Drunkard at Her Table

 

I am destroyed in youth and only

time has tried to heal and hide the

scars of long ago, when alcohol was

in our house, and lives were sent in

turmoil.

 

School books are left at the door,

and mocked as being putrid

and kicked into the corner by this

Demon unmerciful drunkard at her

table.

 

Alcohol and cheap tobacco,

fills the kitchen where he sits

stalking Captain Morgan, and

plotting vial upon the mother

so protective of her child,

the beatings she took for

being a woman so defiled by

this demon, who plots the

kill of self and others for

being weak to his will,

alcohol his poison

this drunkard at her table.

 

Fighting in the past was

fuel for their fires of hate,

love, and lust for each other,

yet all the while

lingering explosive by each

passing minute lurking to

erupt upon this mother,

 the venom of hate

this snake and drunkard at

her table.

 

The child hides behind the

curtain and watches with

fear, as his soul shivers

while fighting back tears

streaming down his face to

drop into the shallow pool

of beatings and abuse

by insults of pain, 

forced to be

a witness to wounds

inflicted on his mother by

this drunkard at her table

 

Like a mad dog with rabies

needing to be buried,

this drunkard leaves a trail

of foaming mouth forever

etched in memory for this

boy of lost and lonely

childhood who bares the

scars of abuse so vivid in

his mirror.

 

© Copyright Vincent Moore 2012. All Rights Reserved.


Comments

Drunkard at Her Table — 3 Comments

  1. Well done Vincent. You have conquered a lot! I remember so much of this same picture. Television screens kicked in, furniture turned upside down, holes punched in walls, bullets shot through the ceiling, etc…I’m sure that all sounds like an echo reverberating off your own cave. Tell it my friend; tell it!

    • I conquered it indeed and lived to write about much of it, although I thought I would die every day in that house. I could share with you tons of incidents like what you mention, breaking and throwing of things around that house. Kicking, screaming, damaging walls, puking, cursing, booze and more booze. Threats of killings, no bullets, but they were close by. He survived a beating from my and my brother later as I grew and within an inch of his miserable life, he survived. But not for much longer, he finally found his end in a prison cell, strangled with his own shirt by another inmate who hated rapists of children and he was all of that as well. I know you can associate much of what I pen with your past as well, but both of us being very expressive and poets, we can let it flow from our souls like many can’t. All I seek now is peace in my life and I have found it with my writing.

  2. I remember you writing about this evil man on HubPages. I have similar memories of a stepfather, Charlie who hid his booze from my mother, us watching him go to the backyard where he kept the whiskey in an old tree stump. Thank God we survived and acquired the love of writing poetry.
    Peace and happiness my friend.
    Ruby

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