Monday, July 14, 2014

Pastiche of Yusef Komunyakaa' "My Father's Love Letters"

Little Things by Jeff Lee 

She swings her feet freely back and forth.      
Small white shoes polished to shine.                   
Catching the moon’s full luminous glow reflecting white on white.
 As she swings she also sings                               
a tune of mice and clocks                                   
running hickory dickery then stop.                   
In her ignorance is innocence                             
Knowing nothing of what has happened         
or anything of the great beyond to come        
My job is to tell                                                     
her what will befall her next                                
on her road to salvation.                                         
A shepherd one traveler called me,                       
the great and mighty decider some used,          
soulless bastard cried another.                       
They all cried, screamed, and pleaded.               
It is their nature                                 
to want more   
of the life they had lived  
no matter how full or empty                             
they want more.                                                    
Her head turns in my direction                            
eyes a pale blue                                                       
“Hi, why are                                                            
your clothes so black and smoky?”                      
She does not know me                                               
I am just another person to her                      
a stranger on the street.                  
“Clothes are as they need to be”                   
“Your dress is pretty”                                               
“Mommy made it for me,                                     
she cried on it though.”                                                 
“Can I go home now, please?”                              
My job only allows me a                
purpose, never a choice or favor                        

I am death, even when it hurts.    


Original Poem: http://www.ibiblio.org/ipa/poems/komunyakaa/my_father's_love_letters.php
(I only matched the word count from each line)