Beauty in Our Small Town

Again, the smallest yet not small

At all. Question–three-thousand souls,

Babies, farmers, children, wives, daughters

Sons, life unrequited living together

More harmony; when someone hurts

We remember morning kindnesses done to me
When I bother, I am old with stories intrigue
From gunmen, casualty, 
We gather as harmonics
Into our harmony, more than weekly
That becomes our tenderness our understanding
Of old men tied with frayed rope ends
Their own grandsons never
Leaving behind smallest money caught
Within four hours, forgotten fourteen years
Later, until I remember prison for these boy,-men,
Left to sit in sadness rest to live, nothing after.

I am 67-years-old, they said
To me as I faltered in Dollar
Store, "I would work if I could
I would care for customers,
Cashier their Christmas gifts
Their unusual and delicate items,
What they could afford!"

They said softly, "Not now dear friend
Is someone waiting for you? You
Deserve rest from weary travels!"
"Did you know when I was 19-years-
Old, I flew to Europe, had love this rose
In New York City, I gave her a rose. She
Insisted I stay overnight on her floor

While she sobbed for my fate, as
My wisdom within me said no
It was not time to blossom, be forgiven!" 
She guided me to The Old Crick Museum
Center of city, huge, wandering one
Day together, with me in bus to Kennedy
Kissed in public on that bus. Yes, insisted
To follow me to International Airport
Bound for Amsterdam, flew to Old City"
Only Memories as two children, me

Child vagabond, flying into Innocence
And Experience, walking, ridding bike;
Now reporting my old story to
Dollar Store to busy clerk, she took
Time to listen as she unbounded dozens
Of dolls for children, hot cars for children.
"Sir, you deserve rest, walked life's only
Journey. Now just do what's natural,"

Sit by my fire, write my stories good
Sweet memories, now of my beauty
My own sweetness." Of course, all she
Said was this, "You deserve , your arthritis
Does it hurt today, you're back, we love
Your stories." I make them fashion musical
Words into pictures of my past for my love,
For this woman I stayed eleven years later
Now from that point almost 37 years ago,

More than memory, this realty, better
Than any thing imaginably, mind
Thinking back ever back, she reminds
Me, "Dear, live now, live in 'The Now!'
Joy in Good Fortune, Let our hearts joyful
We rejoice in life itself joy in life itself."
So college girls 48 years ago, reminiscent
Of my pride gone before all those falls,
My wife for 36 years, "Dear one, I knew
What this meant on June 12, nearly four
Decades more than half our lives lived
Now memories don't count. It's now
Still fashion your poetry, poems of light!"

Published by elgwyn

I was a University and community college instructor. I am an ordinary man writing for artistic reasons, and simple taste-- blogs are an answer to high priced self-publishing. Walt Whitman had to print his 1000 paper books himself because in 1855 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 poetry. In all ages there have been writers writing out of their own reasons. I am an older man with fewer computer skills than my daughter. Blogs let me reach an audience missed by books, and I stand a better chance to reach a wider audience. My two self-published books, Winter from Spring, and Meditations on Gratitude, Charles E Taylor, MFA, Xlibris.com and a third coming out sometime next year, through The Book Patch: For Patty Brown... satisfy needs to hold books, and, yet, still read as electronic books which are easier to produce than paper books. The blog allowed me to write a compendium of my writing. I can combine composition with production. Wordpress provides word processing with production. When the writer finishes writing they press publish and then a finished piece. I’m happy to present to you a slice of my personal writing. Do enjoy what you read!

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