Eighty seven or eight years old,
she was, quite deaf and yet
we’d bawl our names as though
to rouse her from the slow
decline and stir her almost sleeping
heart, identify our kids and muddle
all her sense of time.
Like curling snapshots kept
to weave the thread of generations,
we kept her. We, my family,
she, a simple woman – mind-jammed
in between the turn of centuries.
As kids ourselves, we’d heard
how she was pulled alive
from bomb-swept streets, in nineteen
forty two, and through the heart-storm
of her mother’s sudden death.
At forty five, an orphan taken in
and kept until today when, cutting
threads at eight odd, she died
and prised two centuries apart.
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Comments about this poem (KEPT SIMPLE by Brian Wake )
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
Still I Rise
Edgar Allan Poe
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings
William Ernest Henley
- Night, Apurva Prabhudesai
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- Blazing Temples, Buxton Shippy
- Why Haven't You Spoken Yet, Jake?, Maung Khett Seinn
- snow person, lee fones
- Hanging above the blue, Janet Armstrong
- Truth in Prose, Patrick van der Loos
- Mindless Muddle, alex sarich
- The Autistic Land (Sonnet), Maria Magdalena Biela
- Love is love....., PARTHA SARATHI PAUL