The Ride

 Preface to the 19 year poem: It was 1984. I was 27. I was listening to a news program on the radio. One of the pieces was about teen suicides. I was moved and outraged that life was such that it would steal hope from children and make them think death was the only door out. As I most often do when so moved, I wrote. I didn't finish it and it was eventually misplaced/lost. I had thought about it several times in the following 19 yrs. Then, while cleaning out some old books in a box in the top of my closet, I saw a folded paper. I opened it and to my amazement, there it was; the first half of what was to become the 19 yr poem. I read it several times and finally sat down and finished it.

The Ride

In the vast and barren wasteland

Of lives never lived

Seeds of unfinished memories

Are planted in soil with no hope

No life now to feed them

No tears to soften the earth

No words to gently prod them on

As to the surface they grope

The could haves, would haves, and should haves

Have all been silenced now

As reality sets in upon us

And illusion fades at last

I was a fabled creature

Existing in their books

But I never really happened

Not even in their memories past

"It is this I give" to bring the joy

"This I yield" to remove the pain

But pain and joy would not be stayed

As they ran to arms of embrace

I teetered along the brink

And splashed in both pools

It seems I was out of control

As deadly forward I did race

I planted seeds of hope and hate

In rows together deeply spaced  (1984 .. end)

And let them grow together

Unassisted, yet unabated

Too late I realized

Hate was the weed

Which choked the flower of hope

Then seeming highly overrated

It seems so obvious now

From my cold and lifeless perch

I dallied much too long

In despair's dark playground

I rode those twisted rails

Knuckles white upon the bar

Not knowing this ride's end

Not caring where I'd be found

Hearken to my knowing words

Voices from places unseen

You know inside who you are

Standing in line for the ride

The hooded barker impatiently waits

To strap your life in tight

The hand beckons you closer

Bleached white by time's tide

“Leave your problems and troubles behind”

Comes his soulless instruction

“Empty your heart of cares and woes

Watch them disappear from sight

Say farewell to family and friends”

Memory ending o'er the hill

The cars always come back empty

When they ride into this deep dark night

“I am not the sandman”

He says, with an evil grin

As he collects his ill-gotten prize

And the cars go into the dark

His laughter echoes in the air

As back to work he goes

It is just another busy night

In star-less suicide park

© Ron Simpson Jr.

Started 1984

Finished July 25, 2003

In 2021, suicide was the 12th leading cause of death in the US. The daily average was approximately 130 deaths. 92% of Americans believe suicide is preventable.