“ Basket of Apples” — by: Levi Wells Prentice
PROLOGUE
~
By her fateful death — dreams matter little
freezing solid my beating heart of love
passion has been made fragile and brittle
at this tragically fatal moment
its confusion’s turmoil I feel inside
blossoming to my soul’s searing torment
by virtue of moon’s cold careless beaming
freezing hard my tears of sorrowed grieving
passion is shattered beyond redeeming
at the frigid depth of my dark sorrow
its unclenching fist has dealt a deathblow
blossoming dreams will have no tomorrow
~ ~
Moonlight
keeps dark at bay
relentlessly pressing in
as night wind stirs
coldly mocking
my sorrow
her life now lost
beyond this chill
that envelops me
this night
has made rigid
my longing heart
by freezing passion
at its blossoming
no emotions
save grief
and guilt
I was not here
you were alone
I did not hear
I found you there
by the broken stair
apple basket spilled
was there a grasp-less hand
on the wooden rail
was an ankle bent
did a sure step fail
was there a futile cry
that fell silent
in the sunset
those tender lips
will not know again
sweet fruit
nor love
once softly kissed
now lifeless
blackness presses in
as my tears
begin again
*
rob kistner © 2022
More poetry at: dVerse
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I think that falling to one’s death would be a scary way to go. The spilled basket of apples leads to imagining the mechanics of her fall. The broken ankle helped with that.
Good read, Rob, thank you.
..
Thank you very much Jim! 🙂
‘By virtue of moonlight’s bitter beams’
I love that line!
I absolutely love the moon Jane, I include it in my poetry quite frequently, but it is capable of shining a bad light — depending on the frame of mind of the one being shone upon.
yours is the passion of ice – a nice reversal of the commonplace with some needlesharp shards and bitter fruiting
“by virtue of moonlight’s bitter beams”
The ice of true indifference can be fatal Laura, it kills love and passion quicker and more thoroughly than does anger, because it removes any passion whatsoever from the equation of the relationship. Anger is at least a passion, and proof that the object of the anger can still stir the one who is angered — leaving a possible path for reconciliation, if genuine contriteness enters, and can be embraced in the equation.
Heart wrenching. Love is so powerful whether held or lost. You really captured that so poignantly here.
Thank You very much Mish… 🙂
Poetic genius Rob!!
Thank you so much Mary… 🙂
It’s a double whammy. Not only was her life cut short but the one still alive is doomed to find such love again 🙁
Life ain’t fair sometimes Lisa… 🙂
This poem speaks such a huge loss, it hurts to read it. Especially powerful is that spilled basket…..that puts the reader right at the centre of that sudden fall. Very powerful writing.
Thank you Sherry… 🙂
There is darkness in both (beautifully composed) poems, Rob. So worth the read …. darkness that balances euphoria.
Thank you very much Helen… 🙂
I am supposing the story to be fictional, and the Prologue to be true, or at least based on truth. Either way, the feelings are described heart-rendingly, beautifully, and as if well-known (too well-known, indeed).
The story is strictly a voyage through my darker mind Rosemary. The prologue, and really the story as well, are both inspired by my vivid memories of soul-gutting grief. Stirred from remembering the terrifying sadness I felt when forced to the point of having to be the one to consent to pulling the plug on my beloved adoptive father’s life support. His wife simply couldn’t do it, and asked that I step in. The reality was that he was braindead, and watching his lifeless body pump up and down for several weeks, like a flesh bellows, was simply too horrible to witness any longer. My heart broke to do it, but had no quality of life left, so I gave him the dignity of death, surrounded by his loved ones. I loved him fiercely, as I did my 18-year-old son Aaron, who was tragically killed on a summer job, prior to his leaving for college. Losing Aaron was, in my opinion, perverse. A parent should not outlive their beloved child. My stores of grief are ample to draw upon my friend.
The imagery is as sharp as the grief conveyed in this piece. I can see the whole scene perfectly.
Thank you Rommy, I am pleased this resonated for you… 🙂
a futile cry
that fell silent
in the sunset… the spilled basket of apples produces a very moving image.
You pulled out one of, what I believe, is clearly among the most moving I wrote. Rajani, thank you, I am pleased this piece touched you Rajani!
“by virtue of moon’s cold careless beaming”
The despair of the persona resonates so profundly in this line. This is a tear jerker.
Much????love
I am genuinely pleased this moved you Gillena — much love to you my friend… 🙂
I agree with Sherry. That basket of spilled apples was brilliant.
Thank you Debi… 🙂
So vivid. You take us there, which is kind of hard for me because 3 years ago I came home to find my best friend dead in the apartment downstairs. My book of poetry–Grieving into Love–is based in that and other experiences of death. Fortunately the ice period didn’t last too long, I felt so much love, anger, sadness. I miss her, I talk to her. I’m beginning to forgive her. It’s wrenching. Perhaps I wished at one point that ice lasted so I wouldn’t feel everything. Sigh. Powerful poem.
Thank you for your comments on “Should I Drive Faster?”
Thank you Susan. So sorry for your loss my friend…
Decades ago I sent the poet Robert Bly some of my poems and he sent a brief note back, saying “faithfulness to the wound is a road.” I’ll honor him and repeat that to you. Make of it as you will.
Thank you Brendan, I will never forget the wound of losing my 18yo son Aaron, way too early in his wonderful life, to accidental death — even brings a hard lump in my throat, and tears to my eyes occasionally, in some moments. But now I carry that wound among many rich, warm, vivid memories of him. My beautiful boy Aaron left us 27 years ago, July 3rd, 1995. RIP my son.
Wow, this is beautifully sad, Rob. Wonderful write. 🙂
Thank you Kitty… 🙂
No apples, no fall involved, Rob, but I remember standing there, looking down at my (almost gone) mother’s final bed at the 4AM hospital and – after conferencing with 3 of my 4 siblings – telling the ER doctors that they could flip the switch. The moments that followed felt like this poem feels. Thanks.
You are welcome Ron. I remember the emotional sledgehammer that walloped me when I had to be the one to say yes to doctors, just before midnight. But it lifted a smothering weight of deep sadness that had fallen upon all of us, watching his dead body pumping night after night, knowing dad was already gone — brain dead. Not easy my friend. I feel for you brother. ???????
The prologue really works with the rest of the poem… and I can see how a dark moonlit night is when the memory is hardest to live with.
Thank you Bjorn. 😉 Yes, in the dark of night is when the emotional raiders attack, at least for me. However, that is also why it makes it my best time to write. Yin/Yang
I don’t think any words can do justice to the hush descending on my heart after reading this, Rob. Incredibly moving.
Thank you Punam… 🙂
You are a man who has felt the beauty and thorns of love. Your heart carries a heavy load yet, you still love deeply. The power of healing comes from deep within the wound.
Thank you True, I appreciate your gracious words… 🙂
by the broken stair
apple basket spilled
very succinct, and fun to say.
He found her there…