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My Mother's Warmth by jaynesbrothersue, literature
Literature
My Mother's Warmth
My Mother's Warmth
Our home was very poor,
Few luxuries did we need.
A roof, water, and heat,
And lights for us to read.
Of these things, one and all,
The wood heater was the best.
It gave warmth for us all,
In our quaint little nest.
It seems like yesterday,
So easily I recall.
Waking early for school,
Rushing into the hall.
My room, so terribly
Cold, the hall was nice and warm.
The front room even more,
From heaters boxy form.
For several years to come,
It happened always the same.
Rushing toward the front room,
The heat my only aim.
Then one day, it happened,
The fire was totally gone.
The room, cold and bitter,
I
unlearn the constellations by CyneNoir, literature
Literature
unlearn the constellations
I may carry my voice
on white-crested wingtips
but I refuse to take the names of birds.
My throat is not a desert
with smoldered star limbs
in place of sand, not a stone
for you to overturn and mark
with gentle cloud prints
or leave in the mud
to be perforated by bright moss.
My song is not made
to be thundered like a body
on the wind, to be bellowed
by the jagged mouths
of some distant, forgotten jungle.
It is made to slide along the edges
of twenty burning suns and rise
like a halo of newfound breath
from the crevice which splits
earth and sea. To break open
like the young, wet-winged dove
born of a glorious mud
which cracks mountains wi
