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 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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