The Drumming of the Woodpecker & Faded Overhalls

When I was but fifteen-years old, my grandfather was a good, if not great hunter, a sportsman one might say, something I never quite acquire a taste for. That was around around l956, I suppose, take or give a little, a year here a year there. Now that I look back on those wondrous days [for times plays an interesting game with our memory banks, time, the commodity that once spent, will never return for he is dead now, I wrote a poem to remember him by, possibly the only one my memories can recall as Ive gotten older. Matter of fact, I wrote two poems, the first called, The Drumming of the Woodpecker, and Faded Overalls, I never shared them with anyone, but for you, especially for you, I shall:

The Drumming of the Woodpecker

The woodpeckers dry hammering dims, draws out other sounds: --of the aged,the dying away; yet, the squirrels, pheasants, turkeys, bears and coons, the deer, running, running from the dogs, and their Masters of the night: could hardly be he ard on their last winters plight

[the old man sat by his friend:

Pour me another whisky! said he [the old man holding out a tin dipper [to his friend; sitting in a rocking chair. A quarrel then broke out about what? when they were to go hunting again. Being as young as I was [back then I simply stood by the screened-in doorway, staring, staring not knowing then, listening

scorned by the gloom of time; decaying within, gutted like a dead fish of any healthy internal organs, neither of them said a word, not one word [but they were both wishing; for a commodity spent.

Faded Over-halls

Battered and faded over-halls, an old straw hatthe barn we, he and my brother and I lived in, and ma, a miniature lot of land, in this eternal restless city, is where we lived, way back when. I remember the eyes, the eyes of an owl, in the tree next door, staring at me, in the waking day: blood, skin and bones, was nothing compared to the memories one puts down to rest for another

the lucid, unquenchable and not so thought through memories, left behind

now I know why he said what he said, for I remember, commit to memory him saying: Once you show fear you are alone, when you let go of everything to become lost, nothing in the world can harm you. Now I understand

Dennis Siluk see his 30 books on web sites allover the internet, such as http://www.Alibris.com or http://www.abe.com

Author:: Dennis Siluk
Keywords:: Poetry
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