Hey everyone,
I wanted to do some work on "Fledgling" today, and I very well may later, but I had to do uni work first. Snore. But, out of boredom comes invention- or something like that. I am currently enrolled in a poetry course and each week we have to write a poem to share and analyze in class. This week, we had to choose a person that means a lot to us and an object, or several objects, that mean something to us and that person. Naturally, my father with all his tools and trucks sprung to mind. I was surprised to find that the one object that struck me the most were his boots. Although he goes through them quicker than he does underwear (joking, but it is a funny thought), there are always a pair of his dirty, beaten boots laying somewhere around the house. They are a constant and have been my entire life. I remember waddling around in them when I was little, and even recently, trying to fill the shoes of a man who is incomparable. So, this is for you, Dada.
My Father's Boots
There have been many over the years,
some tanned, eventually worn down
to a rotten earth color.
Others are burnt umber,
their cracked leather hides
stitched together like moments in time.
Some last longer than others;
beaten and abused 365 days a year,
from that time in the day
when the sun blinks through the trees,
batting her shadowed lashes,
well past the moment she is relieved of her duties
by her lunar sister.
Their soles are worn,
holes rendered into them by flack.
Their binding rivets come lose, woven tendons snap.
Unwearable, their bloodless carcasses get tossed,
away with the Mondays.
New to the world,
their chemically tinged scent wafts
from the cardboard womb
bearing them into an unpredictable life.
Gently pulled one by one,
fitted and tightened,
the will see some truly beautiful things.
I wanted to do some work on "Fledgling" today, and I very well may later, but I had to do uni work first. Snore. But, out of boredom comes invention- or something like that. I am currently enrolled in a poetry course and each week we have to write a poem to share and analyze in class. This week, we had to choose a person that means a lot to us and an object, or several objects, that mean something to us and that person. Naturally, my father with all his tools and trucks sprung to mind. I was surprised to find that the one object that struck me the most were his boots. Although he goes through them quicker than he does underwear (joking, but it is a funny thought), there are always a pair of his dirty, beaten boots laying somewhere around the house. They are a constant and have been my entire life. I remember waddling around in them when I was little, and even recently, trying to fill the shoes of a man who is incomparable. So, this is for you, Dada.
My Father's Boots
There have been many over the years,
some tanned, eventually worn down
to a rotten earth color.
Others are burnt umber,
their cracked leather hides
stitched together like moments in time.
Some last longer than others;
beaten and abused 365 days a year,
from that time in the day
when the sun blinks through the trees,
batting her shadowed lashes,
well past the moment she is relieved of her duties
by her lunar sister.
Their soles are worn,
holes rendered into them by flack.
Their binding rivets come lose, woven tendons snap.
Unwearable, their bloodless carcasses get tossed,
away with the Mondays.
New to the world,
their chemically tinged scent wafts
from the cardboard womb
bearing them into an unpredictable life.
Gently pulled one by one,
fitted and tightened,
the will see some truly beautiful things.