Twice the age that my father was then

Sure, I remember when.

Smallpox took him.  Buried there

So near that river’s end!



Seemed like the end to me as a boy,

Sluggish, shallow, wide!

Near the bulrushes, the crocodiles

Toward the far side!



I was reaching for a plant out there,

When Father’s oar shot-out!

Lifting my hand from sheer demise,

Then down!  On  crocodile’s snout!



Sternly once more, “Hands in the boat!”

“We will not tell mother!  agreed?”

All agreed, nodding heads sagely.

Has all the worries she needs!



Bit later, another crocodile

Under our craft lifted.

Blast from the shotgun did its turn,

Sped away.  Boat evicted!



“I believe we should return now, shore

A bit safer for all!”

“We will not tell mother…”  All know she prayed!

It was her favorite call!



Her call to prayer, best calming device!

Of course, she worried still!

But in God’s will, the center-most,

“Dear God!  As You will!”



Then when God took him home, age forty-three,

Devastated.  Call for comfort!

Buried there by his favorite river,

Of course, all were distraught!



For years he was missed and mourned!

Comfort slow!  Pillows wet!

Shedding tears and throughout the days

Memories will not let!



Forgetfulness despite promised Heaven,

Happy there!  We are told.

Course, one day, Heaven we will see!

Loved ones glad in the fold!



Decidedly delightful!

Heaven awaits!

the Sam 12.07.11

One thought on “INDIA RIVER’S END

  1. Abdulkarim says:

    Today, it occurred to me that poems (and stories), like everything else in our lives, are part of the law of Cause & Effect. The best way to write, for me, is to simply make causes: reading & researching curiously, taking note of things that happen each day, and just living. The poems, then, are the effects of those causes.

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