PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

The mother stared with great disdain

Upon the freshly formed red stain

With jam her son had made a mess;

A wound upon her new white dress

It was an accidental spill

No conscious act forced by his will,

Apart from that it was but air,

No need to note that it was there

She knew that soap would take it out

With massive ease, she had no doubt,

But still she chose to curse and rant

To spawn a whale out of an ant

The boy who thought this display poor

Was by her cut off from the door

Through which things waited to be done

But couldn’t be until she’d gone

And while her fury held the reigns

She could have rid ten thousand stains

And still had time to contemplate

If mind and matter correlate

The stain itself, no mystery

Seemed to the child like history

A mark not let alone to fade

Wherefrom more dirty specs were made

On which more thoughts and words were built

Then on lush patterns there, not spilt

In turn lit up by scorn or praise

So shielding all from light’s true rays

So violently her anger flew

That vases, pots and pans did too,

Though whence from sight with brush ‘twas torn

She took it for what he had borne

Indeed with all mess cleared away

She saw too also was the day

Though when such thoughts inside her crept

They were the same way outward swept

Yet till she was in casket lain

Her values were not held in vain

For when she came to leave this place

She left not but the slightest trace