The Reason We Breathe

Only this morning, my mother died
as I sat holding her hand.
Her eyes were shut tight, her mouth wide
Only this morning, my mother died
I watched her chest heave; the oxygen tried
to fill up her lungs, as nature had planned.
Only this morning, my mother died
as I sat holding her hand.

Hard Scrabble

kneading under umber moon
this torpid eve-dusk

morning, sharp and spry
we chew our fruited baked rusk



~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

This is a Coin poem I wrote a year or two ago. 

A coin poem comprises: 

• a rhyme pattern of a-b c-b or a-a b-b
• two stanzas of two lines each stanza
• syllable count of 7 & 5 per stanza
• the content should be a like coin, opposing ideas juxtaposed against one another