My Eyes Grow Yellow

[meenas17]

as i make way to school.
I see through the glass
find my mom sitting pretty.
Neatly dressed in ironed sari
glancing through the newspaper.
It is I who has to go to school
while she spends her time happy.

It is lunch time. Return home
for lunch. Mom is busy playing
Veena, Melody flows. I finish meals
get back to school in a jiffy.
My eyes turn yellower still.
She is bestowed with the best
while I go up and down
every day. I curse myself.

One day I will be like her,
I console myself. That day comes
no sooner, alas! I am nowhere near
to her status. My hands are always full,
domestic chores keep demanding,
business calls allow no quietude.
I never make big off any venture,
yet keep running all through.

The yellow in my eyes slowly
wanes. A trace of it remains, though
The comforts my mother enjoyed
could never become mine.
The expertise she possessed
made her blessed while I remain
an ordinary woman, who
has to be alert always
to the duties that govern till life
calls quits.

[BobBradshaw]

This is a terrific subject..."an ordinary woman" comparing herself to her beloved mom. You do a good job, but again compressing the poem will improve it. I've tried to come up with an example.

I rush off to school,
juggling awkward books,
always stooping
to pick one up,
as Mom, dressed
in a pretty sari,
sits by the window
happily glancing
through a newspaper..

I sprint home at lunch time
to find her playing
Veena, Melody, cards. I finish my meal
and race back to class,
where classmates stare
at my yellowing eyes.

One day I will be like her,
I console myself.
But that day is nowhere close,
my hands always full,
domestic chores
and business calls
like boxes in a new apartment
on moving day—everywhere,
demanding attention.

The yellow in my eyes have slowly
waned. A trace of it
remains, though. I will never
have my mother’s eyes,
clear as a spring creek.

The comforts my mother enjoyed
could never become mine.
The expertise she possessed
made her blessed while I remain
an ordinary woman, who
has to be alert always
to her duties, which stretch
like traffic in Mumbai,
forever.

[meenas17]

Bob,
You have given a new look to the poem.
let me read again and then engage in refurbishing the whole.

Thanks.

[BobBradshaw]

Ok.....but first let me wish you a Happy New Year, and many glorious poems in 2020