Okay, here is another resuscitated poem from my past. It was something I wrote for an advanced poetry-writing class in college. And, as with "
We Are Not Wallendas," I think this newer version, while far from a finished product, is still a vast improvement. Just the same, . . . I'm starting to feel a little guarded and naked now with almost a week's worth of poems up here, so I'm going to refrain from posting the terrible original for comparison. Go ahead, call me a
chicken, but it's just what I'm feeling right now.
Inheritance
In the face of my father,
Blood boiling up, rising red
Rage, thermometer popping
Mercury - salt in pepper hair.
Just below the widow's peak,
In line with each ear, loom knit
Eyebrows punctuating
Each sparse, spit phrase, clearly
Communicating orders,
Like the genes that tell me to
Raise mine the same, perhaps
Unintentional, way.
To read other poems or poetry-related posts on this blog, click here.
They study the blue
Posts
