My sweet mother, every morning,
bright and early,
At an altar her children and wards
led in prayer,
After which, behind every ear
scrubbed clean.
Dressed and fed, each, a happy
song singing,
On the way to school wended, as
happy as a lark.
As busy as a bee till sun-down,
Mom by a smart few
Trusted was only intricate trinket
cast in gold to stock
At her lucrative Tom Jones
shopping centre end,
Where she, fabric also, to a
select clientele, sold.
Of her memorable days, enough
cannot be said
But Saturday Derby stood out as
an exception
In more ways than one, when she,
on horses
Bets placed, raking in a fortune
on a good day.
Mother’s story incomplete ever
would be, if untold
Remains that street-wise lady’s unparalleled
knack
For staking good money on a
thank-God-its-Friday
Night pools betting featuring EPL
teams as pawns.
But all too soon, one year to be
exact, after she,
A rare gem, her eldest child off
to university sent,
Recall if I may, ill, alas, fell
and to hospital taken was.
With no light at the end of the
tunnel in Sixty-Three,
Until her September Eleven death
my blues became,
Ebeke’s cheerful countenance not once
wore a frown;
Although, then, sad days had grown
into sad weeks.
Lagos
Jan. 15, 2013
2 comments:
George Amadi, my name is Cassie from America but i live in Brazil, i have read all of your poems, and i feel you are Gods sent in the world of poetry.
the moment i read the first few lines of your poem, my sep blues, i recall all the sweet words my mom used to say when she was bouncing and alive.
Brian From Aussie
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