Blind Review Friday

Blind Review Friday.

The author shall remain anonymous (unless they chose to divulge themselves in the comments.)

Those commenting are also welcome to remain anonymous if they wish.

Incendiary comments will be removed.

If you would like your piece thrown to the wolves send it to salinger@ameritech.net with "Workshop the hell out of this poem" as the subject line.

This weeks submission comes from a Clevelandpoetics - The Blog reader.

My father was a dairy farmer
Who worked as a young boy
With a horse plough in the meadowed twilight
Of Co. Limerick, Ireland.

He said it was the worst job
You could ever do
Unless of course
You were the horse pulling the wet
Muck and mud
on that field.

The job depended on
the force of elements
And could be thwarted either way
Anyway
My dad wanted out.
He dreamed of America
And a thing called “the weekend.”

Such an idea was foreign
To dairy farmers
tied to the teats
Of too many waiting heifers,
Chewing cuds, bored
By the presumption
of the farmer’s calloused hands;
My father’s hands
at the age of 12
Tired already from milking
6 a.m. and 6 p.m
their standing date
at the milking house
which came before maths or poetry
or the like
The so-called language of the land
That my father knew not of,
Save for songs sang
drunk around the fire.

He longed for an American weekend
And a real holiday
From work tied to the land,
And to the bottom of his feet.

He set out, a ruck sack on his back,
To go where he knew
He’d be hard-pressed
To find any cow,
Blocking his way.