No Guide | Quiet Hills

NO GUIDE

Dad was a hard working man.

So they tell me.

He shot squirrels with a .22

drank his supper from a can. 

Hand on throat he squeezed.

“No son of mine cries like a bitch!”

Harder, calloused hand squeezed. 

Tears on my cheeks.

Choose. Belt or wrench.

Fist or switch. Boot or bottle.

Take it. Take the pain. 

Bruises will fade. 

Heart stained. Rotted hope.

You gave up. Walked away.

You quit. No words. No goodbyes.

There were no smiles.

No bonds. No memories. 

No shadow to cover me.

No shield to protect the family.

Voices yell like rolling thunder.

A right hand connects. Fist to jaw. 

You stumble. I stand tall. 

The day I left. Knuckles bruised.

Blood stained dungarees. 

One month rent to my name. 

I read the paper. It said you died.

I poured my coffee and turned the page.

QUIET HILLS

These days have me tired and exposed.

Hands weathered. Heart aged.

Alone in these hills, wishing I were gone.

Light encumbers memories,

where shadows stretch like thinning bones

this spring timber empty without you.

My first turkey,

your last turkey,

each a journaled memory.

Backwoods pouch enfold,

worn calloused hands

rolls cigarettes no more.

Paper shells quiet wait

this Parker now my companion.

The worst deceptions found 

in empty bottles of my blood stained dreams.

Sepia toned pictures are all I have left of you.

Brambles wave treasured sweets

if you were here with me on more song I’d sing.