Human Billy Club

My son is writing poetry to accompany my artwork

My son has been writing poems inspired by my imagery.

I’m honored and impressed. He is smarter than I am.

I like this one in particular:

Truth stands first, the steady thumb,
Grasping knowledge, it won’t succumb—
Yet fear’s sharp edge can slice it free,
Leaving us lost, unable to see.

Peace, the index, calm and tall,
A point of hope that guides us all—
But when fear severs, nerves ignite,
And peace retreats, surrendering to fright.

Privacy, the middle, clear message there,
A quiet space, beyond despair—
Yet fear pries open, makes it bare,
And leaves us stripped, with walls of air.

Liberty, the ring, worn with pride,
A circle wide, no bounds inside—
But fear clenches tight, severs deep,
And freedom falls in restless sleep.

Love, the pinky, small yet whole,
A fragile flame, a binding soul—
Fear’s final cut tears heart from hand,
Leaving us cold in barren land.

One by one, fingers fall,
Each severed by fear’s silent call.
A hand once whole, left empty, still,
Bound by fear, against its will.

Void of digits, hand becomes fist.

A weapon extending from the wrist. 

A meat hammer, a stub.

A human billy club.

Words by Antonio Freda.

Image by Anthony Freda

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