General Poetry posted October 9, 2020


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A rhymed poem for Joan

My mother

by trimple

As she tends to the tip of her duster,
flicking songs from her feathers, downstairs.
Like a maestro the orchestra trusts her;
with precision they glide through the air.

The bright particles left by my mother
having lazed on her most precious things--
bob and dance in the light of each other
like a window of butterfly wings.

Though a ghost on this solemn occasion,
for the dust notes, she'll never come home,
but I sense that her spirit's persuasion
often potters about on her own.

Now, with tears on my cheeks, I remember
her great laughter and  funny old ways.
Still, I'll draw a new smile this November
in the dust of our dear yesterdays...



Rhyming Poem contest entry

Recognized

#82
2020
Pays one point and 2 member cents.


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