A fine (but sad) poem by my friend Len Libman:
He screamed, she screamed
You bitch, you bastard
The children huddled under the stairs.
He swung, she swung
He punched, she slapped
The children huddled under the stairs.
He pointed a finger, she pointed a finger
It's your fault, you're to blame
The children huddled under the stairs.
He stabbed, she fired
He killed, she killed
The children huddled under the stairs.
No one moved, there was a sigh
The house was silent
The children came out from under the stairs.
I've had some fairly strung out acquaintances.
ReplyDeleteBrought a guy home off the streets of Calgary one year for Christmas.
we did the christmas thing and in the middle of it i asked him how he was doing.
His reply was "Great! Now if someone would just throw the tree out the back door and punch me in the face i would feel right at home."
That's a very remarkable and fine poetic work
ReplyDeleteYes its dark.. yes it explodes
But..
the children came out from under the stairs
I admire such a priceless statement
The children... our most precious people
along with our elders ...
Resilient .. hopeful, trusting .... loving .. vibrant
Such a lovely but burning poem ...
Like birds returning after a forest fire ...
A brilliant poem
ReplyDelete