Old Senior Ko

Up at dawn, first peak of sunrise,

An easy Sunday morning, he will arise,

En route, elated to the famous fish seashore,

Fish fresh to procure in boats the night before,

Fish soup, dull, but wealthy and tasty to prepare,

With, nude ingredients, organic, yes, non to compare.

Ataa Jerry, Old Crow, Senior Ko,

My old man, all merry, always on the go,

A soul so glued to nature, very simplistic,

His swag all played in a rhythm, authentic,

His heart, one that craves the joy of people,

His hands all eager to lend to ordinary people.

Now pops, back in the cooking kitchen,

In a pot, all boiling, ingredients with no chicken,

His face, wearing with pride, a smile contagious,

Humming a tune, embracing the soup so delicious,

And of the vegies, all whole, uncut, just bouncing,

As though on a trampoline, sometimes even dancing.

All done, his heart and hands with great delight,

Senior Ko, to his humble table, us all will invite,

And our tender little tasting tongues in its state,

Would frown on this soup, transparent as we taste,

And as we partake, our eyes fixed on the roof above,

Our hearts would glow with his light, his love.

Dedicated to my father, Jeriel Dsani