I believe in being prepared for any given situation. It isn't because I'm a pessimistic person; I think it is just good common sense. Hence, I've entitled my blog "Even Nothing is Something."

This covers my butt in any event. On any given day I can feel great exaltation that I have done something grand. I can scribble fiercely when my thoughts are leaping across the meadows of my mind like a happy little colt in the month of May, or my mind and writing can be as dry and arid, as cold and without life, as the Gobi desert - because even Nothing is Something.

I want to thank all of my fellow artists who work through other means and forms and who sell their work on the wonderful artist's site "Etsy," a place to buy and sell all things handmade, along with vintage items and supplies for their craft. They are a great group of people.

Those who have links to their site on my blog represent only a few of those whom I wish to include. Just click on one of those links and join the Etsy community. It is free. They are a great group of artists who have relieved me of my money in the most delightful of ways. If it weren't for their encouragement, I would have never shared my work through this blog.

Thank you my darling friends!

Enjoy my blog - The Poet or Not - More or Less

Monday, May 3, 2010

Poetry in Pain

In the order of blogging, this post is now going to precede one that is very important to me. It is a thank you to Danna Hughes for helping me to find at least some informtion regarding a dear friend, a Vietnam Vet, who fell off the grid of my cyberspace some time ago. It has been at least 3 years since I connected with Rich. Danna is the founder of the organization "Wives of Vietnam Veterans."

I had written a poem in his honor, hoping he might find it on an internet search. The title of this older posted poem is, "The Keeper of the Gate." Rich is a prolific researcher of the internet writing community, particularly as it pertains to Vietnam. With just the right clicks of his mouse, or by typing my name into a search engine, by golly, he just might find me. And, Danna has promised that should he be in touch with her, as he sometimes is, she will pass along my blog and email address.

I've learned that he is happily enjoying love and life again in a wonderful relationship with a nurse who works for a VA hospital in the State of Washington. I'm wondering if he wore a tuxedo for his wedding. Rich far more prefers an oilskin outback coat covered with the hair of lambs, kids, goats and llamas. I wonder if Llola is still alive, his first llama and the one I named. Rich chose to spell her name with two Ls in honor of her specics. That is Rich. But, apparently he isn't living on his ranch anymore - the place where I best knew him and where "Keeper of the Gate" is composed of so many memories.

Now, finally, to the subject of this post. Just when we begin to accurately bat back the fast balls of life, life throws us a curve we could never have expected. Such has been the case with mine. When I started this blog, I made a promise to my readers, a promise all poets make, I would neither hide my pain nor run from the poetic task of sharing it in common with others.

I wrote this poem while I slept. When I awakened, I was tempted to trust my memory and scribble it down when I was truly awake and ready to face the day. You know how that goes! I decided to do the sensible thing and crawl out of bed to scratch it out on paper before typing and posting it.

The title of this poem is taken from the title of my book manuscript of poetry: THE POET: A RIVER TO THE SEA.

Note to my many readers who haven't become followers: Please, take the time to click on the link to become a follower. I enjoy all of your emails and appreciate the time you take to read my work. But, I would love to have at least one more "follower" to give me a baker's dozen! LOL This is called shameless self-promotion!

River to the Sea

I live on the ragged edge
of sanity, where I
have peered over the
terribleness of a
precipice of a passion
that could kill. And,
I have heard ululations
of mourning carried by
waters of Rivers to the
Sea, seeping into the
silence of suffering,
where there is no redress
for a bruised and aching
heart. I am a concubine
to the throes of anguish.
The black cowl of night
settles upon my shoulders,
while the burdened but
faithful moon climbs down
from the sky to sit across
from me by night, surrounded
by a rainbow, bringing gentle
tides of waves, washing my
weary soul, cleansing this
blanched and bleary life
prostituted to pain, an
unwilling participant in the
unexpected destruction of
trust and love, abandoning
me in the rubble, musing over
this precipice of pain, until,
somehow, my weary heart,
bathed by the washing of
Rivers to the Sea, begins to
hum a lullaby leading me,
finally, to an untroubled sleep.

No comments:

Post a Comment