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Best Poems Written by Brady Perkins

Below are the all-time best Brady Perkins poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

Details | Brady Perkins Poem

For My Grandfather

For my grandfather.

I can see you sometimes
though you are not here

I see your smile
that day when I was nine
and you told a dirty 
joke to a passing stranger
while we went for a walk.

I did not understand
the joke
but you smiled
and the stranger laughed
so I laughed too
and I have never forgotten
that smile

Some days I wish
I could see it
I mean really see it
not that my minds eye
doesn't do a good job

I just know that if I could
see it
really see it
that means I could 
reach my arms around you
and feel your stubble against my cheek

It would be a long hug
and there would be tears
and then I am sure you would quickly
turn them to laughter 

but I cannot wrap my arms around you
I cannot feel your stubble against my cheek
all I can do is remember

remember your smile
remember your jokes
remember you in your old jeans and older t-shirt
swinging on the back swing
or dozing in the living room with your head back
and mouth open

Sometimes I look at your chair
at the dinner table
and imagine you in it
and you look back at me
with that look you always had
that said I love you
I care about you
I am proud of you
and then you fade
and someone else
here with us in this life
takes your place

can anyone take your place?
can anyone fill your old black loafers?
I suppose not
but they can at least sit in your chair

and

we can all remember

Details | Brady Perkins Poem

For My Mother

A few months ago I went by the 
cemetery where you lay
I have been meaning to stop in 
but you know how life gets.

It was late September
chilly and overcast
the clouds were thick and
hung heavy above the sad oaks
like a gray sagging sheet.

The grounds were unkept
brown oak leaves collected
at the base of the headstones
that had caught them as they 
flew restless on the breeze.

I parked my car and walked
up and down the silent rows
headed toward yours
and allowed memories of you
to come into the focus of my minds eye

I remember waking up one morn long ago
and my eyes wouldn't open
So I screamed and cried
I felt the tears on my checks and still my 
eye would not open
then I heard your voice
then I felt you take me in your arms
then there was the warmth of your hands 
as they wiped the gunk
that had collected on them
from pink eye
in the night

I tired to imagine your smile
when my eyes did open
but the only thing I could see
in my minds eye was a featureless face

because
Addiction only takes 
leaving nothing at all

A breeze come over the cemetery then
bringing with it a chill
and I tried again to picture
you and your smile
along with it's warmth
and assurance of unending love
but I couldn't it was instead replaced
with the feeling of anger in your voice
when you called to ask me for money
one Christmas Eve a lifetime ago
I told you I didn't couldn't do it
that I didn't have it
but really I didn't believe your story 
and knew what the money was for

because
Addiction only takes
leaving nothing at all

I was coming up to your grave
then and I thought about how you use to
make me and my friends snacks
and brought them into my room while
we played video games
So I imagined you with a small platter of odds and ends
but in my minds eye
I saw only a manikin
wearing your clothes
holding a platter
with a sad smile
on it's plastic face

because
Addiction only takes
leaving nothing at all

A few steps from your stone
I thought about the call
when I learned that your liver
had finally failed
not long after I got home
to find someone that looked like 
yet nothing like
the woman I had known
your body failed with it.

I could clearly recall your 
epitaph
but when I rounded the stone
and stood in front of your plot
I was surprised by what I saw

Not long after 
the day we laid you down 
your stone was placed
it had read:
Debra Lynn Krage
Loving mother, Daughter, Sister. Wonderful Wife
Who will be forever missed in this life.

But that day
as I stood there
beneath that over cast sky
the words were indistinguishable
from the stone
like tears shed in rain
the last vestiges
illegible 
remained

I don't know why this surprised me
in hindsight I know well enough
after all
that Addiction only takes
and takes
and takes
leaving in it's wake nothing
nothing at all.

Details | Brady Perkins Poem

Pictures of Holocaust Victims

They are always grainy.
Slightly out of focus due to age.
Their subjects stand sadly stoic.
Their faces all the same but different.
Eyes dark with hopelessness and pain
sprinkled with some sense of disbelief.

These pictures, some seventy years after they were snapped, 
still scream  impossibly loud with their silence. 
Countless faces, forgotten to the fog of time,
stare back blankly begging for compassion
that will never come.

Details | Brady Perkins Poem

Impatiens

Impatiens

Today, on the road into town, 
touch me nots
hovered all around.

They glided even in the 
absence of a breeze
up and down, to and fro.

They dotted the air like 
snowflakes falling up from a
meadow before falling down

back toward the ground.
I pulled my truck over, got out, 
and stood amidst them.

They fell around me fighting for 
flight so light that a brush of my
hand sent them rushing on 
through their plight.

Impatiens are 
wonderful flowers
giving themselves up in
beautiful showers

more vibrant,
it seems,
in death
then in life.

Details | Brady Perkins Poem

Noticing Things

I read somewhere that poetry is the art of noticing things
like the nail on my back porch that rain and heat
followed by bitter cold and more rain after that 
with some more heat thrown in for good measure
has slowly but surely drawn upward

I for one am glad the bottom of
either of my big toes has not 
as of yet
had the misfortune
of noticing this rouge nail

but I am sure that day will come
and when it does
maybe I will notice
the little hammer that is
waiting to be used in my junk drawer

Details | Brady Perkins Poem

Slowing Down

A river cuts through the center of this town.
It's small to be sure but it's a river.
In years past soldiers from the revolutionary war 
trod on it's muddy banks, maybe they found rest there, or maybe not
but one thing is for sure they were here.

I imagine them sometimes when I sit on an old bench
underneath a tall oak and watch leaves float
to and fro on the rivers currents.

On one occasion as I watched a maple leave
bob it's way in front of me and then dip magically out of view
I looked over to see a solider from time past sitting on the bench next to me.
His face was blackened with dirt which blended perfectly with the drab earth tones
of the shambles that passed as his uniform.
The iron of his musket glinted like it was gloating as it leaned against the back
of the bench.

We sat in a sureal silence for afew moments
and then I commented on the weather and how nice it was
I waited for a response from him and none came
so we sat
him and I
the river kept flowing as if it did not have a care in the world
after awhile I wished him a good day and left the bench

I was almost back to the road when I turned around
to get one last look
last I saw him he was sitting there
rifle leaned against the bench behind him
watching leaves as they drifted haphazardly by

Before I turned around and walked back into my life
he looked over his shoulder and offered me a small nod
along with the beginning of a smile

I have not been back to the bench since
as far as I know he is still sitting there
watching whatever the currents carry by
with the beginnings of a grateful albeit sad smile
etched across his war worn face

Details | Brady Perkins Poem

Thoughts While Driving

I went for a drive along the winding
country roads of Virginia today. 
I was surprised at what I saw. 
The ghosts of American heroes
lingered everywhere I went.

Underneath a bright blue sky
I saw slaves working the fields.
Dust caught in a slight breeze
rose up from the parched earth
and flew almost gracefully 
above them.
Dressed in rags
hands calloused 
the sun had turned
their dark brown backs
closer to a light shade of black.
In their eyes I could see pain
I could feel the anguish in their
forced tired movements
as their taskmasters screamed at them
but beneath all that
plain to see
a sense of hope rested
in the arms of the unbreakable
tenacity of their spirit. 

I looked away from them 
averting my eyes back to the winding road for a second
And when I looked back they were gone
the screams of the taskmasters were replaced by 
the loud roar of a big green tractor.

Before the road banked to the right
into the woods
and away from the cotton field 
I caught a glimpse of the guy
in the air conditioned cab 
of the John Deere singing along to the radio
and beyond that
for just an instant
In the shade where the
field ended and the forest began
I saw a little black boy
dressed in his rags
peering back at me

Details | Brady Perkins Poem

Guide To Writing Poetry

Guide to Writing Poetry

I was going to tell you about how beautiful the sun looked sinking
below the horizon line from my back pouch the other night, 
but I can't,
because this book I was reading told me that words like horizon 
should not be used in a poem.

I guess instead I need to be more specific 
more poetic
and tell you about how
from where I stood
on a half rotten slat
on my back pouch
I watched
the sun give up the day 
and breathe it's last
giving in to the night
like a toddler
at first refusing
with all his might
gives in to sleep

but upon further reading I can't
even tell you that
I won't bore you with why
I will just convey that
I may be able to say 

that the sun sank
like the heart of a twelve year old boy
upon reading a note
written by his crush
telling him she likes Roy
but that they can be friends

and then I need to go on
to compare the suns sinking
with all the colors it leaves
                streaking
across the sky with the passion
that even after rejection
still burns within the boy in question

and after that I can mention
the night 
and talk about all the stars dotting
the emptiness burning 
oh so bright
tiding the boy over 
until the dawn returns with light

light of course being hope 
and hope being the theme of the poem
which can never be named by name
but only in hints
I can say
that hope does indeed reign 

which would only open
the door to me
describing rain
and from there
I could tell you about pain
and hint again
when the clouds
dropping the rain
and by that
of course
I mean pain
parted 
allowing light from the sun
to dry the rain
from the pain
and bring back the hope 
which perhaps
then 
I could hint
is only held in vain.

Details | Brady Perkins Poem

I Wonder Where I Will Be

When you are old
and the smooth lines
on your face have been
replaced with
longer harsher ones
I wonder where I will be

When you are old
and the soft bright
look your eyes had
have long since been 
exchanged with a 
fading dimness
I wonder where I will be

When you are old
and time has stolen from
you the vitality that now
so excites me
I wonder where I will be

When you are old
and gray
rocking in a chair
in front of a window
on a lazy sunday afternoon
I wonder if the mid day sun
will still light upon
your pilgrim soul
and should I be there with you
will I,
with my own fading eyes,
look over and remember 
how it use to be
when we where young
or will I still be so taken with you
and you with me
that all we see
is the beauty
and the grace
and the love
that can only be shared
between two kindred souls?

When you are old
I wonder where I will be

Details | Brady Perkins Poem

Awake At Six Am

It's six a.m. Outside it is beginning to turn from night to day. The wind howls faintly as it makes its way around my house. Rain patters chaotically on my rooftop as I lay here looking at the ceiling. I can barley see it through the darkness that hangs around me like a fog. The central air kicks on and it's hum drowns out the tip tap of the rain bombarding the roof. I pull the covers up to my chin and sigh. My eyes are heavy but my mind is racing. I think about a novel I have been reading. I think about money. I think about work. I consider, for just a moment, rising to don the hoodie hanging on the post at the end of my bed and wandering lazily into the kitchen where my journal lies open and a poem I was writing earlier slumbers on the open page waiting to be roused and finished.
I hear my neighbors truck roar to life and glance at my alarm clock. Six twenty two. Outside the darkness is losing its battle with the light--if it is a battle--and I can just barley make out, behind a lonely oak barren of leaves, the tail end of a gray cloud against a bluish gray sky. It will be a rainy day today. Soon I will sleep and when I rise the barren tree outside my window will not have moved. The clouds will be different (according to the weatherman I heard on the radio they will be darker) but the sky will probably still have that drab lazy blue hue. 
I think about clouds for a few minutes. I wonder if they have feelings. Then I imagine two clouds talking about how some other cloud thinks he is hot stuff and that maybe they should rain on his parade.
Then I drift off to sleep....