In the House of My Parents It starts and ends with wood And flesh. Blood, clearly, and Mother’s care, Father’s gaze-- Benevolent, concerned, Angry, Loving. Never Am I sure. As far back As I can make out A dank, calm confusion Has always surrounded My purpose. Uncertain Skills reveal themselves, but Only occasionally, When called upon in haste. For tools, a Roman plane, A stone and wood mallet. My first attempts to please Father’s dry constant eye Planks hewn from trunks of trees, Split, split again, again And again. Then, worked to Rugged smoothness, just straight Enough to keep out death. Is this apprenticeship Or the family business? My hand yearns for magic To change the very form Of logs, rough, unshapen To lumber, straight, even. The building blocks of life. My mistakes end in pain, A pierced hand, a bloody foot. Joseph Thomas Joseph Thomas is a hard working poet writing in Los Angeles, CA. His passion for poetry is only exceeded by his love of his children, and backpacking alone in the Sierra Nevadas.
1 Comment
2/19/2020 08:12:48 am
The universal pain of childhood is captured, the uncertainty and confusion we all share. A haunting poem.
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