Oops, I did it again!
Yes, friends, I went and had a great weekend with my dearest love which included hiking, biking, whiskey drinking, cigar smoking, beer sampling, and a bit of wonderful food. All of which means that I forgot to write a poem yesterday, and today, I'm having to play catch up with a two-fer. I know, I know - some of you are asking where my commitment to art is, and I will say simply: She is cuter than art. She wins, hands down, so there. Don't like it? Deal with it! So...onwards to poetry!!!
Quiet Forest
Not a creature stirs
amidst the waking woods,
the dead-dry leaves of autumn last
cover the still-cold ground
that holds within it the secret grasses and ferns
only now begun to wake,
but still too young to push through
the decaying carpet.
As I walk by,
padded, measured footfalls, my tempo,
trying to find a rhythm that matches nature's own,
the still cool sun beating down upon me
as I march on through hills, woods, and fallen trees.
I have no part in this,
I am not needed,
And yet, I am called to see this time and place,
the Observer to recount the passing of
just another springtime
amidst the waking woods
where not a creature stirs
but me.
Today also happens to be my father's birthday. I won't bother to tell you how old he is. Besides, even if I did tell you that, his siblings, my aunts and uncles, if they bother to read my ramblings, would tell you I was lying - they consider him much older than his real age. But, having just spoken with him a short time ago, It put me in the mood to write a word or two, say a nice "Happy Birthday, Dad," and close out the day.
Hands
When I look down at my hands,
I see history.
They are my father's,
strong enough to build anything,
large enough to hold anything,
gentle enough to know when a soothing touch is all that's needed.
They are my grandfather's,
crafty and quick,
sure of their purpose,
warm and welcoming,
knotted with age and small scars and stories that keep young boys amused for hours.
They are my hands,
their own scars and stories still forming,
each time in the retelling, getting greater and greater,
until I become a legend to smaller hands that I will someday hold,
when I will build anything,
hold anything
cure a child's hurt,
be crafty and quick
and sure of purpose,
warm, welcoming,
and knotted with age
All for another generation to remember
when they look down and see their hands.
Thanks for reading,
The Fat Kid
1 comment:
Hmm...the first is a very interesting poem. And by "interesting," I mean that I don't get what you're trying to say with it. Something feels just a bit off-kilter about it, and I'm not sure what. It's like you're circling the rhythm or message, but haven't found it quite yet. Some imagery, some action, some reflection, all in parts, but I'm not sure what the whole is.
The second poem is my favorite of the ones you've done so far this year, I think. It reminds me of a poem I heard in grad school, written and read by one of my classmates. It was simply:
I looked down
and saw my mother's hands.
Your first line immediately called up that previous experience, and indeed the rest of your poem feels like an expansion on the first sentence. I like this poem because it deals with the tactile - the hands, as well as intangibles like time, memory and hope. It deals with emotion, of others and of self. Really, hands serve as a nice lens to examine these things with. Nice job!
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