Paper Song

Her vista, on aging front porch,
pans to a burgeoning, horizon torch.
Sun creeping up yellows her eyes.
Mama doesn't see bluest skies.

As fog clears, early smells turn up,
yields silhouettes in their dusk trucks.
In cockled suits, crooked ties,
she knows each manufactured guise.

The backdrop won't hide their shame.
Stealth woman rocks a wooden plane,
rises to meet each angry dawn,
briefcase dance and stale paper song.

Returning dogs beg for their meat,
eyeing up bones in this dry heat.
She gives nothing but a wry smile,
repacks cases with their own guile.

Darkening clouds should whittle heat,
tears that nourish, end struggle to eat.
Busy contriving eager lies,
don't know the sage can't see the skies.

Parched, hungry land yearns absent rain.
Predatory, pencil pushers aim pain.
Each sunrise, words wrack her weary bones --
owing and the owning, no more loans.

She can't get her view from their voices,
yet in crimson heart still rejoices.
In her bones knows she'll soon see skies.
Rain will come, bring relief to sore eyes.


28 lines, traditional rhyming

FOLDER

Mother, My Guide  (E) Poems and more about the woman who inspired me as a writer. #1170418 by BK Compton, Neurodivergent LLC