Littleton by RW
Littleton's fun was to torture his son
The hearth fire roared but of heat there was none
space where old angers restore, cold, unwon
paths worn ancient scorn, past hurts redone
old man clutched his cloak of stained and worn dun
sweat poured small rivers, he could not outrun
grave in back yard guarded by Littleton
if death is pain's surcease he's just begun
pokers in fireplace, glowed red overdone
knew flesh cauterized meat spit slowly spun
until eyes grew film and life was undone
tearful and fearful all sanity shun
long red beard assures he's feared, not outdone
though daytimes are dreadfilled, his nightmares stun
waking hours haunted towers rerun
murder isn't easy when it's your son.
In a frenzy, he smashed his door to run
he found naught outside, no stars, moon, or sun
Littleton screamed kneeling clutching his gun
Hell is first lonely, each made for just one
Comments
that's alright...
I only just have found the time to look at it. moving soon and lots to do. Wow! Lots to do do here too! i will try to do it justice in my own little way. Thanks, ~ Gee
enjoyed the poem ron
but for workshop purpose, it is not that ss
i think the length of lines takes attention from the rhyme and the really excellent meter lessens the ss effect
love judy
come join my critique workshop ron?
xxx
I'd love to join your workshop Judy!
It sounds great.
Hi Ron
I keep telling everyone who'll listen that a poet is never either late nor early lol. You've given Gee a good one to work on as in my opinion the aabb pattern is often the most ss..................stan