So Anxious In That Art

May we once again experience beauty

In the crabapple, Crabby Appleton villain

He withstood tests of time over 62 years,

Then small boy of seven watching with bent

Eyes, mother into mommy, into mom,

Never Dorothy, worthy woman, she was

Bitten by divorce, to be called as single

Parent, Two children “Whore, you whore,

Out, Don’t come back.” There was no stain

Upon my mother’s witness of my fathers

Cruelty, I witnessed what one called adultery.

Physical cruelty, emotionally battered, brother

Wondering at three, never knew why, saw

Mommy limp her way from California off

To Iowa with two small children, uncle

George, with trouble in his pants at home

As well as dad, so I learned at age sixtty sevnen

What men could do to women, push, thrust

Shove, and as a man of many shoves, feeling

More consent, Can women can batter too?

Unsure, he limped to South Dakota, to know.

Realizing this, my wife and I are through,

Through with thrust, not love, for us love

Does not bind as Crabby Appleton dissolves

Into cartoon character meant as only this

Funny creature drawn carefully by an artist

Somewhere lost in mindful past, lost as child’s

Memory winds sometimes in careful words

For dad, attempting to make inroads like

Communion together in his son’s church,

And living Christ teaches me to forgive dad.

Dad, after our Talk in California we were

Tight in the belly, in the mind, I say, “Dad,

It was me, yes it was me who called welfare

Autaorities and with meaness and hate in my voice

Condemnened you for a time in jaial, and I

Demanded as my 11-year-old voice cracked

With pain, demanded athorities do something

About the $50, and you who demanded

$25, only $25 sent in child support which was

Nothing but a pair of shoes, a gallon of

Milk, few caned goods, nothing to us

As we scrapped by.” You, “We shall never

Speak of this again, me who 10 months

Later wept for what I had said, “Oh, dad

That was 60 years ago, and I forgive you”

With tears in my eyes, I forgave him.

Charles Taylor 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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