When Frank come back from
the Battle of Franklin
and he couldn’t talk anymore,
Mama bought him a hundred head of goats
and talked somebody into
letting him keep the grounds
of the city cemetery.
They didn’t have lawnmowers
way back then.
It was the only thing he could do
except drink and lay around the house
and Mama wouldn’t have that.
He did it, every single morning,
round up them goats before dawn,
lead them with the Judas goat
through the streets of town.
He’d spend the day among
the goats and tombstones
talking to the mocking birds,
the stones, the vagrant ghosts,
the goats in his mind’s own language –
there were legions out there
under the live oak and mesquite.
People didn’t pay him no mind.
After dark, he’d bring the goats back home.
When Mama died a Mexican woman
come in to help take care of him.
They had children but I don’t know
what became of them.
Don’t know what became of the goats
or just when and how Frank died.
I can hear the Judas’ bell and see
him careen down them streets,
goats following under the silver
of a Texas moon.
Author notes
This is a true story about a relative of mine who came home to San Antonio, horribly wounded during the American Civil War. This is written as a south Texan might speak it,
A contest entry
- handful of feathers by unraveled.
1750 points, ended May 27, 2008, 14 entries
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest - ENNYFING COLLOQUIAL by jimmy20johns.
1800 points, ended October 31, 2008, 13 entries
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
Comments
1 - 5 of 5
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Wow, this is a beautifully told tribute story. The diction brought out the southern qualities. This was a bit of a tell, not show, poem, but I liked it that way, and there are still some spots with excellent imagery. I liked this part the best: "talking to the mocking birds, the stones, the vagrant ghosts, the goats in his mind's own language". Nicely penned...
Thank you for the entry,
-cassidy
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Thank you. I'm glad this poem spoke to you.
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This is a heartbreaking story, told so simply that the human truths shine through. The waste of war, the damage that lives on, and the family memories that persist, even when the people remembered have disappeared. It reminds me of a story in "Birds Without Wings" - did you read that? Good luck in the contest, this is a lovely achievement.
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Birds Without Wings? I'm thinking Jersey Kosinsky -- but I think that's "Painted Bird". I'll look it up. Simple and truthful is best, don't you think?
Mac
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Its so real. I love it.
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