His heart was partly filled with usual thirst
For expectations. First the songs of course
Then company of choristers who come
At various intervals mostly late
With some capitulating once or twice
On their being punctual as his wont is
Known; would feign chagrin that tardiness seemed
Rule of thumb. The charity is cunning
If perhaps made up for later singing
As they would with fervor or with banter
Peppering the sometimes-charged-with-tension
Air. Common as their cause for being there
Was his nose for catching up with spirits
Missed. Not only mirth but also liquid
Cheer. The portion carrying more weight since
He was promised to be vindicated.
And so he did libate as though on it
His life depended for they did not know
As he imbibed the more his gumption grew.
The highest notes that scared were pay dirt hit.
The absences did not cost much the few
Still managed the desired collective goal.
The hosts enamored of the discipline
From such a ragtag herd exclaimed a hushed
Thanksgiving. It incarnated brightly
In the uniformly-wrapped surprises
Strewn about the coffee table no more
mute than their receivers clutching at their awe.
- Song to Self - October 22, 2012
- Paean to Padre - October 9, 2012
- Bond - October 3, 2012
- The Tortured Winepress - September 20, 2012
- The Tortured Winepress - September 20, 2012
This post was written by
Abraham de la Torre – who has written 334 post/s on emanilapoetry.
About: I'm married to a lovely, loving woman who blessed me with two wonderful sons. Poetry is my passion, even if it's on a mood level. Like, I'm a geyser one moment and drained the next. Each outpouring, however, is a personal testament to truth, a poem being empty were it phony. I got the genes from my Dad, who passed away, in 2003, at 77. He was my most avid audience. There are other inspiring sources but Dad was the darnedest. Instead of miss him, I fill the void with verses.
{ 1 comment… read it below or add one }
I like your play of words…
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