Pomegranate Tree ( Poem One)

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.) 

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