Those Winter Sundays
Sundays too my father got up early
And put his clothes on in the blueback cold,
then with cracked hands that ached
from labor in the weekday weather made
banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him.
I’d wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking.
When the rooms were warm, he’d call,
and slowly I would rise and dress,
fearing the chronic angers of that house,
Speaking indifferently to him,
who had driven out the cold
and polished my good shoes as well.
What did I know, what did I know
of love’s austere and lonely offices?
Robert Hayden
[quote]sen say wrote:
SteelyD wrote:
I walked in the door
She was dressed in silk
And said
“I’ll do what you want”
I said
“SQUATS AND MILK!”
This made her angry
Put her in a stupor
I did all I could do
And stuck it in her pooper!
-SteelyD 2009
bravo !! bravo !
this begs the question of if anyone WRITES poetry…and ergo…if anyone has ever been published ???
And, yes…I write…not much lately…and yes…I have been published…Baltimore Lite…I was so proud…and…I’m sure that so was the 9 year old that was published right beside me…
[/quote]
I see your face
It makes me sad
I wonder why
You have no head
One time, I didn’t sleep for about thirty-five hours, and was all tweaked out on caffeine and Spike Shooters. I was pretty much exhausted. I wrote the above and then immediately went to sleep. The next morning, I turned on my monitor(I had forgotten to turn off my computer) and this was in an open word document. I still have no real recollection of the actual writing. I consider it my greatest work to date.
I have written some ‘real’ poetry, the kind that takes itself too seriously, of course. But it’s shit.