As I spoke of being walluntorspearsed*,
He farlossteeled and I stumbled.
Can’t words return to their nest?
Whispers I’ve heard of his moogsmoorwood* flight,
Though from him I receive little but those looks
that churn my loreeleame until I am soft.
And yet, I am no different than he,
Keeping tales tucked in a vault,
My skirmish with the Wartanwusters*
Who easily pried my closed carriage wide,
And left me empty of sight and thought.
Twice I have not spoken but lied,
He thinks I’m like the fruit of the Kalamyreeno,
Sweet and layered and unseeded inside,
So I bury all those salty secrets deep ~
My battles with the Grimm-gloommers*,
And my resurrection in the Valley of Forgetrampt.
I’m like my mother and her mother before,
The blade in my blackarath belt is tinged,
And my soulcleave shield is singed by war.
The taste of salt and fury urges me forward.
How can he not see me,
When I stand in his highleaven light?
Does he not recognize the truth in himself?
When will he tear open the door
and cross the abyss to my armored side?
He is teeming with answers,
So refuses to meet me halfway!
Yet, I carefully, quietly follow,
Slaying Grimm-gloommers* and others,
The Narkavenomites he hasn’t noticed
watching his drawn curtains at night,
And I will guard him, though the world drops,
For I will never stop walluntorspearsing* about him.
…If he knew of my strength and the power I yield,
He’d turn from me. For what is man without pride?
*the words thus marked are the sole creation of Chris Aechtner and used (gratefully)with his permission.
About this poem
This a reply to Chris's brillant poem On the Wings of Moogsmoorwood. His poem was so gripping that I wanted to 'answer' it, as other poets of old have done to works they found inspiring. It is difficult to try to recapture a feel a poem has, keep its style, and yet still inject your own voice and nuances. I thank Chris for his encouragement and suggestions in this attempt. I really enjoyed trying his pen on for size!
Little Bee, Deaamoo, grandmother of the Crane Clan, lies staring. The light of
winter’s first full moon falls into the room. Through a ghostly haze of tobacco and
sage smoke, she sees her loved ones. One withered hand clasps a cowrie shell,
mee-ghis, tightly to her heart and in the other she holds a small dreamcatcher for
her youngest granddaughter Little Aamoo. Strands of gray white hair escape from
her braids which trail down beside her bird-frail form touching the fringe of her
parting dress. Her clan has been in the sweat lodge praying for her safe journey
home, some appear red-cheeked; others are a pale as the shades of her
ancestors. It is the end of her days, a time for passing on.
Outside of the house near the fringe of balsam pine a circle of stones are laid, each
one blessed and bringing an anchoring comfort to man, lodged between earth, and
sky. The four directions are marked and her way west is clear for her. Soon, she will
ask loved ones to lay here amongst the gifts laid for Pacugu, The Great horned Owl,
near the spirit house.
The veil is thin now between this world and the next. The smoke branches upward,
showing the way to sky world where Gichi Manidoo waits. The songs are being sung
for her now. The Shaman’s rattle is crisp and clear. All about her is beauty. Drums
keep the beat of her heart. They wait. Remembering one last story, she calls her
family to her, she must leave them with all the knowledge she has. "Ah, what was
that story? Well, that is not for you."
Judith must be punished for her unborn sins,
and haunted by her unborn fears.
She will beg her powerless mother for that
which the Sun and the Moon cannot give.
A trusting child tells with a momentary stare,
that she cannot wait to live,
Yet she cries and bleeds, pure and aware,
as the ghost of a dying God appears.
The smoke and fog of joy, on the barren hills
of promise fade away to reveal,
A clearing where a Mother and Daughter can
find truth in this awkward chastity.
The young women wearing colourful masks of
bliss and happiness have come to heal,
While the dark and jealous crones paint black
portraits of pain and lay beds of misery.
Their betraying love is not real but mere glass,
that by hand has the face of a jewel.
Their offering of hope and trust mean nothing
as they nail Judith’s hands to the stake.
The black vultures of torment, circle,
as the faithful put fires to the fuel.
And her mother’s screaming and lone cries
of anguish, leave none innocent in their wake.
Yet her tortured Mother who gave Judith her life,
smiles exquisitely, as they start.
Together they begin their secret flight, that
lifts them high above this tragedy,
As love and hatred both rip and tear,
at the soul like arrows into a dead heart.
In this painful and mysterious world,
there is no greater form of alchemy,
Than the acceptance of clear blue eyes,
the disarming smile of the condemned in fear,
And the tender sounds of assent,
that are being whispered too soft for some to hear.
Judith will be born tonight , leaden hearts will be golden and doubt will
Nelly my mum was 87 on June -7th -11
her Writings at ...
My sweet little momma still lives in her house. independently.
ELLEN MAY JOHNSON. (Beau Brummell is her great Uncle)
Yes Ellen Brummell was her name, our good sweet Mother dear .
We wouldn`t trade this girl so game, I`ll surely make that clear.
When droving sheep with her we went, back in the early fifties.
She drove the truck wherever sent, and set up camp so swiftly .
She fed the mob and kept us neat, and educated too.
She always was so good and sweet, of mother this is true.
She always gave us of her best, waited on us hand and foot.
With such a mother we were blessed, these words I`ve poorly put.
If ever with her down you set, She`ll fill your plate my friend.
The fastest meal you`ll ever get, If not your arm she`ll bend.
How she ever put up with our mob, watched over us with care.
Only mother could just do the job, of this of course I swear.
So when you see her run about, too busy to sit down.
Just you she waits on have no doubt, or some stranger from the town.
Don JohnsonConstance La France ~ A Rambling Poet ~
Contest Name 'Mother'
Let another sun set,
Let another flower wilt,
Let another autumn cast its gloom,
Let another tear role,
As ye part, and bid
The final adieu.
St. Stephen’s college
The bark worn smooth,
a scamper up.
Looking down takes my breath away.
Leveling off, I’m safe in the cockpit.
Flying the Iowa skies, way above the tassels,
Control panel at my fingertips.
Spreading my wings and charging the clouds.
Birds skimming by.
The branch cradling my adventure
back firmly against the trunk,
sun over my shoulder.
Apple blossom shadows on my arm.
Between petals and freckles,
bright spot lights of sun
sparkle on my skin.
The petals are so pretty.
I pick a bouquet,
shinny down the tree, and
bring apple blossoms home to my mother.
Living my dream
I had one dream when I was young
To go to another land
In life I wasn’t satisfied
I wanted something grand
Lions, tigers. Kangaroos
And all those wild, wild beasts
Africa, South America
Or Australia at least.
Possessive Mother was my curse
How could I get away?
Every time I mentioned it
She had so much to say
And made me feel so guilty
Really cramped my style
And then one day there came along
Something to make me smile
I’d just turned my nineteenth year
When this great girl came along
She hailed from West Australia
And filled my heart with song
So we got married, had some kids
And here we are in Oz
Been here for half a century
And I came here all because
It was my fate to find this girl
She was my destiny
There’s be a whisper in the skies
That knows how things will be
It takes one’s soul, and leads it on
So growth, it might occur
And I know that west Australia
My heart, it sure does stir.
4 August 2013 @ 1440hrs.
Gun fire all around, bombs going off in the distance
It was some of the angry mobs and resistance
Father was the king of SafeHaven a small kingdom
Like all other kingdoms it fell in random
Fire started in the castle
And along with it came a battle
It was a distance memory now because the child has now grew
Many things in this child that made memories stew
My name is Mastrey, a young orphan who was there that night
Mastrey saw her in the distance and her father and mother in his sight
Everyone was loud that night and made all the children hide
But that evening Mastrey saw her mother and father die
She ran into the bushes in such a fright
And evil doers were running around with flashlights
Mastrey remember it as he distracted them
Her eyes was so confused with problems
Mastrey new that it was because of what just occurred
His feelings of what those people did was not awkward
The distraction worked, he went back to were she was
Hiding and very scared she was, he asked her, can you trust me just because?
Her answer that night depended on her lively hood
As Mastrey was their with his hand reaching out to her as he stood
Pulling her up from the ground he looked into her eyes that were SeaBlue
Mastrey had made a life long friend and love, She knew it was true
Next: My Story Telling, Who is this Princess
On a pile of fragrant petals,
I found a small bird nest.
It had fallen from the plum tree
And settled there to rest.
The blue eggs were all unbroken,
Petals had softened fall.
Mother bird was loudly chirping,
Hovering over all.
I dared not touch the fallen nest
To leave a human smell.
I merely looked into its depths
To see that all was well.
Pushing bright petals around it
To hide it from plain view,
I gave a wave to mother bird
And said, “It’s up to you.”
I did not chance that way again
For a full month or more.
I stopped to check upon the nest
That had been there before.
The eggs were gone, the fallen nest
Was lying all askew.
I worried that bad had happened
To the small eggs of blue.
And then I heard a happy sound
And spied the mother bird.
A message passed from her to me
Without a single word.
I took her song as a thank you
For my feeble attempt
To guard her nest from predators
Who’d treat it with contempt.
There were four balls of downy fluff
On the branch right by her side.
I stopped to admire her little brood,
Then went on with my ride.
The Old Salt was a special man who came along in a time
when he was needed most.
A time that is now gone forever.
When men believed and sacrificed, when hero’s walked the earth in mass.
When patriotism was not just a word
by what men lived and judged the worth of each,
a man who lived a life most of us cannot comprehend.
An era now gone as this warriors tour of duty ends at this station,
and begins anew in the heavenly fleet.
Sail on Sailor into your unaccompanied tour,
we salute you.
What greater honor, that when a man moves forward,
he leaves behind in each of us the best of what he was.
A defender, protector, supporter, victor, a warrior,
the last of the breed from an era when ships were made of wood
and men were made of steel.
The Old Salt has reported for duty that takes him away from us for now.
Those of us who remain behind,
remember, and will continue to remember,
because he now resides forever in our hearts.
As I look up at night, I envision The Old Salt,
a beret draped just above the eye,
as he draws upon his pipe,
quietly he waits.
The guardian of heaven’s gate.
Dramatic Verse (Verse Drama)
The wind blew events all over the place.
Intense emotions and it gave chase.
Lightning lighting to show us the sky.
People try to sleep and not cry.
Wisping by the wind keeps us awake.
The time trying to sleep the storms take.
Chills in everyone gives all shiver.
The clouds surrounded by moonlight is silver.
Heavenly prayers that the rain will stop.
The flood stopped a car the person in it was a cop.
People have seen such devastation.
The road that people made was week in creation.
Rivers near by was over flowing.
Trees that were there was not showing.
By the hour it claimed many.
My father woke up and did not see any.
Floating by was a boat.
Keeping people above water and a float.
My father kept a canoe.
That some day we would use it, that he knew.
Time to paddle up and down the street.
The rain water kept getting on our seat.
It was so dark after the moon was behind the cloud.
Still the noise of thunder still covered the ears loud.
The smell of moist water never seem to go away.
My brothers seem to still sleep anyway.
My head was bobbing up and down.
I was so tired that I could not hear a sound.
The wind blew back and fourth.
It seems that my mom and dad paddle their worth.
Till all the people we saw with grace.
Help us out with embrace.
The time was so late at night.
Everyone was so sleepy and losing sight.
The fight with the weather was so hectic.
The feelings of energy was electric.
Losing to such natural disaster is hard to understand.
When people working hard to block the river with bags of sand.
With hard workers like my mom and dad.
They make things happen that is not bad.
Rough with weather they experience more than ever.
Leaders they are they are very clever.
From the night light of street lights to the morning glow.
The wind did not stop so.
Bringing in more clouds that ill.
The people who were still tired still had will.
The rush of water and waves blasting push the wall side.
Pushing and the force brought water inside.
The battle of our hour was getting long.
Backup people came to aid us was strong.
Rested they were to keep everyone with hope.
The people stopped the water with the strength of rope.
Heavy rain and loss of homes bring people together.
It is kind of sad that this was the only time to gather.
Chaos comes happiness how true.
This is why we are human that gives us a clue.
It is our nature to keep rain falling.
To know when it is time for our calling.
The winds bring such pain and sorrow.
That is why rain sometimes fallow.
How do I describe such distress?
A squirrel sat on a lower limb,
His mother had chased him from the nest.
His heart was broken, in upheaval, a mess.
His home gone. His mother turning her back so new.
Oh what, oh what will he ever do?
Each breath he takes is a mighty gulp,
Then the sound so soulful with every shout.
Cries of pain were so deeply felt,
That every bout rips my heart inside out.
It renders me tearful to hear the sounds flow…
The need to help him drives me so,
How could his mother yield such a blow?
But he is wild and won’t let me help his woe.
A human I’d hold so warm and tight.
I’d build a nest for him if it were right.
But I know he won’t accept my help,
As he cries on and on in his plight.
For an hour he tore my heart to shreds…
Then finally a young squirrel came from another tree, instead.
Together they ran off fulfilling his needs…
His cries stopped. He’d found what he wanted with those pleas…
Now if mankind could only help those in need, with such simplicity.
Here’s to new beginnings,
And what this year will bring;
A fun filled year of passion,
And our baby in the spring;
A new life in our arms,
Our prospects look so bright;
Just thinking of our future,
Fills me with delight;
I can not wait to hold him,
And watch the wonder in his eyes;
As each an every second,
Fills him with surprise;
He is the new beginning,
To the life that we’ve begun;
And a happy home in which,
We welcome our new son.
He starts singing songs of Ireland and we are home in a jiffy
"What's a jiffy," my mother wonders
"Guess where we went Granny?"
"I don't know but I have a feeling you are gonna tell me," answers my grandmother
"And Don't call me Granny!"
"We went to church so Poppy could ask secret questions."
"The priest gave Poppy a shot and a beer and Poppy sent me next store and he gave me money for taffy."
"He told me not to tell anyone especially you about the priest cause it's only for the priests ears."
"He said God would take away taffy and I'd never get another goodie and God would strike me dead if I told."
"So I can't tell anyone."
"He did," and she starts yelling and grabs a weapon,"what kind of idiot would be scaring a little child?"
Granny is standing on Poppy's toes and and asking him questions of where he'd been and getting a sniff of his breath
"So what did you tell the priest and him giving you consolation and a shot and beer."
"That little rat ," and thinks about the money for candy
Later, Granny is chasing Poppy with that big iron frying pan and poppy running and singing
"In Heaven they have no beer, that's why we drink it here."
"You damn fool I'm gonna bust you in the head, "and throws the pan at his head
Cousin Francis has bill collectors come to the house looking for him
Granny was four foot seven inches and she starts kicking him in the shin
My Mother grabs his Dick Tracy hat and she jumps on it and flattens it
I ask my mom where I was when this happened and she pauses
" You were in Heaven Patrick waiting with your brother!"
The truancy officers bang on the door and want to know where Uncle Charles is
Granny shrugs and says, "He is upstairs and the sound of the window going up sounds
They all run upstairs and see Uncle sliding down the tree and running as fast as his
seven year legs can move
He comes home later that evening holding a goose under his arm
And Poppy has a soft-boiled goose egg for breakfast every morning
I ask Uncle what happened to that goose and He said,"one day he came home and
they had chicken for dinner."
And Poppy was gone to heaven to get me and my brother ready Mom says
And Granny sits my brother and me on her lap and says,"you two knuckleheads listen up."
"This is very important so don't forget it."
"Treat people the way you want to be treated, because you never know who is going to hand you your last glass of water"
God's glance and a fine memory
Poppy snores away sitting in his comfortable chair
And Granny takes a feather and tickles his nose
He wipes at his face and goes back to his fantastic snore
Poppy from Ireland and his shot and a beer
On payday Granny sends my Mother with Poppy as a reminder
"And don't take any side routes"
He gets his pay and starts to home
They walk to the chapel and just one
It's always just one
He tells my mother to wait outside and he hands her 25 cents
"Now don't forget when Mommy questions you, where did we go."
"We went to see Father Duke and Poppy I'm not dumb."
"I'm gonna have a palaver with this priest," as he goes into the bar
"Keep your mouth shut I need to ask the priest some advice."
He drinks a few quick shots and faster beer's
And my mother buys a taffy
She stands waiting and eating taffy and Poppy happily comes out of the bar
"Now don't forget that we got the pay and I took you to get a goodie."
"But Poppy what about the priest who gave you a shot and beer?"
"Don't be talking and eat your goodie."
For some reason it wouldn't take the whole poem,, That's why I had to continue to Granny2
< just look at my son ...
down to size of thirty two
.... fencing hackling
meat and potatoes ...
leftovers from my mother
... well isn't that special
eat sleep and ... running
thats all I will ever see
... glad father isn't here
Written by Katherine Stella
For Dr Rams IN-LAWS Contest
Strange or not
Odd and fun.
That’s not all
And still are
Strange and odd.
life is life.
Not is lies.
Truth seeps from
Lies, lies, lies
Move, move, move
Lies are life.
Lies are death.
Lies are homes.
Lies are pain.
Lies are truth.
Truth is life.
Truth is death.
Truth is home.
Truth is pain.
Truth is lie.
Truth is that.
Lies will die.
Lies will cease.
Truth will live.
Truth will be.
I do not know?
The Blue Rose
upon a Hill of Heathers
seldom do know
Songs speak of its
but few have lived to see
its rich blood blue petals
smells of sweet ginger and honey
The legend has it
the blue rose can cure
a thousand different ailments
although, I am not
My Grandmother told me
if you eat three petals
before you sleep
the disease which
infects, out of you
it will seep
Not many have heard
the powers of the
for it secretly grows
I left Ireland in the 80's with my husband and two babies for Holland. In 2003, we
returned so that our children could have an Irish University education. Dublin was
buzzing with life at the time, it was very expensive but we were home. Now in 2011,
my daughter is emigrating, back down the old ancestral path, she is going to Madrid
to teach English there. Our country has collapsed so badly, there is no employment
here so we are exporting our young, educated children by the day. A sad day for me
as my daughter leaves tomorrow. I wrote her this poem.
On the wave of emigration
I want you to know
That I see you, a fellow female
An equal on every level
Not just my daughter
My little pink princess
I see you as a woman
A power within this world
With oceans to offer
A lifetime still to learn
Go to your new life
A teacher in Madrid
Be free and fearless
Spread your wings and fly
Take the opportunities
Shape them to your dreams
You have all the tools
You can use them now.
Your analytic mind
Will help you make good decision
Fair and just rewards will ensue.
Your radiating heart
Will gift you new friendships
Maybe even a new love
All in good time
You will never be alone
Because you have a deep sense of self
This will be fortified
With this new tide
Your feet firmly planted
Will always serve you well
Balancing the ups and downs of Libra
Always true to yourself
Life will be true to you too.
We live in a new age today
This global world is small
As we email and skype
Fly back and forth to visit
We will continue to love
As mother and daughter
Our journeys through life
I will hold you safe
In my heart.
Andrew Walker aged 8 years old,
Doing as he was told,
Will leave West Hoxton Primary School at 3.14 pm today.
He will kick a can along the path.. all the way.
He will walk towards his home in Hope Street,
Smiling his winning smile to anyone he might meet.
Preferring the joy of walking to the pain of bus travel.
He will laugh, the joy of a child, as he watches life unravel.
It is only a walk of 200 metres but he will not get there.
Life will rise from darkness and despair,
And as he approaches the West Hoxton Basketball gym,
a black Ford Falcon will pull up close to him.
Leaving the car engine running, Mr Williams will go up to him and play.
And the light in his eyes will slowly fade away.
Mr Williams will offer him money to go into the toilets in the park.
Andrew will say no, explaining that his Mother will be worried if he’s out after dark.
At 5.12pm a local man John Ragen will go into the toilet,
And stop breathing for a moment.
He will quickly call the local Police.
And stare at Andrew now as cold as ice.
The Police will find little Andrew’s blood-stained body on the cold
concrete of the toilet block...just as they were told.
They will not find his pants or underpants.
They will find barbed wire tied around his hands.
At 8.14pm Mrs Walker , Andrew’s mother will be asked to identify
her son’s broken body as it lies in the morgue without dignity.
She will bite down on her clenched fist until it bleeds.
She will cease to feel anything as the time speeds.
She will weep tears of blood.
And fall upon the back lawn into the mud.
At 3.30 am Mrs Walker will take a bottle of sleeping pills,
And sleep, preferring the safety of darkness to the horror of the light that kills.
Her last words in this dark world will be “I love you Andy Pandy.”
The doctor called me little babe,
My parents call me Rob
When I was bad my Mum would wail
And then let out a sob.
“Oh madammuck”, she’d say to me
What is it that you do
Why do you always act that way
And give me grief from school.
One day I took the row boat out
And then stayed out all day
The anger in my father’ face
Made coming home a tale
He took my hand and slapped me hard
And said I was so wrong
Oh Mum I asked, “Why are you mad”
I wasn’t gone that long!
We were very worried she said to me
Your only eight years old
We didn’t know just where you were
We’ve been terrified all day
Well I said like madammuck
“Why do you hit me then”
“If you were worried like you said,
Give me a hug instead!!!”
The years have passed; I’ve grown some
More years than in my age
I’m still the same within my mind
Strong willed and blazing trails!!!
My grandmother came from Ireland
from far across the sea.
She had romantic tales to tell
to Sister and to me.
She angered my darling mother
by filling up our heads
with stories of the little folk
who lived beneath our beds.
She whispered us a secret that
our mama didn’t know.
She said that it would be better
if we would keep it so.
When she crossed the sea from Ireland,
she had a little lad.
He was already two years old
before she met Granddad.
She told Grandfather her story,
a selkie stole her heart.
He came as a handsome mortal
and fooled her from the start.
He loved her and then he left her,
was claimed back by the sea.
The only thing she had of him
was a wee lad to be.
She knew right from the start, her son
was borrowed fom the sea.
In time his tie to land would end
however long that be.
She watched him growing tall, with dread,
as handsome as his sire.
He wandered near or wandered far,
girls gathered to admire.
Before our eyes our grandma changed
and she became the girl
who long ago had loved a man
who set her heart awhirl.
He had deep eyes of darkest brown,
and unreal velvet skin.
He charmed her as no Irish lad
would know how to begin.
“Where is he then, our dear uncle?”
My sister and I cried.
“I guess the folks who knew him well,
would tell you that he died.
They saw him walking by the sea,
watching the tide come in.
Though we searched for many a day
he was not seen again.”
Now when I see the silky seals
on warm rocks in the sea
I fancy one is a selkie,
who looks a bit like me.
( I have read that male selkies are very handsome in their human form and have great seduction powers over mortal women. Poor grandma then was a young Irish lass, full of dreams and he was so handsome. In their true form they look very much like seals.)
I do not know?
When I hold your hand
I know its true
your love for me
has truly grew
from a hill to a
your the only one
I can count on
to be there when times
in all your sweet
kisses and hugs, you
have shown me
your love is my treasure
and we can stand strong
through any weather
as turtle doves,
we fly together forever
when I hold your hand
Our drive started out like any typical summer trip into Philadelphia. Both buses rolling down the highway loaded with screaming teens, eager to reach their destination in a hurry. Rush-hour traffic was heavy, the white lines hidden beneath watery mirages that lifted only briefly beneath underpasses. The skyscrapers were barely visible through the thick haze of summer's heat. The skyline had the appearance of night and day clashing off in the distance. You could smell the rain approaching.
along city streets
slight breeze carries aroma
food and wet pavement
Once the children were safely inside, the buses continued to 30th street station, the only place the city allows buses to park free. The windows were all still down and the roof hatches open as the skyline grew darker. A light show was off in the distance and approaching quickly. The homeless people were now entering the train station in hopes to stay dry and earn a meal or some quick cash.
young girl wears a sign
on the corner
Inside the train station a young family sits on a bench awaiting the arrival of a family member. The benches line the hallway with vendors tucked in the center isle. We sit across from the young family, facing them as an elderly gentleman approaches them. In his arms he carries a sketchpad and a piece of charcoal. The little boy, probably about 10 years old, has grown tired of sitting by now, and his teenage sitters seem agitated by his silly games, the mother in frustration hands him money for a sketch.
with quick hands
he carefully sketches
The oldest sister now amazed asks for her's as well. The man sketches her picture to a beautiful black and white replica. The mother refuses to spend another dime and sends him away without paying. Behind us sits another elderly man. He seems to be carrying on a very intelligent conversation with himself. This amazes the children for their final hour and fills them with much knowledge as they slide in to listen.
an old man speaks
as he looks to his right
just his cane sits
The last train has now entered the station and the crowds of people are disappearing outside. The storm has now passed and the sky left a permanent black with the coming of night. We headed outside to the buses to begun our return trip home.
on the street
two yellow buses
filled with rain
Go to war and you will find out
that everyone bleeds red blood.
Be you red, yellow, brown, black or white;
if you are wounded, bright red blood comes gushing out.
Skin color doesn’t make any difference whatsoever.
While I’m on a railing rant let me tell you another war truism:
if you are mortally wounded and die a slow lingering death,
you will cry out for your mama.
No man cries out for his wife, no woman cries out for her husband.
No one even cries out for their papa.
When you are lying on the doorstep of death’s eternal rest,
you will leave this mortal world with mama on your mind.
Do you want to know why?
Because your mama will always dearly love you
whether you grow up to be a good person or even if you turn out bad.