Old-Fashioned Discipline Poem by jackilton peachum

0LD-FASHIONED DISCIPLINE

One summer afternoon
when summer wheat was high
--most already taken in--
and clouds were like lost sheep
drifting over the mountains,
my uncle-- for whatever reasons--
took a carnival pony-whip to his oldest son.

He burst out the back door,
already poised in action, the instrument up to strike,
and brought the lash down on the boy's shoulder
--surprised, set to run,
my cousin stood in midstep-- he hollered once--
a streak of blood crept over his skin, then another,
sometimes the lash left only a bruise, a dark welt.

The gaudy bright-colored whiplash sang
or whispered as it came down again and again--
and soon he was a mess of stripes and cuts, bruises,
as he stood where he was enduring the whipping,
knowing-- somehow-- he deserved this--
and only a single tear dangled on his nose
refusing to fall.

Meantime, bees buzzed in the clover,
birds sang in the willow,
and clouds like lost sheep
drifted over the mountains.