Tadpoles In a Jar
Tadpoles In A Jar.
I very nearly killed the child,
The child with tadpoles in a jar,
Whose dog was just a breath away,
Who walked beneath a different star.
This son of man with raven hair,
Who offered life a faulted grin,
And emptied books like whiskey jars,
For words to shout above the din.
I watched him then when aged just ten,
He cast his faith in god away,
And strew with stones the upward path,
That leads to where he is today.
I very nearly killed the child,
When placed ambition made him mean,
While others set the honey trap,
Like actors in his painted scene.
A fretful fool who wanted hope,
When hope was only callow style,
Who danced as satyrs pulled the strings,
And walked alone his pilgrims mile.
I watched him then at twenty five,
Forget his sense and then comply,
To have and to lose the kind of love,
That made his muse a bitter lie.
I very nearly killed the child,
When life laid bare a crooked road,
Where gods foretold an early end,
The time to cast away the load.
No faulted grin to ease the way,
With life endangered wracked with fear,
With lifelessness a breath away,
The pilgrims staff and satyrs tear.
I watched him then at fifty some,
Grasp at a feather, strive to win,
And self forgiving find his hope,
In what was seen as greater sin.
I very nearly killed the child,
But now instead I set him free,
The jar of tadpoles in my hand,
Is proof at last the child is me.
Ian gant
Sun 2nd Jan 2011 19:44
Thank You Ann,
At my age I find it hard to hate anyone. However: I have a need to tell my story in verse and being economical with words was never my style