OH, God how I hurt!

See, it is my neck, throbbing, tingling damning

Into shoulders, tongue, not eyes, even teeth, incisors

They my eyes see, again, they see more, more, I look on

Into space as Oh let lose another, day release for my Pearl,

Into Pound of fat from body, not my brain of neurons which

Sit on top my shoulders with memory, antiquity of reason,

Nothing remains in another land, Oh Jerusalem, that pain!

Let loose like cannon into heaven, all fallen, gone into hell

Angles fell, Lucifer first jumped overboard, never found

Bottom, bottomless, Second? Who was second among fallen

Angles? Why, it was pain, pain, pain, was second in condemned,

See, there is more than pain, that beauty, truth, wisdom,

Oh, poet laurel given all who write, that shiner into compassion

Flying high of thought of beautiful image, metaphor connecting

Above this day, this night, this in between, this flight of doves,

Especially morning, when I sit like Shikantaza, sit lasting,

Yet all meditation class, teacher, I come to write story in verse

Fallen angle pain gone for five hours, so I use my twelve

Pound thinking device no computer could ever touch twice

Ever touch, no grace in circuit board, stamped, printed without

Design engineering into mock ceramic board, no compassion

However, head, my idea maker, “my create a poem,” thoughtfulness

More than every day, poetry lives in my ferocious mind before

Lead wires, soldered into wordsmith rhyme, organic poetry lives

On into night, Lucifer never knew, or know or, pain, defeated,

Cannot Rejoice– Night of celebration, delight, of course, in dance

Word compassion, so dare we have compassion, on to vibrant

Life for Lucifer, angle of light, the beautiful felt only envy?

OR pain, second in control, only throb, no, neither bound to me

Not One has me, I am free in poetry, I am free, I’m free.

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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