1989

I wanted to stay, although it may have been in a lazy sort of half-hearted way... Putting on shoes beneath the garish light, I wipe the sleep from my eyes in vain. Much too tired to fight my mother's insistence that I should come along. I gave little resistance- to this day seems wrong: I fought everything. Something must have changed my mind, and in that young oblivion left him behind to die. Alone, wedged between the door and porcelain. His body lie face down into eternity, denied what he was reaching for. His fisherman's tan turned white- like the underside of the blowfish we caught at the docks; a harrowing sight. I never touched him, not one small part. Only backed away into my trance beside the waterbed, through that strange mid-morning dark. I remember the stillness- the heavy air before I fled. A sliver of light from a tiny window illuminating his frame, the position of his head. The man who slept in strange places, this one being most questionable. Such sorrow for his last embraces, of green shag carpet and gritty tile. No inviting arms, familiar faces. His own I never saw again. Taking an umbrella out into the wet August afternoon, I went to see a friend, after hearing he was gone from the Italian police officer. I only hoped that my trip to the theatre was still on, while those spinning lights took over. I was told that leaving the house before he was taken away was what was best for me, on that ill-fated day: I had found him on my own, there was nothing more to see. Perhaps I should have said farewell to the man beneath the shroud, moving ever far from me in the slowly gathering crowd. Instead, I walked into suburban puddles, forming on the whitewashed Florida sidewalk. Towards the future, as cold as ice, into the thick summer humidity. Unfazed as a stone, and with dramatic dignity. Playing my role for an audience of none, as my last potential for paternal adoption stole away toward the basement of a funeral home, for a brief incineration. As if that familiar form had never really existed. His thick wrists supported the Casio watch- how close I kept it having already stopped. I held on until his scent finally faded from the casing. Along with the memories, slowly erasing- like a dream receding hourly, as certain as the Atlantic waves. Though I will recall that mourning 'till his unfinished life is returned from the depths of that watery grave.

Reviews

[SweetPeachesAlways]

The man who slept in strange places, this one being most questionable. - I LOVE THIS LINE! I CAN'T HELP IT! I DO!
Perhaps I should have said farewell to the man beneath the shroud,
moving ever far from me in the slowly gathering crowd. - Wow, perhaps indeed.
unfazed as a stone - yes, go on...
Playing my role for an audience of none, - truly speechless as I am right now...
Though I will recall that mourning - what a word play morning/mourning, intended or not...

Wow. Wow! WOW! wow. yep, that's all I got...wow. Wow! What a beautiful piece of art you've painted so masterfully! What a tribute...of sorts...wow.

[Tomás Ó C..]

A sad tale well told...

[Lyr J. Thirsk]

the past never leaves us...although,...memory does
"Along with the memories,
slowly erasing-
like a dream receding hourly,
as certain as the Atlantic waves."
-except for scents and images...brief glimpses...
but the oceans end someday, and the skies...and worlds...
yet we are here, now....now and now...

krista lorraine!
-i get a lot out of your arts..and this one offered a glimpse into you that i will remember...

as to the skill behind your writing, as always, ...refined, intelligent, artful, unique and your greatest talent with imagery...not just sculpture or just painting or photos or sketching or even freeze frames on a horizon...but the combination of all in the combination of your words...

loved it!
-jake #1tbf

[beancountersar]

Simply magnificent work!

[Forest Green]

A triumphant piece of work. Filled with troubled emotions and salty to the taste forebodings...a very compelling poem.

Excellent....

Daniel

[Poetically Always Ashle..]

Wow, thanks for sharing. Where do I start....first I didn't find much to revise, it really flowed nicely. I really enjoyed this part:

"A sliver of light from a tiny window
illuminating his frame,
the position of his head."

For some reason, that part I've known.

[Kelley Pascoe]

I thought it was going to be a happy poem about the year 1989, but boy was I wrong. kind of sad and tugged at the heart strings. I loved how you took us for a ride in your thoughts. Great write!!!!
Thanks for sharing.
Kelley Frost

[__Flaw__]

Was just roaming around in the neighborhood and stumbled across the year 1989... In the beginning it seemed like a happy go lucky ride but after a while the words started to make visions and felt heavier than before. By the end of it, the whole thought process was torn down into bits and with it came the drowning into this new puddle of a not so distant past. Painfully impressive and very well done. :)))

[Tara]

I held on until his scent finally faded
from the casing.
Along with the memories,
slowly erasing-
like a dream receding hourly,
as certain as the Atlantic waves.
Though I will recall
that mourning
'till his unfinished life is returned
from the depths of that watery grave.


This part really touched me. You write of death and heartache and lost opportunities with such beauty. In this, I feel your regret as if it were mine. This is what poetry is supposed to elicit. Excellent write.

[Perdition]

To be absent from your poetry is merely a necessary way of letting light shine slowly across this darkened room. Your sleeves grant such eloquent inspiration ...The ends extending far beyond the talent of most margins. I am amazed, as always.

[Mike P.]

brings back some horribe memories. this piece made my mind go into overtime. haunting.