I have a pomegranate Tree’
It is special for me.
Now cold, and dry,
it lies dormant
But here the myth of this fruit’
Persephone in the winter trap
Of the underworld lord, Hades’
One seed she ate, and her immortal
Mother cursed the world, brought
A winter so deep , nothing grew.’
Old but new to this ancient land,
Where the water runs anti-clockwise
Down the drain to our sewers.
As Persephone is dancing
With the chorus of each tree,
Singing in the summer breeze
No one really knowing
For there this old knowledge
Is lost to our contemporary world.
Where the myth means nothing
Lost to generational destruction
Of ancient thought of older than old. ( 2nd Poem but linked).
The Gift of Memory Poem Two
’A gift from a friend, free.
My pomegranate tree
But this isn’t about the tree, this poem…No
(Like the seeds- of my pomegranate
like my pearls gracing my necklace,
memory links, as gems , when eaten
the juice runs red, her memory fades.)
It’s about my friend
She grows apart in her mind
Our memories of our friendship
Fade, slip away as each day.
She struggles to remember.
(Like each seed pulled away,
Gone from the compacted cells ,
Of her mind. Just like the pomegranate fruit
Memory after memory pulled away.)
Each time I’m with her
She looks at my beads.
I wear them on purpose
She helped me make them.
She helped me pick out the best,
String of pearls, or turquoise,
Real gems, on plastic strings.
Her artistic know how and talent
Of such things surpass mine,
she concentrate on one creative talent
not thousands at a time..
(Like the pomegranate fruit,
mother nature grew on that small tree,
all for free, given to us humans.
To taste, know and see.)
She asked me as if something there
Reminds her of a connection
“where did you get those?”
She doesn’t remember that
My name is Rose, she doesn’t know.
( Like my tree ,
now sleeping ,
waiting for spring.
There will only be winter
As her brain loses each gem.)
I tell her again , and she smiles.
When ever she asks, I don’t say
“I just told you,” I tell her again
The story of us going together
Of to the convention centre.
(Like close seeds touching
Like the pearls touching,
We walked looking for the bargains,
Laughing, close friends.
The Greeks call this, στενή φιλία, )
The yearly arts and crafts show.
How the first time I went I found
A bargain , a whole kilo of shells,
Mother of pearl polished pieces.
All gracing my treasures of beads.
Now I treasure each moment
As I share the memory, for me
As well as her, too treasure.
(for me, more, those memories,
Sharing our friendship. στενή φιλία,
Tree, the gift to me ,
and the pearls, she
picked out for me.)
She smiles when I tell her,
She was the one who taught me.
She fingers the pearls,
and the brown polished
shell, holding for those
special moments, a memory
given back by a friend
both connected in those few minutes
Repeated , again, and again, for recall.
(Beading, is not just putting pearls
On a string , it is making memories
Of a friend, to help you recall,
The respect and love you both share.)
rosewriter3 