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[ellajam]

Hi, cloudy, I've been enjoying this one. I find the playfulness of the over-alliteration mixed with such a heavy subject interesting.

The first two lines, though they sound lovely, strike me as the only place words are used for their sound alone, the rest sang and wailed beautifully for me.

Thanks for the touching read.

For purple pockets filled with pebbles
with peat moss cross in pail of clay
Papa prayed for parted promise,
received nothing every day.

Precious golden locks of hair
played out in memory,
Papa’s pain went undisguised.
It transformed him; misery.

Prayers rang from his great tongue
Full of tortured fury, wrath.
Wanting what'd be his in heaven
Hunger flaring, all he'd ask,

would be painted poles and ribbons
ponies prancing on the lawn.
Not engraved for stone cold ages.
Not beckoning, "Move on."