There is a house for broken men
when they are shaking,
when they are thirsty,
when they have no other house
There is a song for the loveless
for the rusted truck and the shotgun
a song for dry places
a song for the scar
In the long and godless sunday
of waiting to die,
the interminable afternoons
the loneliness of an empty bottle
jukebox hymnal and border-town heaven
honky tonk on the edge of hell
this chapel, these ministers of grace
Come into this cool dark place
steady your hand with a drink.
Play us a song.
HF Visits: Coleccion SOLO in Spain
3 days ago
I have to say I've reaad about as many NaPoWriMo participant blogs as I could manage and this is still my favourite. I LOVE this poem! All of your work is very intriguing, actually. So glad I found your blog.
ReplyDeleteI remember saying ridiculous things about poetry when we were both young, and you knew better than I did. And you definitely rolled your eyes at me and maybe clucked your tongue. I think you were a little embarrassed for me.
ReplyDeleteYou were right to be. You knew better than me. And still do. This is it. This is that thing I struggled to define for a classroom of kids (poorly) and still cannot. You have it man. And I'm a little envious of your talent, I must admit, but so very glad that you can do what I can't, and that you can say what trips and stumbles between my guts and my tongue.
God bless you Jake.
Come into this cool dark place
ReplyDeletesteady your hand with a drink.
I do love this.