Thy Own Fig

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
This is a long poem I wrote about the story of the strained relationship between an elderly father and his stubborn son.. Took me 5 hours to complete because the rhyme scheme was so strict and so were the use of syllables in each line. I'm not sure if this is a particular form of poetry so I sort of just made it up. It was a real challenge, but it was worth.. I was pretty impressed with the outcome.

Submitted: January 19, 2011

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Submitted: January 19, 2011

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In a town not far off,
But a time now gone,
Lived there, by the trough,
A man, now foregone.

"If the old trees there yonder
Change way and choose to sprig,
What shall we tell thy neighbors,
Who covet thy dead fig?"
Said the man, placing down his tabor.

"Old man, I care not, which is true,
Let them covet live figs, if they so choose.
But do not bother me, for if you do,
I'll chop down mine own fig, so best mind you."
His son replied, in a way quite rude.

"That's the way you wish to speak?
I raised you by mine own!
Go, chop apart thine own tree,
And return not to home!"
Echoed the man, his voice did carry.

"Be that a command? I cannot!
The house is but mine own, this patch I bought.
Perhaps you should leave, now, go! off my lot!
Oh, and you shan't come back, dying or not!" 
Said the rude son, bolting to his cot.

So off went the old man,
Now down in a rut,
To live off the land, 
And not in a hut.

On the journey, he found 
Surprises so great,
He walked on the mounds,
And swam in the lakes.

He thought not once a time,
Of returning home.
The land was sublime,
And he wished to roam.

"I am no longer of youth,
But I cannot deny,
I wish only to be here,
Until the day I die!"
Yelled the man, in this valley so clear.

Yet something weigh heavy,
On his old, sad mind,
'Til came a bevy,
On which he could dine.

Lest he should chance lose them,
He chased with intent.
If they do lose him,
Then, he shall lament.

"Wretched birds, I hate them so!
Hear, I have not too long!
Shall I starve? Is that your wish?
Be this where I belong?"
Cried the man, as he met with famish.

He came down with a cough,
And knew 'twas not brawn,
To shrug this cold off,
Would mean death by dawn.

"Should back home I need wander?
No, for lives there a pig!
This sickness, I will labor,
For my pride is too big!"
Claimed the man, as the sky turned grayer.

"Where has he gone, what shall I do?
He can not be found in the shed or loo!
I'm afraid that my words sent him askew,
For he has not been home in a week or two!"
Cried the rude son, whilst strapping his shoes.

"I find that I am too weak,
As the sickness has grown.
I shall soon break brusquely,
Before my state is known."
Wept did he, as Death arrived fiercely.

"I'm coming, father, worry not,
That wilderness shall not lead you to rot!
When found, I'll make the amends that I ought,
And care for you kindly, if you allot."
He said with care, and began his trot.

So the rude son began,
And followed his gut,
To find his old man,
With good health all but.

There lie he, on the ground,
With blood on his pate,
Sunk in mud, face down,
The son knew his fate.

Sat the son, 'til nighttime,
Where the moon was chrome,
And the birds would chime,
And the beasts would groan.

"Is my son yet here, in truth?
I thought your soul too wry.
Is it me who you revere,
Though your actions belie?"
The man's voice cracked with pain and with drear.

His eyes broke like levees,
And as the moonshined,
With eyes now heavy,
His soul did resign.

The moon shone bright, though grim,
While light broke fragment,
And he still and prim,
Tied with Death's serpent.

"Father, I say, by morrow,
That my grief won't prolong.
My sins shall never vanish, 
For this pain is lifelong."
The son cried, as his soul did vanquish.


© Copyright 2018 Kurt Holmes. All rights reserved.

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