Thursday, July 19, 2012

Poem : My Father Wasn’t A Hippie

My father grew up on the edge of nowhere
You know
Out there
Where the sweet southern sunset slips into the horizon
That tawny burning ball that brings on the night and awakes the next morning
You know
Out there
A place where cell phones still have no service
He left school in 6th grade to cut tall yellow pines for timber
Deep in the black waters of the Okefenokee
With his father and brothers
Hacking away with sharp shiny axes
Or Crosscut saws cutting
Pulling ‘til their arms were on fire
Until the tree twisted and fell to the ground
Just to be cut once more
Then the mules were geared up for the dragging
My father guided them through Cyprus knees and mud
With the dreaded cottonmouths slithering along the swamp’s surface
And the gators lining the banks of the water
My father was far from a Hippie
He was a North Florida Plowboy
Growing up in the Depression
With pockets empty and bellies the same
He could not afford much
But he could afford a hair cut
My father Wasn’t A Hippie

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