SONG OF SORROW
I remember as a young boy
seeing my grandmother sitting
on her porch on warm
summer evenings, and hearing her
singing her hymns in a
high pitched mournful voice rooted
like the white pine in the lonesome
aged hills of eastern Kentucky,
where she had learned in little
country churches how to turn
sorrow into song.
Beautiful poem. It reminded me of my own grandmother who was a spiritual mentor for me.
Dennis, i’m happy the poem was able to stir pleasant memories…
Beauty from ashes! I love this poem.
Amy, thanks for your sweet reply
Your word choices and your line breaks have a rhythm like a porch swing or a rocker. The images are compelling:
“high pitched mournful voice rooted
like the white pine in the lonesome
aged hills of eastern Kentucky,”
My voice is so shaky now, I believe you must have loved her exactly as she was.
Rae, i spent the day visiting with relatives, one soon to be ninety three. they talked about our family, of course, of those who had passed before us including my grandmother. and while they talked i sat and rocked in an old rocker a friend had made for one of my aunts. then when i got back home i finished this poem i had been working on…
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