Till my Trophies at Last

Exchanged my worn, weary, ragged, body

On Thanksgiving night, a day of my night

Exchanged ever be true, my mother’s hands

Raised in adoration of Jesus, “On Sunday

Evenings I’d watch her close eyes, raise

Hands over head, and mouth quietly

Much…to my mind was simplicity,

“Thank you Jesus.” I thought she was

Faking it, I thought she didn’t know,

How could she know anything, these

Books, these simple offerings we bring

Vast beyond, “All measure, beyond our

Demands!” her night before death,

Now, so many years Mom died of cancer

Lingering weeks before Thanksgiving

Me stunned, tired my wife, “He’ll never call

You again!” So I began a calling campaign

I called when I could, sometimes forgot,

Oh I called often at first, one call blurted

Out with it, I had nearly lost my life

Three times 2011, 2012 so I called him

Blurted out, “You NEVER call me, you

DIGITAL CAMERA–Point n Shoot, HP, 12 mgpxl

Moran,” and love did not lift us, he

Simply said, 

Why don’t you call me, I AM THE OLDEST,

Response was cold, “If you ever

Speak to me again in that tone, I’ll never

Speak to you again.” He knew where

To cut, how deep the blade, and he

Had not been there for mom’s death

Her liberation from broken body,

Body I could not understand

I felt it rage in me, saw her give in

To death three weeks before she

Sent herself to His feet; I muttered

Some made-up poetic phrase,

She stepped neatly into His

Canyon of belief. His wisdom

Well with her soul, she made

Peace with me I could not explain to others

She knew, my mother knew I would

Find Him, my sin forgiven not in part

In whole lifted, though I be weak,

Still call brother, encourage him to visit,

Ask myself if there’s nothing in Des Moines

For me, have encouraged my wife to drive

Us to Iowa because I no longer drive,

Forgot how too late to know how, to all,

When she loved me here, when my Jesus

My Lord became my example, my wisdom

Sometimes escapes me for the better.

I call my brother, “Let the words of my mouth

Be pleasing to You, my Lord and redeemer

Meditation of my heart be pleasing to you.”

Published by elgwynone

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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