.

A Brief Return

Hey, little girl. I’ve come to check on you;
To hear your voice, to see your face anew.
Can it be true? Has it been seven years?
You’ve grown up nicely since I went away.
I’m proud to see you on your Wedding Day—
This day on which you sought me through your tears.
But now you must move on. You’ll be okay.

I see your veil; your shy and troubled smile.
I wish your groom and I could talk awhile.
What I would give to walk you to the altar,
To see you wed to him—a man who’s true!
But that’s not how it works, dear girl. Still you
Must know I’m here—a love that will not falter.
Give me a sign you sense me! Some small clue!

Ah. Thank you. I can see it in your eyes—
That little nod, your melancholy sighs.
I’m certain you can tell your father’s nigh.
A bride! My God, how quickly fly the days!
How brief the time to now give you my praise.
It seems just yesterday we said good-bye…
Well, let me speak before we must part ways:

Please know I never meant to cut the span
Of a long life with you. Who knew God’s plan?
Of all the things I’d hoped for as you grew,
To clench your grieving heart into a fist
Was something that was never on my list.
Just know my life was strong with love of you.
That love continues still. You’re deeply missed.

My girl, please know there’s nothing to regret
And no one we should blame. Just don’t forget
The dreams that we both saved up for this day.
Alright. I’ve got to leave. Forgive me when
I am not there to offer my amen.
But know I love you from one life away,
And someday we shall be rejoined again.

.

.

Because the Rains Failed

Too soon this struggling spruce from up Lost Hill
Became a gray and bare arboreal ghost.
How I had treasured it! Loss pains me still.

It shared my life just thirty years at most.
But drought came. Then again. And then again.
It lost its shade and shriveled, dry as toast.

I tried so hard to save it—even when
It fooled me—like an addict who would say
The awful, aching thirst was done but then

Grew twisted with the wind in some new way;
Like Seth who tried to hide it. I knew better
But learned the only thing to do was pray.

The spruce bounced back in spring when it got wetter
But summer dried it out and made it brittle.
It used up all my help, a wooden debtor

Which spent each parched day dying—just a little—
Its branches weak with needle-like syringes,
With oozing sap and track-marks, tears and spittle.

What can you do? You argue and he cringes
In sheering wind, so vacant-eyed, so willing
To let the flame approach so close it singes.

I tried to find out what might stop the killing;
To halt the cravings and the pain; I prayed
That he’d find something better—more fulfilling.

But life eluded him. Seth grew afraid
Of everything but poison. He was battered.
Dried out. Strung out. I had to watch him fade.

I stepped aside, for nothing I did mattered.
This was, I think, between him and the sky:
The winters lost, the summer dreams all scattered.

The helpless spruce. Defiant Seth. I’d try
To help both past their hurt and find their way
But nothing helped. A gale, a primal cry,

And then closed eyes. He said he could not stay
And poison once again coursed through each vein.
The tree and friend both simply fell away

Insistent they could not wait for the rain,
That “ever green” was mere botanic lore
And howling winds were echoes of their pain.

I tried to guide each through a private war—
Brought water, comfort, helped keep fiends at bay
And hoped that they might live a few years more.

But no one really has that kind of sway.
When trees and people choose to die away
Will rain make any difference? Who’s to say?

.

.

Grow Young Along with Me

“Grow old along with me! The best is yet to be,
The last of life for which the first was made…”
—Robert Browning, “Rabbi Ben Ezra”

More tenderly perhaps than when we’d dance
Or hug or cry or laugh or sing or pour
Out grief, or treasure that last fleeting chance
To kiss, we touch our fingers one time more.
I take your hand in mine. Love, hear my voice.
Don’t let the tubes and beeping drown me out.
Know still we have a future and the choice
To cherish all the plans we talked about.
This ventilator’s not our only tether
To a communion nothing here can breach.
Our vows still stand: eternity together.
So here I wait. You need but only reach.
Once freed you’ll see the best is yet to be,
For you shall soon grow young along with me.

.

.

Brian Yapko is a retired lawyer whose poetry has appeared in over fifty journals.  He is the winner of the 2023 SCP International Poetry Competition. Brian is also the author of several short stories, the science fiction novel El Nuevo Mundo and the gothic archaeological novel  Bleeding Stone.  He lives in Wimauma, Florida.

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9 Responses

  1. Roy Eugene Peterson

    Such melancholy poems each carrying their own sorrows but with hope and belief in a future reconciliation, as in one and three, or acceptance of fate as in “Because the Rains Failed.” I could feel the sincerity with which you wrote these poems and how they tugged at the strings of my own heart. The richness and fullness of your writing skills was once more on grand display.

    Reply
    • Brian Yapko

      Thank you very much, Roy. I rather think of these poems as being about “surviving” death for that is really what they are about, including two visitations suggesting that it’s not at all a bad thing. I’m pleased that you had an emotional response to them and am very grateful for your encouragement and support.

      Reply
    • Brian Yapko

      Nothing banal here, Michael! Thank you for the kind words and emotional reaction!

      Reply
  3. Mark Stellinga

    3 excellent, emotional-roller-coasters, Brian. A risky mood to write in, and one in which I hope you rarely hear the call to gratify. GREAT job –

    Reply
    • Brian Yapko

      Thank you very much, Mark! I hadn’t considered that the moods of the pieces were risky but perhaps so. As I mentioned to Roy, I rather thought of these as poems of surviving rather than of mourning. But yes, I’d rather not get that call. Not too often.

      Reply
  5. Joseph S. Salemi

    These poems wrench the heart. The first and the third especially so.

    The terza rima of the second poem is exquisitely crafted. That you could sustain it for fifteen tercets is impressive, and that you can easily handle enjambment at the close of the third, fifth, eleventh, and twelfth tercet is really remarkable.

    Reply
  6. Rohini

    Brian! Tears in my eyes. These were all so gut-wrenchingly sad and yet so beautifully put. I think A Brief Return is definitely my favourite, although ‘Grow Young Along with Me’ is perhaps more heart-wrenching for me on a personal level.

    Reply

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