Classic poem of the day
Patting goodbye, his father said, “My lad,
You'll always show the Hun a brave man's face.
I'd rather you were dead than in disgrace.
We're proud to see you going, Jim, we're glad.”
His mother whimpered, “Jim, my boy, I frets
Until ye git a nice safe wound, I do.”
His sisters said: why couldn't they go too.
His brothers said they'd send him cigarettes.
For three years, once a week, they wrote the same,
Adding, “We hope you us......
Member poem of the day
That summer I taught him the magic of a mason jar screw lid, how to catch them in prayer palms first. Six months divorced, his mother and I spoke only through him, words on a night breeze, gentle, harmless. He learned like kids do by killing first, clapping to death before the art of catching light. A dozen glowed brighter than a table lamp. He unlearned that lesson when words became vicious, wasp-winged, stingers beneath the skin. Somewhere, out there, he lives with......
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