He Had to Leave his Old Man’s Hot Water Bottle to Come Out to Work Today
Modern poetry modern verse contemporary poetry contemporary verse modern poem contemporary poem
I do not know quite why, but I can tell
The puppeteer I cannot see is old.
Perhaps it is his coughing like a swell
From death. Or maybe he is merely cold
This chill spring day. The puppets don’t inhale.
They, maybe, do not want to take in air
That’s more like frost that’s trying to impale
Their wooden lungs. They never think of prayer
Though if the Hindus and the ancient Greeks
Are right and fate is fate, the puppets are
Correct to shun avoiding trying tweaks
To destiny, its waiting abbatoir.
These all know well, too well, that there are strings.
We know the man and puppets don’t have wings.
~ Phillip Whidden
Nice and fantastic Poem. You have explain in such a way that it is mesmerizing.
I just now saw your comment. Sorry. I was waiting for an e-mail reply.