The Bottle of Poverty and other poems

So early week classes have the uncanny effect in making you be creative and write more poems. Well, that happens in most of my classes. Here is a sampling of whats been going through my mind as I "learn" about Classical Greek and Roman history.

• The little boy was sorry he had lied
• For his papa was angry with a whip
• It hurt so much the boy silently cried
• But his papa was drunk and on a trip
•
• Running away from the angry man
• The boy tried to hide behind the curtains
• But his papa soon found him who ran
• And beat him again, lashing his shins
•
• “You piece of dirt! When will you learn?
• I didn’t raise you to be a lying shit!
• I’ll be ready as soon as you spurn
• Lie again, and your head’ll be hit!”
•
• Tears were rolling, but no sound came
• The boy had learned how to endure the pain
• His papa was sick, said his momma Jane
• It’ll be over soon, just a little game.
•
• But the boy knew better, he knew the facts
• His papa was keen to his shiny bottle
• It was his best friend, but truthfully a trap
• For with one sip his rage would throttle
•
• One day, as his papa was out
• The boy decided to leave home behind
• And a vagrant he became, like dirty grout
• Life was tougher but he couldn’t press rewind.
•
• And several years later, the boy now a man
• He returned, found his Momma, beaten to death
• Jane couldn’t find a way out of drinking papa’s land
• And so as her life ended, she was put to rest.
•
• Revenge in his heart clouded reason from view
• And the boy turned man hunted his father’s path
• But as he came upon the arm of papa’s brew
• No longer did he seek, for drink calmed his wrath.
•
• Sadly, the boy married a woman and had a son
• Who quickly learned about the abuse and liquor
• For as papa repeated the cycle of one
• His poor family became ever the sicker.
•
• What happened to the boy, happens every day
• Here in this city, where the poor families hide
• There’s a Jane, a beater having his play
• And a boy who is learning the waves of the tide.

And on a more lighthearted note, here's a poem about the WORM:

And inch by inch the little worm crawled
• Up the ladder and over the wall
• To his home he longed to go
• If only, if only he didn’t move so slow
•
• But when the worm had reached the top
• He decided to take a rest and stop
• From there he saw the world above
• On he looked from the height of a dove
•
• There were houses and trees and lots of birds
• The poor little worm was lost for words
• He had spend his life climbing this high
• It felt as if he had moved into the sky
•
• And just as the worm was looking about
• The ladder did fall and he gave a great shout
• He fell to the ground with a huge plop!
• And stir did he not as he fell from the top
•
• Oh the little worm who climbed so high
• How he thought he had reached the sky
• But now he lies, resting on the ground
• His dreams gone away just as they were found

Ok. I just realized that both of these poems have death in them, somewhat tragically too. It can't possibly be the fact that I feel dead in my class or that nature is in Hades waiting for Demeter to rescue her daughter or that its really really cold and lifeless outside or that I feel somewhat repressed during this season we call Winter but more closely resembles the underworld frozen over.