How Could I Love Another in Blue

She caught my vision, something

She is with impairment, She

Nearly blind in the left eye,

Her favorite color, Blue,

Deep navy blue, lighter

Shades, mostly all blues, nothing

Will suffice, just  Blue,

Her voice contralto, she sings

In the car when she is happy,

Though I have heard her sing

When she is blue, then deepest

Earth shudders, I sit breathless, breath

I do not have, she has the deepest blue

When I hear singing in our car, I don’t

Drive, I will not kill another, came

Close, eyes are gone, Her’s were

Not gone, nor the other, both with

Crossed vision, me with cataracts, both

Eyes, best surgeons in medicine, those

Surgeries, her eyes Strabismus, another

Woman hit the wheel, she was steering

 

Into vision, I hit another, hit the gas

Without thinking, changing lanes again,

Minor blue and black, all we knew, glass

Fragments, I was repaying myself damage

Done, my cut fingers, not on purpose,

I had slivered glass into tips of fingers,

Red and white infection, I do not feel

With the tips of my fingers, the doctor always,

Dr. Funk asked, “How’d this happen?

Never ever, pick up Slivered glass again,

black and blue,  Eyes, joints, crooked neck

Like mine, Crossed eyes, 100,000 dollars

Awarded to the victim, it was an accident,

I say that’s not enough, I would take vision,

Could have killed all three,, him, her

Me, all these accidents, for her most

 

Important, vascular accident in her retina

Fifty miles to Denver, our ophthalmology

The accidents all types, my Inflammation irises.

Closed, lost major vision, She is stoic,

Now, I tell her blue accents her silver hair

I love her more than any person, she has

The deepest blue: Yes, eyes when we met I told her

How pretty They were, no one had ever been

That close;  we’re retired, she seldom lets anything

Except for her hands, get so close, No one

Get’s so close, but I remember, deepest, and I still

See her eyes, she still has bluest eyes ever,

In my life, she still softly sings in our car.

 

Charles Taylor,  C 2018

Published by elgwyn

I was a University and community college instructor before retiring. I also worked in fast food restaurants, and retail stores. I am an ordinary man writing for because I want to write and because my education prepared me to write; BA English lit, MA English, EdS higher education, and MFA creative writing, free verse poetry and essays. Blogs are an answer to high-priced self-publishing. Walt Whitman had to self-publish his first 1000 copies of the 1855 edition of Leaves of Grass because in 1855 poetry did not sell. Most poets make a living in other ways than writing. Wallace Stevens was an insurance executive, and TS Eliot was a banker. Many writers teach, and always there have been writers who have written because they needed to express their thoughts and feelings. They wrote not necessarily to make money but to express "the old universal truths of the human heart" according to Faulkner. Here I reach a wider audience I missed than by self-publishing, and I stand a better chance to reach a wider audience for less expense than self-publishing. I self-published my first books, Winter from Spring, and Meditations on Gratitude; poetry and photo books which were easier to self-publish than to seek a not to seek a publisher company. This blog allows me to write for an interested audience because I write poetry and personal essays. I write for a friendly audience and present to you a slice of my writing. Perhaps you will enjoy what you read.

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