“Water, water, every where
Nor any drop to drink” –Coleridge
It is her touch I remember
as soft and willowy
as a drop of dew.
The fingerprint that claims
a part of my soul,
her touch so soft
is what she eats now
slipping down without
the choke.
The vee of geese upon
the wing, the perching
hawk in highway tree –
words that draw
a mosaic do not
capture the love
my mother has
rained down on me.
The tear that wets her eye
I dry it with my sleeve
and hold her hand
while that tear
traverses to my cheek.
I can comfort, I can give
the dripping of ink
from the pen I hold,
but I find the will of
boastful men a mountain
treacherous to scale.
It is the place within
where madness lurks, the
turn of knife, a calypso
eye, half open, half shut
and a smile, or a smirk
brings forth avarice-
the manly sin, as it shot
the albatross down,
this water all around us –
just a mother’s salty tears.
For this winter, watery
paradise is turning
to slime by Midas men
with a wink and a sigh
and a rolling eye
as I watch my mother’s
demise. The heart that
drips upon my sleeve
is the legacy my mother
has bequeathed to me.
Anne's mediocre poetry 