Walking Along the Streets of Hartford I wrote Poems

Last November walking

Into another December light

Slant lines invisible because

Of pain before, so more into my bones,

Neck swollen, ears atuned to autumn

To compositions of Saint-Saens, his great

becoming Organ, the third Symphony,

Organ Symphony, wisdom, unfureled

Doesn’t care to come as swiftly as age.

I was fifty, twiddled half of life away, there

Modulation to major key, I’m getting older

Pines in background, more horns singing

This is memory of the of 67th birthday

Christmas; who could have seen, thought

Foretold, wife, daughter, magic

Cat, ah, Pepper the Cat, deceased dogs

Garage of grey, silver little vehicle,

Car, not my own, yet, we know, Davorak

Something as pain swells into New World Symphony,

Another joint shut, neck snap, my mind,

Notes rise, another joint, organ with strings sings

As I walk mentally back, dingyness, it’s my mind

Ah, what’s left of greenery, little eatery, finest places

Is it not spring already anticapated in winter

Mine is everlasting walk, walk, no home all my life,

Never any home at age 17, something was gone,

Meaning into view, more evnecence yogi, guru

Master, Roshi, Lay person, member, simple

Member of pastor who seeks, is it God relavant

To persons, male, female, Gay, Lesbian, other

No Zen practionar would wince, there are

Others, and now, no others reclaimed in creek

Side flowing from Japan, John baptising

In God’s Holy Name, make way, and now

Back to 67, I will reach 68, pass mother, past age,

What am I finding? What divides age from age,

Then 58, I could no longer move, body worn.

Start into my own vision, my written baptism,

This the woman who bore me out by praying to understand

Brilliance of her boy, I wondered about becoming more,

I was off to college, off on prairie grass. in Iowa

Nebraska, Colorado of vocation, then to South Dakota

Out of Illinois or Iowa, There river in South Dakota,

We reached Moursouri, Big Sioux, Little Sioux,

I’d left Des Moines River behind for my own work,

Ah mother you gave me life, the tears, now if you

Could see Turtle creek, mind set theater rising, no master

No Roshi, no elevated teacher, no minister or master

Higher, than the hierarchy of Church, Hindu saints

There it is, Saint-Saens unfolding into streams,

This Steam, THE Stream , mighty giving each ocean

Drop of liquid sand left drying in prairie, each poem,

Grass, pain forgotton of monentary monetary gush

Notes, fanfare, full strings, horns, trumpets, then money

This is Prairie, The Might Forge of Evolution, no heralding

Church since This is writing, flair, tears, back, honed

Writing, this is it, my form was never music, never piano

Tears come from words of Ah soaring, Saint-Seans, water

Of organ is momentary, without writing there is no mood;

Writing lasts forevere, no sand’s edge would, could

Unfurl grateness in Shakspeare, Homer, Lear, Mc Beth

Odyssy More Real, devided, Spring and All, music written,

Fall Falconer come, come to me as I write, music becomes word.

Fall moving into Spring

Fall moving into writing, winter about writing, greatness

Poetry, then spring of unfolding into words, vocation met

Never hiding, just lagging, never-ending jet black into writing

Ideologies, now leaf unfurled in more than trees, humanity,

No understanding of trees into keyboards, from papyrus,

Save sand becoming ink, oceans becoming poems, paper

Will be saved, as politicians fritter away animal

Strength, we writers standing high above alter

Gashing each gorge out of reclaimed earth,

To make tie tacks for devastating politicians, who fear

Division by brown people, now Korean, then Iranian,

Then ever bigger populations we could move, farms

Owned by little white men when writing playing out

Playing forward to my own writing, left clearer like

Chinese, Indian, children of a left over God

Each finding necessary, each bomb cemating children

Writing left behind in the Ancient aching jaws of death,

This will remain into spring, sleeping turmoil, now poetry,

When life arives far beyond human understanding.

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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