New Brockton Cotton

[Lgs1089]

A father immersed
in waves of white.

Basking in a flocculent labyrinth
masked with sharp, brittle reminders.

Pricked by the browned, bolls of yesterday
He bleeds.

The wind tickles the whiskers of his chin,
guiding him to the swooshing snickers of his children.

The melody of yesterday fades.

He bleeds for today.

[Jackie Holycross]

Your style is intriguing, but I don't feel like I understand the message.

[Lgs1089]

Your style is intriguing, but I don't feel like I understand the message.

I can give you a little insight. My Father lived in New Brockton, Alabama when he was younger. He had two severely alcoholic parents. He was beaten regularly and used to sleep in his car to get away. He's worked his entire life to do better by his children. When my Grandfather passed away, who eventually got sober, my Dad would take my little sister and me out to the cotton field in New Brockton, next to his grave. He didn't know that I watched him cry while speaking to paw-paw. He'd sniffle, wipe the tears from his eyes, and he'd look up at us running through the cotton field, and he'd smile. The cotton is white and fluffy on the outside, but if you're not careful, you'll get pricked. My father was pricked by life for a long time. His children altered his perception. He no longer cared about the past like he used to; he cared about our well-being.

[Jackie Holycross]

Your style is intriguing, but I don't feel like I understand the message.

I can give you a little insight. My Father lived in New Brockton, Alabama when he was younger. He had two severely alcoholic parents. He was beaten regularly and used to sleep in his car to get away. He's worked his entire life to do better by his children. When my Grandfather passed away, who eventually got sober, my Dad would take my little sister and me out to the cotton field in New Brockton, next to his grave. He didn't know that I watched him cry while speaking to paw-paw. He'd sniffle, wipe the tears from his eyes, and he'd look up at us running through the cotton field, and he'd smile. The cotton is white and fluffy on the outside, but if you're not careful, you'll get pricked. My father was pricked by life for a long time. His children altered his perception. He no longer cared about the past like he used to; he cared about our well-being.

That is beautiful symbolism.

[liftedbooks]

This is a beautiful poem. Well done.

[sarahmarlowe]

A father immersed
in waves of white.

Basking in a flocculent labyrinth
masked with sharp, brittle reminders.

Pricked by the browned, bolls of yesterday
He bleeds.

The wind tickles the whiskers of his chin,
guiding him to the swooshing snickers of his children.

The melody of yesterday fades.

He bleeds for today.

The title caught my attention right away. Are you writing about Alabama?

I love the first stanza. The imagery is beautiful!

In the second stanza, you're talking about a cotton field, but you are using stilted language that seems out of place.

Like the other person who posted, I don't understand your message. Are the children in his memory? Is that why he's bleeding? If so, why is he reminiscing in a cotton field?

I enjoyed this. Thank you for posting for all the world to see! Please accept all of these questions with the kindness I'm asking them with. You have a definite flair. Keep writing!