Debbie Guzzi Poet Free verse

Our Father's

White cloaked among the shine of brass and glass, Father waits,
cries of past and present mingle, among the cairns of dead.
He paces penitently within the maze 
of the stucco glazed cemetery.

"Shall I pray for your dead? He seems to say.. 
Have you paid the fee?"
The dead rule here and he is their voice.
“How many Our Father’s shall I say?”
Money, as always the key….

“My child why do you cry?”
Father inquires with Priestly aplomb.
“Only God now knows where your mother has gone.”
Half dead flowers fall from the child’s hand.

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Demetrios Trifiatis January 4, 2013 at 4:31 AM Life and her sister death go hand in hand. We cannot have the one without the other. Lovely writing although sad. Thank you

Lucilla Carrillo January 3, 2013 at 9:40 PM This is nice Debbie, but it's sad. thanks for sharing. Here in Texas, where my parents were born, it's out in the country. People don't have to pay for cemetary Plots. The own relatives dig the graves and cover them. Only the people that wee born there. Thanks for sharing. Lucilla

Sara Kendrick January 3, 2013 at 4:40 PM That was not a good answer for a child..I disagree with that..Enjoyed reading the work..The idea behind it is a good one to express..Sara Debbie Guzzi January 3, 2013 at 6:32 PM In Peru if you don't keep up your monthly payments on the tomb/cairn they throw the bones away, that's what they did and gave the site to someone who had the money to pay. So, the Priests answer was a truthful one, the way of the world.