The Ferryman

 

I watch her take my hand

out of love, fear and instinct.

Pieces of the world

are growling,

and threaten,

turning strawberry milk

to a monstrosity,

tasting metallic and sharp,

blood iron,

pig iron.

 

There are no melodies here,

no lullabies or clockwork music boxes,

just angles that have a taste

for the thick fabric she is swaddled in,

creatures that want to rip the brocade from her still

awestruck form

and reduce me to a crippled shadow.

 

We cross the street and I carry her

back to her world.

where kitchens smell of cinnamon and buttered toast.

and grandpa sings silly songs

that the cars can’t hear.

Reviews

[Tara]

Aaaahh...yes...they do reduce you and expand you. Wonderful write, Tim. I really love the second stanza. Beautiful.

[Syndra Lynn]

so sweet Tim! thanks for this.

[Chloe Madison Taylor.]

definately one of my favorite poems ive read on here. I love how it goes from scary to happy. it reminds me of my grandfather.
it makes me smile.
and it makes me want to call my grandpa.

[Rod Zinkel]

Just by the photo and the title you've built the tension that is carried until the last few lines. Emotive.

[Shara Faskowitz]

This is very sweet. You have a whole series of poems about her that you need to put together and look at as a group. I'll bet you have a chapbook's worth now. You should check out Literary Mama for their once a year Father's Day issue, when they take entries from dads and grandpas. :-) Or maybe eventually you can have a book of them published to give to her. That's a gift any grandchild would treasure. Nice work T, and I didn't even say a word about the period that should be a comma. lol.