his story

Argent is driving the Poetry Bus this week, and the challenge is to write about skeletons in the family closet. I've been trying unsuccessfully to write about my larger-than-life uncle since he died in October, but I was approaching it from my emotions. For the bus, I decided simply to tell his story.

You can find family stories of the Bus driver and other passengers here.





his story

a young boy, a sad one,

abandoned, alone,

a soldier, a looker,

a lover when grown,

a talker, a salesman,

the jetset, the cash,

the women, the takers,

the booze and the hash,

the horses, the races,

the Caddy, the oil,

the money he made

gushing out of the soil,

rich men and leaders

to take every call

the higher you rise,

the harder you fall;

five wives and five children

one buried, then four

abandoned by him

just as he was before;

the lying, the losses

the excess, the waste,

the bridges he burned

all collapsing in haste;

unforgiven, abandoned,

his end like his start;

but sift through the ash,

there's a boy’s broken heart

Shameless

Self-Aggrandizement:

Synonyms: crowing, bragging(a), boastful, cock-a-hoop, self-aggrandizing, braggart(a), braggy, self-aggrandising, big

Antonyms: humble


If Bolts of Silk weren't such a high quality ezine, I'd be ashamed of myself for self-aggrandizing, but as Juliet Wilson's online poetry magazine is a great place to read a variety of poetic styles, you should get to know it anyway.

So take a minute to head over to Bolts of Silk, where you can see my little bit of worship and many, many more wonderful poems!

Nine O'Clock, Tuesday

At nine o’clock, Tuesday,

The gardeners,

Their eyes hidden

In beekeeper hats,

Pass silently by.

On the water,

Ducklings dodge the fish

That swallow them

With one quick gulp.

Only the water

Circling out and closing over

Says something ever lived

On the surface of the lake.

At nine o’clock, Tuesday,

The cleaning lady enters

Without a sound.

Her eyes slide past

The gardeners by the gate,

Her soapy silence

An answer to the language

Of their machines.

At nine o’clock, Tuesday,

As she plans her busy day,

Her eyes slip beyond

The quiet lake,

Seeking to translate

The languages she knew

So long ago

Before she lost her voice.

Coming Home

When you left the house this morning,

I was sitting in my chair,

huddled over coffee and uttering a prayer

that you would come home safely

to sit down in your place,

a smile for me a gleaming

through the coal dust on your face.

You'd reach with blackened hands

like so many times before

to take my own within them

as we sat there on the porch,

and you'd tell me how you love me

and the way you'd thought all day

of the dinner I'd have waiting

and of how I'd always say,

"John, I love you, mister!

You've come home to me again,

and I've waited in my breathing

so I can breathe again.

Now go and wash that dirt off,

and, mind, don't track the floor.

I've dinner warm awaiting.

Set your bucket by the door."

Then I'd heave my old worn body

from the seat where every day

I sit and watch the dirt road

for the cloud that comes this way

when your truck pulls up the holler,

and I watch you as you come

and your eyes light up like diamonds

at the love that pulls you home.

They say you've gone away now,

but I sit here by the door

and watch for clouds of glory

to bring you like before.

Dedicated to all of the grieving families who lost loved ones in the Montcoal mining disaster on April 5, 2010. May God bless and keep and comfort them.