Ode to a suicidal farmer

The expanse of light blue compounds his grief

Ploughshares rebelling in idle regret

Indigo eyes seeking cloudy relief

The verdict remains - blood, tears and dry sweat.

 

Seven lean years, it must seem that he’s cursed

When will the tide turn, o God, this is hell

The land, and his life, is in darkness immersed

All will believe that it is that he fell.

 

One silent stone cliff becomes his last friend

One last bright sunrise, invites all those fears -

Freedom is falling, no need to pretend,

As gravity erases all future years.

Author's Note

Painting = Christina's world, by Andrew Wyeth

Reviews

[Ken Simm.]

Excent evocation of disturbed thoughts as depression and helplessness sets in. I like the use of the Wyeth (although I must admit this famous one has other contexts for me. Some of his other portraits may well have worked better.) But as with the painting it is the detail here that strikes me so viscerally.

[Einstein Noodle]

well done says i ..a sad and forgotten refrain not only of those dust bowl years, nor those of the depression but today as well .. suicide among farm people is the highest among 30 other occupational groups .. even higher in the winter months .. we never read about it in the news do we!? i think your ode is definitely elevated, well written rhyme and rhythm .. and a topic left too often unsung .. nice one volcano!
E.