Wayne Michael DeHart  (July, 2024)

Writer’s Note:
This poem was written in response to the single word “Memories” –  the prompt for a 2024 international poetry competition that limited entries to no more than 30 lines.
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Like thunder clapping across dark summer skies,
my muddled recollections of a seventy-year span
roll by angrily and ominously, behind closed doors.
On this blackest of nights, in this desolate cottage,
my emotions flare, my pulse races, and the sharp
blade of regret cuts deeply, ripping me to my core.

Once a cheap-suited underling, weary and fragile,
unwittingly and passively robotic, I’d wait for the
office clock to shriek, “Go home – now.” Yes, home,
to bare walls and sterile bed, where I sat and stared
and tried to revisit, to remember, my misplaced life.

My remembrances are devoid of shape and sound
and scent. Faces blur, and voices echo unevenly,
collapsing tone and tenor. Muted, murky visions
distort once-clear images, as chaos conquers all.

Flashbacks of fire still mock my scarred spirit,
so I revisit stale, maudlin songs of love and loss
to blunt their brutality and muffle their cruelty.
Does that coy, green-eyed Jersey girl reminisce
tonight, recalling Spring flowers in old Vermont,
or stolen kisses in the shadows of Boston bars?

Alas, I capture the frames, but not so their pictures.
These letters have yellowed, their words have faded.
Curse the folly of such idle musings. Will any remnants
remain when this night ends? I think not. Those who
rode life’s rails with me are gone, and won’t be back.

Enough, old man! Cease this bitter blather, this anguish.
Welcome morning’s light with deep breaths and quiet heart,
your dreams alive, your flame hot, your mind’s eye focused.
Despair is bearable. Defeat is not. So clap, thunder. Clap on!

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