May I Add Majesty in Voice

I was young, just 17-years-old

Long in my deliberations, thinking

Here nor there. My mind rampent

With my body, with the other, her

Dear soprano, we felt love in hiding,

Yet, my voice rose in adoration of beauty,

First tenor, I could sing to high “C.”

Lord forgive me for years of waste,

But until I was 55-years-old, Sing

John Rutter praise the Lord. May

Light of presence, now, I believe,

Oh, my Jesus me Lord Almighty,

You’ve come to me as I turn 68,

On September 11th, another day

Of infamy, but for me tears here,

In our Home, on my birthday,

My good wife working then for our

Government, the VA lock-down

Messages we might be going

To war, who were these suicide

Jet bombers, killing three thousand,

Some leaping to avoid flames? Be

Ever with them Lord– even now

Oh, Jesus!, my tears drop hot liquid

For the Cross, Muslim, Jew, Buddhist

Holy fire, as I approach my birthday,

As I remember those 3,000 souls,

People with children, with families.

Husbands, Wives, People All sacraficed,

On my birthday, I saw the rolling smoke

Clouds engulf first respond, , ground

To dust to ash, where are they stood?

Oh, Lord? Take care of their children.

The innocents, the bystanders not even

In twin towers, not given chances, may

We all yet believe something good.

Forgive me Lord for I knew you not,

Have denied you once, then declared.

I cannot leave You, I give over to those

Those sacrificed in spite, hate, and nothingness.

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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