Please
|

About the Author
Alister Flik grew up in a fundamentalist Christian home in the Midwest with a healthy variety of crazy available to her, and her middle child syndrome hardly affects her at all anymore. At 18, she moved to the West Coast, got a tattoo, and now lives happily as a quirky theist amidst the Portland heathens she so dearly loves. Her idols are Joan of Arc (crazy or not), Flannery O'Connor, and Daria. Her favorite superhero is the perfect superhuman combination of Joan of Arc, Flannery O'Connor, and Daria dressed in a cape, armor, boots, and armed with wit and a pen. She is currently looking for someone to illustrate this into a comic book.
Rating
95%
 (1 votes)

Click on an image below to link to other sections...
Visitor Number:
3,212,643
  • Chopper Stories
  • Writers Harbor
  • Writers Harbor
  • God-in-a-Box
  • Steps On My Road
Follow us on:
View Work
Be the first person to like this story !!
Die Magd des Herrn (The Lord’s Servant)
Die Magd des Herrn (The Lord's Servant)

My father takes our dogs to the woods
and shoots them when they get too old.
Done things are done

like this.  The little white church
was built with burly hands--
German hands that passed down from man
to man to my father.  One town.
One church.  The builders build until hands
have to rest.  The dogs run until they can't.
And done things are done things.

My father looks for work, looks to build, but people
don't know him.  The town seems to grow on its own
into a city, and new churches eagerly grab at the hands
of younger generations
who don't know about his father or his father's father.  
New faces flick odd smiles at him, passing
pauses of grin that do not greet the history in him.
And the new families settle around him with their children
at the knee, and their puppies yapping cats into trees.

My father stands and surveys the old farm,
land shrinking in on him.  He wants to keep building
but things are running out, running ahead of him.
My old dog limps now, she can't run
but drags her steps in the hard earth.  It won't be long
before the last of the cattle sell, and the last
corn harvest comes.  Knee high by July.
It is moving beyond November now.

My father cuts his trees down to sell.  Trees that stood in his woods,
in his father's woods, but men must stand too.
That is what it means to be a man.  Sie dienen.
The trees come down when they must.  You bury the dogs
where roots once grew, and you go to church every Sunday:
you worship, you tithe, you leave the crowds milling around
unconcerned about how the walls were built.  

My father worships, tithes, and sometimes
he prays.  Maybe for work, maybe for memory
to hold more, maybe for someone he could tell
the truth of what it means to be a man. But he knows
here, now, with him the strong hands stop building.

Maybe he thinks of me and my sisters--three sets
of delicate hands, busy scattering words and life
where he is not.  Building
with things beyond wood and stone
carefully pieced together by hands that will remember
the soft fur of a dog, and the bending green
husks of corn pulled off to make something lush and
good of the nourished form cupped inside.

And maybe he prays for this life he no longer understands
when he lays his heavy hand on the graying hair
of the dog, too old and too deaf to know what will be lost.


Last edited by Alister Flik on June 13, 2011, 4:08 pm
"I do not think, therefore I am a mustache."
-Sartre *Nausea*
 
Francis Meyrick

Totally different style.

Your poetry is very absorbing.  Kind of impressionistic, and I, the reader, see silhouettes and shadows, traces and hints, and hear a back ground melody. There is an inevitability about it all, not necessarily bad, although not always cheerful either. Life is life. Done is done. Sie dienen. They serve.

I never stopped to think, but "Flik" I guess has German origins.

I enjoy your poetry. It's good, missy, very good.

Speaking

Last edited by Francis Meyrick on June 15, 2011, 10:42 am


We little humans, hurtling through the Universe on our tiny, pale blue dot, will find few answers to Life's great mysteries. But we should at least find many of the questions. To write is to ask. To seek. To grope. With humility, and humor. Peace.
Posted on Wednesday, June 15, 2011 at 10:41:34

 
Alister Flik



That is assuming my name is really Alister Flik. ;)

Thanks,
Flik


"I do not think, therefore I am a mustache."
-Sartre *Nausea*
Posted on Sunday, June 19, 2011 at 09:54:52

comments powered by Disqus
Copyright © 2007-2015 Writers Harbor
Visitor Number:
3,212,643