"Backside of a Storm" photo by Chris Graham
Anniversary of Dad’s Death
--We are struggle.
Weep on the day of
our father’s death…
Look back, poor man’s
passion or rich man
values.
Put into the ground…weep again
over finality. The days of Daddy’s
grins and painful spankings
are done.
Walk into the killing
fields alone.
Staggering probably--
Wonder about a
lost past for what it’s
worth.
Never ending.
Daddy’s gone.
Dead and buried since
2006…Ain’t coming back.
A Personal Storm
The bullet cries and hits me somewhere.
Never mortally wounded—but I am grinning at
laughing Sam’s dice…Not pure LSD, just
my own form of hallucinogenic--
I feel no pain as I sink into the
bottom of a turnkey…a safe haven
where I can bleed in peace.
A hand has come out of the
ocean and opened to me.
It has long, curved lines and
it’s palm has one big nail
hole to remind me that Jesus
died for something…Just don’t know
what that is right now as weapons are
thrown into the bonfire…no more shooting
for today—I was hit slightly, slid down a
door onto a beach of feel…
Your storm is coming too.
Do You Care
Never
Never
Never have I claimed I
was born of innocence…
Only the scars that claim
to be crows feet appear to
be remains of all night vigils.
Words are typed with a plan
of escape, the webs they weave
leave the reader to places
well worn…tightened in the gut
by experience.
Self-evaluations portrayed to
the singers, laughers and fools.
To be swallowed, cut up and depowered
By the very few…
Who give a damn.
--We are struggle.
Weep on the day of
our father’s death…
Look back, poor man’s
passion or rich man
values.
Put into the ground…weep again
over finality. The days of Daddy’s
grins and painful spankings
are done.
Walk into the killing
fields alone.
Staggering probably--
Wonder about a
lost past for what it’s
worth.
Never ending.
Daddy’s gone.
Dead and buried since
2006…Ain’t coming back.
A Personal Storm
The bullet cries and hits me somewhere.
Never mortally wounded—but I am grinning at
laughing Sam’s dice…Not pure LSD, just
my own form of hallucinogenic--
I feel no pain as I sink into the
bottom of a turnkey…a safe haven
where I can bleed in peace.
A hand has come out of the
ocean and opened to me.
It has long, curved lines and
it’s palm has one big nail
hole to remind me that Jesus
died for something…Just don’t know
what that is right now as weapons are
thrown into the bonfire…no more shooting
for today—I was hit slightly, slid down a
door onto a beach of feel…
Your storm is coming too.
Do You Care
Never
Never
Never have I claimed I
was born of innocence…
Only the scars that claim
to be crows feet appear to
be remains of all night vigils.
Words are typed with a plan
of escape, the webs they weave
leave the reader to places
well worn…tightened in the gut
by experience.
Self-evaluations portrayed to
the singers, laughers and fools.
To be swallowed, cut up and depowered
By the very few…
Who give a damn.
