A Soliloquy of Reflection

For a child, Benevolent Nature
protects and keeps Life simple,
carefree; Life is like a slinky
that moves with no other
purpose than to make one
laugh. Youth is Delirious and
Puerile, Oblivious to Time;
those Elderly have always
been that way; they have
never been Young with smooth
cheeks and straight backs.
They have always been
Ignorant of Romance, while
Youthful bodies Percolate with
Passion and Sensuality. Life
is filled with a Cornucopia of
Wonder, the Impudence of
Egotistical Juvenality, a Great
Extravaganza, a Full Palette
of human experiences. Eventually
this Illusion disperses like a
Vapor and the Juvenal becomes
aware of the Transience of
Life. Yet, they remain Selectively
Ignorant of any real Premonitions
of Death. Than, as if by Chicanery,
there is a Sudden Twist given
to the Kaleidoscope of Life, a
Peek at Rancorous Old Age,
a Splendid Misery, causing them
to shout, "Unfair!" Life is Now
preciously Animated and Fervent,
while Death remains in the Wings,
dramatic as a Shakespearean
Actor who cries out, "I die!"
Beguiled by Vigor they, too, begin
to seek the Fountain of Youth or
the Ambrosia - that food of the
Ancient Greek and Roman gods,
which ensured their Immortality.
Suddenly, Remembrance is
Enormous and Obliterating. The
Past defies forgetting, and what
are we but our Stories? They are
the Hands that have Molded our
Hearts and Minds for Today. Life
becomes Divided, like a Curtain
falling between Acts, and we
are that Youth, an Actor playing
two parts - those between Days
Gone By and Days Now lived.
Another Twist of the Kaleidoscope
of Time, Senescence Awaits us,
leaving us the Loneliest approach
to Tomorrow, and, at best, only
a casual wish for death, nothing
more malignant, as others who
are now Young eat the same
Succulent Fruit that we did in
Yesteryear, that promised Fruit
of Life. We must hope their Future
retains all that we may have
lost, otherwise, Life would seem
nearly useless and sad, but for
those days of youth. There is
for us now a Painful Recollection
of Our Time of Opportunity, Our
Chance to Grab the Ring, Our
Time to slake the Thirst for
Love. But, now all we may have
is a horrible, Haunting Grief
for all that is Gone. Life Echoes
Remorse - If only we had known.

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.

Wives of Vietnam Veterans

It has only just occurred to me that I should let my few followers, and especially those who have been so kind in taking an interest in my hopes, know that through the founder of "Wives of Vietnam Veterans," Danna Hughes, I have learned that my friend, Rich, is alive and well, living in Spokane, Washington.

My great hopes of finding Rich are expressed in one of my older posts, in a poem entitled, "Keeper of the Gate." How happy I am that Danna has been like a keeper of the gate for those of us married to Vietnam Veterans. Without her help and interest I would have never known that my dear friend, Rich, is still out there enjoying life to the full, as he always did.

Eventually I will write a poem about this. I already know the title and the image. It is of the Kopeck Tree, a tree that grows in tropical climes to great heights of 150 - 200 feet. It has a most unusual feature: hollow roots filled with water. For ancient tribes, these roots that have a support system over 30 feet in width served as a means of communication. When tapped and/or drummed the sound carried through the jungle. There is so much to share about this marvelous wonder, and a poem will serve it well. It will be an honor to write of it.

In "Keeper of the Gate" I used the symbol of a Banyan Tree, whose roots are aerial, to symbolize my reaching out to Rich over the vast amount of space between Pennsylvania and Washington State, all in the hopes of finding out what happened to him. We lost touch so abruptly that I was never settled. When I knew him best, he lived on a ranch in the rurals of Washington State and I helped name his animals. We shared much over the years.

This post is for you, Rich. It is for you and for the woman who now shares your amazing life. I hope to reconnect with you and to meet her someday when our paths once again, as they must, cross.

A Slice of Life, Unedited

Well, it’s true, our garage and house really did catch on fire, the fire marshal said so and the three fire companies that responded all agreed, without dispute.

I’ve always been particularly afraid of losing my home to a fire, not because I’m so materialistic as because our house burnt to the ground when I was in the first grade - nothing saved except my high-chair, which was great because my grandfather bought it for my first birthday, and it could be folded into a desk once the babe was able to sit on a chair at the kitchen table for the activity of food consumption.

I’m moving from my real topic.

The melted faces of my dolls, amidst the rest of the debris, are burned into my brain. So, when my husband, from whom I’m amicably separated, showed up at my apartment to give me the hateful news, I was shocked and felt great trepidation. I didn’t want to see the house. The house had much to do with our separation. This slice of life I’ll keep to myself; you will be thankful.

I didn’t go to our house until the insurance adjustor, building contractor and other people essential to the restoration of our lives were to meet us there. It wasn’t nearly as bad as I thought. Things started looking up.

The building contractor explained the amount of structural damage and what would be done for its repair. The insurance claims adjustor advised us of what we could expect in recompense for our lost possessions and for the restoration of others.

It was a wonderful surprise that brought a sense of elation when we were told that our insurance company would also provide us with housing comparable to what we lost and for the duration of the restructuring of our own. How accommodating! For the moment, we are ensconced in a Best Western Hotel, but we aren’t wondering how we’re going to pay for it.

Now, the car is a slightly different story. We are short a little over $7000.00 in being able to pay it off with the insurance money. That somewhat ruins dinner, if I had any to ruin (that tale comes later in my insipid story.) Still, overall, I’m a happy camper. Friends have loaned us their PT Cruiser for the duration. They have cars out the wazooooo. And, they are very kind and generous.

What I don’t like out the wazoooo is the negativity stemming from my husband’s half empty glass of water. It makes me want to give him several half full glasses of Scotch to put him out for some time. The addition of a couple of his anxiety medications might also bring some much needed relief.

How easily we forget! In the beginning of this hell, Bruce had seen a family on the news that had lost all of their possessions in a fire. They escaped with only their pajamas and, apparently, they didn’t have insurance to cover their losses. Bruce then said he felt grateful. Well, that has died along with the rest of the Grateful Dead, except even they are more alive with more grateful friends and roadies.

In all fairness, Bruce has undergone much more stress than I have. He was in the house when it caught fire. He had some minor smoke inhalation requiring a treatment and a day of recuperation. He has to make the majority of the return phone calls because most things are in his name.

He also scorns me because I decided not to travel the 260 miles to our friend’s house where he was to pick up the PT Cruiser. I don’t socialize with Bruce. We have different styles. I like to leave a gathering early and head for my own tidy little home. Bruce prefers to carry an overnight bag and sleeping roll in hopes they’ll invite him for a slumber party. He likes to continue the conversation in front of the wide open door with our feet planted toward the exit until I get a stiff neck from looking over my shoulder. I like to say, ‘So long,” and mean it. He returned from his trip a very unhappy chap.

The serenity prayer has become so clichéd but it is still so true. We need the strength to change the things we can, the ability to accept the things we can’t and the wisdom to know the difference. Or, something like that. How quickly we can go from being appreciative of our circumstances and maintaining our empathy for others in far worse situations, to feeling overwhelmed and negative, worrying about things that are down the road.

I would like to slap Bruce, and I’m sure he would like to give me a good thwack too. Thank God, he’s sleeping now. I haven’t eaten in two days and he refused to go just down the road for a pizza, informing me with the sternest of face, that he very nearly killed himself on the way from our friend’s home as he drifted off the road in a state of exhaustion. I don’t belittle this in the least. I’ll be happy to have peanut M & Ms for dinner. I do object to his refusal to see the brighter side. I am disappointed to see how easily, how quickly, all of us can lose our perspective by forgetting how fortunate we are.


This is not my best, nor is it the most entertaining of my writings. Tomorrow, I will look at it and blush with shame at its worthlessness. A friend of mine once told me that the purpose of a journal isn’t to showroom one’s best scribbling but to showcase our impressions at the time, without an edit.

May we always remember that the people we love are more important than possessions. Let’s remind one another that, when going through hard times, if it doesn’t require much imagination to realize there are thousands and thousands of people who would quite happily exchange their situation for ours, we are downright obligated by the dignity of those with less to be glad for what we have and to share what we can.

I'm also remembering with much satisfaction and sense of security that I have my own little apartment to retreat to if Bruce continues to wallow in the mire of a mud puddle in life.

What Makes a Poet Write

When I read a poem, I always wonder what inspired it. Figuring this out in any kind of satisfying manner is often difficult, particularly with those poets who write, dare I use the word that comes to mind, with obscurity. I suppose if I were a painter, abstract art would never appeal to me. I'm not denigrating such; it just wouldn't be my chosen method. It is so with words. I choose mine carefully and reach deep into my heart to put into those words what I feel and the emotions that rule while I write.

The below poem, "Sixty Minutes Away" was written for my husband, Bruce. We have been separated for two years. I guess you could say I've taken a sabbatical from my marriage, for personal reasons I'll not share here - not at this time anyway.

A long time ago Oprah interviewed three people who had also taken sabbaticals from their marriage - two women and one man. The promulgator of this life event is probably Joan Anderson who wrote three books about her own marriage. One of them pertained to the sabbatical she took from her own marriage, entitled: A Year by the Sea.