One Great Grandfather Poem by Cin Sweet

Poppy only spoke at the courthouse,
Whittling imagination leftovers, fading
Blood full of red Cherokee
His brow carved tight in apathy and drink
Then he shuffled on home

Grunt meant eggs or something
Fritters fried or boiled or rolled
He couldn't walk to the stove,
Nor talk or be, no, not at home
He was poor soil and sloped nothing there

I had a dream once-he lifted me up high
tossed me into the sky blue clouds
Then I plunked down in a yellow meadow
Blue soldiers lying around me crowing
Their hearts pierced with Poppy's empty arrows.