A Mother's Heart

Trickling rain fell from sky,

was it filled with grief,

coz my heart it cried,

and the ground it shook,

with movement of my trembling feet.

            My mother is hurt, wounded, scarred,

            burned, dissipated by her own kin.

            Was the reason me or

            was it my own some forgotten sin.

I blame not my father, nor god nor time,

I blame myself for all that’s done.

Had I not had that chocolate cake,

maybe I could have changed her fate.

            I pray to god, and I promise him every night,

            I wont ever have that chocolate cake again,

            if he just would make things right.

Love is humane & human is love,

but maybe animals are all above,

in understanding how love is done.

            Another poem composed by me;

            Is it filled with grief

            I dunno hows it done,

            I dunno even how to weep.

They speak about a mother's heart her son had to steal,

and he broke it into a thousand pieces, still

her heart only asked for the son’s well being

            I can not break my mother’s heart,

            so I run with trembling feet,

            hoping god will save,
            what man has tried to kill.

The Man under the Tree

I was fourteen. As I sat in our new car, I happened to see an old man sitting on the footpath under a tree in a make shift structure.  He was using a broom to clean the area. It took me sometime to realize that the make shift structure was his house.  It was half the size of the car I was in. I observed as the man sat around performing his daily chores. He was cleaning the area, removing the leaves that had fallen from the tree that acted as the roof of his home.

I wondered if he was content with life, whether he wished for luxury, or was he so busy fighting for daily necessities that luxury was not a part of his thought, or whether he had given up on the idea of life all together. As I thought about that man under the tree, my own life and perceptions changed.

I wondered if he had any friends, if he had anyone to talk to, if he had anything to talk about. As I looked around his house, all I could spot was a dirty old mattress rolled and kept aside, a small kerosene stove, a single broken utensil and a dirty glass, an Indian version of a Chinese hand fan, and the broom. Then from somewhere he produced small pouches of supplies. He started the stove and made tea for himself. I just stared as he slowly sipped away. It seemed like it was the only thing on his menu for breakfast. I was filled with shame for myself, for all the demands I kept on my family regarding what I would and wouldn’t eat.

The broom he was using seemed to have come from a dumpster; it had outlived its useful life. I wonder if the same was true about the old man. As time passed I wondered where his family was. I always knew that no matter how the time might be, my family would always be with me. That was the thought that kept me going even in my weakest moments.
As I sat inside my world, looking out to his world, everything changed. My dream had always been to have a huge house on top of a hill, a garage full of cars, all the luxury that money could buy and more; looking at him, I was just glad to be where I was, for what I had, and that I was not him. It was the first time that I actually felt grateful for what I had. It was the first time I thanked god, it wasn't the last.

You

All I ever want is you,

but for you, I'll be never enough.

There is so much more to me,

but that's something you'll never be able to see.