This is ever with me…


My attitude unfurls into nights

I’ve risen at 4:00 a.m. to find the mother

Moon, my mother, walking children

Across rough, black-top roads

To hide eternal oncoming cars

Behind her mother. Walking I realized

Death might come that night

Any night so stalked beneath

Her Star God, Yahweh, burning

Into eyes, like Sol, or Bush; soul retried

Between mindfulness, nothingness

Gates often called, another protection

Of vehicle bound for Alpha Centauri,

This was not her child’s man become

So caught hold into adulthood; she reached

Out this final lingering into caves, Sybil

Of forgotten moon mist, rockets into sky

Hundreds of feet beheld as one I launched into day

When this boy became man in my brother

Robert’s eyes; nonsense, mother don’t go,

Mother we are behind you, my brother

Coming home from some city in Missouri,

Land of forgotten snows, where daughter, where

I wept to repent division between labor absolute

Afterthought I was grown or lost in outer space,

There is no father since she’s dying in a land

She called her own. My mother gave my brother

That boy-man up as the brother became

Robert turned eighteen-years-old, she remaried

Soft spoken step-father once again; thus, walked

Into hyer moonlight, my mother so brave

Took me in at age 24 after my only recompence

Suicide attempt, for she never again did, wanted

Me to withstand this deep divide and bowed

Before another visit from my daughter

To her grandpa; my dad will die in agony

Beyond any realizations of his truth, of his

Death, of what he’s done to women, now

Aged at almost eighty-eight, he will die

Not long after, he will have nothing,

And so my mother did finally get her say

“The boys.” she won in spite of cancer,

All those years, she won as dad condemned,

She became Moon woman, walked her children home,

While dad lay rotting in his grave with other

Woman who found him deceitful, my

Step-mom who he mourned his plastic flowers.

Charles Taylor C2018DSCN0212.jpgIMG_1154.jpg

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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