I have robbed your bones,
unfurled the rough burlap
bundle I keep them in.
They're too old for soup so
I make a fife from a finger,
carve the holes , hollow it out.
I remember your hands, how
they could build anything, repair
anything. I saw you knock a man
unconscious for swearing in
the presence of my mother.
With the sweep of a backhand,
you knocked me from a chair
because I refused to tell you
where I bought marijuana.
Now I parade the streets of town
piping a tune only kids like me
hurt by hands, can follow quietly
My Father's Hands
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Re: My Father's Hands
Another tough, strong poem, Ken. Making a fife from a finger grabs your attention immediately. Then the dangerous, clearly drawn father. The father knocking the kid from his chair with a backhand swipe will hit home with many.
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- Posts: 2154
- Joined: 18 Apr 2005, 04:57
Re: My Father's Hands
Hi Kenneth,
like the undercurrent of the Pied Piper by way of the fife from bone ("Lord. make me an instrument of Your peace.")
Workshop-consider as:
Now I run the streets of town
Michael (frère noël)
like the undercurrent of the Pied Piper by way of the fife from bone ("Lord. make me an instrument of Your peace.")
Workshop-consider as:
Now I run the streets of town
Michael (frère noël)
Re: My Father's Hands
Really like this poem, powerful. To me the final stanza doesn't deliver like what comes before. I don't have any suggestions at the moment, but am pondering it and will return.