There are dead bugs in my bed,
live ones on my wall:
they come every year,
little blue-grey bugs
with wings,
although I've never seen them fly.
They walk around a lot.
I went to visit my ex-girlfrined
and one fell out of my suit.
They have a graveyard in my window sill
I vacuum up now and then;
I guess that must be hell for them.
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copyright Guelph Mercury - Dave Carter
Jerry @ Wally's by Mo Kauffey
Home for musings and poetry.
Rhyme of the Ancient Marinade
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copyright Guelph Mercury - Dave Carter
The Holy Fool
- Jerry Prager
- A former community newspaper editor, published poet, improv musician, playwright, historian, chef, canoe trip guide and stone worker, actor, dancer and under-employed jack-of many trades.
A Capella
Jerry @ Wally's by Mo Kauffey
The Ironworker's Kid
My father was an ironworker,
high steel molten man,
left my mother via an AA liaison that left him
a further love on now in Saskatchewan.
The son of the son of unions,
the strike organized kind,
a sober anonymous saint now
undoing your lifetime of harms.
Ironworker's kid,
I got I-beams in my eyes,
standing on this height,
foot slips from falling,
my father, O father
on Father's Day recalling.
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Copyright for poetry and lyrics belongs to Jerry Prager.
1 comment:
I know - what is it with bugs and window sills? There's a dead ladybug in my bathroom window for the last year or so, but somehow even as a carcass, she's too pretty to toss out, so I just let her stay there.
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