poemimage

The visual & the poetic.

Tag: father

3rd Draft @ 104,896 Words

The 2nd draft stood at roughly 80,000 words after removing 20,000 words, give or take, from where it stood after the 1st draft. This time the edit seemed to go in reverse as I developed connections, elaborations, new scenes, etc… and added almost 25,000 words to the total.

In the New Year the scissors will be out again for the 4th draft. Speaking of which, my father’s father was a barber during the Great Depression. He was, by all accounts – and as I can attest, a frightening man although he did feed his family during perilous times. My father ended up with his barbershop gear and, much to my displeasure, put them to use on Saturday mornings. That doesn’t really have anything to do with editing the 4th draft. But of course it does.

Update: As of today (1/3/2021) the 3rd draft (which I thought was complete) has grown to 131,287 words. Which means the next draft/edit will take longer than anticipated although I don’t know why I anticipated anything at all. The story-idea hasn’t wanted to stop although I think (hope) now it has.

A Bolt of Black Cloth

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I imagined a colour the density of funeral bunting,

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A bolt of black cloth,

a singed songflaring

A sudden black waterfall quickly dropping six stories,

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Unrolled from a balcony,

dense nights

The beginning of a voyage,

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Negotiating darkness.

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My father shopped at Dales for paper bags full of groceries,

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I waited in the car listening to the radio,

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I tried to describe a song called Eve of Destruction,

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He looked at me in the rear-view mirror,

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Columns of black smoke rose above the Pacific Ocean,

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Like poisonous vines,

the projector shining

Morse code blinking through the darkness,

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At night he came home as late as possible,

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Then looking again into the rear-view mirror,

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He repeated the name of the song,

‘Eve of Destruction.’

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I pictured a wooden bowl in my chest,

parkinglotthe projector shining

Smoothed and worn by water,

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& Climbing the stairs into this language,

a ring

Gazed, longingly, into a rear-view mirror.

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Rays of an Ancient Light Driving You Home

birdlandia

Did you possibly imagine (you couldn’t have)

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On that youthful, sun-dappled afternoon,

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The rays of an ancient light caressing your skin & inspiration, when you were

oo

A skipping stone striking at the perfect angles & gaining your balance,

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Amusedly & perfectly crossing a warm stream at the edge of town,

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The water fresh and the fences down,

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Driving home after closing time…

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The years marking your skin in ways the Great Depression & the

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Enemy marked your psyche, past an abandoned brewery,

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Seeing the quiet streets coming up fast like a flood, silent as a submarine,

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Balancing on wet stones, laughing as you splashed & driving home

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After closing time, to a lonely house, impervious to depth charges,

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Past the dislodged bricks of the abandoned brewery,

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Imagining that sun-splashed afternoon & shallow, sparkling water,

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Your children crossing streams within darkened rooms,

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Finding their balance, in ways the enemy

faintly

Marked your psyche & warm afternoons caressed your inspiration,

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An ancient star illuminating quiet streets, starlight splashing,

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Streaming into and beyond abandoned spaces,

oo

Rays of an ancient light driving you home.

slbirdlandia