Category: Death

The wrong side of the tracks
literally
locomotives strain and moan a quarter mile north
houses built without frill
homes for foundry men, sawmillers, road workers
boilermakers, longshoremen, shunters.
The blue-collar invisible providing the visible
the streets born as thin twigs from avenue branches
patience not required for driving or parking
vehicle ownership still a distant distraction.

The park is utilitarian square
relentlessly linear
equal sides carved from farmland
framed by non pedigree trees
six decades cannot make handsome.
Squatting in permanent shadow
bunkered single level amenities
from within Soviet walls players emerge.

Physiques and clothing match
less than perfect
both remember better times.
Shouts and sweat
cheers and groans from the crowd
easily fitted into a dozen cars
frequent laughter responding
to on field pantomimes of self-deprecation
game over.
both teams pleased.

Sport. Like religion grown to an industry
offering career path
here
players play for enjoyment
for pride of neighbourhood
for mateship
for love of the game.

Love of the game
emptied from the game plan of the national team
by the frantic stridency of marketers and sponsors
a ghost two decades old now.

For the back story click Backstage
If you like a piece of writing (or the site) please share

Family burdens fall most heavily
on those without families
perhaps children are such a burden
those with
think none greater.
Death understands families
do not understand pro rata
a long siege of accompaniment – care and visits
or unexpected lightning
with no one prepared or able.

30 years too soon
we expected him to reach the new century
and then 20 beyond to his own
he seemed so strong
but his heart wasn’t
Swift betrayal. Rapid abandonment.

The house will have to be cleaned out
no one now lives in our once hometown
my father asks if I could
“it would be easier for someone without kids.”

The crush generation
volumes tightly compressed by depression
bookended by war.
International travel in khaki
to Canada and pilot training
then Europe
for adventure tourism and nightlife of a different kind.
Returning home to absconded romance
and eternal bachelorhood
an adult child living with his parents
increasing into space they vacated.

The triage was surprisingly painful.
Three piles.
That to be kept.
That to be binned.
That to be thought about.

Everything needed to be thought about
I came to know him so much better in death
the trophies of athletic youth
the medals of distinguished service
the plays of Shakespeare, the Russian classics
a first edition of The Silent Spring.

the neighbour cried when I told her
It was comforting she felt the brutality of inventory I felt
his entire possessions
socks, underpants, shoes
books, medals, trophies
comprised six cardboard cartons.
None larger than a banana box.

For the back story click Backstage
If you like a piece of writing (or the site) please share

Fistfuls of light
thrown by sombre trees
strike unlikely sentinels.

Weathered soft toys
bleached wooden trains
threadbare windmills.

Scruffy, gentle markers
soften neat inscriptions
of brutal truth.

Dearly missed
aged 16 hours.
Two days.
Three weeks.
Five months.

Kate, Anna, Kyle, Melanie
never progressed to surname
will never require differentiation.

School remains unknown
as does inequality
and betrayal.

Innocence and loss
sway quietly together
grief’s slow waltz
painful and sweet.

For the back story click Backstage
If you like a piece of writing (or the site) please share