Bio Note: I write poetry because I need to. I also work with True Gospel Bookstore to turn my poems to lyrics. The songs then are recorded and streamed on all services. They can also be heard on the website, www.truegospelbookstore.com — but they are not Gospel songs nor is there a bookstore.
Dragging Clumps Of Severed Limbs
Dragging clumps of severed limbs behind us Clawing frenzied as they cross each knot Of dried grass against the frozen ground, My brother and I trudge heavy like Plough mules along the step worn path. We toss the still pliant branches as high up On the expanding pile as we can Where they quiver as a breathless being Hunched and ready to leap back down And do sometimes upon our dodging heads. Then back we move slowly steady Maybe a twirl or a jig added when dad isn’t looking As we do not want him to see that any energy remains in us Else the afternoon chores might go on and on Seeming deadenly endless already. He is busily shaping yet another of his bare winter apple trees Into the perfectly symmetrical being That he will see again in warm weather Replete with leaves and blossoms and eventually fruit So large and heavy so happy a load that he will Need to prop up the drooping branches with two by fours Both to support the fruit and the little boys Who will nest there for awhile each summer day When shade and fruit combine to form The perfect retreat for the hungry and the docile. Barren now and starkly looming above The cold brown earth that holds them down Each stands a multi pointed supplicant to the winter sky Their aimed fingers calling for a reprieve to the feeble sun, To the frozen evening stars, to both the light and the dark, While those branches deemed unnecessary Fall helpless, the lopped detritus of the pruner, Who shapes the world to meet his individual needs. We too fall beneath his lopping tools intensely sharpened and cruel As he seeks to direct our growth in his own way Cutting back those unhealthy habits While feeding well those blooming traits he wants to grow. Funny I guess how my brother had all of those trees Bulldozed beneath the same earth or burned in untidy piles While the old man failed slowly in the rest home Before he had even closed his eyes for good So freeing both of us at last to make our own rootless lives Without the husbandry of another.
©2021 Don Edwards
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