A couple of poems from the archive for International Women’s Day – part 2

From Lnu and Indians We’re Called by Rita Joe


My Grandmother

A wrinkled face deep in thought

Developed a respect

My awareness found.

In every line of her face

Expression revealed

The character of life.

The stolen fortune broke

In every line

There is a doorway to the soul

That shows the viewer,

And sadness unfolds.

In every line

The load is loosened

To shock the world

And sadden.

In every line

There are roadways of life

Giving testimony

To some forgotten plight.

In every line

Her age spoke truthfully,

Of rusty chains of existence

Of yesterday’s fight.


How dear she looks

she is my granmother

A picture in an old album.

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