13.3k views, 2xBest Poetry Period. A nothing from nowhere cast words to a world wide wind. |
Papa’s getting ready to hang up his hat for good. Naps in the green recliner with the tv on in his boxers when a knock at his door alerted him. Pants off, the blue ball cap on the nail, hooked for good. In black nights he sleeps all alone. No one to comfort him. He could wear a frown, but blooms rose from her oven. Soon stern tulips waited for the delicate lilies to rise with our eternal sun. Papa never opened his eyes in late summer; harmonious roses being plucked, Chrysanthemums dared frost and snow. He had no space to move, when he felt something underground move. From her delicate hand a bright, light lid for a stern head. No pajamas needed for this bed where he could stretch limbs as long as the willows that tickle toes across the street. From brown to green to blue — delicate and stern — they still fly, higher than any eye could spy. And that’s why we don’t touch the old hat that needs it’s rest in his very old house. 11.17.23 30, 37 or 38 lines. Take your pick. Or, 39? It’s surreal, some literal, but all imagined except for dad and his tv and recliner. His left hand ran up the trimmed wall, locked there, while his right cradled the cocked head, asleep. Couldn’t change his channel, with a, “I was watching that”, after opening blood eyes. You need the right channel to rest. No gas stove for us. —————————————————————— Somewhere, a link just died. 40. |