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.
