The January Featured Poet is

David F. Daumit

Please feel free to email David at: dfdaumit@gmail.com

TREATY ON SURVIVAL

Ultimately,
the scorpion will inherit the earth;
not the meek, nor the cockroach,
as have both been suggested,
but she who is irascibility incarnate
and devourer of insects.

Hers is a model of survivability:
hunter by claw and poison stinger,
defender with plated armor.
She may not have beauty,
but her aesthetics rival those
of any tank seen victorious in battle.

When the final confrontation
erupts at last between us,
I know whose side I will join.
Label me not a traitor to my species;
instead,
see me as a visionary of the future.

WHO WILL COME TO MY GRAVE?

Who will come to my grave
when passed the time?
Will they know what I’ve done,
will they know of my crime?
Will they show me forgiveness
for the dread sin of killing,
Or will my worth be to them
less than half of a shilling?

I wonder of the future
as the gallows loom near,
But of my stay in Perdition
I have hardly a fear.
For myself, I feel no sorrow,
nor for the man that I slew:
He who took from me my brother,
the kindest man e’er I knew.

Who will come to my grave
when passed has the time?
Will they know what I’ve done,
will they know of my crime?
Will they praise the feared hangman
who sent me to Hell,
Or will they offer a spare blessing
to wish my soul well?

I wonder of the future
as the gallows loom near,
And I pine for my Marie,
who to me is still dear.
But to her, I’m a killer
worthy of no second thought;
For she said she’d disown me
if I didn’t do what I ought.

Who will come to my grave
when passed have the years?
Will they know of my story
and be moved to tears?
Will they wipe away the growth
that covers my stone,
Or will they leave it to smother
what’s left of my bones?

I wonder of the future
with the noose around my throat,
As I make ready to cross
over in Charon’s gloom boat.
In the time I’ve been jailed,
all my peace I have made—
Except to still wonder
if they’ll respect where I’m laid.

COUNTRY

As I lay dying, my breath and thoughts labor to be free. The wealth of my veins leaks through my flesh and spills out from my hands, poor beggars that they are. I fade the green to black with my eyes, and wish to be back home.

Father, I remember, taught me well his lessons learned from fathers past. He drank his wine and struck me often, whether good or bad. I learned to live and love his way, and did not see my future. We shared a house, his home. We shared a love, my Mother, but she was his in spirit.

When Father became tired of being troubled, I was sent to bed. He hugged me hard with hands so pale, as I knew that mine were not. Falling asleep, I did not dream, and awoke to only more darkness.

David F. Daumit’s poetry and short stories have been published in several literary journals, including Brochu’s, Lower Than The Angels, and Night Music. As a founding member of Discount Rocket Productions, he has produced three independent films: Wicked Bad, Squatters Wedding, and The Angel You know. The latter he also wrote and co-directed.