Thursday, April 17, 2008

# 17 Mother


She wears a straw
Sombrero to hang the clothes
On the line
It keeps the sun
From her pale freckled skin
She carries the wooden pins
In a green-flowered bag
Tied at her waist
The wind whips water
From the corners of the spotless
Sheets the long pants and
Endless shirts, figures
Writhing in a blast
Like men afire
Racing like couriers with
Meaningless messages
Her red hair twists around her
Pale freckled face
Like flames
Her tiny white hands fasten
Each pin like a candle
A row of candles
On the trembling line
She bends over the basket of
Wet clothes again and again
Hushing the baby
Who weeps at her feet
Tomorrow she irons

Prompt from Poetic Asides: Write a poem in the 3rd Person--keep yourself out of it.


Jo said...

What a lovely portrait, I like that you introduced beauty into the mundane. I could see her so clearly.......she reminds me of my grandma or my mother, these days it's all fluff and fold.

chiefbiscuit said...

I know what you mean by 'keeping yourself out of it' but somehow you ar ein every line ... well, after all she is your mother. A beautiful, evocative poem. I can see it as a painting or a scene from a film ...

Pris said...'s your poem to the challenge. Top dollar, pepe...I like this very much!