I remember my Mother’s green skirt
Cooking my favourite, potato near-burnt
I was outside playing in the dirt
Manifesting untold dreams, like flying higher than a bird
She’d call me – boy, go wash your hands first
Coming back, I’d crunch so many fries you’d swear I’d burst
Then I’d tell my mother of my thirst
Fixing me OJ, she would watch me gulp down ‘til I burped
A simple happiness, so rare on this Earth
Grown as I am, I still think my Mother’s fries could heal any hurt
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THE MANOEUVRES: POETRY
PoetryDrawn from past experiences, current emotions and the future wishes of a South African young man - The Manoeuvres is about fate, bitterness, regret, destructive behavior and the path to glorious rediscovery in this harsh, crazy world.
