To My Father’s Whiskey
What’s more painful:
Holding on or letting go?
I ask my father
While he sips whiskey.
My words are wasted;
The brown liquid says something
Far more interesting.
He has no need for
Unnecessary questions;
The addition of vibrato
To his song of simple notes
Following the tune:
She lies
He drinks
She cries
He drinks more
A rhythmic cutting
Of weeds above their
Roots reverberates
Through the garden.
I tell my father
While he sips whiskey
Nothing is more painful
Than dull music
And half assed yard work.
Carry
Her hair fell thick and raven black
Down her neck, onto her back
Such a shame, what a waste
All those men who made such haste
Traveling from across the sea
To use what they could find.
Wash their hands when they are done,
Nothing to it, just for fun.
Such a shame, what a waste.
Raven hair and pretty face,
Carries water from the sea
With strength that she could find.
Recidivist
Society emerged in a hurry
As if whipped by a riding crop.
Spurs dug deep for the carrot on the stick.
The sun was welcomed by unmasked faces
Trotting tumultuously towards each other.
Caution was thrown to the wind
With retired masks and gloves.
They were only temporary anyway
Like a cast over mending bone.
Animals returned to their hideaways.
Green grass became flip flop flattened
Once more.