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- Story Listed as: True Life For Adults
- Theme: Drama / Human Interest
- Subject: Loneliness / Solitude
- Published: 07/07/2014
Not Forgotten
Born 1941, M, from Harvest, AL., United StatesNot Forgotten
by
Carl Brooks
The punctual, golden pendulum
Foretold a fading sky.
It screamed a crimson protest,
Reluctant to say goodbye.
I thought I saw a house, or such,
Beyond a stand of trees.
Reflecting long neglect of touch,
It beckoned with a tease.
I traced my path with timid care,
Not guessing what I'd find.
Should evil spirits linger there,
Escape... was far behind.
The house was old and slight of build,
The window glass was shattered.
It stood as if... t'wer simply willed,
Though nothing else had mattered.
The splotched and peeling skin of age
Gave 'way its sign of years.
A granite marker trapped in cage,
Reflected many tears.
A tarnished yellow plaque of claim,
Held snugly to the door.
It boldly wrote the owners’ names:
Churchill, Kevin and Lenore.
I gently peered into the room,
And saw where life had been.
To earthly grave or hollow tomb,
Where had they gone, and when?
I turned the knob as if I'd heard,
A greeting from a kin.
I listened close but...not a word,
Reluctant, I stepped in.
Strewn about the worn oak floor
Were leavings from the past.
They told a tale of truth and more,
If one should care to ask.
Upon the sash an apron hung,
All bleached and stained from use.
Initials carved on staircase rung,
Reflected love's abuse.
With cupboard bare and slight ajar,
It suffered want and plunder.
A spider wove a trapping-spar,
If prey should lapse, or blunder.
The only light from twilight came,
The fixtures long forsaken.
The silver gone to pawn-shop pawn,
Left ne're a spoon untaken.
Tin-types dealt in ghostly game,
Spread loose upon the floor.
With crimes exposed in shuttered frame,
They swore what truth they bore.
The porch was lade with jars and lids,
With seeds strewn all about.
The door, askew, resisted bids.
Rust flowed from dripping spout.
The structure, sound, though cracked with age,
It begged but life to live.
The drama here we seek to gauge,
Its secrets scant to give.
Frozen faces, framed in books,
Revealed few clues within.
Teasing traces, stolid looks,
But nary hint to where they’d been.
The back-yard mined with thorns and burrs,
Claimed two small plots with stone.
Side by side, one his, one hers,
The rest unkempt and overgrown.
The marker, rough and long unpolished,
Scribed but a single line.
Care was gone and long abolished,
Forgotten by the passage of time.
I wiped the stone, revealing its mystery.
Through darkness I read what it bore.
The story it told, a single-line history,
"My Kevin..........Sweet Lenore"
Not Forgotten(Carl Brooks)
Not Forgotten
by
Carl Brooks
The punctual, golden pendulum
Foretold a fading sky.
It screamed a crimson protest,
Reluctant to say goodbye.
I thought I saw a house, or such,
Beyond a stand of trees.
Reflecting long neglect of touch,
It beckoned with a tease.
I traced my path with timid care,
Not guessing what I'd find.
Should evil spirits linger there,
Escape... was far behind.
The house was old and slight of build,
The window glass was shattered.
It stood as if... t'wer simply willed,
Though nothing else had mattered.
The splotched and peeling skin of age
Gave 'way its sign of years.
A granite marker trapped in cage,
Reflected many tears.
A tarnished yellow plaque of claim,
Held snugly to the door.
It boldly wrote the owners’ names:
Churchill, Kevin and Lenore.
I gently peered into the room,
And saw where life had been.
To earthly grave or hollow tomb,
Where had they gone, and when?
I turned the knob as if I'd heard,
A greeting from a kin.
I listened close but...not a word,
Reluctant, I stepped in.
Strewn about the worn oak floor
Were leavings from the past.
They told a tale of truth and more,
If one should care to ask.
Upon the sash an apron hung,
All bleached and stained from use.
Initials carved on staircase rung,
Reflected love's abuse.
With cupboard bare and slight ajar,
It suffered want and plunder.
A spider wove a trapping-spar,
If prey should lapse, or blunder.
The only light from twilight came,
The fixtures long forsaken.
The silver gone to pawn-shop pawn,
Left ne're a spoon untaken.
Tin-types dealt in ghostly game,
Spread loose upon the floor.
With crimes exposed in shuttered frame,
They swore what truth they bore.
The porch was lade with jars and lids,
With seeds strewn all about.
The door, askew, resisted bids.
Rust flowed from dripping spout.
The structure, sound, though cracked with age,
It begged but life to live.
The drama here we seek to gauge,
Its secrets scant to give.
Frozen faces, framed in books,
Revealed few clues within.
Teasing traces, stolid looks,
But nary hint to where they’d been.
The back-yard mined with thorns and burrs,
Claimed two small plots with stone.
Side by side, one his, one hers,
The rest unkempt and overgrown.
The marker, rough and long unpolished,
Scribed but a single line.
Care was gone and long abolished,
Forgotten by the passage of time.
I wiped the stone, revealing its mystery.
Through darkness I read what it bore.
The story it told, a single-line history,
"My Kevin..........Sweet Lenore"
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