Articles, Depression, Environment, Poem, Poems, Writing

A Many Freckled Yam

Mama peels a yam

And in the frail absence of flaw

She is perfection

In the golden of her skin

Lies a many freckled story that tells me

Where she’s been


In sun-soaked concrete

Stints of asbestos tiled white light

Or abandoned warehouse sits in sun

Peeling through demolished scaffolding

That tells me of

Her life


The lighting

Becomes a phase

Her story

And in peeling a yam

She’s the best she’s



Or has ever been

I recall the horror

Of shaded darkness

Ages of let-go blindness

A father, mine


That whimsied a perry drink in hand


Her arms are thin

But with a muscular strong

Used to row, in a team

Many a freckled shoulder


Will lead me

To wonder

Why was she ever with him?

A hair of black strand and

Endearing eyes

Mama peels a yam and in what we endured



The fruit of the womb cannot help but lay in awe of her maker

And come to her

To cry

She’s a gentle kind

And lays a delicate finger


To stroke an abandoned hair

You’ll be alright, baby

I would like to say to her

I’m sorry I haven’t been there all the more

Have been too deep set within my head

Yet she knows this and is disappointed


That with my freckled plenty

I have not had the courage

To ascend

Mama was in pain when she peeled

That yam

And in pain when she sat


On a hospital bed

I was so young

But no one really cared

Not even my father

Off with a Hungarian hairdresser

The same fingers– hands that would reach


Among the leagues of death and pain that have come

At her side

Mama is strong for her freckled story

She should be a completely different shade

With all she’s endured

And she often looks at me


With pleading eyes


I hope she’s alright

And stiff-board posture

She tries to overcome

Independent, non-reliant to me


Bent over peeling, walking

There is a distance

But in her voice

Hair of beautiful fray and eyes that reveal

Forgotten pain

I should have peeled that yam


But Mama did it



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