A young man dreamed of becoming very rich. He devoted his life only to work and earn money. But on this way, thinking that his mother could not help him, he ran away from home. His mother always looked forward to his return. Years passed. The young man became rich, became a famous businessman. But during this time, he never heard from his mother. One day he received a letter.
“My son, I miss you so much. It would be nice if you could come and check on me.”
But the guy didn’t come because he had a lot of work. A few years later, he receives news of his mother’s death. The young man returned home and found his mother’s small chest. Inside the box was a letter addressed to him.
“My child, I have tried my best to create a good life for you. If you are happy, I am happy. Just remember one thing: the greatest wealth in the world is mother’s love.” mother’s value.
IBRAT: Appreciating mother’s love, appreciating the greatest wealth in our life, is one of the highest human qualities. Taking care of parents is the duty of every child.
Ram Krishna Singh, also known as R.K. Singh, has published poems, articles and book reviews in various magazines and journals over the years and taught English for Science and Technology, Indian Writing in English, and Criticism at IIT-ISM, Dhanbad for nearly four decades. His published poetry collections include Against the Waves: Selected Poems (2021), 白濁: SILENCE: A WHITE DISTRUST (English/Japanese, 2022), Poems and Micropoems (2023), and Knocking Vistas And Other Poems (2024). More at https://pennyspoetry.fandom.com/wiki/R.K._Singh
I will happily remain silent, lips sutured, sealing ancient,
festered wounds (though hapless impulses tug at stitches),
my tongue a giddy atrophy, old car in its garage. I’ll not
wag or lash it anytime soon.
I know this silence, a wide horizon, an ocean, a silence
nearly as deep as magma sputtering beneath
the Laurentian Abyss. Awed by sublime, I only teeter
at its precipice, a wanderer in a Romantic’s painting.
I search my shelves for adequate locutions, attic, cellar,
spare room, to fit rather than buy a new articulation.
But my attempts remain clumsy, lumbering obstacles
so long as obsession hinders my intent (My mind
a fence row, nettles, burs and briar strangled in barbed wire.
There. There now.)
Does silence abide the absurd or pass unencumbered,
whistling through my ribs, wind through an abandoned
house? As the Buddha, a monk, I shall loosen my grip
on petty clamor, what’s futile, samatha, tranquility,
my singular desire.
This silence is (and I shall listen without interruption)
a breeze whispering through pines just outside
my window; the lulling murmur of phoebes hopping
and pecking across the yard;
the trillium pushing noisily though mayapples and loam;
with the morning sun, apple blossoms opening one by one.
I shall regard each arrival, each pink bud,
each white explosion.
This silence is (Though much too sentimental, I’ll try again.)
that warm afternoon, lolling in bed, when there’s nothing else,
when I apprehend, galvanic skin to skin, lip to breast,
I love my lover, when words are ludicrous.
David Sapp, writer and artist, lives along the southern shore of Lake Erie in North America. A Pushcart nominee, he was awarded Ohio Arts Council Individual Excellence Grants for poetry and the visual arts. His poetry and prose appear widely in the United States, Canada, and the United Kingdom. His publications include articles in the Journal of Creative Behavior, chapbooks Close to Home and Two Buddha, a novel Flying Over Erie, and a book of poems and drawingstitled Drawing Nirvana.
