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Rated: E · Poetry · Emotional · #172327
A poem, regarding my life and growing up adopted
I visit them
Every weekend, I am there
To play and get dirty
And to follow my mother

Smells of smoke
Toast made on the side of a potbelly stove,
More milk than coffee in a cup
I am young, yet remember all

Tall high beds
None with mattresses,
Feathers encased in harsh material
Called ‘ticks’

A large pond
One so big to a small child,
I go fishing every day
Hoping to catch the ‘big’ one

I grow older
‘Grandfather’ he tells strange tales,
Of an old man and a young woman
Bound together by holy matrimony

I am adopted
He tells me ‘That is your mother’,
I cannot comprehend at nine
So I will play instead

I am forty four
And have searched and found,
A mother from long ago
One so meek and mild

I am told the past
By someone I have not known,
She was taken advantage of
Then I was conceived

But who is the father
The old man she loves,
Or the other, she doesn’t want to remember
She is worked so hard

I am born
And the mother is deceived
By the old man and another daughter
One from a previous marriage

I visit them
Every weekend, I am there,
To play and get dirty
And to follow my mother
© Copyright 2001 robertam (rmac50 at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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