by David Ackley
Oh dear, Oh God, the mothers wept
Our sons do nothing but drink and roar
Smoke their pot and rave and whore.
So the king in his wisdom made them a war.
Oh no, not that, was the mothers' lament
You could not think this what we meant.
No matter, my dears, his majesty said,
We'll have our peace, now they're dead.
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One of an intermittent series (the first of which was "The King's Largesse ") expressing our gratitude to those who rule our lives.
This story has no tags.
Dark and funny and, regrettably, sometimes, true.
Bitter brew. *
WOW. This just hits it.*
*, David. Tough stuff well done.
Curiously familiar. And I mean that in a complimentary way.
Thanks to all above, and the mystery fav-er whoever you are.
It made me think of George Harrison.
"Life goes on within you and without you..."
Fave.
When the begging is answered there are frequently un-requested consequences.
*
Where have all the flowers gone? Nice piece, David.
* (words fail after this)
Thanks Tim, Brenda( where have you been?) Sam and Beate for the attention and kind words.
Oh, I appreciate the care you took to write this excellent poem.
Necessary work that stings. Fav.
Thanks, Nonnie for the kind words, really appreciated.
I love the dark comedy of this. *
* FAV -- added "is" to sixth line (2nd line of 2nd stanza), in keeping with wonderful use of tense as established in the poem. So right about the mothers' appealing to God or the gods, understood as in their privacy or silence, who turn(s) out to be a king with eminent rights. *
Thanks so much , Ann, for your always welcome and rewarding close attention.
Changes my mind about what can be done today with a traditionally structured poem.
Thanks , Sheldon. To contribute to a change of mind is heady indeed. I appreciate your comment so much.