Doctor, Psychologist, Explainer

Dr. J Chris found no fault in this man

This was a trapped, frightened boy,

Seeking to shed his guilt, he’d found

Nothing unusual as he explained “You

Were but a child, with your play pretty

You condemned yourself for nothing.

Nothing unusual in your boyhood as you

Sliced your wrist for nothing, so let me see

Your wrist.” He unfastened his watch always

Worn to hide this horrible shame; gaged

Zigzag through, wrist, soft flesh when this 60-

Another year-old man was 25-years-old, what

To do with cases like this, where great tears

Could come at any time, then while still quiet

The patient visited; visiting father, the father in the

Next room, near the old stove, 67 and 88 stoke years,

First days of fall, Dr. J. Chris had asked, “You meant

Business, didn’t you?” still these beautiful photos

A gift of grace, ability, showmanship adorned

Dr. J. Chris’ office corner often admired

By his patients. ” glance at the corner table, talented”

After the flight to Sacramento, supper and talk

The boy remembered in similar, different light

A situation of father and Shirley differently, well

Planned out to release mother, then only $25/month

For years, ADC, church-bus through poorer four-

Mile-district, as the man began the process–integration

Of 44 years, longest ago ever, then 31 years down

Ever one day at a time sober, 31-years, this man wept,

Near father, necessary as father’s friends explained

Another way of looking at Shirley, of the divorce,

Father sleeping as the 66-year-old man in his mind

Dropped real tears, wiped them before father out back

Door, “I’m going to fix Gilbert’s chainsaw; we’ll

Try to drive to town this afternoon, day turning cold

Last heat of summer.” With thousands those years,

thought tarnished n brilliancy, a family delight given over

From guilt, from misunderstanding, from the father’s

Wrath, scorn, human sacrifice has given-up as Abraham

Put down the knife, finding goat or sheep in a thicket

To sacrifice, a gift to God, only gift now accepted.

This man was free at last, free at last, like Martin’s spiritual,

Free, free at last, at age 67, 67-years, father 88-years-old,

Two old men accepted each other, $25 monthly payments

Forgiven, money, it’s always the lust for money, as in Timothy

It is written, and a new covenant poured out for our sin

This man against himself, father against mother need not,

All fell into place, the man understood friend’s version

Father’s story, all was revealed, “More will be

Revealed, and as this sober member of 31 years, “This

Without drugs and alcohol,” plainly something new

To learn, “This Is my blood.” To learn each day of existence,

Dr, J. Chris could ever be his mediator, but anger was now over,

Finally free, as the mother slept in her grave could now depart.

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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