September 2006
a boy of eight with locks of gold,
a temper sure, but heart not sold
to wealth, he turned a careless glance
but people, he felt and felt and felt.
not knowing a father he roamed a little.
he had a mind of his own and was known to tell a few
where to get off when they pegged him as soft.
a boy named barry who cried on cue
but animals, he felt and felt and felt.
he raised pigeons in a backyard pen,
his natural friends with beek and sense
for coming home.
he sat in amazement that he was their home
and they had no pretense
but like pigeons, he was true
and through and through.
he excelled at things not yet measured
by schools and rules and rulers rigid.
he worked in yards cutting grass for summers–
so endless the summers–so long his youth.
for only Barry knew the man he carried
had burdens, that grew and grew and grew.
a man at sixteen growing wildly stronger
he search for clues in natural thunder–
striking sharp, feeling alone, unconnected.
my brother Barry had it worse than the rest,
nearly forgotten, not only dejected. and more than i
Barry would try and my oh my, they encouraged his lies.
and lord have mercy, they brought tears to his eyes.
the lies that plagued him from authority structures,
the system that saw him just a thief and a menace,
the parents that forgot him while fighting their demons,
the friends that betrayed him when push came to sentence
Barry rebelled and stayed in a shell, one of his own private hells.
he met a woman he thought easy to please,
and one day careless and creative on the sofa at noon–
a spontaneous eruption of the birds and the bees.
the Barry that loved the wild and fishin’ for trout–
with nary a clue of what fatherhood’s ’bout–
made it upstream to target and courtship in lieu.
he got hitched and his little girl quickly ensued.
he just couldn’t carry and he just couldn’t bury
the Barry who skipped school and broke rules.
his heart yet not mended, with love not cemented,
the boy with the pigeons was offended by men.
he was tired, he was mad, and poorly represented.
and he resented the fathers and
he vented and vented and vented.
Copyright, John R Pigate 2006
