Thursday, November 20, 2014

Kell Stinkston Goety Blam-3

To all of you who have not frozen to death yet in the cold, star-white winter, here's my next poem for you. Please enjoy!

Kell Inkston

                I started cutting at a tree called childhood today.
                Got my pa’s hatchet and started wiling my time away.
                I get through the bark and it hurts like hell.
                I never thought I’d feel this much.

                I wanted to see how tall it would grow-
                When I was a kid that didn’t know,
                That what is weed and what is tree,
                Is quite alike to human eyes.

                I hit it the first time through the flesh and skin.
                I smell the sweet weedliness that men
                Older than I am say I shouldn’t have.
                I should have gotten rid of it long ago.

                I wonder though at times like these,
                Times when young men chop down trees,
                Whether or not the weed’s been a tree the whole time.
                Maybe it’s been just the way it’s supposed to be.

                I quit cutting halfway through.
                Left enough bark for it to live its life.
                Perhaps they’ve been wrong all this time.

                And the tree they said was a weed, was a tree indeed.