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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required Her indifference was merely a façade, Mine too, if truth be asked, it might have been. The day had been an autumn harvest festival, A ballroom packed with clichés ringing as bells A banner was strung across the sky that read, "Fall Has Many Colors" Would it be too much to say I felt blue? In a pumpkin patch I sat on a throne of hay , Harsh golden seaweed barnacled by the Holocaust, A meal fit for horses and Gods, A cocoon of horse spit and empty promises . God often times breaks those emptiest. I wore an apple on my head and God wore a bow and arrow, In this equation I was the stick and I was the sparrow. And he was bobbing for forgotten sons. Never had I really enjoyed church events, If truth be asked, I’m not so sure church enjoyed mine. The burning faces of demons in waiting were priced: $2.oo – Small $5.00 – Medium $8.00 – Large $14.00 – Jumbo Donations, of course, were accepted should your cat be allergic to sin. My daughter, older now than I had been her age, Came to me with two in her hand and said: “Why are you bleeding?” To which I rolled my eyes, but still recited the obvious: "So that I may pay for your pumpkins"; We shared a laugh at how naïve children can be. God from behind shared his own chuckle At how needling and sharp his are.; I became uncomfortable on the hay, No grapes from fall or wrath were fed to me, Not that I was necessarily thirsty, For fall has many colors, they say; My younger daughter then approached me, Empty handed, Hers was a crescendo cascading through space too loud to echo, Too bright, even, to create shadows, It’s not widely known that often times hidden in the shadows, Are two baskets: One that contains sunscreen and blankets, Another that contains a picnic table at the gallows. My little January sonnet smiled at her father, Her hand reached out and found my shirt pocket, Which contained a poem I wrote when I was 7, And she read it: Spring is here, hooray, hooray! It’s time for bees to come and play! If I could be so young again to believe in spring, To evoke such imagery; I thanked her and handed her a plastic lighter, Naturally, she burned the poem, Nothing had ever burned so bright or sad; "I love you," I smiled to her, And she lovingly sang back, "You’re not my dad", With that, I took the apple from off my head and stepped off the carousel. I looked back to wave goodbye to her, My little rag-doll sonnet. I yelled “Bye sweetie!” She couldn’t have cared any less. Nor could the apple bobbing in my stomach. 8/7/2016 Camouflage Me a Poem Contest
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