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Open Poetry #41

The Bullets of A Father

Tomer
Senior Member

since 2002-06-28

Posts 1168
Michigan

0 posted 2007-10-07 01:17 AM

A lie that
Pastured the town,
Loose with the windmills,
Between the yellow
Drip of corn.

Lye’s a father,
With a beard that bristles
His long,
Draped face.

He sits with his legs
On a small, faded carpet.

He thinks,
And shifts,
The music runs
Around the rooms walls,

He picks his face from the ground,
The blood that peddles
His cotton pale shirt,
Pits like a neighbor
Next to the wood
That stirs the fire
Up through the long, bruised chimney.

His hands are worn,
His liver listens,
As the scotch shivers
Down his fallen mouth.

The gunshot he hears,
The utter drop
Of a boy under his arms,
A boy he called son,
His chest crimson,
And like the drunken snow

A father,
without his name.

Margherita
Member Seraphic

since 2003-02-08

Posts 22236
Eternity

1 posted 2007-10-07 04:46 AM

Ohh, this hurts terribly!
Your poem is impressive and powerful in rendering one of the greatest dramas that can ever happen ...
This Father's pain will rest with me for a long time.

Love,
Margherita

Tomer
Senior Member

since 2002-06-28

Posts 1168
Michigan

2 posted 2007-10-07 10:54 PM

Thanks Margherita. Happy you enjoyed.

Tomer

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