One Summer he asked me
to get his pack of cigarettes,
but I was not quick enough.
His hand lashed out,
leather strap across the yard
screaming me all the way
up to my bedroom door
And the black and blue
lasted for over a month.
Our Father who art in Heaven,
I never liked the dark or going to
bed early on a Summer night.
I always slept with
the sheets over my head,
listening to the voices of
the neighbors next door,
and my best friend calling my name.
He was quiet when he did not
have a drink, and he carried
his anger in his back pocket
like a sharp pocket knife.
But I knew where to hide.
And I thought the searchlights
of planes in the night sky were
Angels looking for lost children.
Louise Marie-I don't know what made me leak more-the father's tempest raging against the child (you?) , or the lost child's (your) hopes found in the searchlights at night; the juxtaposition of the Lord's Prayer was a deft stroke. As sad as this poem is, it makes me happy to have read such thoughtful writing. Phillip
It is so sad to read about children being ill-treated and this poem shows how it must be for a child.
Dear Louise, This one struck a few nerves in me to say the least. One extremely good aspect of poetry is its therapeutic nature.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
I'm not sure, i do like where it goes but think it could be much stronger.