Exodus

A dented and paint-worn

red metal bucket,

half full of water,

its spaghetti-thin handle

squeaky when lifted

dug painfully into the fingers

of the aged man's callused hands.  

His face was leather-like,

almost as wrinkled as

his stained and dirty

overalls from years of

farming.  

Slightly off balance

he struggled to tilt and fill

all he could into

the dilapidated truck's

warm radiator

without spilling a drop,

praying silently, it

would get him and his family to

California

100 miles further on

Route 66.  

People spoke of

jobs,

plenty of them,

far from dust-soaked air,

from degradation

and poverty.  

Halfway there,

the dream ended in

steam that rose to heaven

like smoke signals

for help.  

"Jesus saves,"

read a nearby billboard.  

With hope and persistence,

feeling as rotten

as parched soil

and a lump in his belly

as big as Oklahoma,  

no one prayed more

to Jesus that night

than an aged man

with callused

dry hands.  

His destination,

finally reached,

he discovered  

a new nightmare

of overcrowding

Okies

and competition.  

Sometimes hopes

rise to heaven

like smoke signals

for help

when there is none.

Author's Note

Where do we go when angels die?

Posted once before, now a different ending.

Critiques welcome.

Reviews

[Fabian G. Franklin]

Reminds me of Steinbeck's, Grapes of Wrath, which is no small compliment. I really liked The film version with Henry Fonda and I enjoyed reading your poem. F.

[Relic]

I certainly had it in mind along with other stories I read. Thanks Fabian. :)

[DecentlyOkayWriter]

Sometimes hopes
rise to heaven
like smoke signals
for help
when there is none.
. . .
(My favorite part, here.)

I like this. Since the beginning, we have had to try to find the places that we can strive for the best, even if it's dangerous and risky. . even if there's some possibility in our hopes falling on deaf ears, when we call on whatever is up there.

Keep writing!

[Relic]

I appreciate the comment. Thanks very much. :)

[Renata]

This reminds me of the plight of the economic pilgrims that existed and still do, in all parts of the world. Those that uproot everything they have in pursuit of a better life. Unfortunately for them, many others have the same dreams and the hope for a new life in a fruitful paradise doesn’t always materialise.

A very descriptive poem this one; I like how you slowly let the tale unfold with words and images to paint the scene until the concluding lines jolt the reader back to a reality that is both sadly common and heartbreaking.

A most enjoyable, well written poem.

[Relic]

Thanks so much for the comment, Renata. I've reviewed so many new writers and only a small percentage ever comments back.

[emmajoygreen]

My goodness, how your words paint reality line by line by line, by line! They take a figure and convert it into a living, breathing man who, perhaps - sadly discovers that the grass is rarely as green as hoped but discovers his alternative could and can be, 'At least I tried.. '

Angels don't die.. they sleep until they wake when and because hope breathes air into them.

[Relic]

Thanks for the comment emma. Much appreciated.
I've always thought angels are like flowers. If you don't water them enough (pay attention to, pray to through morals) they eventually wilt and die.

[emmajoygreen]

How appropriate - both true and beautiful.