mother Poetry

Apple Of My Mother’s Eye

The pictures of me when young

looking very robust and strong

smiling with no worries at all

cherubic and chubby in all

eyes glittering with a twinkle

the skin  showing no wrinkles

the thoughts very much clear

the outlook was none of fear

moving  with ease all around

spreading happiness  in rounds

was  an apple of my mother’s eye

though a little reserved and a bit shy

I lived like a princess in the household

which now looks dilapidated  and is applein many folds.

age. pain. Poetry responsible tender

The Child Folds

The child with tired eyes

sits there with no choice

goes about in endless tries

folds the leaves in speed

knows not its end-use and need

the tenderness of the hand is lost indeed.

wrinkled the tiny fingers look

mangled they seem almost hooked

yet the tiny hands manipulate  without brook

with tears in the eyes  welling beedi_1

and pain in the face pricking

a meagre amount in the pocket filling

the innocent eight-year-old turns responsible.