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 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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