My husband's poetry

Category: childhood

  • Flint spark

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    by

    cfblack
    in

    I have indulged myself, bought all those things forbidden by my youth or lack of means. Watching rain fall from my porch I realized I never bought that shiny Ronson lighter they kept behind glass so adolescent wannabe cool kids wouldn’t steal from Schnaible’s Drugs. I don’t smoke and have no need of fire, but…

  • The dance

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    by

    cfblack
    in , , ,

    When I was young I had no fear. I dove off bridges into the flooded Wabash, turned off head lights and raced away into the night on acid, hitchhiked across America, stood toe to toe with a cop and a billie club and won. I took my beating from a squad of his buddies in…

  • Seven questions

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    by

    cfblack
    in ,

    When did you stop looking up to find shapes in the clouds? When did you stop imagining heaven peeking through as light showers? When did you stop seeing who could swing highest in the backyard swing? When did you stop talking for hours with friends about your dreams? When did you stop calling in requests…

  • Up early

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    by

    cfblack
    in , , ,

    4 am, up early, I have things to do before I drive a friend to breakfast, help him get in an out of his wheelchair so he may see old friends, visit old haunts and see the waitresses he used to flirt with and who flirted back. I wish I could do more; I wish…

  • Voices

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    by

    cfblack
    in , ,

    When I was a child my conscience would talk in my father’s voice I didn’t recognize self-hate as my own Now I argue with the voices, take ownership and try to change 4-15-25

  • Locked knees

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    by

    cfblack
    in , ,

    When our father died Masonic members of the Scottish Rite came and performed final rites at his viewing. They marched to and fro in their regalia, spoke sacred vows before his open casket. The next morning, before his last ride, his preacher preached a sermon. A military detail came to the gravesite, performed a twenty-one…

  • The morning chex-press

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    by

    cfblack
    in ,

    I remember mornings before school Eating Chex Cereal – rice, corn or wheat Milk with three teaspoons of sugar (four, if mom’s not looking) My sisters around the table Reading The Morning Chex-Press Good news only on the back of a cereal box I would construct a three flavored fort around my bowl Until mom…

  • Laundry day

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    by

    cfblack
    in ,

    because I hated folding clothes growing up, I don’t everything is hung on a hanger except my underwear and socks those I throw in a basket in the closet all my dark socks are the same and I’m not an underwear model so who cares about wrinkles if they fit 4-4-25

  • Confessions of a feral poet

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    by

    cfblack
    in , , ,

    Mother did not want feral seeds to parachute into our yard and take root. She used to send me across the street to cut down milkweed that grew wild in the ditch. It was only later I learned monarch butterflies need feral milkweed to feed and breed and to lay their eggs upon. Now I…

  • Freedom ain’t free

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    by

    cfblack
    in , ,

    The house I grew up in was not the house I was born in so I have no lullaby memories, just themes songs of Romper Room, Howdy Doody, Captain Kangaroo and Sunday morning hymns in four part harmony. I weeded momma’s garden, took care of siblings, snuck out at night to run the neighborhood and…