03-01-2017, 09:59 AM
[i]Edit 1
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As a kid
I played baseball without a glove,
I built my house
with Father from wood
cut from the oak.
I grew up quick,
fell in love quicker,
found work at a toy store,
six months and I quit.
I do's, signed away life.
Recruiter said son you're great.
Saying son never felt right.
Vacation turned tragedy,
haunted by loss,
wife couldn't cope- antidepressants
left her alone.
Car crash halfed my sight,
I cover it with a patch
I got from a dollar store.
Military don't care about you,
they say son go here
knowing damn well I can't.
Thirteen years half blind
struggling to find the way,
this house I built without Father
did nothing but deteriorate
sure it's a pretty home; not sure about this semi-colon, seems wonky?
corner of remembrance,
crosses on the wall,
but the foundation's spent
years hiding what's wrong.
Today I leave my wife
my kids, my life,
to try to see
what's behind the blind eye.
I certainly have some level of pity for the narrator, but am left with a poem that holds an ending uncertain. I like that there is no judgement given by or to the narrator. He doesn't beat himself up, where as I expected he would, very often. I'm not sure if the title is a blessing tribute or a blindness of another sort. The entire poem holds an air of dishonesty, or half truth, maybe. It feels very non-threatening, but sort of sad, dark, and hopeless, too. I tried to peck it apart, honest, but I could not, as though it has been pecked to death already by a circling turkey vulture who went to work too soon. I think there should be something in there concerning quieting or refining a spirit once bright and vivacious, but, I suppose the demeanor of the poem expresses that...I feel a bit grouchy from reading it, but writers have been doing that to me lately. I guess it's called a stirring, where once I would have wept, I now just hold in tiny bits of fury and...frustration. Pops is rather a clever title, once I figure it out.
Best Wishes, truly
there's always a better reason to love