where i am now

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  • Death

    where i am now
    my cat was killed today.
    a passing car snuffed her out.
    the house across the road from
    where i work
    was gutted by fire
    a fireman burned his hand
    trying to save a souped-up Ford.
    a year ago today my brother died
    with just 16 years and a roomful
    of collected treasures.
    posters, oil lamps, pictures of girls--the usual
    the sawed-off shotgun wasn't empty after all;
    and his friend had seen "The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly"
    once too often.
    the world is full of ugly
    even on the day after Christmas
    ugly, ugly, ugly

    Jesus wore rags, thorns, and blood
    the day after Passover.
    i think He's been where i am now.

    T.K. - Dec. 1973

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    twayneking commented on where i am now

    12-08-2010

    The incident in the poem happened 1 year after my brother's death. I was 19 and still trying to come to grips. That day my cat was run over by a car and the house across the street burned down. It put me in a dark place and made me ask, "Why?" I found that, like Job in his own of despair, God gave no immediate answers - only asked me to trust Him.
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    rsalassi commented on where i am now

    12-08-2010

    A plaintive wail with all the hurt felt again. Beautifully raw. Excellent write.
    Reply to Comment

    Kanicki commented on where i am now

    12-07-2010

    I have to send you a big cyber hug after reading this pen. This bittersweet write well done.
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    lightcourier commented on where i am now

    05-03-2009

    Such a good poem. I got to write more. It's the minor things that are under noticed. The little tragedies that loom so stark in the awareness when our minds are in that place! detritus on the side of the road. The things most sheild themselves from. As william carlos williams wrote about the weeds on the way to the contagious hospital. A curious mix of pathos and hope. Fantastic work my friend!
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    lightcourier commented on where i am now

    05-03-2009

    I really like this collage of images of the underbelly of life. Very artistically put. Thanks!
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    Poetry is what gets lost in translation.

    Robert Frost (1875-1963) American Poet.

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