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 )
- Childless Woman, Sylvia Plath
- Inevitable Infiltration, Wood Nymph
- Aquatic Nocturne, Sylvia Plath
- Gold Mouths Cry, Sylvia Plath
- Soliloquy Of The Solipsist, Sylvia Plath
- Should We Kill Poetry, Tony Adah
- Look deep in my eyes, obed obser
- No Pussy In Hell, Buddy Bee Anthony
- गोरबो इसिँनिफ्राइ- 79, Ronjoy Brahma
- Stay That Way, Lawrence S. Pertillar