Poem Revised Again

another revision

Storm Systems

In my story window of the cramped framed house my father’s
cancer built, I stood by the sick bed, the broken farm skies still numb

from lightning. The radio warned of blues falling on Alabama,
but I’m not worried about the heavenswith their continual ruptures.

The preacher said I better find Jesus in my legs,

remember the silver pain of the farmer in the land of Uz,

where the oxen plowed through a hard summer storm.
Meanwhile, father is in the sick bed again, the ghost bed,

the forgotten bed, somewhere as, the sons of man
asked God to reset the grandfather clocks

Walking from the burnt okre to the field with lost brothers,

The sons of man speak there is none like you on the face of the earth,

yet in that particular abandoned barn, a the clocks lies broken,

their second hands point unto three trees where the seal breaks.

In the framed corner, the great mahogany gloom of the piano,

spills the dark day light onto the ceiling in wild fits. I don't ask why
the trees break into fire each winter, or why the clocks
seem unteachable. I don't ask why we walked to the field
while the blues streaked mirrors of wet red clay with whispers 

of the dogwood tree. I know no care for past cancers,
no concern for the elements or the direction
in which God's falling clock might strike.

Tomorrow we will pray again from different places,

and so the wrong time shall turn the radio dial, as it plays

Lili Marlene again, aside burnt cornbread and soup in the kitchen.

“There'll be bluebirds over the white cliffs,” of empty

plates, now, as all I have are these, returning empty

plates and lightning bugs. Night after year, why must

they be so beautiful?

 another revision


In that cramped framed house my father’s cancer built,

I stood by the sick bed, the broken farm skies still numb

from lightning. The radio warns of blues falling

on Alabama, but I’m not worried about the heavens

with their continual ruptures.

The preacher said I better find Jesus in my legs,

memorialize this pain, learn the short life of the plowman,

as the rain maker knows about broken limbs after a hard summer storm.
Meanwhile, I see father in the sick bed again, the ghost bed

the forgotten bed Now, I walk from the brown barn to the field

with a lost brother. In that particular barn a grandfather clock lies broken,

with it's second hand pointing at three.

The great mahogany gloom of the piano in the corner

spills the dark day light onto the ceiling in wild fits,

but I don’t ask why the trees break into fire

each winter, why the clocks seem unteachable,

I have tried to reset them over and over again.

I don't ask why we walked to the field when the

blues fell on wet Alabama clay. I don't,

Because when Grandfather says go, I ask the sky.

I can't reset the clock as it strikes Grandfather,

Brother and my legs. But for the smelling salts

of wet hay go many.

I can't reset the clock and go back to the sick

bed and ask the preacher not to say it. I know he was

talking about a different kind of cancer,

but tomorrow he will say it again at the wrong time.

The radio plays, Lili Marlene again, burnt cornbread

and soup in the kitchen for supper. “There'll be bluebirds

over the white cliffs,” mother sings, and serves an

empty plate. Now all we have are these, returning

year after year, the empty plate and the lightning

bugs. Why must they be so beautiful?



Post Script: Since I had trouble Identifying some meaning in Zacs poem and several have had some trouble Identifying meaning in this poem I will go ahead and post script this, since there are several drafts on the blog now.

This poem details my fathers very unusual childhood experience. His father died when he was three of cancer and then his grand father and uncles built a house for him in the country and they all moved from downtown Gadsden, Alabama. He worked the farm everyday thereafter at his grandfathers command., he never questioned his judgment. One Day his Grandfather Papa Grey took my father and his brother Benny out into the field to work during a storm. They were all hit by lighting. Papa Grey was hit in the head, Benny in the heart and my father was hit in the legs. My father was the only survivor, leaving him alone with the women in the house. His mother set a place at the table for Benny for a year after the funeral, and a preacher told my father on the day of the funeral that he needed to get right with the lord, because he was not certain about Papa, Benny or his own father.