Category: Poetry

Wake Me Up For Mass

When I opened the door Papa was sitting there, one leg crossed over the other, holding a shotgun. There was an empty bottle at his feet and a glass of melting ice on the end table beside him. He stood up, holding the gun in his right hand he allowed the barrel to point towards the floor.

“Did, did ya see her die?”

“What do you mean?”

“My la, la-love.. did you see her die?”

“No Papa.. you should go to sleep”

“Na-no nobody tells me what to do”

He stumbled, kicked the bottle on the ground and used the shotgun to regain his balance. The barrel clanked on the floor. A tear swelled in Papa’s eye. He spoke trying to hold it from running down his face.

“You- you could have done something.”

“You know I couldn’t have”

“She was always disss-Ah-pointed in you, eva since you let Ellen get abused by those ba –ba boys”

“Why do you have to bring that up now? Let me take you to bed Papa”

“What I jus tells you? Na-no nobody tells me what to do.”

He stumbled again, and as he regained his balance the shotgun went off. Papa had blown a hole in the floorboard. The blast had upset Gus the family dog. The gun fell to the ground and so did Papa as he began to cry. I knelt beside him and moved his grey hair out of his eyes revealing his wrinkled face. I looked up at a picture on the wall of Mama, Papa, and brother Jack. All of them so young, it reminded me of simpler times. Times I dreamt about flashing back to. Times when Papa would take us fishing and Mama would be cooking. Times when Papa would walk in the house grab Mama and say “Miss Rita you drive me crazy” and Mama would say “sit down and eat, I been cookin all day”. But those days are gone and are replaced with days like this. Days where Papa drinks, and I search for the man he used to be in the wrinkles of his face.

“Come on Papa, let me take you to bed. I’ll wake you up for mass in the morning”

“I can’t sleep, them sa-sa cicadas keep me up all niahght”

“Yeah, they keep me up too”

“I’m sorry, Andy”

“It’s alright Papa, I understand”

I grabbed Papa under his arms and walked him up the stairs. His old body felt bony and thin. I put him in his bed and turned off the light. Before I could close the door he yelled out

“Hey Andy!”

“Yes?”

“Don’t forget to wake me up for mass, I got some quah-questions for that sons of a bitch named Jesus Criahist”.

I chuckled and shook my head.

“Sure thing Papa”.

 

PD

stumpedwise.

Price of Nothing

Low funding,
yet High in mind
Trace the footsteps in the snow
A subject of the object 
Just without comprehension. 
Yet that trail we trace, 
Ends somewhere under a rainbow, 
or perhaps a dark and damp road

"At what cost, is not the cost of what.
However, it must be nothing"

Priceless,
There is no idea finer
Except for the sign in the window, 
It was never on 
But how ‘bout those odds
They bet to show.
the sign never went on

Another dark Friday, early in the morning
So let’s buy what could otherwise be stolen
“Is that why they’re all angry?”
“No, it’s the sanity that keeps them mad,
It’s the only reason they wait in line”

"So madness keeps us sane? 
There is no sense in that."
 
"Yes, but there is no cents when it comes to sense."

Ahh, Priceless
But why the lack of self- worth?
Well it's all worth while, don't ya think?
Something must be worth something, even if it's nothing


then what is priceless, 
it's nothing
nothing but an idea
The concept for those in spirits, 
Who attempt to drown it all out.
Drown out the noise of that treacherous question? 
“Excuse me! Is this on sale?” 

TQS 

stumpedwise.