Lori (mature subject matter)
This piece if from my book, Cascades. It is written as an epic, as a mosaic, using pieces of actual events, fictional events and bits of and or whole poems, previously written. The subject and imagery is for mature readers.
As a side bar...it is not often that an author gets a chance to write his or her own obituary....hehehehehe...
Lori
Part I
Chess was the name of the game
It was exciting tournament play
And while I had the win in the bag
This particular game wasn’t going my way.
It wasn’t my opponent’s skill,
Though she was a fairly good player.
Sun streaked hair, long tanned legs,
Full lips, a succulent swell of breasts…
My mind was more on her chest than chess.
My strategy was more on making her than mating her.
When she exposed her brea…(um)…bishop
My queen’s knight made the capture,
Forking her king and queen…check…she resigned.
The game was mine, the tournament was over.
I did not win the competition over all,
But I did win her and she won me.
We met the next Saturday in the shadows
Along the beach, skinny dipping…
And with the moon grinning
We made love in the sea.
Standing, waist deep, legs braced against the tide,
Her legs wrapped around my hips,
We matched our movements to wave motion
Rise… and fall, rise… and fall, rise… and fall…
We quickly were lost to all
In the rhythms of slick skin and salty lips.
The world was our oyster, as the saying goes,
We talked of marriage and became engaged,
Ignoring the distant threat of war…
Denial leads to hard lessons learned…
My orders came in. I said, let’s wait till I return.
A ring hurled in anger and we were disengaged.
Two weeks later, I was in Vietnam
Doing what I had to do to live and survive.
One day in March, in my mail from home
I got the news…Lori had died.
It happened on the 101, a car crash,
She never knew what hit her.
A fissure opened in my heart
Filled with the echoes of everything her
And everything that was us.
Part II
I was still a boy when I went to war
But I came back older than my years.
When I returned, every thing had changed
My family and friends were strangers…
I was a killer returning from a killing year.
Their quick glances and behind the hand
Or from the corner of the mouth whispers
Were poniards dipped in slow poison.
It was a war of a different kind
But no less insane, no less painful
And if I allowed it, no less fatal.
I survived war. I would survive this as well,
If not I could always do a Hemingway,
But first there was something to be done.
Racing a storm, I went to the cemetery
And found her resting place…
And the rain began, drops running
Down my face…
Or perhaps it was tears…
Either way, I stood crying.
Lori’s death coincided with the rains
While I was away
Our time was so short,
Yet vital and full…
Laughter was a constant song,
For a moment, I think I feel
Her whispering in my ear,
The prelude to a kiss,
But when I turn, no one is there…
Just indistinct shapes in the mist.
From my pocket, I take a ring,
A slim band of gold,
And lay it on the stone, now wet and cold.
It was time for me to leave…to move on.
I turned into the wind and was gone.
Part III
Time moves on.
Years passed but the fissure remained,
Sometimes covered by the debris
Of where my life had taken me.
A wife and children,
Mortgages and addictions.
Infidelity, betrayal, pain.
Writing became my therapy.
It flowed out onto endless
Reams of paper
Sometimes beautiful
And fragrant as flower nectar,
Sometimes as turgidly
Foul as puss.
Through it all, no matter how deep buried
The echoes whispered…
Of memories shadows
Through the windows
Of a secret room…
Things you can no longer touch...
Profiles of a face once loved...
Touches so true they forever etched
Heart and soul...
Tears like polished crystal,
Clarify the eye...
Words softly spoken,
Flitting through the void
Between lips
Like butterflies,
To land and gently sip...
This was us,
this was love.
Part IV
One night I dreamed…
I saw her walking naked
In a garden of flowers and fragrance.
A voice, not mine, began to sing…
“She walks in the garden
Her movements matching
The flowers' sway,
A gentle play
Of blossoms, sweet and silken
In soft movements of air.
Her beauty is beguiling.
The fragrance of her hair
And the flowers entwined there,
Combine and enthrall,
Captivating all
Who come within her sphere.”
I awoke with a start, shaking,
The room full of the smell of her.
Part V
Darkness…I had no idea where
I was, what time it was, what day…
Long nights with Johnny Walker
Will do that to person.
The stranger in bed was my wife.
No love lay in that bed anymore.
Long ago, it had wandered away.
Indifference hogged all the covers
With single-minded satisfaction.
I padded into the bathroom,
Filled the sink with cold water
And plunged my head in.
Finally, I had to breathe.
Rising, I looked at myself in the mirror.
Damn, I’m getting old.
The once thick muscles of my arms
And chest sagged.
I had overnight bags
Beneath my eyes
Hair that once burned thick
With deep red flame
Had nearly died…
My fire was nearly extinguished…
My head was covered
In thin, white ash.
Closing my eyes,
I leaned forward
To press my forehead
Against the glass…
Instead of a cool hard surface,
It splashed…
Stepping back, shocked,
I saw the mirror rippling
It was a pond
Played upon by a cat’s paw breeze.
Lori rose from the water,
Wet, young, beautiful, unchanged.
I raised my hand toward her,
She reached for mine
But before my fingers
Touched them now liquid mirror,
Her hand extended beyond its surface
Reaching for my face,
Thick drops of water splashing
In the sink and on the floor,
Sharp brittle sounds
As though they were made of glass.
Hello lover
Came her throaty whisper.
My world suddenly began an off center
Spin and went dark with mists and vapor.
Part VI
Landscapes viewed
On a full-moon night,
Memories
In shades
Of black and white,
Images of things accomplished,
Shadows of those left unfinished...
Lips that should
Have been kissed...
Hands that should
Have been held...
Doors that should
Have been opened,
Others that should
Have stayed closed...
Chances that should
Have been taken...
Stories that should
Have been written...
Shoulda, woulda, coulda...
Some things can be found
Again, woven, recovered,
The rest are forever lost
In the tick of the clock
Floating somewhere on the wind...
Loose ends...
Our lives are filled with loose ends…
I began to realize
That Lori was one of those.
The passions that once ruled our lives
Was still very much alive,
But changed by some unknown magick
To a disturbing reflection
Of themselves.
I began to dread evening time.
Was I simply sick
Or had I stepped across the threshold
Of insanity?
And yet, inside, a small voice became bold,
Asking the questions…
What if it’s real…what will you do…
Is she not worthy?
Of a few
Considerations?
Right or wrong, I felt I knew the answer.
Part VII
(Simonton News, March 20, 2004)
Local Author Dies.
By J.R. Osborne
Local author and poet, Rich “Red” Richards passed away last night, according to his family, from a long illness.
Red Richards is known for his earthy novels and poetry. His recent collection of verse was recently honored by Poets & Writers of America.
A veteran of Vietnam, Richards suffered from a variety of illness associated with Agent Orange.
He is survived by his wife, four sons and nine grandchildren.
No information is available concerning arrangements or viewing.
(for further information on Rich “Red” Richards, see staff writer, Tom Finley’s article, “Through Smoked Glass”, Sept. 4, 1991)
© ewrichardson, 2004
By E.W. Richardson
© 2008 E.W. Richardson
(All rights reserved)
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