The Time Went By….

Yes, I felt the time with my Savior–“Jesus, I was with you tonight, the nails in my neck, my shoulders in the weight of the sagging flesh, hanging on my tortured flesh, through my forehead a ten penny nail. Yes Jesus, I have chronic pain. I have put it this way to friends, ‘Either I would that You heal me, or I will become an example unto Your Glory.’ So, I live each day, waiting fore the wall of white pain to hit my eyes, my chest, my back, and I have learned to say nothing. Tonight with the play, that fulfillment of emotion for Your blame and betrayal–washing Your followers feet, their petty squabbles, this painting with four groups of three, ah the painter’s portrait with You looking straight at me as though I am the false one, oh Jesus what would I do for you, as tears well, then do not fall, not enough of those hot tears to make a difference because Jesus, I have learned pain tolerance and to withhold the burning coals in my face, and my dear Savior now they come because I am ashamed, I am ashamed as I too might argue my innocence, then I feel again the nail through my forehead! Yes Jesus will make me an example of Love, His Divine Love; yes divine love, His Love, his love. So, which is it divine love, or Divine Love as I feel the tingle of pain precursor–oh will I be an example of Love with the arthritis of my spine flaring slowly, for His Glory I go on, H is preview of chronic pain, oh I can do it for Him, the Pain Tolerance with pain I have endured for is it five, six years? One looses count of the years because pain levels sometimes soar out of control, the ten penny nail through my neck, my face, my head, out the back, into my soft bone, flesh, muscle, the silent invisible blood oozing out the back of my head; then I think of Him this afternoon with body, the entire body sagging on those nails where He cannot breath, one labored cup of air escaping lungs invisible but this pain far surpassing my pain as His Body fights for each breath, as the blood trickles out of hands and feet, as ribs show through His chest and His torso, as He cannot breathe, His invisible Blood, finally the entrance into whisper of, “Father, why hast Thou forsaken Me?” The Pain coming like torrent like the pain I felt this evening; but was it? Was my pain anything like the torture He felt wit no breath, one blood soaked breath finally coming out like a trickle of air, and out of his dry, parched mouth, crusts of vinegar and saliva in His speech, “It is finished.” I feel a few tears in my eyes, just a few, not the empty gut, full nose, my bent septum preventing my air, I am hollow and indifferent with my teeth clinched. I end my lackluster words, waiting for only promises, the middle way, swayed not to the right of left, I am alone in my indifference and I listen to amazing Love sound through me head, He is dead until my realization, until I can push aside my own body and see Him.


Published by elgwyn

I was a University and college writing teacher, now retired, so I write poetry, and essays, mostly free verse poetry. I love writing. Computers, tablets, and smart phones are the norm. When one sees university campuses with students looking at phones while walking to class, one realizes writing can be blogging. I am an ordinary man writing for artistic pleasure writing, and simple taste-- blogs are an answer to high priced self-publishing. Walt Whitman had to print his paper books himself, because in 1855, and 1860 poetry did not sell. It does not sell now unless you have a Pulitzer Prize and even then the poet usually makes a living in other ways than writing. In all ages there have been writers writing out of their own needs, and blogs are an answer to get rid of high cost of self creativity. I am an older man with fewer computer skills than my daughter who has been at computers since she was three, so here I can satisfy my need to write without spending too much on self-published books. All three blogs let me reach an audience missed by books and stand a better chance to reach a wider audience. My two books, Winter from Spring, Meditations on Gratitude, as Kindle books and paperbacks did not reach as many people as I wanted, and blogs can let me avoid the printer. Layout and design is expensive. For me writing is more like the charcoal jottings of preexisting civilization made only for posterity. Blogs face two problems as I see it. They might be submerged into a chaos of too much writing, and they depend on electronic storage. Yet, how's that different from electronic books which must have specialized publication? Paper disintegrates, blogs can be physically stored and organized for posterity in data banks. All organization becomes chaos at some point, but charcoal images on cave walls still exist after the author scribbled eons ago. So what if I reach only a few interested people, but hopefully, readers will reach out to me. Writing is essential for showing the ways of culture before history knows those ways. To record each individual is essential especial for billions of people who need to know enough reading beyond pictures to save a planet. Writing without profit isn't new to me. I'm not seeking to impress the audience. Poetry in general never sells, and personal confessional, and emotional writing exists sometimes like journal writings only for the author. At least here is my hope for wider audiences. My writing is personal and informal, but my writing expresses some serious ideas like the writing of contemporary writers to rise above chaos in my own simple way, above self-absorption, a meditation, the simple writing of an ordinary man. I hope to find my own way out of my own chaos and make my record stand alone if even in electrons. Though I hope never to express nightmare in my poetry, fiction, or essays, some serious considerations are important to me after centuries of mechanized nightmare. The next decade is probably of the same failure in our world. This decade looks to be another time of diminished individuals and the next as well. We all wish peace and hope will become normal. It looks like if hope reaches each individual, not governments there is satisfaction in making means of writing available to many. My hope is for each human being to give their own expression out of the abyss. If humankind is to survive in any common way, we must each be able to express maturity and take responsibility in something beyond self. Electronic media offers people these possibilities so long as computers can store individual lives. Here people can freely see what I write and what others write. Though I hold an MFA in creative writing my simple vision never found a wide audience. I was disappointed about this earlier in my life, but now it's just what one expects of such degrees. I found happiness in family and especially in love of my wife and daughter. Writing can be more than a pastime now that I'm older. I approach seven decades living with some disappointing times, and some satisfying times. I'm like most people, and I've been married more than 37 years, and we sent a successful daughter into the world. We happily live in a country where even the poorest have food. Often as a young man when I traveled for nearly one year through Europe, where does a culture begin to feed and house so many people, and how do all these people live in harmony since World War II? Maybe it's been a question of survival. Writers can hold a little corner with blogging, blogging for harmony and peace. This is my hope. This is my question.

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