We,
Sitting on a green Hill.
Green and Pink,
Flowers.
Feeling foolish,
Quiet, but childish,
Innocent,
Like a flower scent,
Down The hill,
Looking at a broken laundry Line,
Where our Mother used to hang
Our filthy cloth,
Full Of Chocolate spots
Like a foggy sky.
Dirty,
By our mischievous hobby,
In the backyard,
Where We used to play with the mud
Made Human Clays,
A soldier and A lady.
A child's Imagination is a mystery.
Oh, A River used to flow there,
There behind the hills,
A lot of fishes,
Golden fishes to Salmons
Winters to Autumns.
Fished all long.
A wooden house
Over the tree,
Where we played
Roles,
Pirates and Sailors,
As Evil And Good.
Didn't realize it all like fools
We only got hungry
And ate mama's food!
Still Picturing,
The Dinner Table,
Which we used to fingertip
Waiting for our mother's,
Hot Mushroom soups.
In A cold Winter Night,
Mama used to say
"Stop Fingertipping, God Would get Angry"
No More Laundry Line
No More Playing Mud And Roles
No More River Flows
No More Mama's Hot soups.
Over the green hill,
We stopped the Dream.
And missed Our Home,
The Sweet.
Copyright@[x]
Influenced by[z]
This post under revision by [x].
Note: Written for homesick people, and who missed his/her childhood.
Future Writing: A Briefword.
Good Night Dear Readers.
Sitting on a green Hill.
Green and Pink,
Flowers.
Feeling foolish,
Quiet, but childish,
Innocent,
Like a flower scent,
Down The hill,
Looking at a broken laundry Line,
Where our Mother used to hang
Our filthy cloth,
Full Of Chocolate spots
Like a foggy sky.
Dirty,
By our mischievous hobby,
In the backyard,
Where We used to play with the mud
Made Human Clays,
A soldier and A lady.
A child's Imagination is a mystery.
Oh, A River used to flow there,
There behind the hills,
A lot of fishes,
Golden fishes to Salmons
Winters to Autumns.
Fished all long.
A wooden house
Over the tree,
Where we played
Roles,
Pirates and Sailors,
As Evil And Good.
Didn't realize it all like fools
We only got hungry
And ate mama's food!
Still Picturing,
The Dinner Table,
Which we used to fingertip
Waiting for our mother's,
Hot Mushroom soups.
In A cold Winter Night,
Mama used to say
"Stop Fingertipping, God Would get Angry"
No More Laundry Line
No More Playing Mud And Roles
No More River Flows
No More Mama's Hot soups.
Over the green hill,
We stopped the Dream.
And missed Our Home,
The Sweet.
Copyright@[x]
Influenced by[z]
This post under revision by [x].
Note: Written for homesick people, and who missed his/her childhood.
Future Writing: A Briefword.
Good Night Dear Readers.
3 comments:
Nez,
When I read this great piece of poetry I felt you were writing on my behalf and expressing my own feelings.
True, direct, intimate and highly touching!
Pls. continue.
Prom: Oh Thank you so much, I don't write this style of poems, I usually write political social stuff more than emotional motherhood childhood thing! I appreciate you comment, if you like it then it's the best since u write even better lol.
Obscured: stop sniffing :| Thank u :)
Salam--[x]
No More Laundry Line
No More Playing Mud And Roles
No More River Flows
No More Mama's Hot soups.
Over the green hill,
We stopped the Dream.
And missed Our Home,
The Sweet.
wonderful brother i loved it
loved it
loved it ... i'm waiting for the best and the fanniest :).. where's Mr [o]?? plz write about him ^_^
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