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Hank The Poet
Contributed by
Jazz
on
Monday, 9th September 2002 @ 06:55:25 AM in AEST
Topic:
StoryPoetry
|
So here we stand across the clearing,
in this field where poppies grow.
Not a dark cloud anywhere in site,
just the breeze blowing to and fro.
My family surrounds me as we walk through,
and I point out the names I see.
The gravestones withered with years of time,
but outlined so intricately.
There lies my father dead and gone,
he died when I was four.
There is my mother's grave, over there,
who died just months before.
My uncles and aunts, who passed away,
are beside my parents, in a row.
They all wanted to be together always,
through rain, through shine, through snow.
I watched my little girl and boy,
as they played catch around the stones.
My husband held my hand so tight,
when the tears just started to flow.
I laid my head on my husbands shoulder,
and cried for the death at my feet.
I pulled away to yell for the kids,
for it was time for us to retreat.
They were sitting quite a distance away,
in front of a grave off to it's own.
I walked over to where they were sitting,
and it was just a plane grave stone.
I looked into my daughter's eyes,
and she asked why it was blank.
She said that she knew his name,
and that his name was Hank.
I asked her how she knew his name,
and a smile played across her face.
She said a man handed her this paper,
then left without a trace.
I opened the paper rather quickly,
to see what was inside.
And what I read made me gasp,
and sent shivers up my spine.
"To all I say ,
from this unmarked grave,
a man lay dead and gone.
I was he,
some time ago,
now left to carry on.
My name was Hank,
but the gravestone left blank,
and now you all will know why.
They left it plain,
because there is no fame,
for the rhyming poet that dies."
Copyright ©
Jazz
... [
2002-09-09 06:55:25] (Date/Time posted on
site)
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Re: Hank The Poet
(User Rating: 1 ) by Valerie_Pearson on
Monday, 9th September 2002 @ 09:41:12 AM AEST (User
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a Message)
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wonderfully written, |
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Re: Hank The Poet
(User Rating: 1 ) by Lia on
Monday, 9th September 2002 @ 11:42:51 PM AEST (User
Info | Send
a Message)
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This is a really good poem...better then good..it's greaat. If all of poets here wrote to be famous..what would be the point of writing?? Writing should be a means of escape or a means to a smile..never a means of fame and fortune. |
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