Babushka

The strength of this woman was measured

 

against her tiring life. The jug filled up with sweat,

 

and her blood drizzled, then mine.

 

 

She travelled from the east to the west

 

with debris of her past. She wrapped them all up carefully

 

in a handkerchief, with few golden rings.

 

 

 

She made French pleats with blistered fingers,

 

soil hidden under nails. Even chicken couldn't escape

 

the bearing mother, made out of thousand men's ribs.

 

 

 

Dressed in layers of Russian fabrics and burning crosses,

 

she sewed them together, to keep every men united.

 

In her old age, she failed unknowingly.

 

 

 

Riding the stubborn horns of the only one and dearest,

 

only to cry for him. Then, inside the tormented house of cobwebs,

 

all over the red bicycle, her rusty hair lay.

 

 

 

It all came down to the eleven o'clock on Thursday.

 

The jug overflowed and spilt the legacy, remembered differently

 

or not at all, now rest my Babushka.

Reviews

[Coyote Poetry]

I like the story of Babushka. You gave life and strength to her. I like the bio of people. Show us how to life and think. Thank you for sharing the outstanding poetry.
Coyote

[paulina misiewicz]

Thank you Coyote for taking time to read and comment. I am glad you liked the story!

[Coyote Poetry]

You are welcome.

[...]

Very nice poem about your Babushka. I can feel all history of east Europian souls. With pain , love hope and sad ends. There is all what I know. Great job thank you And keep it up

[paulina misiewicz]

Thank you hun for taking time to read and comment! Glad you liked it, not many could understand or relate.