Day Lilies Will Wilt

We recognized the day after, true lover perfection, sneaking up on us, and when we were 27, 30, we pressed our bodies close to each other, and I knew that I was not the only lonely person in the world, and we married in chaos. Ours were days of whirl around the corner of life, me leaving a trail of beer bottles, you beginning a walk with tears, and those broken promises, I could never handle the pressure of grading papers, and the red pen never meant much to me because even now I fully and totally disagree with a system of bad marks that has turned our daughter into a neurotic high achiever, giving up husband, love, and parts of life that could make her a whole person. There is nothing I can do but watch as she earns what almost destroyed us, what she may someday turn into a synthases to harvest the wheat of perfection. We both had the good sense to pull back before it killed us and chose what she ultimately will select in true behavior beyond the “taught.” beyond that utterly stupid “woman” professor who called you fat in front of a whole room of graduate students, you who could not stomach a system of degradation; you did enter into a life of service, and me leaving a system which called a human approach to teaching writing at the University of Iowa bad, a school ten feet above the worst educational experience I ever had where a system of loony goose women, taught by insane women, and a woman who could not qualify finally for teaching, to call the University of Iowa bad. Their universities, well, they were simply bad for us; now I would know who to avoid. I went on to stop that trail of beer bottles, to earn in high regard, an MFA with a 3.9 GPA though comprehensive taken three times with red marks, nevertheless from a better school, and then enter into a life of service, and a life of a sober dad, and a life of a disabled person. I say with God as my witness, I am a disabled success, and I worked more than 31 years at changing a system of poor care, poor education, stigma, and stupidity, to work sober with some of the most gifted people in the United States, Bill Tremblay, Lois Muehl, George Steinsberger, Phyllis Arends, Sara Lindquist, J Chris Nordgrun, Donald Baum, Jundo Cohen (in Japan), Jan Gross, and most of all Marjorie J Remacle-Taylor. These people believe in others, work to change what sometimes seems intangible; that which is ephemeral and quiet, and boisterous, and subtle, and poetic, and fine, and sacred: filled with psychological problems worked through, and health, and satisfaction, and care, and reality, and essential, and tearful, and happy: the Godly. These are the teachers of my life, people who taught me to love my parents, and our child, an adult woman, Laurel Ann Taylor. We all stand tall against systems of tyranny warping minds and leaving reality. These Folks, and people like us tell others that quality can’t be qualified, and quantified. These people, minister, psychologists, teachers, poets, loving friends, one nurse, people who believe all are special and deserve a chance to be normal, to rely on each other, not afraid to rely on psychological health, on the written words of angles, and Jesus Christ and the Buddha, and I have chosen Jesus, the good shepherd of little boys and little girls. We are people who can love in the nick of time, and know quality such as doctorates, masters, baccalaureates, and essences only to help others. Then I awoke and held her. She gave me my life. We all are fine at what we do, write, create, counsel, teach each other to teach each other. For me, she loved me first as I was, and the others expected me to do more, and I could. Now that trail of beer bottles will have left behind: always one day at a time. As much as our sacred bodies were

 

pressed together on a moon-lit night in Iowa City, as two lonely people discovered the power of love and belief on Lynn Street, as he found her so beautiful he knew he was breathless, her as no other, and they did go on to change the world in their own ways, and it was no use to wonder why.

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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