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AFRICAN MOTHER
Others are in the field clanging in suits and clearing sweet
Behold her, paddle paddle her lone hut days and nights
Fondle and clinging to her lone treasure
At night when earth stunned dead of pleasures
Ups and down she goes, dance and sing
To no rhythm in particular like a mad man
Whose song pleases non
So she does, but hers pleases one
Allurement of her arts comfort her tiny pride
This pride alone rules her and ride
Her posture all days long
As though she ought to tire
And like others come retire
Down to the field to mend to mend her broken barns
But never would she grumble
She is ready to nurture her seeds to fruits
Set to comply with the wish of nature
And share with her pairs in the field
Her ripe and sweet fruits
thus show them the joy in motherhood
Seeds/Fruit
...She is ready to nurture her seeds to fruits...again such lines loosed from the restrictions of rhymes would soar beside other lines of such fine caliber, the sing-song of rhyming gives way to the voice in the head and mouth and images unable to find a rhyme are othewise lost - nice poem, mothers salute you from every land . . . Love and Prayers - allets
allets, thanks alot. Your
allets, thanks alot. Your observation is noted and am very grateful to you.
Tounde