bayou, family, Mother's love for family., Music, Pinterest photo-French Creoles.com., Pinterest photo-sacredspirit.files.wordpress.com., Poetry by Yu/stan/kema., poverty, Value of memories. Uplifting the soul., violin
My mother lived in a little shack
down by the bayou.
My mother worked from dawn to dusk
to make alligator stew.
Her fingers were busy making clothes
to clothe her brood of five.
Her face was weary from the stress
of helping her kids survive.
Her body was thin and her skin was grey,
from hours without sleep.
She washed the clothes in a big tin tub
and some times she would weep.
Day after day, she lived in fear
her man would not come home.
She knew he loved to be outdoors
and often he would roam.
She stayed home and did the chores
and worked until they were done.
Then she would lift an old violin
and play with the setting sun.
She put the rare violin to her chin,
and her bow went across the strings.
She tapped her foot to the melody,
and her soul sprouted wings.
We loved to see her fingers dance
and her eyes reflect pure joy.
She was beautiful when she smiled
and played for her little boy.
Now she has gone to a better place,
but her music still remains
in the halls of my memories
When I say her name.