“Don’t you ever touch the fire,
you’ll get hurt, you’ll get burnt.”
grandma warned;
golden orange flowers
fluttering in the breeze’
how can they hurt? how can they burn?
she touched them as grandma turned;
up surged the pain,
scream pierced the air,
fingers turned yellow,
red, purple, blue,
brown and black in hues;
scars remained a while,
skin turned back to pink.
As wheels of time turned
fires alluringly burned,
embers glowed and turned
into burnt sienna and umber;
tinder triggered sparks,
sparks triggered bursts
oils smoked, aromas wafted,
mustard spluttered,
greens steamed,
red meat roasted, white meat stewed.
Round and round in circles
second hand sprinted,
minute hand trundled,
hour hand crawled,
fires rekindled, flamed re-surged,
hurting, burning, scarring, healing;.
flames died down, embers turned black,
a handful of ash does remain
in the brown earthen-ware urn.
– Sara Mammen Calleeckal
(July 18, 2017)
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GRANDMA'S KITCHEN, 9.3 out of 10 based on 4 ratings

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This entry was posted on Friday, December 8th, 2017 at 1:04 pm and is filed under Poetry @ Ledhi. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed.


  1. December 9th, 2017 | Sara Mammen says:

    Shana, thanks a ton for posting my poem.

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