It was the door slam
That did it each time,
The kids ran and hid
In beds or cupboards
Until the danger passed
Or their mother took
Blame and pasting
From their father's hands;
The voices below
Ebbed and flowed like waves
Of some storm-struck sea,
And the kids tiptoed
On creaky floorboards,
Listening at doors,
For sounds of footsteps
On the creaking stairs,
And their father's breath
Like a brewer's yard,
Sought out their young ears
And innocent hearts,
And plunged them in fear
Of his swinging hand
Hard from its high dome
Upon their soft limbs,
With the fierce dog bark
Of his tenor voice
That echoed the house
On his drinking nights.
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Comments: 13
This is an excellent poem ~
I like its clarity and use of concrete images.
As A reader I feel I am right in the poem absorbing the unpleasentness without having the unpleasentness "spelled out" for me as if I were a dummy.
In this poem you "show" the reader as opposed to "telling" them about a situation and
in consequense you, as the poet, empower your reader to strengthen their own "Poetic Awareness Vision".
A TRULY BRILLIANT POEM Terry.
Madame
I like van Gogh's work..such feeling