B&P’s Shadorma and Beyond: “In Darkness Lies” #poetry #writing #amwriting 


This is last week’s Shadorma prompt, hosted by MindLoveMisery’s Menagerie. The poem, “Travelling Through The Dark” by William E. Stafford. 

——

Credit: http://www.transformationplus.com

—–

There are things, 

Best not explained and

Thought of once, 

Forgotten. 

Some times rise up in memory

Some nights lost.

—–

Perhaps the —

Road was offending —

Nature not —

Giving her, 

Space required for her to thrive, 

Voice unheard.

—— 

But I wish, 

Someone out there could —

Hear nature’s —

Whispers cried. 

Then we wouldn’t harm her deer, 

Not anything.

——

We might have —

More respect for such creatures whom —

Know not where —

They tread is —

Surely the end, too dangerous, 

So they die. 

—-

And like that —

Deer killed by the road,

Womb full of —

Baby who —

Won’t ever be born; Nature —

Cries for loss. 

—–

If the corpse, 

Lies there on the road, 

Some idiot, 

Not paying —

Attention; he’ll hit it and —

Kill himself. 

—–

Though the deers, 

Death is so tragic, 

So is the —

Loss of a —

Human life more; though we think, 

Some don’t think. 

——

Perhaps a —

Sign some flashing lights, 

Saying, “Deer —

Crossing Please —

Be aware,” but some don’t read. 

The corpse goes —

—–

A gaping —

Grave to eternity, 

Mother and —

Fawn are gone. 

No vigil, no prayer, no thought, 

Nature mourns. 

——-

“Travelling Through the Dark” By William E. Stanford 

——

Traveling through the dark I found a deer

dead on the edge of the Wilson River road.

It is usually best to roll them into the canyon:

that road is narrow; to swerve might make more dead.

—–

.By glow of the tail-light I stumbled back of the car

and stood by the heap, a doe, a recent killing;

she had stiffened already, almost cold.

I dragged her off; she was large in the belly..

 ——-

My fingers touching her side brought me the reason—

her side was warm; her fawn lay there waiting,

alive, still, never to be born.

Beside that mountain road I hesitated.

.——-

The car aimed ahead its lowered parking lights;

under the hood purred the steady engine.

I stood in the glare of the warm exhaust turning red;

around our group I could hear the wilderness listen.

.——–

I thought hard for us all—my only swerving—,

then pushed her over the edge into the river.

——-

——

©Mandibelle16. (2016) All Rights Reserved. 

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Sunday Photo Fiction: It’s Her


There sits the statue of a dog. I remember a certain dog.  She had the qualities of queenleness, loyalty, and love. She was the bringer of fun to a childhood of bike rides down the off leash paths and long walks in the river valley. 

 She ran for miles with my Dad. My Mom said it would not surprise her if that is how the dog died, running her heart out. My Dad had a t-shirt that read: My running partner has four legs. The dog didn’t leave this world running; I don’t think anybody does. 

To me the dog  was a snuggle buddy at whatever time she wished. She would jump up on the couch and put her right paw on me and lean into me until a soft furry tummy was revealed. She’d push her nose into my hand and when I put my head down she’d strike with kisses. 

But our best friends, leave us at a time not of their choice. They are inflicted with sickness, sometimes, ill health that a vet cannot even diagnose. I woke fifteen minutes too late to say goodbye to her. I petted her anyways, she had this beautiful soft fawn coat. 

And I stroked her back and her little ears as she lay on the counter in the back of the vet. She was to be cremated. The blanket she was covered with was truly the veil of death, taking her away. My Dad and I tried not to cry as we both went out to the car. But tears escaped us as we drove home.

 No dog is exactly the same, but they are each unique. Their time in years is short, but they are never forgotten. I place my hand on the statue and memories flood my mind. This statue is not of her, but to me, in my heart, it’s Nikki. 

  
Thanks to Alistair Forbes for hosting!