Strawman

by Larry Chamberlin   Nov 30, 2012


Mom and I carved your legend
from a square bale of hay;
you were hardly around
enough to flesh it out,
yet I carried your straw bust
to a pedestal of ivory.

Someday you will be named
in a book of effective spies,
your deeds laid out for good or bad;
our weak portraiture will no longer
need to hold the clouded sky
against crowing opposition.

Perhaps then I will share the denser
substance you found impossible
to express to the rest of the world;
for now I still know and honor
the insubstantial being
you left in our protective care.

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Latest Comments

  • 11 years ago

    by Maple Tree

    Oh Mercy Larry-
    I thank you for sharing the meaning behind this piece... I admire this poem even more.. and now I'm a bit saddened... This is truly a breathtaking and powerful poem..

  • 11 years ago

    by Maple Tree

    Larry!!

    You crafted a beautiful and touching write....

    In my thinking, You are writing about a scarecrow... love the word usage displayed within this piece... I could visualize you and your Mrs... putting together and crafting him... with straw flying all around... love this line

    "against crowing opposition"

    the crows gave him a hard time I feel and this poem is to honor him in many ways... I love this piece beyond words... !!

    • 11 years ago

      by Larry Chamberlin

      Hope springs eternal in the child whose father has abandoned him. I see this happen all too much, but lately have not been able to get these certain kids out of my mind.

      They are forced to construct an image of their dad as a figure, a scarecrow, unable to flesh him out, yet revered for what they believe him to be. It's always some impossible thing: inventor, athelete, billionaire or spy.

      They always believe they will get to know him when this other thing - whatever it is - no longer prevents him from being where he should be: at home with his kid.

      They think he'll be this wonderful being with so much to teach them, yet they are stuck with this straw man of no substance. Perhaps the real dad has equally no substance or he'd be there.

      This poem is my anger at the dads who left, my paean to the children who carry impossible hope & my appology to my own kids for all those times I have let them down.

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