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"acknowleging" poems
My mother used to bake cookies with me when I was young Intricate designs of colored icing that varied with the seasons. They were always perfect and looked far to good to suffer the crime of eating. For half a century I always baked cookies for the holidays Whilst my children grew tall and independent with no apparent Interest in baking As the pale blue winter light falls into my kitchens I see myself Cutting shapes and painting colors a silhouette on the shadows of the wall. Placing the last cookie into a Christmas scene can I Arive at the hospital and sit next to her in the ICU I see her frailness the alarm in her eyes as she recognises me But is yet unable to enunciate her thoughts. Silence as loud as thunder fills the room the seams of the walls are stretched to their limits. The outer limits beep of the monitor acknowleging her heartbeats Counting down each one until the last. I miss our intimacy in that long ago kitchen And  the random thought enters my mind I am her only child and she is my only mother. The monitor rings an alarm a code blue Signalling the end of her like the end of a football match. I feel the loss of her like a razor blade cutting my flesh. And as I leave her for the last time There seems to be a a mortality in the measured unknown days ahead and the cans of cookies yet to be baked.
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Jul 30, 2018
Jul 30, 2018 at 2:04 PM UTC
jude-kyrie
Baking with my mother
My mother used to bake cookies with me when I was young Intricate designs of colored icing that varied with the seasons. They were always perfect and looked far to good to suffer the crime of eating. For half a century I always baked cookies for the holidays Whilst my children grew tall and independent with no apparent Interest in baking As the pale blue winter light falls into my kitchens I see myself Cutting shapes and painting colors a silhouette on the shadows of the wall. Placing the last cookie into a Christmas scene can I Arive at the hospital and sit next to her in the ICU I see her frailness the alarm in her eyes as she recognises me But is yet unable to enunciate her thoughts. Silence as loud as thunder fills the room the seams of the walls are stretched to their limits. The outer limits beep of the monitor acknowleging her heartbeats Counting down each one until the last. I miss our intimacy in that long ago kitchen And  the random thought enters my mind I am her only child and she is my only mother. The monitor rings an alarm a code blue Signalling the end of her like the end of a football match. I feel the loss of her like a razor blade cutting my flesh. And as I leave her for the last time There seems to be a a mortality in the measured unknown days ahead and the cans of cookies yet to be baked.
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Craving for light,  The little rose sways. Within aching petals, Captured: are the gentle rays. Shaking the biting winds away. Pretending a crow's whispers are at bay.  All the while,  Memories replay; Increasing its thorns day by day.  Upon the nights that draw too close Amongst stars reluctant to share solemn glow.  The little rose, it heeds their call. Slowly... Surely... Abandoning bloom. Yes, but certainly the sun will always rise. Just as it is destined to set. Acknowleging the subtle difference, Is something the rose now neglects.  Lacrymose, it laments till' morning dew. Singing songs of times long forgotten.  Blinded by sorrow,  Imprisoned by gloom. The rose—oh so sweet, Yet so faint, Seeks out such selfish warmth. Privy, it sways towards the sky. Clouds above are cautioned by these crimes. Despite it all, the rose does not care. Nor will it ever again.
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Oct 18, 2017
Oct 18, 2017 at 11:14 AM UTC
HamsterRose
Sun Rose Against the Sky
Craving for light,  The little rose sways. Within aching petals, Captured: are the gentle rays. Shaking the biting winds away. Pretending a crow's whispers are at bay.  All the while,  Memories replay; Increasing its thorns day by day.  Upon the nights that draw too close Amongst stars reluctant to share solemn glow.  The little rose, it heeds their call. Slowly... Surely... Abandoning bloom. Yes, but certainly the sun will always rise. Just as it is destined to set. Acknowleging the subtle difference, Is something the rose now neglects.  Lacrymose, it laments till' morning dew. Singing songs of times long forgotten.  Blinded by sorrow,  Imprisoned by gloom. The rose—oh so sweet, Yet so faint, Seeks out such selfish warmth. Privy, it sways towards the sky. Clouds above are cautioned by these crimes. Despite it all, the rose does not care. Nor will it ever again.
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