Mi Pappy
murder sang in me where the sultriness
of hot cotton fields consumed by
old carny folk gestures given any doubt
to a freedom that ole Abe spoke of diligently
why I never dreamt a better dream
where I'd giggled life's fortitude beneath a darkened
sky with brillant hues of wandering mirth beyond
a quaint timing of lemonade and broken slacks
why I'd began to simply utter faint whispers
of where I'd been through the gallows and gentle
memoirs of mi Irish pappy I'd exploded in a sensational
absolute glow covered in shamrocks I solemnly wondered
what gift shall I leave to mi irish pappy perhaps
the cream colered scarf or a pair of paisley socks
as the hanging moss spread sparingly over land
where he'd become to grow as old as mud pies
underneath the empty porch
Copyright © Yolanda Joy Nicholsen | Year Posted 2012
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