deepundergroundpoetry.com
The woods
I was a sick child.
Later Mama said I recovered all the money paid to insurance.
I had a fatal bone disease, required ear reconstruction.
He supported us, enjoyed us, cherished us, and loved us.
Busy repairing the cars, the house.
Made time for fishing, hunting, and hiking in the woods.
He was responsible, would do what was needed.
But started stopping by the neighborhood bar more frequently after work.
He would become loud, drunk, annoying,
and would use my ear as a handle to toss me across the room.
We would run and hide under beds.
Watching his feet in silence as he searched.
That final night, somehow I knew, but didn't know.
First time my lips whispered in his ear,
"We love you, it will be alright."
I had a dream he killed himself.
Mom and him raised six kids.
He prepared eight bullets.
The barrel was skillfully wrapped with blankets.
I missed him,
graduations, weddings, babies,
holidays, birthdays, and everyday.
I blame society, not him.
He was a WW II Master Sergeant, machinist, auto mechanic.
Returned from war to start an auto repair shop.
Couldn't make that work so went to work in slaughter house.
Before reaching the magical retirement date,
faced cost saving plant relocation and layoffs.
He had some woods with a creek.
Mama told me he lost it in a game of cards.
Mama died recently, and a brother told me he sold it to pay some bills.
One tree for 5000. 40 acres for 20000.
That night, while we slept peacefully,
downstairs a shot exploded silently.
A body dropped to the floor.
My youngest sister woke me and I recall I laughed, because of the dream.
She recalls I cried, hard.
The others said I should seek help.
I went once or twice, but what can be said.
Some things don't make sense,
and some things can't make sense.
He was Dad, and he died when I was young.
Half century later silent echos reverberate,
and these lips are still still.
Nephew's wedding was last year.
A brother argued about those days.
I was there, you were older, you were out all the time.
You didn't know what it was like.
That night I told him I loved him.
I did what I could,
It was not enough.
Another brother took me to see the woods.
7 Jul Revision
Later Mama said I recovered all the money paid to insurance.
I had a fatal bone disease, required ear reconstruction.
He supported us, enjoyed us, cherished us, and loved us.
Busy repairing the cars, the house.
Made time for fishing, hunting, and hiking in the woods.
He was responsible, would do what was needed.
But started stopping by the neighborhood bar more frequently after work.
He would become loud, drunk, annoying,
and would use my ear as a handle to toss me across the room.
We would run and hide under beds.
Watching his feet in silence as he searched.
That final night, somehow I knew, but didn't know.
First time my lips whispered in his ear,
"We love you, it will be alright."
I had a dream he killed himself.
Mom and him raised six kids.
He prepared eight bullets.
The barrel was skillfully wrapped with blankets.
I missed him,
graduations, weddings, babies,
holidays, birthdays, and everyday.
I blame society, not him.
He was a WW II Master Sergeant, machinist, auto mechanic.
Returned from war to start an auto repair shop.
Couldn't make that work so went to work in slaughter house.
Before reaching the magical retirement date,
faced cost saving plant relocation and layoffs.
He had some woods with a creek.
Mama told me he lost it in a game of cards.
Mama died recently, and a brother told me he sold it to pay some bills.
One tree for 5000. 40 acres for 20000.
That night, while we slept peacefully,
downstairs a shot exploded silently.
A body dropped to the floor.
My youngest sister woke me and I recall I laughed, because of the dream.
She recalls I cried, hard.
The others said I should seek help.
I went once or twice, but what can be said.
Some things don't make sense,
and some things can't make sense.
He was Dad, and he died when I was young.
Half century later silent echos reverberate,
and these lips are still still.
Nephew's wedding was last year.
A brother argued about those days.
I was there, you were older, you were out all the time.
You didn't know what it was like.
That night I told him I loved him.
I did what I could,
It was not enough.
Another brother took me to see the woods.
7 Jul Revision
Published 6th Jul 2014
| Edited 8th Jul 2014
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Anonymous
- Edited 28th Nov 2018 00:39am
7th Jul 2014 3:18am
<< post removed >>
7th Jul 2014 9:23am
8th Jul 2014 3:28pm
This is somewhat contradicting:
"He had some woods with a creek.
Mama told me he lost it in a game of cards.
Mama died recently, and a brother told me he sold it to pay some bills.
One tree for 5000. 40 acres for 20000."
How can he sell the woods if he already lost it in a game of cards? You need another zero in 20000 as 5000 x 40 = 200,000.
This is bone-chilling and could haunt you in a lifetime...thanks for sharing your pain. I hope somehow it eases the burden off your shoulder.
@EngrVV
"He had some woods with a creek.
Mama told me he lost it in a game of cards.
Mama died recently, and a brother told me he sold it to pay some bills.
One tree for 5000. 40 acres for 20000."
How can he sell the woods if he already lost it in a game of cards? You need another zero in 20000 as 5000 x 40 = 200,000.
This is bone-chilling and could haunt you in a lifetime...thanks for sharing your pain. I hope somehow it eases the burden off your shoulder.
@EngrVV
8th Jul 2014 10:28pm
It is contradictory, and confusing. I think Mama was lying to me. The lie was quite detailed, included lawyer option to get it back by having my dad declared insane. I mentioned this to my brother, and he said there was no card game, the land was sold at a discount price to pay some bills. So, I don't really know what happened. It wasn't long after he sold / lost the woods, that he committed suicide. I was the only child he ever threw, and he always grabbed my ear. I don't know what it all means... But, it helps to write it down.
14th Jul 2014 7:57am
Yes, it helps.
For me, writing gives beauty
to difficult and contesting
truths. It allows peace.
Thank you for this, jvp.
For me, writing gives beauty
to difficult and contesting
truths. It allows peace.
Thank you for this, jvp.
14th Jul 2014 3:06pm
This is a powerful story with some great poetic turns ... It also speaks to the resiliency of the human spirit
Thank you for stopping by. Resiliency is important. It also suggest that we can be victims of inter- or multi- generational strife. In the end, we need to look at / review our environment, and do the best we can.