skip to main | skip to sidebar

Keatsian Lyre

Poetry by Remya Mohan, India

Friday, July 6, 2007

To Mothers

Her mellow grace and subtle charm,
Her childish wit and easy manner,
Her classy ways all go to make her what she is
And will be, mine forever; a mother.
Even when she and I are gone,
In a time capsule of verse,
These words will write her name
Over and over.
Posted by Remya Mohan at 4:26 AM

No comments:

Post a Comment

Newer Post Older Post Home
Subscribe to: Post Comments (Atom)

Blog Archive

  • ▼  2007 (37)
    • ▼  July (37)
      • Father and Daughter
      • Ode to Henry Louis Vivian Derozio
      • Reflections
      • Cosmic Joy
      • To Mothers
      • Today's Child
      • Duty
      • Urban Delusion
      • Forgiveness
      • De-layering
      • Dilemma
      • Eyes In Gray Marble
      • Fly to Olympus
      • An Apotheosis
      • IDENTITY
      • Poetic Frenzy
      • Night
      • It started with the morning rain...
      • Purgatory
      • Soul Eclipse
      • Tradition
      • Links
      • Never Break
      • From Sylvia To Tom
      • My sin
      • To Our Dearest President of India :APJ Abdul Kalam
      • Why?
      • To feel
      • Let Go........
      • For My Friend
      • For a true friend: Written for Sudha Mohan, 1995
      • To live in your world
      • A Construct
      • On your Hand, John Keats
      • '5'
      • Light of Hope
      • Prophetic Dream

About Me

Remya Mohan
View my complete profile