09-01-2017, 03:19 AM
It's beautifully unique, your poet's voice filled with wonderful cadence as I read this, your lovely poem.
My daddy had this carving of a lamppost with an inebriated fellow leaning up against it. When you pulled the lamp part off, a corkscrew popped out. If you beheaded the fellow, a bottle opener appeared. It was stained in dark grays, tans, and a sepia nose hinted a once brighter red. Dad had stolen it from the Dahlinger Estate where he worked in Dearborn, or picked it from the outgoing trash there, where he said he found many treasures. I wasn't allowed to touch it, but I remember staring at it when I was a little girl. Fascinated that secret things were hiding inside and wondering about the story of the man who leaned against the lamppost, quiet and lonely. Even though its use and form represented a lifestyle that had cursed my own family, I was drawn to it because it was muted, soft, and lovely looking. It truly looked like a representation of loneliness. It was so masterfully carved and painted, it appeared the lamp was actually lit. I always wondered what had happened to the relic, likely lost through one of dad's divorces or thrown in a box at a stepsister's yard sale. I would have liked to have had it, even though it went against my life. I thought about it when I was reading your poem, that same feeling that I got when I was a child and would look at the carving, wondering about the story of that man.
What a wonderful thing when a poem can pick us up and take us to another place.
Thank you, Keith. You are a fine gifted poet.
nibbed
My daddy had this carving of a lamppost with an inebriated fellow leaning up against it. When you pulled the lamp part off, a corkscrew popped out. If you beheaded the fellow, a bottle opener appeared. It was stained in dark grays, tans, and a sepia nose hinted a once brighter red. Dad had stolen it from the Dahlinger Estate where he worked in Dearborn, or picked it from the outgoing trash there, where he said he found many treasures. I wasn't allowed to touch it, but I remember staring at it when I was a little girl. Fascinated that secret things were hiding inside and wondering about the story of the man who leaned against the lamppost, quiet and lonely. Even though its use and form represented a lifestyle that had cursed my own family, I was drawn to it because it was muted, soft, and lovely looking. It truly looked like a representation of loneliness. It was so masterfully carved and painted, it appeared the lamp was actually lit. I always wondered what had happened to the relic, likely lost through one of dad's divorces or thrown in a box at a stepsister's yard sale. I would have liked to have had it, even though it went against my life. I thought about it when I was reading your poem, that same feeling that I got when I was a child and would look at the carving, wondering about the story of that man.
What a wonderful thing when a poem can pick us up and take us to another place.
Thank you, Keith. You are a fine gifted poet.
nibbed
there's always a better reason to love