To My Captor

by Jack Cusack

I walked miles unsure
I would reach you. On my way
I got lost on some barren moors of heath. I stumbled
I fell, I wavered
through storms of trial; and
though uncertain I journeyed on until
I found myself caught
in your field, unprepared. Yet
I’m unwilling to leave. I trust
the pacific winds that push me to and fro
against the sides of your purple heather. To
you I offer the split strands of my will;
with dulled scythe in my hand I come
to berth and the sun settles
to its bed. Blackness falls
yet I do not quail, for I trust the soft voices
that stroll your field. You kindle the timbers of my soul
with your smouldering gaze. I linger
among the ambrosial trail of your hair. A zephyr carries me
to the sweet balmy lips of the evergreens
in front of me. I’m caught
in this blooming ballad
that the eternal voices have sown.

Papa

by Jack Cusack

I couldn’t tie my shoe laces
without your hand
I couldn’t resist rolling and howling with glee
when you tickled my sides

you taught me how to bow my hands outward from my chest
kick my feet like a frog
you filled my belly with towers of French toast
and mountains of spare ribs

you walked me to the market
to visit the toy shop and bookies
I walked back carrying a toy gun
you holding a ticket and tobacco

you would sit in your armchair
read your paper
I would build castles with lego and
listen to you hum the little drummer boy

you called me your wee man
I called you my Papa
you smiled at me.
Pa rum pum pum pum.