I will never forget the day that Hemingway died
Nor of how he died on ‘61’s second day of July
I was sixteen years old way back then
And far too much to the universe tuned in
I will never forget the shock that filled me as I cried
Deep inside a wounded creature not knowing why
Not even knowing much about the man I stood
Alone in silence surrounded by living woods
That were more than silent that day he died
To me they were, to me they were and yet
The world still moved and went its passing way
But in my heart, I knew something broke that day
Something strange that day had come and gone its way
The day that Papa died, yes that day on ‘61s second day of July 1/14/17
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I would hope that anyone who reads my poetry understands that I write what comes to my mind and it doesn't mean I'm the reality of the words. I mean that just because I write about alcoholism does not mean I am the character in the poems. I write about those I've known and those I know and a very wide grouping that is of sinners and saints, those who know who and where they are going and those who are completely lost. I am empathic. I write in the first person because I feel the reality of what I am writing about. Like Dean Martin pretending to be drunk while performing I am not what it may seem. Just a thought as I know some out there who read what I write see the words and not the art or the understanding of the problem I am commenting on, nor do they understand that the comment is for the purpose of illustration and not my own personal reality.
Married to a wonderful woman who is my best friend. Ronald Reagan Conservative Republican. Masters of Accounting-Taxation, United States Marine, taught for 10 years at the University of South Florida, held the following professional certifications: CPA, CVA, CFA. Published author, currently writing three novels and a ton of poems.
2 thoughts on “THE DAY THAT HEMINGWAY DIED”
Sherry roberts
As always beautiful, heartfelt and touching!
Gordon
This is a memory of my walk one day through the woods near Maywood, FL. There the Des Plaines River moves through those woods at a slow pace and in the Winter some of ponds there freeze. I used to play in those woods and I was familiar with every trail. For some reason I was completely alone and I sensed his death and it caught me cold. I was 16 and not someone really involved with writing but it all came to me and left me very cold and tearful and the memory has never passed.