This Poem was Submitted By: Thomas Edward Wright On Date: 2005-12-02 13:50:12 . . . Click Here To Mail this Poem to a Friend!

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To Oakwood and Back

through the morning fog we crawl toward confrontation; in tow an empty trailer full of our apprehensions  dad's alone now that you've left us him to his demons, his war, his life, his grief,  his group of mis-remembered friends, us to our demons, our wars, lives, griefs - there's that trailer again - how to haul away your (whose?) treasures and leave him with more than mere memories more than he knows how to handle we've come to empty - his - i could call it 'our' but that's wrong i could call it 'your' but that hurts - house until (almost) nothing remains but the odor of your absence the echoes of your laughter banging down the stairs seeping into the worn carpet clinging to the old oak table the centerpiece of the dining room the original antique piece that came to represent the family that never left after our diaspora to the cities if even a mouse, a couch, a chair  a cup, a plate, a spoon, a fork - dare we give him a knife - ? i unscrew each anchor from below holding my breath as if beneath the hull of a great old wood boat counting to myself the turns of the days the years spent here at anchor in the harbor swaying to the waves rising and falling with the tide carving a bird or sloughing diamonds to your ruff remember how the lazy susan creaked as if tired as if old and burdened by a Scrabble board? i surface and we lift the great oval  (then realize it's got straight edges  leaves extending from a tight perfect circle)  now cut in half - as we slide it into the van and lay it upon the floor i see its veins  and the moles on its back  and i scratch an itch curse and turn to go back for the base whose four legs stand starkly in the empty room there in the late November light where we gathered years ago  and drank our first wine  we slide in the extra leaves their male and female edges perfect impatiently waiting to mate and create that great surface where too many last suppers we ate the carpet's old and weakly wavey that sea-sick sense of vertigo sweeps one off two feet rust from the once-too-often wet wheels imprinted on the carpet  a wound an open sore that bleeds  when he sits and sips his warm milk late at night with the tube tuned to M*A*S*H (he's into the seriatim - a mainlined dose of war-less humor he can't seem to hate in your absence he loves it instead) we tie in the last of the great pieces of art: that secretary that stood guard over the lot Her high brows knit in stern concern while we insure her large glass doors met no chance of harm covering them with bolts of wool you'd bought and saved hoping someday to slice and impress upon the next creation from your hooks  those Davids those Rubens you left us hanging in the den the wools of plaid of rust of grass of barn red of cabbage of heather or any weather scene all jumbled in disarray hung and stuffed in corners to protect the booty we stowed deep inside that big white trailer we'd borrowed to move you your collection of memories an album of photos graying in silvery silence now stuffed inside like bread and spice the long ride home to bake the bird how tippy-toed we drove  and jumped with the bumps and the thoughts of shattered glass he seemed relieved when we left as if his mind had just been relieved of a great - wait he never expected you to go  first  never anticipated  alone i don't remember much from the ride home but when i saw him next he had a smile on his face for the first time in a long time and i recalled that at your interment a month earlier he'd said - as we all made selfish and quickly thrown together statements that sounded like truth -  that he missed you as we filled in the blaring silence with "I do too" it began to rain - and I keenly recall thinking - more gently, than it should

Copyright © December 2005 Thomas Edward Wright


This Poem was Critiqued By: Jennifer j Hill On Date: 2006-01-05 21:18:36
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 10.00000
T, This deserves #1. Bravo and Good Luck. jj


This Poem was Critiqued By: arnie s WACHMAN On Date: 2006-01-01 16:33:19
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 9.72727
What a tribute. I don't know if it's negative or not. That's not for me to say. However, I have a heavy feeling, a sad feeling upon reading this. I have children who resent me for one thing or another...I don't know why...they don't talk. Sad, sad, sad...and I am more sad upon reading this. I don't know if your dad is alive or not, but it's a hell of a way to be remembered. You have an out pouring here...some guilt,sadness,..I could use more adjectives, parables, etc. but I must stop here before I run for a crying towel. Like I said, hell of a way for a father to be remembered.Normally I shy away from such tomes, long poetry but for some reason this drew me in. Hell of a way to start the NY don't you think?
This Poem was Critiqued By: Lora Silvey On Date: 2005-12-30 23:14:37
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 9.93939
Thomas, This is simply exquisite in all that you tell, of family, of possessions, of loss and passing. I've read and re-read this savoring every morsel that you've given us as if watching an old movie play out before me with all it's nuances and the many layers that you have to play such close attention to or you miss. I long for the day that I might be able to write with such discription and depth. I would not change one thing, one word, one line of this poem. Par excellance! Thank you so much for this experience. Warmest, Lora
This Poem was Critiqued By: Tony P Spicuglia On Date: 2005-12-20 14:25:00
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 9.66667
Thomas, I spent so much time lost in the color of this piece that I found it difficult to ascertain whether your focus was the memories that can be cherished, or the slight antebellum characterization that flows throughout. I think, in a sense, the form fits well the image of the father. There is a stricture and belief that resides throughout the measured stanzas, yet, without a doubt it is the table, the centerpiece of many lives that calls to to sup once more as a unit. I recall the day my dog Mink, was taken from me in much the manner as you show this loss. I find it remarkably well spoken to speak to the “leaving home” of the family as a “diaspora”- for indeed, for most instances, the loss is greater than the whole. In retrospect, rereading time and again, your last lines keep the meter of the theme, “more gently than it should”, indeed that is the melancholy of desire. I have also found that the recoil of those needs are often the shape of a tsunami- mounting and stealing the shallows, to lap upon the mind lost in recall. I was too lost in the color to see the black and white, and for a moment, this afternoon, I am glad to have visited the dinner table once last time, for father, and mother, and life were waiting at your pen. In a sense, the single word stanza "you" charecterizes the enormity of such affections, and the loss, and the recall.
This Poem was Critiqued By: Jordan Brendez Bandojo On Date: 2005-12-16 00:30:12
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 9.00000
Hi tew or tom? I miss reading your pieces and this one is sentimental. I read this line by line not realizing that it's a bit long but I had a good experience knowing the sturdy relationship and inspiration...thanks for sharing this with us! jordan
This Poem was Critiqued By: marilyn terwilleger On Date: 2005-12-09 21:26:03
Critiquer Rating During Critique: Unknown
Hi Tom, In light of the heated dicussions on the forum, of late, I am almost afraid to continue to critique in the manner that suits me best. I think it is important to tell the poet how their work affects me and far be it for me to argue the mechanics of their work. Now, having said that, this is a wonderful write and one that many can relate to. I enjoyed it from the first line to the last...it is real, human, and compelling. What man ever expects to out live his wife? My husband always said if I died first he would be right behind me and I really believe that is true. Most men don't do widowdom too well. Then there is the chore of cleaning up all the things collected over the years... I did that when my father died and we moved my mother to the town were we lived and then again when she died and then again when my husband died. Not a joyous task. I know I told you I worked for a doctor for many years and this piece reminds me of something that took place in the office frequently. If he saw a Mr & Mrs both on the appointment book at the same time he would ask why they were coming in together...and I would say..."they want to talk about, what should we do with mother?" In this story the reverse is true and it is the father who is left behind. This is written with passion and deep emotion...much like a few others I remember that you have written. Well, once again I have done the unforgivable and told you how wonderful your poem is and have not offered one constructive thing you can do to improve it. Oh well...that's just how I am. Best...Marilyn
This Poem was Critiqued By: Thomas H. Smihula On Date: 2005-12-02 14:09:23
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 9.00000
Wow...the depth and the story told here. This was written in such a way that the reader never strayed. The memories you have played out on these pages is simply wonderful. The main thought I see is how this man is alone but satisfied in just the memories. Thank you for sharing this.
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