PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

In all your wisdom,
we knew it wasn't enough to get you by
You were wide-eyed between the cedars,
your plaid shirt smelled so sweet
I had to keep it, you understand
It is still lying in my drawer, under
all the other things of yours I cannot get rid of
I have the box of buttons,
the coach of the year awards,
the old cards,
sloppily written
by children's unsteady hands

Back in '52 you sunk your
teeth in real good
The farmland was your awakening,
your fatigue
Then your father went and
got his arm shot off
Still, he whipped you with
the hells of rage
and he tangled his woman,
like fishing line
I met him a few short times,
he just kept repeating things...
mostly about Kenmoore's.

I guess it's inside every man.
The split mirror, like a black serpent's tongue
as it slithers in and out of reality

And you always said,
that when you'd had enough
you would take to the fields
You would climb the hay and lie
down at the foot of the trees,
the cedar stinging your nostrils

I just never really believed you.