Hartford Cemetery Not

I have asked for two clergy officiating memorial after cremation,

Dust, gray ash, death pall of my woody skin, but Turtle Creek

Flows into my heart, lungs, kidneys, bones, these are part

Of our home. Organs constructed sometimes fail, pacemaker

Functioning well, however… Cigarettes gone for 18 years,

Arthritis in my spine pushed to ache some, cataract glasses

My new fitted eyes, my lungs again inflate fully, feel well,

All have conspired as I grow older at age 68, work body,

I have reached into Exercise, blood, pounding into organs

Cannot Lie– it’s showing negative years ahead, I’m

Ready when death creeps in, looked at blood assessment,

Always some tipped into red lines, blood cannot lie, anemia,

Stage three kidney disease, emphysema, I need two inhalers,

4000 units Vitamin D, biological shots every four weeks,

Iron pills, hum of battery in my chest, potassium no potatoes.

Yes no bananas, urine yellow, Kidneys the worst severe,

Last year, Influenza A four litters saline into vein,

Bones level at four to seven pain, sometimes below

My pain, there is mindfulness, resting in my attitude

Of Water five litters daily, bones in jaws, yet I laugh

In what I demanded, neck upper spine lower spine–

Hartford cemetery looks serene, quiet shall I rest? Thinking

I know so much, my own Sage. I awake from Zen sitting– I live,

Children open doors for me, old man lives. Blessed

With trust, some story of toys my smart Phone compared

To three-year-old’s plastic phone she’s the sage as she

Compares Toy to toy, our buttons, nods wits functioning

Lithe she sits in Lotus position as she smiles at me, next evening

Ten-year-old boy knocks at our door. Fascinated I recount stories

My Mile Swim Award, I am sailing boats Iowa lakes just beyond

His age on Aqua Cats, we talk of astronauts, Si Fi, presidents

All became eagle scouts, my merit badges, Star Rank earned

Popcorn door to door for camp, Truly this is My time in life,

Always knew I would come Into my own. I am there at age 68,

Sixty-eight-years old, like Child I am returned like Blake,

In old man’s clothing, I have baseball cap come home, poetry

When “mom” says no not this year then she says, “Oh, why not,

It’s popcorn after all.” pulls ten dollars out, late from cupboard

After he’s left she makes bag with big microwave popcorn,

I eat hot dogs, remember bubble gum, penny candy now

Ten cents, it’s all the same, caramel is best, Even getting

Angry at my wife, “I’m sorry dear one!” She chides me

As she fills my pill keeper, my medicines are no excuse,

She won’t Play with me, I tell her of wanting to go to galaxies

When I was 12, flung into my night sky, Voyager One and Two–

Oh. She softens, we talk, then play in messages

No one else knows, when I get mad, she recoils

As from hot flame, then we play Pokey Mon Go

She helps me catch dragon flies I don’t have, but now I do,

Despite body on fire, I ignore, no Crematorium for me

My smart phone my gift from her, already out dated,

Though maintain updates downloaded from Apple Juice,

Some Gimmick, or are we safe from Hackers, yes they

Cannot get us, today our childlike minds are safe,

We play another game one more time Poky Mon Goes

Woman and man, both have sailed to Byzantium.

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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