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 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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