Friday, January 28, 2011

Big Tent : looking at pictures


daddy's hard earned dimes

by chiminetty
my daddy grows lean
waiting at the scrubbed table
waiting at the scrubbed table
he reads the comic section
of the new york american
where der gink mit der viskers
is pursued by dose two liddle sissages
dose smarties
it iss vunderful

early evening
and he rests at last
in the twilight
of someone else's labor
all hard muscles
his sweat warm and random
in the loose weave of his shirt
waiting for the oven to bloom
with biscuits

my mother
superimposed on the edge
of his evening's rest
watches the bright horns
of the moon prick the horizon
and one by one the stars
write what they have seen
one by one they drop their
wide circles into her apron pocket
like daddy's hard earned dimes
spit-shined
turning the night silver

the biscuits are hot
the butter unwrinkles its
gold tongues down their brown skins
he reads
if I didn't belief it
I couldn't see it
let's go out for a row on der lake
liebchen

chass
und let us go qvickly

it iss vunderful


(My Dad at work)

9 comments:

Jeanne Aguilar said...

This is wonderful! Love it! The description of the interaction between dad and the world he lives in is so perfect! Such a slice of life!

christopher said...

My goodness, this is the real stuff. If I were a quarterly this would probably fit in it. I would fit it in. Or I would be in heartache that it didn't fit and I would write you one of those letters trying to get you to submit again.

Dick said...

Beautiful, Joyce. So simply phrased, but shining bright and clear. A real triumph.

LKHarris-Kolp said...

I love this! I especially like
"one by one the starswrite what they have seen
one by one they drop their
wide circles into her apron pocket
like daddy's hard earned dimes"

~laurie

flaubert said...

Joyce I love the use of language in this piece. This is wonderful.
Pamela

Joyce Ellen Davis said...

Thank you all for coming by! Happy you liked my stuff. :D

Deb said...

Beautiful, how those dines and biscuits & butter reflect the moon, the love, the language so real.

barbara said...

ah, those old Sunday comics. such mysteries for someone who never heard a foreign language spoken.

rick mobbs said...

Joyce,
I was about to leave a note naming you my favorite poet then thought I would take a look at the next post, whatever that might be. So surprised to find my painting there. Beautiful poem also, and it suits the work, fitting it well. But the poem about you dad is truly marvelous, truly a standout piece of writing.

Much love,

Rick