CRYING AS AN ART FORM.

[dadio]

Mother made act of crying
An art form; she knew
Sense of tears on cheek
And leak from blue of eyes.
Father would have his way
Of bringing on the tears in
Her, making the blue eyes
Red, bruising the cheek of
Bone and flesh, making an
Art of bringing black and
Blue in such human skin.
You recall once the time
He slapped her cheek with
A back of hand for making
Remark in jest: you look like
A Yank with that camera held
So. You never could divine how
Love could have altered form
And made a mockery of care
And concern and deepest sense
Of being well and other’s need
Of being needed here and now.
You think that Father lost it if
He had it ever at all. Some how.

[judih]

This is a complete form of art - the painting is magnificent of course, and the poetry is gripping

[the mingo]

Can't let this go by the boards without a word. But I don't know what that word might be, Terry. Woke up this morning occupied oddly by new thought or notion or view about my life after all these decades. Age gives an expansive, and somehow,
comprehensive view of the roads traversed since birth. You begin to sense something not in the books or philosophies or wisdoms of man. An incisive account of human experience from A to Z. And underneath all that, below the carnival ride of day to day life, you begin to become aware of the existence of a dark relentlessness that bends everything to its will & that seeks the corruption of everything, even the good. Your poem here frames that unmercifully - and beautifully. I have read it several times since you posted it. Each time it touched the same chord in me the same way. Your words bring out the sadness that comes from the knowledge that nothing here will ever be the way we might imagine it or hope it to be. Your poem is the reality - with the blood showing, and all foolishness stripped away and laid bare.
Thanks, Terry.

[dadio]

Thank you, the mingo. yes, the reality. not of only my young days, but of many others too I guess. My mother has dementia now and remembers nothing of that. I do not know where my father is dead or alive.

[dadio]

Thank you, Judih.