A view rounded & framed 

for so long I have not written a poem

the starving vernacular

the tired and old poetic prose

my heart is unencumbered and free

to write about my mother’s visit

the clutter of peanuts and other root consumables

even a chicken dream of calling upon an oblivious dawn

gave all she could to her children

my mother’s eyes bleary in each uneven step through the awakening city

the alarming gongs of anxiety

                         in the hurried dying light

her son’s hair now peppered with grey

though could not pictured himself steeped in the smoke of home

to write about my father is like the return of a sudden teardrop!

drifting away in a far off land

the night orphaned at the…