• Family


    Momma you won't die
    Passavant her death rattle
    still rings in my ears.

    Her body carved up
    past surgeries to 'mend' her
    her life of scarred pain.

    As a child I saw
    the horrendous healing wounds
    She showed me one day.

    All was radical
    two double-mastectomies
    her ribs were showing.

    And it didn't stop
    another 18 years live
    she had to share us.

    Living denial
    My dysfunctional kindred
    numbered all her days.

    She loved us dearly
    saying, "What have I to give..."
    even on deathbed.

    She brought us to life
    what more could we ask of her
    mother to us all.

    She did enjoy life
    even seeing a grandchild
    before passing on.

    All her memories
    we her children have wrote down
    In a book of 'Mom."

    From birth to her death
    a mere 49 short years
    is contained therein.

    16 progeny
    and still countring her blessing
    she gave to this orb.

    Though I'm a dead-end
    In her geneology
    my life has been blessed.

    I won't 'cack' myself
    she wanted denouement herself
    Never to shame her.

    Waiting my own death
    honoring her memory
    Is the right thing now.

    In Heaven she waits
    Even our Father with her
    'til our end of time.


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    A poem begins as a lump in the throat, a sense of wrong, a homesickness, a lovesickness. It finds the thought and the thought finds the words.

    Robert Frost (1875-1963) American Poet.

    Rama’s Poems (8)

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