Branches, Blood, and Rocks
A typical day of a lone child.
His bobbing head over the sticky pavement
of tentacles and wings that no longer fly.
He had been told of his own fault.
Thinking of Mother and of Father,
his works of no work,
his leaky passage is embittered,
his own musts and entrapment.
Those potent missiles and their potential
of shooting branches and havocking minds.
Bombs killing birds and amazingly,
those boulders miss his feet.
Mother complains of his dirty socks
and those holes of dirt on flesh.
(Daddy speaks of mommy's head.)
A little boy dusts his combat boots
with sweet, saltine spit.
There is no blood, only a selfish pain.
A yell of 'let go' and killer 'let me be'.
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Comments about this poem (Branches, Blood, and Rocks by MARINA GIPPS )
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
- Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
(13 September 1916 – 23 November 1990)
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