I wonder if they'll be there,
Near the place where you gave up the ghost.
I wonder as I drive the road you rode
To where I know I'll find the rubber remnants
Rubbed off tires locked by brakes
Your squeezing hands applied in desperate
Change of heart?
I wonder as I pass the place
You likely entered from,
From where your widow lives,
From where she moved to
When your hearts unclasped.
I wonder how your final visit was,
If separation's storm had waned
For one of you, or gained new ire.
I guess the latter.
My wondering gains velocity along the stretch,
The final stretch from where you likely entered
To where you must have seen the STOP sign growing large
As you approached it in your deadly dash.
I scan the road for skids of black to tell me
Something more was going on,
Some failure of machine to heed
The man astride its virile engine,
But no...
Oh, wait! There's one...a small thin stretch of tire skid,
Well short of the end, no STOP sign yet in sight.
Short, but long enough to imply
Another violent death forestalled --
A child's...a dog's...
No.
More likely one last throttle goose,
Acceleration burst, no
Change of heart.
So now I near the spot where your life stopped,
And wondering's back to what I'll find
Besides the skid mark...there it is...
It starts too late, too near the octagonal sign.
No sign of of impact out there beyond,
Where it happened.
All cleaned up, everything.
I stop and crane my neck,
Strain eyes to find the yellow clump,
The jonquils I'd seen yesterday,
A luscious bunch ensconced in vase
With a single forsythia sprig and one of white hemlock.
I'd seen the mourner gather and arrange
And leave with them for destination
Undisclosed.
Ambivalence now resides within,
You deserved the flowers, those flowers,
I can't deny, hard as I try,
Hard as it is to reconcile the betrayal,
The terrible poignance of so intimate a gesture
To another.
That the widow received them in your stead
Is a softer pain for me to bear
On the surface.
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Blinddream
Bellwether Vance
Margaret Feike
Vivian Henoch
dianaani
zanelle
Salon.com
Comments
jonquils
daffodils
and (still)
smell them
`
This reminded me of my grandmother.
She died is a roadside accident long ago.
My Grand Father's auto slid off the road.
My Grand Mother's femoral artery bled.
She died 21- day after my Uncle Bernard.
Bebop (nickname) slid into a big oak tree.
She died (sad) near West Point, New York.
Dad's plane crashed on Thanksgiving Day.
I was (1948) just born one month before.
I once mentioned that (sigh) on my blog.
Skid marks remind me of anger or death.
Patrick, wonderment is the poet's domain, as I know you well know. I appreciate the compliment.
Both are possible, Gertrude. It stirs the imagination, doesn't it? Thanks for sharing your ideas.
Glad I made it real for you, Matt. Thanks for the visit.
Kathy, your compliment flatters me.
Art, I'm sorry to have provoked some painful memories for you. I hope the memory of the daffodils helped some.
Henry, there are often several ways to look at something. Capone always sent flowers to the other gangsters he had killed. Not suggesting that happened here, but the giving of flowers can have ambiguous connotations.
I am confused, though. I didn't read it as someone who slept with the writer's wife. Could you show me where I missed it?
I have trouble speaking to grieving persons, too, so I keep it brief and heartfelt.
Such a beautiful poem.
rated with love
for me, this: "All cleaned up, everything." spoke volumes.
always a pleasure to see more poetry here on OS. thanks!
four hearts, storms and ire...and sympathy.
☼•*¨`*•.¸.(ˆ◡ˆ).¸.•*
............... *•.¸.•* ♥⋆★•❥ Thanx & Smiles (ツ) & ♥ L☼√Ξ ☼ ♥
⋆───★•❥ ☼ .¸¸.•*`*•.♥
Thank you, Poetess. You are most generous.
Sad it is, Sheila. Thanks for the kind words.
Thanks, Wren.
I appreciate your visit, Lorianne. Your comments give me new insight.
You're an astute reader, Catch-22. Glad to have you on this ride.
Yours is graphic poetry, Algis. I am honored.
Poets are the most fun. editor fun?
If he think he's funny he's duh dung.
Flowers need well composted dung.
The editor deletes me. He bah funny.
`
in bathroom stall
`
overhearing
the Chief Justice giggling
in a men's room stall
`
`
This is corn confusing
`
a child wondering
about the value of silk
from corncobs
`
A editor sit in outhouse
`
puffing while he pew
pew mean sit to pew
he sit to puff a pipe
he smoke pot & sit
he sit & it just pew
`
Later
I hope
editor
no hate
poet
Frosty
Funk
too, huh
`
This is quite a sad and beautiful poem. Wow.
I'll be thinking on this for a while.
(BTW--Am trying to figure out your avatar picture. Care to say who that is?")
Yours is a mighty warm comment, Scarlet. I'm thrilled that you like the poem.
V, those questions kept growing for me as I worked this out. There are still plenty, and most will be mysteries forever, I'm afraid.
Chicago Guy, another thrill for me today. I shall need a drink before long. I PM'd you the answer to your question. Curious to see if anyone else comes up with the name.
I dont know why people think it is feeling nothing.
It is like super-feeling! The feeling of polar opposites
simultaneously.
The poet is looking for a desperate change of heart.
He finds none.
Again,
ambivalence would be the emotion even if one was found...
the poet's comforting assurance that it was not an intention to die,
vs.
the horror of imagining the frantic horror of the
suicide who changes his mind at the last instant...
ambi.
ambiguous.
you do it well.