I used this poem in my class today. One of my students said, "You didn't have to kill me with this today." I take that as a good thing. All of my classes have absolutely loved your work.
What a encouraging story in such a dark time. I really was happy to hear your brother was alive and had a booming voice. Don’t know why. But it was encouraging.
Vivid and chilling narration; starts vague, focus sharpening till we are inside that truck-bed coffin, bellowing in pain, almost missed. The tears of rescuers' joy! Like a dance move, the flirtation between death and young men. A great way for a brother to know he is loved, this poem.
Heavy and light....all at once. The result of fully living and being boldly alive is the gift of whatever 'saved' him. God or universe? The intervention still brings goosebumps spelled divine. Wonderful poem. Blessings, ~Wendy💜
Beautiful poem, so very poignant. I've come close to death -- cancer -- and unbelievably survived while I watched several friends die. Why did they die and why did I live? Don't know the answer.
Thank you, Beth. I'm happy you survived the cancer. I survived my third brain surgery in December 2015, even as I needed multiple blood transfusions because of complications. I don't know why, either.
Cadillac bumpers were stolen not for the metal but for their after market value. Junk yards would buy them from thieves and sell them at half the cost of a new one. Chromed steel bumpers, not todays plastic ones..
Enjoyed this very much, especially the narrator's admission that when remembering a story, fact and fiction often blur. I am reminded of what Eduardo Galeano said about his prose narratives: “These happenings happened at one time or another, or almost did, or never did, but their virtue is that they happen every time they are told.”
Yes, it's the story that matters and how stories can profoundly transform a reader, and then be passed on and on . . .
“…when death kissed us and then drifted away.” I love the arc of this poem, the brother love, “our Indian boy history” as well as the way it opens me (and likely others) to remember when death kissed us and then left us to live on. Thank you.
I used this poem in my class today. One of my students said, "You didn't have to kill me with this today." I take that as a good thing. All of my classes have absolutely loved your work.
Thanks for teaching my poem. Your student's response has me smiling!
death kissed us and drifted away... sigh a story told so beautifully i can almost hear his laugh
Thanks, Nettie.
What a encouraging story in such a dark time. I really was happy to hear your brother was alive and had a booming voice. Don’t know why. But it was encouraging.
Thanks, Mark.
Vivid and chilling narration; starts vague, focus sharpening till we are inside that truck-bed coffin, bellowing in pain, almost missed. The tears of rescuers' joy! Like a dance move, the flirtation between death and young men. A great way for a brother to know he is loved, this poem.
Thank you, Anne.
Heavy and light....all at once. The result of fully living and being boldly alive is the gift of whatever 'saved' him. God or universe? The intervention still brings goosebumps spelled divine. Wonderful poem. Blessings, ~Wendy💜
Thank you, Wendy.
Beautiful poem, so very poignant. I've come close to death -- cancer -- and unbelievably survived while I watched several friends die. Why did they die and why did I live? Don't know the answer.
Thank you, Beth. I'm happy you survived the cancer. I survived my third brain surgery in December 2015, even as I needed multiple blood transfusions because of complications. I don't know why, either.
Thank you. I'm sorry you've had your medical issues too. All we can do is continue to plow through this thing called life. Hang in there.
Haunting with a near-perfect finish. I've been close a couple of times, and there's some truth to comparing a brush with death to a kiss.
thanks, Joshua. I'm happy death has only smooched you and not taken you away!
Remember when they used to steal chrome bumpers?
I don't remember that!
Cadillac bumpers were stolen not for the metal but for their after market value. Junk yards would buy them from thieves and sell them at half the cost of a new one. Chromed steel bumpers, not todays plastic ones..
Thanks Sherm, today is my brother's birthday. Nearly lost him a couple times, drugs. Love make hostages of us all. thanks
Happy belated birthday to you brother, Weston.
So beautiful, raw, and emotional. Thank you 💕
thank you, Renée.
Beautiful, sad, and joyous all at the same time. Thank God you still have your brother!
Thank you, Linda.
Enjoyed this very much, especially the narrator's admission that when remembering a story, fact and fiction often blur. I am reminded of what Eduardo Galeano said about his prose narratives: “These happenings happened at one time or another, or almost did, or never did, but their virtue is that they happen every time they are told.”
Yes, it's the story that matters and how stories can profoundly transform a reader, and then be passed on and on . . .
Galeano! I love that quote.
This builds beautifully … poetry usually defeats me, but I guess this is a prose poem with storytelling chops that, for me, really bit hard. Wow.
Thanks, Michael.
This poem truly took my heart away—
The details of this heavy metal chrysalis poem so resonated through me as I read.
Thank you, Susan.
You got us where we live! So richly alive
his heavy metal crysalis poem Sherman!!!
Wow. Thank you❤️
thank you!
“…when death kissed us and then drifted away.” I love the arc of this poem, the brother love, “our Indian boy history” as well as the way it opens me (and likely others) to remember when death kissed us and then left us to live on. Thank you.
Thank you, Deb.