Jumping Trains
I never thought he could be suicidal,
this handsome young man so deeply intent -
there are times I recall he was homicidal.
Yet "old country", so courtly, a well-mannered gent.
This courtly young man craved a habit so deadly
that he couldn't maintain all his charming control.
What was this habit he partook of so readily?
His addiction to alcohol captured his soul.
He was young, thirty-three when I last saw him,
I had thought that I'd known him, but now realize
there was absolutely nothing that we had in common
'cept he was my Daddy, and I have his bad eyes.
He fitfully grew up with three older brothers -
in their larger footsteps he jealously plod.
In the war they died heroes, and their grieving Mother
worshipped them all - to her they were gods.
Flatfooted and cursed with very poor eyesight,
this youngest brother remained safely at home.
He, raging within, jealous pain held so tight,
started sneakily drinking when he was alone.
Then, introduced to a raven-haired beauty -
gypsy eyes slanted so deeply dark green,
he began courting her, then felt 'twas his duty
to propose to her sweetly, to make her his queen.
They married and soon they had two little babies,
busy Mom! We were barely one year apart -
then his wand'ring eye caressed less busy ladies,
and he callously strayed, breaking poor Mommy's heart.
She mistakenly thought that we would be better
to live with a Father who drank and caroused,
than to live with no father, with no care, no tether.
But ne'er moment's peace had we in our house.
He so dearly loved his "Four Roses" whiskey -
he even cajoled us small girls to partake.
But we ran and we hid, it seemed much too risky
to stand there and tremble and watch as he drank.
Our Daddy, so very handsome when sober -
when he was drunken, he ceased to be dear.
Then he became the uncontrollable monster
cruelly beating us all - we girls early learned fear.
I still vividly recall when he entered our room
he was horribly drunk, holding a very large knife.
Mom had followed him in, and raising a broom,
broke it over his back, nearly ending his life.
When sober and happy, he enjoyed his collection
of rocks and of seashells and fossils so rare -
that he quietly spent his time scraping his fossils
in the furnace room where he kept table and chairs.
I then would sit quietly just reading and listen
to the odd scraping noises that he busily made -
my older sister would hear him and hasten
to join him, to scrape, just to please him, afraid.
She soon grew to share his love for such treasure,
tho' I couldn't quite see it - wouldn't even try.
I, ignoring him, became a comic book reader,
and escaping in fiction I found freedom to fly.
Then, fourteen years after Mom and Dad married,
Daddy, bored - took his bottle and quietly left -
he hoped to find fossils at freshly dug train tracks.
On a double train track, peering down he was bent
digging through fresh dirt, seeking still further -
he must have heard a freight train thund'ring near -
they say he quickly jumped from his track to the other
smack into the train...
Must end here
COPYRIGHT 2003 © Judith Gayle Smith
I never thought he could be suicidal,
this handsome young man so deeply intent -
there are times I recall he was homicidal.
Yet "old country", so courtly, a well-mannered gent.
This courtly young man craved a habit so deadly
that he couldn't maintain all his charming control.
What was this habit he partook of so readily?
His addiction to alcohol captured his soul.
He was young, thirty-three when I last saw him,
I had thought that I'd known him, but now realize
there was absolutely nothing that we had in common
'cept he was my Daddy, and I have his bad eyes.
He fitfully grew up with three older brothers -
in their larger footsteps he jealously plod.
In the war they died heroes, and their grieving Mother
worshipped them all - to her they were gods.
Flatfooted and cursed with very poor eyesight,
this youngest brother remained safely at home.
He, raging within, jealous pain held so tight,
started sneakily drinking when he was alone.
Then, introduced to a raven-haired beauty -
gypsy eyes slanted so deeply dark green,
he began courting her, then felt 'twas his duty
to propose to her sweetly, to make her his queen.
They married and soon they had two little babies,
busy Mom! We were barely one year apart -
then his wand'ring eye caressed less busy ladies,
and he callously strayed, breaking poor Mommy's heart.
She mistakenly thought that we would be better
to live with a Father who drank and caroused,
than to live with no father, with no care, no tether.
But ne'er moment's peace had we in our house.
He so dearly loved his "Four Roses" whiskey -
he even cajoled us small girls to partake.
But we ran and we hid, it seemed much too risky
to stand there and tremble and watch as he drank.
Our Daddy, so very handsome when sober -
when he was drunken, he ceased to be dear.
Then he became the uncontrollable monster
cruelly beating us all - we girls early learned fear.
I still vividly recall when he entered our room
he was horribly drunk, holding a very large knife.
Mom had followed him in, and raising a broom,
broke it over his back, nearly ending his life.
When sober and happy, he enjoyed his collection
of rocks and of seashells and fossils so rare -
that he quietly spent his time scraping his fossils
in the furnace room where he kept table and chairs.
I then would sit quietly just reading and listen
to the odd scraping noises that he busily made -
my older sister would hear him and hasten
to join him, to scrape, just to please him, afraid.
She soon grew to share his love for such treasure,
tho' I couldn't quite see it - wouldn't even try.
I, ignoring him, became a comic book reader,
and escaping in fiction I found freedom to fly.
Then, fourteen years after Mom and Dad married,
Daddy, bored - took his bottle and quietly left -
he hoped to find fossils at freshly dug train tracks.
On a double train track, peering down he was bent
digging through fresh dirt, seeking still further -
he must have heard a freight train thund'ring near -
they say he quickly jumped from his track to the other
smack into the train...
Must end here
COPYRIGHT 2003 © Judith Gayle Smith
