One Dead in Violent Crash
Death came to my street, but I did not invite him.
He shrouded 35th like a dark, grey curtain,
a mist that you can touch but cannot see.
The trees are on fire but they do not burn.
Smoke billows from nowhere; incense to satisfy
which idol this time? Alcohol, anger, or medical emergency?
The newsmen come and don't know whether to smile.
We all want to know what happened, don't we?
Won't you share your front row seat? Here, inside the curtain.
Won't you share your front row seat? Here, inside the curtain.
Don't ask questions, we'll ask questions,
the police say as they escort you to your door.
But I am the one who sits inside, my Christmas tree unable
to block the frenzied view from my picture window.
Swing, THUD. The telephone pole finally falls.
Swing, THUD. So too falls the tree.
Men in high-viz with helmets and axes, doing work that almost is routine.
I'm grateful I missed the earlier clean-up,
the crushed car and shattered people.
My mind pulls back,
my stomach turns,
the shroud remains.
|
17
favs |
1567 views
23 comments |
178 words
All rights reserved. |
Author's Note
A sensitive soul feels like a weakness sometimes, especially when others don't understand how deeply people, events, and energy effect you. Including a common car crash on your street.
Other stories by Emily Sparkles
Tags
This story has no tags.
Groups
-
10+ Favs
Public group136 members
Comments
You must
log in
to post comments.
Consistent contractions would help this, I think.
Thanks for the feedback - when I write out of an actual traumatic incident I lose my editing eye. I'll work on this some more.
a mist that you can touch but cannot see.
The trees are on fire but they do not burn.
**********************
"Don't ask questions, we'll ask questions..." Sounds just like cops. I'm no fan.
You've caught it--the feel, the images, sounds. I can't do the asterisks as steadily as Okum can, but this deserves them all. *
the shroud remains. ***
Last 3 lines. *
A good poem.
Thank you all for the comments and feedback. I appreciate it so much. A special thanks to SDR for helping to polish it to this point of efficacy!
Smoke billows from nowhere; incense to satisfy
which idol this time?
and
Don't ask questions, we'll ask questions,
and yes, the shroud remains.
*
Glad I finally got to this. Resonates on so many levels.
Gary, Deborah - Thank you.
You should send this to the 10+ fav group.
I like this. It's tight and not overstated, which is is a cardinal sin committed by most poets when they approach either contentious or emotive material. The first line is very Dickinsonian. I'm not sure that you need the word 'finally' in the penultimate stanza, though. It's punchier without.
Man this is good! *
***, Emily. Feels like watching on film. Good work.
Iaian, thanks for your feedback. You flatter me with Dickinson comparisons, and your thoughts on the word finally are helpful, too.
Brenda and David - Thank you, thank you, truly.
Wonderfully haunting; you catch the space between shock and all the sounds are so risible. Love that the opening line recalls Dickinson's great poem to me, "I could not stop for Death -- ".
I like your clarity of expression and intuitive sense of direct purpose. Much better than so much whimsy verse out there. Your sentiment isn't an *ism.
(Speaking generally about this and other samples I've read of your verse, as it seems my above comment doesn't quite fit this one precisely.)
n.b. the editor in me wants to ask Philip if he knows the definition of 'risible'... :-/
I really like this. Great visuals. *
*****