the Unending Journey of the Wandering Author

A chronicle of the unending journey of the Wandering Author through life, with notes and observations made along the way. My readers should be aware I will not censor comments that disagree with me, but I do refuse to display comment spam or pointless, obscene rants. Humans may contact me at thewanderingauthor at yahoo dot com - I'll reply as I am able.

Name:
Location: New England, United States

I have always known I was meant to write, even when I was too young to know the word 'author'. When I learned that books were printed, I developed an interest in that as well. And I have always been a wanderer, at least in my mind. It's not the worst trait in an author. For more, read my writing; every author illuminates their heart and soul on the pages they write upon.

Sunday, May 18, 2008

Indelible Memory

Rapt in words,
Yet the dreadful blast
Of one world’s ending
Smashing midnight quiet,
Tore my mind away.
Icy voice foretelling the worst,
Swiftly thrust aside, denied.

Even sirens in the night,
Unexpected snarling saws
Slicing through sleep,
In daylight a tree
Torn free, toppled to earth.
All reminders of the night’s fright,
None heeded.

Eleven simple words, so few
To bear the weight of fateful news.
Innocence,
Hope,
Friendship.
Gone.
All gone, in an instant.

There was a crash. The driver died. It was Michael ------.

Once read, such words cannot be unsaid.
Stories, rumours fly, settle on my soul,
Smothering drifts of numbness.
In my mind I see
The shattered tree, tangled golden dreams,
Puzzled eyes staring holes in pale face,
Lying on the hard ground. Alone.

Stark light of tragedy
Illuminates dire decision,
Reveals two choices but one fate;
Shadows of guilt darken the rest.
Truth’s point remains; you needed to talk.
I left you, alone.
Was my hand steering your life that night?

Years drowned in infinite tears,
Life forever altered in eleven words.
Every year, the indelible memory
Is still clear.
The awful sound.
Sudden fear.
Words impossibly true.

There was a crash. The driver died. It was Michael ------.


This poem was edited on the 19th of May; several lines were changed to better reflect reality.

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diigo it

3 Comments:

Blogger DBA Lehane said...

I'm not really the best one to comment on poetry but I really enjoyed this. So beautiful and yet so powerful.

May 20, 2008 2:56 AM  
Blogger Suzan Abrams said...

A sharply-mirrored tragedy. Ray, I think this is true and you've written about it before in the form of prose?

May 20, 2008 12:15 PM  
Blogger The Wandering Author said...

Thank you, Lehane.

Suzan, yes, every word is true, and I did write about it here before, last May, in prose. Thanks for visiting.

May 20, 2008 11:18 PM  

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