Alice

She lay in her bed

Bunched in yellow skin

Yelling, “Ma, I got to go!”

My grandmother weak

Of mind vowed

Twenty-five years ago

To take her into every

Condition, apartment

Life like no poverty

Known in our dimming

Past as California receeded

Into nothingness, rough

Into more than we

Could bare, mire left alone

In our thirst for homeland,

Alice could not know walking

Set daily into non-motion

Legs bunched into brief

Wisdom without intellegence

She did not read, but my brother

And I drove her over edge of night.

Published by elgwyn

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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