Sunday, July 13, 2008

Too Many


There was a time
this shack was cramped
barely room to house just four
with fiddle’s song
we chased the blues
and danced upon its floor

We raised them up
on rice and beans
and tucked them in at night
filled their spirits
with buoyant dreams
groomed their wings for flight

I recall his words
my youngest son
“They say we’re just dirt poor!”
I reminded him
it’s a state of mind
and simply nothing more

Boys to men
dusty fiddle case
Ma took rest eternally
this empty shack
these empty minutes
well define my poverty

Too many days
feeding things
much wiser left to starve
I barely whittle
at this life
I’d always meant to carve

Too many weeks
when floor-boards moan
in absence of familiar feet
too many ways
this empty home
will never be replete

Too many months
in solitude
each breath I pray my last
too many years
spent expiring
chasing days of past

7 comments:

Stacey said...

Dan,
What a wonderful poem...
When I was reading "Two many" I could actually picture the scene and found myself reading it again... :-D

Dan said...

Thanks, Stacey. It's good to hear the first reading didn't scare you off entirely.

paisley said...

whoa,, that one hits a little too close to home.... excellently executed... it cuts like a knife...

Shirley said...

Hi Dan, This is beautiful. I love this line in particular..."I barely whittle at this life
I’d always meant to carve".
Brilliant!

Dan said...

Hey Jodi, I think we all spend too much time in the comfort and familiarity of past, fearing the uncertain future.

Thanks Shirley...seems many times I have a sculpture envisioned, but end up with only a trinket to show for my efforts.

Brenda said...

I dropped by after reading one of your comments on paisley's blog ... and just wanted to say how I enjoyed this poem in particular! While it has tones of a bygone era, it's still relevant and I wonder how many can relate to the words "I barely whittle / at this life / I’d always meant to carve." Very poigant!

Dan said...

Thanks for visiting, Brenda. Glad you enjoyed the poem. Amazing what types of thoughts a picture or painting can conjour.