Sketchbook  Gerry Bravi, CA

 

 

Free Verse Making Do Grass like wire, screeches underfoot. Dry, dry as last month's jug of whiskey, and you can count the bushels of rye, wheat and barley marching off the acres for want of water. Just another year of farming. Back full of aches, mind full of worries and unknowns. One certainty, another year with empty pockets, another year of making do.     Beyond Unexpectedly he stiffens. Rigid, he almost sits up. Suddenly, seeming aware of the emotions and memories that surround and engulf him. More likely a spasm, but perhaps some recollection or thought that narrowly escapes his ken. He sinks back, inert, beyond recall. All those things he was scattered by some voracious wind or god. A history now beyond him. Furl your sails old man, father, lover, friend, son, grandfather, uncle, teacher, toiler; all those things and more. Relax, give up the ship. I no longer beg you to stay, to suffer, to battle the battering winds of my need. Let go. It has been a long and arduous journey. Too late said, you are beyond my voice beyond my summons, beyond understanding. This I know, until you squeeze my hand in acknowledgement then slip into my past.     Hanging On I stare through the frost and soot coating my distorted window, watching wood smoke rush out the chimney. It hurries to greet the pale blue sky only to implode on itself as it meets the cold indifference of the day. Sundogs beam knowingly at its impudence, but quickly regain their icy composure. With a smile I think, how life mimics nature, but I shake myself back to reality. Life a mime? I fear not, simply another device. An expedient means for dispelling our fears, assuaging our uncertainties. Just another stab at remaining intact.

 

 

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