3 result(s) for Poems About A Child Losing Her Mother In War.
These poems are completely original - not copied from anywhere. Feel free to use them however you want.
The Quiet Street
The stones remember every step,
the chalk-drawn hopscotch, faded now,
where once her laughter climbed the air
and mother hummed from the window's bough.
Now dust has settled on the sill,
the door hangs open, bent and bare,
and in the ash where songs once lived
there is no voice to call her there.
She stands among the broken brick,
a small hand clutching a torn blue scarf,
and waits for the lullaby to return
the way the swallows always did.
The wind sings nothing as it passes,
the sky holds back its evening glow,
and still she listens for the tune
that rocked her sleep long ago.
If silence could be heard as sound,
the street would ring with her mother's name,
but only the bombed walls answer back,
and the echo falls like rain.
Warm Hands, Cold Memory
She kept the shape of her mother's palm
under her own small fingers,
the way a river keeps the stones
after the flood has gone.
The sirens came before the bread,
the kitchen door swung open wide,
and something warm was carried out
that never came back inside.
Now every window hums with cold,
every hand that touches mine
reaches back to that old warmth
and finds only the winter line.
I wrap my fingers in my sleeve
and whisper through the falling snow,
"Mama, is your hand still warm,
or have the years turned it to stone?"
The wind replies with broken notes,
the rubble hums its ruined song,
and I keep holding out my hand
to a warmth that's gone too long.
The Scarf Still Smells of Home
She wraps it twice around her thin neck,
the blue wool gone soft with use,
and breathes in what the wind has left:
a trace of bread, of rain, of her.
The sirens start. The ceiling shakes.
She does not run. She holds the cloth
the way the sea holds a stone,
worn smooth by a thing it cannot keep.
In the cellar, dust falls like snow.
She counts the knots her mother tied,
one, two, three, the way a prayer is counted,
as if the number might bring back the hand.
Outside, the town is only smoke now.
No one comes to call her name.
She folds the scarf against her heart
and waits, as though a voice might still
say, Come here, little one, it's cold.
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