Poem a Week

The BEST original poetry on the web, FREE!

Menu Close

Month: September 2016

Unbroken*

It was important to suffer quietly
my parents believed. My mother
and a dozen kids, uncomplaining.
My father waiting in the basement.

You didn’t have it as bad
my older brothers said and
I didn’t doubt them. I watched
them mount the stairs, submit.

Years after my father’s death
a few brothers joke about it.
They won’t say the purple welts
stung for days when sitting.

I’ve joked about everything
but never it. I was whipped,
and tears watered defiance
which almost devoured me.

And though I hated him and
later them for making a farce
of it, it never did break me
and I remain unbroken.

 

 

Poet’s Notes:

* Literalists call it a riding crop, but it was still a whip (and we called it a whip) used on horses.
Written a while back, taken from the “unpublished archives.”
I’ll be back writing fresh material soon.

If you feel strongly about this poem,
leave a comment (further) below (or just respond to this email).

Please like & share:

Prescription

If there were an ism
or I could find an ist
for myriad frustrations
I’d feel less like shit

It would elevate me
pull me out of funks
that sap my energy
and sully my plans

And I’d take command
craft a sign or march
or volunteer if I could
just get a handle on it

For now, I’m slumped
a rocket stuck in its tube
a man without a chance.
I’ll word my way out of this.

 

Poet’s Notes:

A pic of the original draft is below. If you feel strongly about this poem,
leave a comment (further) below (or just respond to this email).

Please like & share:

Perspective

(for Steve, Editor of the CCB)

In three hundred years they will
view us not unlike we view those
who lived three hundred years ago.

They’ll stalk up the steep platform
of the present to look down at
our silly clothes and customs.

They’ll shake their heads and wag
their fingers before passing laws
to undo our incivilities.

They’ll walk past our inventions
in disbelief that we were able
to sustain a living at all.

And they’ll come to deem us
morally unfit, a disgrace,
utterly unlike themselves.
####

Poet’s Notes:

A pic of the original draft is below. If you feel strongly about this poem,
leave a comment (further) below.

perspective

 

Please like & share:

Clowns

My friend is a bit of a clown
telling his subway stories
tales of the grotesque
of wacky weirdness
to all who will listen

I am also a little clownish
for listening and laughing
at stories that are sad and
tragic but ultimately
comical as well

Are we not all clowns?
Some of us insist on being
so serious our dry shadows
trail us to laugh out loud
at our silly pretensions.

Everyone in war or peace
in wealth and poverty.
In health and at our death
for what is more comical
in the end, than the end?

 

 

Please like & share:

© 2019 Poem a Week. All rights reserved.

Theme by Anders Norén.

Malcare WordPress Security