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 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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