Ken's Poetry

Two Mothers

Twice when I came death greeted me:
two mother’s of a different kind
pulled down the hopes I scarcely said
into the cold earth’s emptiness;
running the western hills, the southern skies,
fixed all my memories in a shrunken shroud
words I could never speak beyond my head.
Two mothers of a different kind
settling in the dust behind my track
leaving me strangely chained and strangely free.
Twice when I came, death greeted me.