Breathe
These shoulders of mine slumped in
pain.
I could no longer stand on my feet,
my knees buckled under the strain.
In circles the ground lifted; top
soil gathered and skittered side to side, the particles landed and flew...up,
up, and up once again, filling to blacken the sky. Dust flew past, and
into my eyes.
The soil, once goodness of labor
produced, now hard pan, a cement to destine our journey across this land.
Bouncing and skimming the cracks,
sideways, forward, and backward, we hold on, hold on to the words and memories
we once knew.
Hand to mouth, we tried to hold on
when the dust rose up, but now rains in these clouds come down, and down,
floating life away, taking breath in smothering rain.
Starving words sailed out of my mouth to give thanks, the
wind blew them away.
God
help us all!
We
cry.
Wind
whipped the earth
Breathing
is shallow
Lungs
filled with mirth
Land
lay fallow
God
help us all!
Until
we die.
Last night I read this piece of
writing to my writer-critique group. A
line and a word were discussed, to possibly change the word, and delete the
last line.
To omit the last line of this piece,
and to change the word "Mirth", which means happy, or gleeful, etc.,
would change the effect of what I had in mind when I wrote this story. And I do have to admit, it’s hard for me to clarify
my intent at the time of writing, therefore I was hard pressed, after reading
it last night, to give an explanation to why these words can’t be changed. As I read over what I had written, again today,
I felt the need to explain this intent of mine.
1) The last line, “Until we die”, reflects the line, “We cry”, and appealing to God, as these
people were God fearing people, didn’t feed their mouths. Over and over their lament was to God, and
even their last breath was for help, but they died anyway. The reasons for their dying is in their
story, but they did die, as we all do eventually. It’s a given, but it is how they died that
touched me so.
2) The word, “mirth”, was
written in a place that sounded out of context.
I agreed, last night, I didn’t know why I’d written that word in that
particular place. My mind doesn’t always
let me in on why it wants one word; opposed to another...I just write what I
hear.
The wind is whipping these people to death, and as their lungs filled
with the dirt they were standing on, their land that was being taken with so
much force, it was as though the land was laughing at them...they were inhaling
that laughter...it telling them they will only lose against this mighty force
called nature.
I don't try to make excuses for
what I write, nor do I usually give explanations, but in this case I tried to
give an explanation, only because I have the feeling this story is going to
continue at a later date...this is just the being of the first chapter in these
people’s lives.
I have yet to write a review of
John Steinbeck’s story, The Grapes of Wrath, written over eighty years ago,
because it’s a story that continues to this day. It’s hard to know where it began, and where
it will end.
I wrote this piece in response to
how Steinbeck’s migrant workers left me feeling, after I closed the last page. It was a hard pill to swallow, let alone
digest...I hope I can continue this story....
