Mama

MAMA

To my mother, Rose and my motherland, Africa


The sweetness of her presence

was like balm to my ego.




She was tender with my body,

patient with my pains.




Her aura was incense,

her words, valuable cargo




that made me feel like somebody

strong to survive strains




of existence making sense

of life and lingo.




The years pass but she ages not,

my graying hair betrays me,

my dreams race quickly to naught,

to a death meant to be.




She stands on horizons over

my over-televised struggle.

Her eyes reassuring over

and over as chaos mangles

simple lifestyles with complex

interpretations of life.

Category:

Entertainment

Tags:

• poetry
• Africa
• black
• pride