Another repost from 2015. I know I am cheating by reposting but without my family, I've temporarily lost my muse. Yes, Lawrence, these are the story of my life.

Saturdays With Father 2

I locate now those long afternoons with my father
as my first acquaintance with terror.
I was mortally afraid of those women
and their power over him

Fearful of their casual,
coy, closely guarded secrets,
Their ladyfingers, their lady slippers,
their perfumed bodies.

I am riveted to the spot—
to the slurred voices,
to the songs,
to the demented laughs.
The intimate conversations—

They may as well be speaking in another language—
That wavering and murmuring dialog.

I’d imitate later
their despised honey voices
and idiocies,

So as to punish my father
and in some way
keep him indebted to me,
along with all the others to whom he owed things.

He never knew in those years
when I might speak,
or what I might say.
I, his small, perverse jailer.
He, prisoner of this child.

Through these amorous routines,
she works out complex algebraic equations,
or reads Shakespeare and Eliot and Descartes,

Or composes haiku on her arms,
Trying to force the world into seventeen syllables.
Weird quiet girl. Deserted. Marooned.

Poetry by Ashe The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 161 times
Written on 2018-06-06 at 04:29

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Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Again, excellent.

I echo Tom's comment. The final stanza is a gem. Far better than mine. Compared to the first one, the tone of this poem is slightly sardonic and odious as the speaker responds that way to the women. :)


P.S. Guess people here don't like to read hateful poems about fathers. Mine didn't garner much attention. :D

Thomas DeFreitas The PoetBay support member heart!
Superlative, both 1 and 2. Brava, and indeed bravissima.