Witness to a Stranger's Going Under

slight revision to the last stanza following a very thoughtful viewing from my friend Winston

The steady rhythm of spades raining dirt

into the last hole he'll ever know

reminds me of a life--

how in the end everything gets sorted

into neat little piles of memories

before being bundled

out to the curb for pickup.

How we eventually make more

or less of

certain successes or failures

than they were ever meant to have.

How the itch of a deceiving blue sky

in the month of October

sends us scurrying through thoughts

better left untended, youth

full gambols that a spring's sweet water

would be never ending.

What I wonder, does it say of a life:

can we expect anything more

than the last witness is three strangers

chuffing in the wind?

Ken e Bujold

© 2022

Reviews

[W. Barrett Munn]

Two big thumbs up, my friend.

Winston

[W. Barrett Munn]

Dirt to dirt no doubt. But who can afford 3 chuffers these days? A lttle kerosene and a match and I'm ready to go ashes to ashes style

Winston

[Ken e Bujold]

me too. or as I also tell the one who will most likely be in charge of my disposal, a rope from a tree for a carrion's feast is also acceptable.
The idea for this came from an incident a while back when I had gone to visit my father's grave. Everything was quiet and still, except for two guys closing a grave off to one side of the cemetery. I stood and watched for a while. Was a rather odd experience.

[W. Barrett Munn]

It is odd, for sure. Death is such a strong motivation for a poem, and yours is from a unique perspective which I really liked.

W.