In that barn, on that day
A floor of straw, the bunnies lay
I had just read Water ship down
The entire world was still my town,
But father had given me a direct order
Blast those Velvetines, and dispose of them all
In a pillow case, I drew their borders,
and shot them slowly as the church bells called...
I had even named them
Every one. I wish I'd never begged;
For that BB gun.
I see color now thicker.
I know men with no names
When I come up for water
'Stead I find specked empty space.
You could always ignore me
You should never have shown me
You should never had made me
You should never have gave me...
Permission sweet father,
To kill.
Author notes
Written March 9th, 2004
In a list
A contest entry
- 5+ by already heard.
750 points, ended March 17, 2004, 5 entries
Bronze trophy winner
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
What did you think
Comments
1 - 11 of 11
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I have just caught up with this. Such a powerful, simple bit of writing, this is one of those gems where everything comes together. Good work and very haunting when I feel like a small boy in a very cold cruel world being manipulated against my will. On the other hand I still feel like that years later.
David -
rhythmic is what I say, your style is very original. Hope I get the chance to read some more of you because it seems that your one of the better (or should I say best) poets on AP, it's obvious reading only one poem of yourself that you have immense skill unlike myself (hope that comes with time though).
Take care.
~Menohir~ -
ergh... chills.
And disquietude.
Very effective. -
I liked this piece. And like all your pieces I saw right into you. I get alot of emotions from this piece and it makes me sad. So much sorrow in your soul. But such a beautiful heart, so fragile.
Hugs and bites, Lady Raven -
Somewhere in a
muddy rice paddy
lies a lucky rabbits foot,
bloodstained and buried
forever in the muck of war past.
not all who grew up
enjoyed or detested the country
and the raising up
of animals for slaughter...
and thus the city boys
who only hunted at best
weekend brews and babes
were inducted into the Marines
and their new adopted father was
the drill instructor
who taught them to think
of living beings as enemies
when the situation called for it
and to inflict deadly damage
on any who would dare to attack
the semper fi forces,
farmed out to foriegn lands
we became the white meat
sought for slaughter
and so we slew and slew again,
and men died like rabbits,
pelted not in fur but in lead,
rabbits who bit back
in explosive bursts of rage,
but we rid them not with BB's
but with hollow points,
and body bags replaced pillow cases
for the remnants of what
our leaders ordered killed.
Later if your aim was good,
and you showed immense courage
under the hare triggers
of their sharpshooters,
you were given little ribbons
much like the ones country boys
won at fairs for thier prized rabbits
and a medal hung below to mark
your rabid, rapid responses.....
when the need to kill came due.
I liked this one..it touched a raw nerve....
good luck in the con-test
I have seventeen yellow trophies from long ago,
but only 3 gold at present......lol
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~Artis
Edited on Mar 10, 11:27 because ''. -
whoa. i got the shivers. very very very effective. if i had the gold to give you, you know i would. wow.
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i lke how this one leaves you hanging at the end.... did you murder your father? haha... this is a totaly original idea, which i really like in poems. thanks for sharing, and good luck.
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My dad taught us how to shoot when we turned 13 by taking us to the woods behind our house, and aiming at beer bottles, and pork-n-bean cans. Once, my brother accidently shot a bird because he didn't listen and hold the gun with both hands, we watched it fall from the tree, it was dead alright. I have never liked guns since. Dad said, "the gun can't shoot unless we shoot it, if you leave it lying there, that's where it will stay". I like how you seem to have the same sentiments in this poem. My dad was a War veteren and had a gun collection, although I am not fond of guns, the German Luger (sp) was so sleek and sweet. Thanks for sharing and bringing back memories of my dad, (who passed in 1996) and the lessons he taught us about respecting the hand gun and ourselves. This poem is a great visual, set within a surrealistic moment for me.
Lynnette
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I read this as a rueful right of passage, and I think it works as such. Growing up in a big city, I have never had to go through what you describe here, and I feel a bit left out.
My father told me, just the other day, that he could clean and skin a rabbit in 12 seconds. I laughed from my gut, hard, as I imagined my father, who has been a CPA for my entire life, a professional. He has shaved every day of his adult life.
He said this about his hunting days as a child, with a proud gleam in his eye. He demonstrated to us kids, now grown with our own kids, how he would grab a chicken by the neck, snap it dead, and hang it up to drain the blood. I was a bit suprised by these revalations, but not much, for I had always known him to be brutal...
He looked bewildered by my laughing. What the fuck was I laughing about? -
oh 'cause that was just a great read
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This was tough to understand, because of all the allusions. I would appreciate it very much if you could explain your thought process via an im or here itself. Thanks very much
--DEE--
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