turkmcallister

I was looking around my dad's place the other day and I found in a box, among other things, a bunch of poetry that my grandfather had written while he was in college and I thought i'd share some with you:

The cries of the poor

how do you except me to live?
how can I feed my wife and kids for forty cents?
I work and sweat in the summer
and in the winter I freeze, while
my woman and kids starve.
Your life don't meet with no hardships.
You don't know what it means to be poor.
You don't have no reason to worry.
You don't have no reason to fret.
Life is yours.
So it is mine.
joys are yours
so are they mine.
spuds and stakes are yours
bread and pie and all -
so they are mine!
Hell, you have life
you have joys and stakes and spuds,
you have bread and pie and all -
while I work and see my kids and wife die.
To hell with your education
To hell with your brains
To hell with your class.
To hell with all of your ways.
I will die, but not my loves.
I will steal what you earn from me.
They will live in your damned old world.
I will die, die, die but not my loves.

and...

Death

A white butterfly,
Like a piece of cloud,
drooped on me.
Though white as the sky
it carried a blackness.
It's weight crushed me
and death kissed me on the cheek.
Pretty little death fly.

I love "pretty little death fly". what a phrase!