February 2018
Michael L. Newell
astrangertotheland@yahoo.com
astrangertotheland@yahoo.com
Note: I have been thinking about parents and loss a great deal in recent months. Hence the two poems this month. I suspect my physical surroundings in rural Oregon also bleed into the poems.
SOME THINGS ARE ALWAYS WITH US
Throughout the day, the sky has bled
boatloads of water to drown the streets,
a level of grief I have not known
since the day the e-mail arrived
with the heading, "Landing gear down,"
a note from a brother informing me
of my father's passing in Oregon
while I was worlds away in Riyadh,
teaching Hamlet and Death of a Salesman
to the children of rich folk from
a dozen or more foreign lands.
Today I sit in an apartment in the town
where he moved on down the road,
staring out my living room window
as crows stream overhead, cats hide
under porches, children splash through
puddles and chase friends down the street,
and the rain strengthens and strengthens,
until it washes the street clear of every
animal, bird, and person; I rock for hours
in an old chair bought in a junk shop;
today is my day to grieve for all whom
I have lost, all who sit in the attic of my
forever active memory, but most of all
I weep with the tumbling rain outside
my door and window for the father I will
never see again, a man who blessed me
at our final parting, as I said goodbye,
headed back abroad where my life was;
departure rendered me bereft of speech,
on verge of tears that hovered for 7600 miles
as I abandoned a dying father to look after
the children of strangers. The day beyond
my window sustains its steady torrent, and
for hours I debate with myself about things
said and unsaid to all who have filled my life,
all who have mattered. Steady blasts of rain
and wind accompany my rocking chair's dance;
I sleep at last and dream my father and I are
lads together roaming forests filled with silence.
A WELCOME SILENCE
The mother gazes out the living room window, watching
her lads and lasses grow in nearby fields, their arms
and legs waving in concert with tall grasses; time passes
and they drift away to other towns and cities where they
and their spouses watch their children grow among
grass, tree, bush, and curving streets and lanes.
The mother watches her family disappear and stares
into the gloaming which barely hides the approaching
darkness on the other side. Looking over her shoulder,
she imagines waves of children rising and falling; before
her there are dim shapes, arms opened to embrace her.
Soon, she tells herself,
soon a welcome silence
where all may be known.
©2018 Michael L. Newell
Editor's Note: If this poem(s) moves you please consider writing to the author (email address above) to tell him or her. You might say what it is about the poem that moves you. Writing to the author is the beginning of community at Verse Virtual. It is very important. -FF