Poetry Porch: Poetry


by Wesli Court

My father used to shout at me
When Id again done something wrong,
And bite his hand and tear his hair
All I could do was stand and stare
At this berserker gone headlong
Into madness of the nth degree:
I curse the day that I was born!

A strange thing for a preacher of
An odd Italian stripe to say
To me. Did I request a shove
Into life myself? Oh, no!
If Id been asked Id never go
To hear him sing his song of love:
I curse the day that I was born!

Ah, but I loved him anyway
A sweeter man Ive never known.
At every meal Id hear him pray
For peace and happiness for all.
He hoped that I would hear the call
Myself, but no: Id heard him bray,
I curse the day that I was born!

I soon discovered what he meant.
I watched the world as it was torn
Limb from limb, its substance rent
To shards with swords and teeth and claws.
The proposition gave me pause
To ponder existences intent
And curse the day that I was born!

Copyright © 2009 by Wesli Court.