At His Feet, Where Grace Is Wonder

Trade my forgiveness worn legs with You

Where I wish for bread of life, up from death

My only vision I pray forgiveness, cannot withstand

My anger down, my death unfurled to Thee

Day often long away, I wish for light of day

Lay down first drink, first bottle You are found,

Now my only thought white pine out my window

In front of home. More my essence divine I’ve spent

Too much lost my daughter , particle of disbelief;

Creeps night away, hope found in new day

Yet my daughter slipped away–my anger; I weep.

 

I cannot walk into Prairie, run into ground

Within white privacy fence, wrath of disabled

Lain at feet of of Him, wish oh, miracle

This witness, abandoned land where house

Found on swampy land, upon which faith–

Homes unveiled, give up old prairie village

First steeple removed for lightening death

Then water removed for lots, vision oh Wind

Pumping from eternal well spring too much water

For neighbor’s land finally loved in spite of me.

 

His Love, God’s love, aquifer down into loam,

Eastern South Dakota, once in this time, suspect

Yet given over to sump pumped out for Hartford

Homes she made on Mary Lane I cried from vision

Our own home without old crab apple, lilac bush

Removed from edge, corner of my soul cry

For American warren of sin, this removed

In Grace where wonder meets what’s left of soul

Stands for witness–never spoken, implied

In S curve of my spine, I cannot fall in night

Can walk Upon my artificial knees, one to last

Twenty years, new to last thirty-five more

Years, He hears my voice sing quietly inside

Acceptance, I love Light transforming

 

From another Stone, Rock found in soil.

Eternal White Pine, crossed before our yard

Upon Fathers Day, gift to me from family never

Known His passion from my child, my wife limits

Me for she is no more given over, given, away

Through His risen person, I find Grace, want

Her in my arms–I’m quiet so I wait eternity

For her, church as I walk from church surgeon

At my feet I find wonder to walk this mile, she

Is there in spite of my anger–transformed,

From father, now other Father greater gift

My sin removed from my brother’s weary

Life  again, They cannot rise with Him as Light

New–summoned yes saved, flesh removed,

But I lost all, my family gone I weep, I gnash teeth

Though free to dance before the cross of Him

I’ve lost all, for Him but weep for family gone.

C2018

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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