Your poem reminded me of my own mother, Nailah. In life, she was warm and soft and I loved her hugs. I love, love, love, the final line. I hope that you do in fact do something with these poems and look forward to other workshops.
Sharon-Rose, you poem is highly visual. I can see your mother in the church. It took me back to days of sitting upstairs in the Anglican church, looking down in the congregation to find people I knew. I picture you, like a little girl, searching anxiously to find your mother in that congregation on the TV screen. Love this piece.
Each time the cameras focused on the Congregation, my eyes tiled forward, she had to be there, yet I could not find her
Why are they not filming the congregants upstairs, were these pews empty? I watched never before scenes of the Bishop Derick. Richards, Reverends, Local Preachers, Readers, Special Anthem by Choir, and families, yet I could not find my mother.
Then I saw her, as she moved like a snail that wants to be a butterfly with a cane, tapping the congregant on her right, shift please, shift to your right.
She moved away like a butterfly, my mother. Never to be seen again on the LIVESTREAM.
Your poem reminded me of my own mother, Nailah. In life, she was warm and soft and I loved her hugs. I love, love, love, the final line. I hope that you do in fact do something with these poems and look forward to other workshops.
Sharon-Rose, you poem is highly visual. I can see your mother in the church. It took me back to days of sitting upstairs in the Anglican church, looking down in the congregation to find people I knew. I picture you, like a little girl, searching anxiously to find your mother in that congregation on the TV screen. Love this piece.
UNTITLED
the air
heavy
cold
the room
dark
stifling
the white
sheeted body
still
on the gurney
an arm
poked from under
like a snake
but
no life
just gravity
a silver glow
radiated
like headlights
no
head hair
salt and peppered
still coiffured
my heart
darkened
my mouth mumbled
mummy
Cher-Antoinette| May 10, 2025
Can't Find My Mother
I could not find her. I knew she was there
Each time the cameras focused on the Congregation, my eyes tiled forward, she had to be there, yet I could not find her
Why are they not filming the congregants upstairs, were these pews empty? I watched never before scenes of the Bishop Derick. Richards, Reverends, Local Preachers, Readers, Special Anthem by Choir, and families, yet I could not find my mother.
Then I saw her, as she moved like a snail that wants to be a butterfly with a cane, tapping the congregant on her right, shift please, shift to your right.
She moved away like a butterfly, my mother. Never to be seen again on the LIVESTREAM.
I closed my eyes.
Sharon-Rose Gittens
Pre-Mother's Day 2025
Yes it is!
I love this!
These poems!!!!
This might be the start of our anthology! 🤔😊
Below is my workshop poem. I'm sure I'll return to it at some point for refining....
She Is
by Nailah Folami Imoja
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The last time I saw my mother
she was warm and living and loving
she was warm and living and loving
She was…
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The golden casket held lead
robed in her Sunday service best
masking the horror of final days when
that was not my mother then
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The last time I saw my mother
she was warm and living and loving
she was warm and living and loving
She was
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Leaning on me for strength to trod the long walk home to her room
in her Father’s mansion
I held her,
grateful for our final hug, our final hug
grateful for the warm, natural curve of her hand in mine
I remember her as she lived
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The last time I saw my mother
She was warm and living and loving
Â
She is warm and living and loving
She is warm and living and loving
Exalting, joyous, flying free an unfettered kite
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Speeding against time, I enter to hear death's cold rattle.
Against pillows in the pretty pink and black dress,
You vomit bile, breathe uneven.
Do you know I am here?
I put the phone with a song to your ear.
You settte, retch again.
I refuse the proffered gloves and the nurse stands back.
At 7.47 you're gone
Flying free. . .
A weathered leather parchment
She smells of starch and polish
Cornrows of cotton knots
A tapir unbothered by the hours march
Her stature remains unchanged
Her rule extends