My daddy was a fisherman ages ago
in an old backwater village along the Mississippi.
He often told me how he missed the jeers
and croaks of frogs and alligator leers,
and said he'd row his boat home tomorrow.
I'd kiss his weathered hands with the dirty fingernails,
that never forgot the feel of his old river home.
He'd reach out to caress the memory of his rickety boat
that he had rowed down the muddy river--with dimming eyes,
and dimming mind, and dirty fingernails.
My daddy was a fisherman years ago
in an old backwater town along the Mississippi.
His childhood friends had moved out sooner,
he didn't quite expect to meet my mother,
and after everything was said and done, he'd tell me how
he'd rather row his boat home tomorrow.
A simple man, a simple melody in his head;
he'd whistle it throughout the hours on the riverbed.
The rocking of his only home he'd remember with a smile
so fond, so yearning, in that cracked and leathered face
that shed quiet tears in lieu of the saltwater taste.
I'd kiss his weathered hands that took his own heart
and gave it to the lady of the waters, long ago.
And when the cold of death began to seep into his fingers,
he said goodbye and told me he'll be rowing home.
A contest entry
- Dirty Fingernails by Polaja.
700 points, ended April 5, 2007, 30 entries
Gold trophy winner
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
Please tell me what you think
Comments
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congratulations on winning gold! this is a great poem, full of love, reminiscence, and images.
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Thank you
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This is one of the sweetest, saddest poems I've read in a long time ... it is beautiful in so many different ways ... I love the way it is written and the simple love in your words ... thankyou for allowing me to read this
Good luck
Polly -
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Thank you, polaja, for putting up this contest in the first place. I was very intrigued with the idea of dirty fingernails, which I always associated to hard work and the earth of home. I'm an earthy kinda person, isn't it obvious?
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