Is He Willing, But Not Able?

Oh my sweet Brandy;
Why have you stopped working?
Back when she left, you worked wonders.
You filled me with glee
and confidence.
Now-
nothing.
It's as if I have become numb.
How is it that nothing makes me feel,
other than my lonesome.
That sinking solitude;
that poison infecting my lungs.
Why must I die alone?

These Camel's don't help anymore.
That burning in my chest;
that intoxicating smoke,
which relaxed me after those longs days,
seems to have been extinguished.
I can still feel it...
faintly...
As if it was far away-
much like she is now.

I remember those days,
after working on those wheat fields.
Don't you, Betsy?
You used to run around in the wheat chasing rodents.
Your bark echoed off of the grassy hills...
You can't do that much anymore, can you?
Look at us, at our age,
sitting on this old porch-
aged; falling apart just like us.
Even this rocking chair shrieks in its pain;
its joints old and stiff.
How I can empathize.

That fir tree-
on the top of that distant mound.
How she adored it.
To the point of naming our child after it.
All the hours she spent sitting under that tree-
Thinking, writing, singing-
such beauty.
How could such misfortune befall such an angel?

I loved to hear her sing.
Not even the opera could compare.
How could it ever happen?
Laryngeal cancer...
How...
How could you let this happen, Brandy?
My poor Grace.

I'm sorry, Grace,
but there is no God.
I sat with you all those Sunday mornings;
always skeptical, but hopeful.
That is,
until that fateful day-
the day the angels stopped singing.
No benevolent omnipotent being would take you away from me.
No being with mercy would rip my heart out with such little remorse.

That pastor still comes by every now and then.
His fairy-tales tucked in his right hand,
His collar popped up like those teenagers.
Such arrogance in his eyes;
how he looks down upon me and our ranch.

The farm is dying, Grace.
The grass is fading in color.
The animals have all left.
It's just me and Betsy now;
us against the world.
Much like we were all those years ago,
back when you were here-
back when there was life-
back when there was hope.

For 50 years, we were happy.
So, I pour another glass
and say, "Cheers,"
to another 50 years-
of despair.

Reviews

[Ruth]

"I'm sorry, Grace,
but there is no God.
I sat with you all those Sunday mornings;
always skeptical, but hopeful."

Powerful lines Mike and this, I have to say, is one of my favourites of your poems!
The imagery is stunning, the fact that a vice can numb but obliterate is obvious here too. There is always hope, so people say! Is there? Thats the feeling I receive from this poem. It has real tension and holds the reader dumbfounded by its reflectively haunting nature!
One word - excellent! xx

[la Abeja]

Again another beautiful poem. So somber yet pulling, begging me to continue reading. Great write