’s decrees,
God’s everlasting things are these.” (Beaudry)

‘this’ is all part of me.

NINA

“NINA”

We used to walk together, some early mornings, sometimes evenings.
Without words being exchanged but an occasional glance at each other.
She’d sometimes would walk at a faster pace ahead of me
I think it was to test me and see if I would come to her.
When I would go pick her up for this stroll
She would always look so royal in her black and tan “couture”.
I could see her excitement in her dark Latina brown eyes
when I’d come by to pick her up.
We both knew our walks were only ours
in these alone shared moments.
Around our quiet neighborhood we would stroll,
stop to baptize only those special mailboxes.
We’d come to this centralized community park and rest.
I would lay my weary and deteriorating hips onto the grass
she would sit next to me.
Our heads would turn like owls on their perch, back and forth,
together in-sinc watching people or cars going by.
Then I would lay back on the grass looking up to the sky
She would do the same next to me.
With her four large Rotweiler paws pointing at the sky,
No shame of showing her teats,
Just enjoying the clouds hovering slowly by
while I’d name the figures that I’d see
Form among their cumulous attire.
I would point and call them out to her,
"..Hey ‘Nina’, don’t you think that one looks
Like you, but with angel wings?"
I would rub her belly as her tongue would hang out to one side.
Her panting and her eyes would show me the pleasure this all felt.
We bonded like this many times.
I’ll remember her this way.
Seems, now, not too long ago
her owner and her moved away.
They were now hiking the mountains
and observing God’s hand in another
portrayal of Nature’s array.
I’m happy for them.
He e-mailed me the other day
To tell me she passed away.
I went outside today and looked up at the sky.
With black and tan colored wings
I think I saw her soar by.
Nina, my friend, enjoy, soar, I miss you.

Girls are Different

When I was ‘little’, when I was ‘young’
I remember feeling and seeing how a girl was so different.
Her hair was longer, her face was prettier,
Her hands were softer and untouchable without permission.

I would stare at a girl with innocent desire and ‘awe’.
She would capture my male curiosity, with her pigtails
With her tiny dress and those wondrous shapely legs.

I was told I could look but don’t touch.
When on occasion, mostly by accident,
my hand would rub up against hers
Or I was aloud to hold her hand in ‘recess’
a game I would insist on playing,
I would reflect upon that moment of touching her hand.
Later when in bed at night, I would dream about that incidental moment.

When older, I would admire girls at a distance because of shyness.
Their hair seemingly more flowing, their faces more distinctively prettier
and their hands, their legs so much more desirable, now lustfully so.
They are distinguishably, visually, so different from my maleness.
Then at a later age I became aware of how their minds and their thoughts
were so different than mine. I think I always knew how distinctively different and untouchable girls were.

Since, I have had the pleasure of having a relationship with some women.
Gently I’ve cuddled a few with their permission. With this experience, I’ve become aware that the uniqueness and differences between male and female is not always ‘black and white’. Some characteristics, some views are discernibly more of a ’gray’ issue.
Although women are prettier, their hands their skin still softer, their legs and now, their lovely breasts have caught my attention, they’ve become so much more lustfully desirable.

My shyness has waned now as a man and my understanding and realization of women is that they have always wanted and desired many of the same things that I, as a ’man’, have. Their minds still discriminate information differently, they interpret most with the sensitivity of emotion, primarily. They are more readily willing to nurture and to choose a passive approach which gives balance to some of the polarized opposites of the ’male’.

In the absence of a male parental presence in my rearing, a mother provided me with that nutriment, nurturing, the emotional, the passive approach as an alternative to male aggression. I am fortunate to have been exposed to the balance of male-female, Yin/Yang, in the interpretation of life. I appreciate and cherish my female partner. I still, even in my older years, when my eyes capture their beauty, I see them as I did in my youthful innocence with that romantic appreciation

Nutty Wintry Challenge

Recently, with Mother Nature's visit with that glistening non-sticking flaky snow, indicating that the cold is so brisk that it blows about like desert sand, I‘ve been observing and have been witness with much human angst the depleting destruction of my diligent and concerted efforts at keeping the bird feeders full of seed. These ten feeders, I have placed logistically about in my front and back yards. One is a wooden rustic looking feeder that resembles a doll house hangs from a limb of a tree. Four are manufactured feeders with a transparent midriff and a covered copper top, and the others of varying decorative makeup hanging from curved raw iron cast prongs stuck in the ground. A couple are filled with thistle to welcome smaller blue birds, some filled with multigrain seed that entice the cardinals, blue jays and blackbirds. They now sway about not from wind but from being recently and surreptitiously depleted by those consummate and insatiable, Davy Crockett tailed varmints that normally reside in arboreal domiciles. They have recently challenged me in battle to keeping the feeders full for the intended visitors being my aviary friends. It’s become a battle that has challenged me to become creative as to how to keep these demon representatives (some although irresistibly cute) of the ‘nut world’ from being able to climb up the shafts of the intended ominous looking black iron hangers. They have caused me to formulate a composition that must be develop secretly behind closed doors, beyond the vision of these quad-pedal terrestrials. A composition that I must continuously apply on the shafts of these iron hangers where my feeders hang. A slippery concaction that will remain untenable under all weather conditions where those talons from the varmints feet will be unable to grasp and climb. They will no longer be able to reach and deplete my feeders from the intended feathered friends and will have to gather their own food from their natural habitat. No longer will I peer through slightly ajar curtains or sneak a peak around an open window to try to catch these foes and force me to reach into and refer back to those darken primal acts let alone causing my neighbors to question my pounding upon my picture window in my morning robe that has on occasion opened which I wonder if that is the cause for them 'Davy Croquet hat looking tail wagging theives' to scatter and scurry in fear.

Absence of Pain

Gradually, quietly and most cautiously my morning step, my foot print, is once again showing positive signs of enthusiasm. Carefully I place my foot onto the floor arising from my bed after a joyous recognition that my sleep has been restful. The restless unmitigated pain that for so long had sharply assailed my legs and hips now wanes with welcome solace and soothing dreams. From the very moment of waking, a profound cognizance of the absence of pain, my morning ascends into a sense of creative stimuli that inspires a writ of poetic verse. I am cautious of this moment but I waste not to dwell upon how long it may last and inhale with lustful breath to fill my memory tank so that when the insidious pain may once again pierce this euphoric cloud the strength of this memory will help squash the excruciating pangs of pain.

I feared for so long what was presented to me of replacing my biogenetic hips with prosthetics as one of only two options in relieving the incarcerating pain. The other option was to accept self-medication for my remaining living years which could result in the deterioration of a functioning liver and kidneys and possibly an addiction that would slide me into a state of unpredictable intolerant personality changes toward all my relationships and affecting my lucidity and creativity. I feared not so much the high risk of the surgical procedures and the possibility that I may not have awakened from the artificially imposed sleep, for I fear not ’death’, but the fear of the premature cessation of an unsubstantiated life. Leaving without imparting upon this existence literary writ and memories that may inspire others to perpetuate the understanding that the value of life is to be ‘creative’ in lieu of a vacuous existence or one of destruction. The road I chose was in putting my life in the hands of surgeons that would replace a total pelvic construct and substitute my painful hips with prosthetics. This choice has imposed some sacrifices in my lifestyle which would have arisen anyway as an eventuality through aging. I am now highly appreciative of my choice that has provided me with awakenings in the mornings from my now comforting sleep. The wondrous absence of the nightmarish insufferable pain has won over the battle that had on occassion filled my thoughts with the desire to put an end to the unyielding pain via an otherwise portentous method.

Early Eyes Wide Open

My eyes open earlier more often now from that sleep,
The sleep we all must have at the end of our day.
Some may go to sleep earlier to get up earlier
And some may go to sleep later because their life style dictates.
My eyes now close at the end of the day on my wife’s schedule.
They open much earlier, though, because Life’s too short.

Dreams and thoughts gather quickly in my head
once my eye lids close to rest at the end of my day.
They assemble and replay events, sometimes strangely juxtaposed
from yesterdays or maybe those days yet to come
but they bring back to life the faces of those
that are no longer sharing this space on earth,
At least not in my waking state when my eyes are open in the day.

Lately, I’ve witnessed when my eyes wide open,
Someone from my past stroll by, had not seen them for quite sometime.
Their hair now shades of grey and their eyes gather in folds of skin,
Their walk or gait has slowed and their jeans and shirt are wrinkled,
where once not long ago they would be pressed with straight folded lines
and their collars also stiff with careful and honored pride.

This attention captured by my eyes wide open through the day,
for those that once again enter onto my pathway I’ve not seen for many a day,
Gives me pause to better understand the aging aches and pains upon my limbs,
the wrinkled brow my mirror refuses to reflect and quietly awakens also, with my day.
My eyes now open earlier in the morning, as I wish them to,
so that life does not pass by me as I sleep, my eyes wide open.

Reflection In The Mirror

I looked into the mirror the other day and saw my mother’s face.
Needs to apply more wrinkle cream, I‘d say.

The lower lid and underneath my eyes a darkened area has formed,
It won’t wash away, I think they’re here to stay.

I glare into the dark brown eyes staring back at me
from within this bathroom mirror,
Deep, deep, trying to find who really is in there.

I know what this external shell, now in disrepair looking back at me,
has gone through.
I stare at my reflection deep inside thinking I see those shadows
who’ve held my heart, whose hand held true.

Now this person inside the mirror leers back at me with a querying face
wondering as to why I reach into it’s past.
A small sparkling trickle slowly crawls out from the lower eye lid,
a solemn memory lurks in this tear drops’ shadow, cast.

Two or three days from now if I’m allowed to once again stare into this mirror
After the doctors repair my limbs and provide me with a new beginning,
I commit a promise to this reflecting face,
my love of family and friends will now and forever be my life’s embrace.

Witness and Appreciation

We all open our eyes after a respite sleep and when it’s done we all place our feet down on the ground and start our lumbering of another day.
I look into the faces that pass me by, all stare blankly into the light before them, struggling to find an easier way.

Sometimes when they drive by in that wheeled shelter providing them with a momentary escape from where they were just before.
I see in their eyes a cold isolation, a sense of life’s raw disarray, coming or going, a sense of longing no one can ignore.

We’re all born with this sense of elation to life’s embrace as we then saunter about through years, seemingly, with justification.
We act upon the choices presented us, day to day, as life’s vicissitudes bring us it’s joys and it’s daunting mortifications.

With all the ‘goodness’ life affords us in the sights and sounds, the tastes and the smells, the grandeur and beauty that surrounds,
We must give pause with wanton choice to share with those without the sight our eyes behold of pleasures who to us, life abounds.

I read, today, about two children who reside in a scorching sun and town baron of paved streets and arboreal display, no sounds of life on trees or the scampering of quad pedal friends, bombs and bullets have taken their place.
An arid dirt road runs between where their windows face each other and their little faces sneak a peek through closed curtains looking at each other. They’re not allowed to talk, let alone play, because they’re told the other worships a God that offends.

I saw, today, a moving picture of a little child who’s tiny hand grasps even a tinier one held within, barefooted they take their daily stroll toward their grocery store shared with wild dogs and flies that swarm and hover over their garbage mound of choice.

If I were but a tree my limbs would sprawl out reaching out
to touch the sunrays and only feel the rain drops fall upon me
from the clouds, then maybe, as a tree, I wouldn’t care of
the answers to the ‘why’ of life or shed the tears
that have made my facial cheeks raw and dry
and I would just satiate my thirst and display to nature my
verdant-crimson sachet dress against its azure canvas sky.

Alone

The days for me no longer are Sunday thru Saturday,
the days and nights now mesh into neither light or dark.
I cannot see outside with curtains closed, I sit alone.

The weeks and months now gather fast,
they taunt the years as they go past.
It seems that now in my waning years
I look forward to intermittent moments my pain disappears.

It seems that day after day while I sit alone,
Life goes on outside my door.
My wife departs for work like others, too,
and I try to keep my mind busy, something to do.

When my health and legs were healthy,
early in the mornings earlier than most,
I would spring out of bed to write, to run,
prepare to go to work, eat breakfast with my wife,
some bacon, eggs and toast.

I loved integrating with people through out the day.
Going to work meeting the days challenges then after
attending social and athletic activities,
exercising was so much fun at play.

I welcomed any and all opportunity
rising at a moments notice, living in spontaneity,
traveling with my wife enjoying her hand in mine.
Walking with youthful steps along rustic trails,
inhaling arboreal wafts observing Nature’s fold,
ending on a blanket with a glass of wine.

I look forward for the doctors to repair my other limb,
I will spring up and walk,
finding work, giving my life worth.
Once again I’ll go out and play with others,
night or day, it’s no fun sitting inside alone.

again

Through my eyes and in reflection
I see the tiny hands holding each other tight
As they walk barefoot to find shelter,
Mom holding in her arms my youngest brother,
A somber yet wondrous recollection.

I recall a piece of bread in my front pocket,
It must last me throughout the day.
Recalling my oldest brother, then ten,
As the oldest and strongest male
With his eyes open wide, his head looks left and right,
rotates all around like an owl on its perch,
Watching over us as we walked along a darken street.

Somehow Mother would find us warmth
Find us food, a loving home.
At that time we had no conception
How hard it was for her to clothe us
Or put shoes on our feet.
Little did we know then, because of this,
Some days she did not eat.

She fed us and clothed us
Through out our growing days
Never exposing us to her own pangs
Of how she worried not about tomorrow
But about our next meal
And how for us she’d care.

I cherished her in later years
Hugged and kissed her, wiped away her tears.
Now that she’s departed probably to heaven’s gate
I try to think of not my loss
But the fondness with her of so many years.