Advice on how to succeed
Here is how it works.
To each one a certain role
may be assigned.
The scientist gets his degree
that tells him what
he is to do.
The historian is told
in receiving his degree
perhaps to teach
or to further discover.
Some people get their English
degrees and are told to teach.
(It is not important who
tells them – these things are assumed).
Others in this field go on
to get advanced degrees
and are told to write
and comment upon things.
These are the ones who
will appear in Anthologies
the writers and poets who will be
read, commented and discussed
by students.
This is the way things work.
Everyone’s assignment and directions in how
to self-actualize is to gain
awards in the execution of their
roles.
But things aren’t that simple
for everyone.
Some are never told,
“This is your role,”
or which might be easier,
“this and nothing else, is your role.”
For me, first my role
Was that of scientist and Engineer:
creator, designer of things.
Then it was Social Worker,
applying Psychological Knowledge
and skills to healing minds…
All the while I was poet
and writer.
All these competing roles…
am I less of each
because of so many
roles?
Greatness alludes me.
Who am I?
I wonder…
A Final Solution
I sat down tonight
with my friend
Despair…
we spoke for hours and hours…
I was hypnotized
As the night drew onward
he became more passionate
He had a plan,
a solution -
a final plan,
as it were.
Yet, I couldn’t go through
with it.
I was scared,
confused,
didn’t have the stomach for it…
slowly
over time
he just faded away,
like an apparition.
I knew he’d be back
and we’d talk again,
and he’d bring up his plan
and maybe I’d listen,
yes, I’d at least listen,
that much is certain.
Secret Companions
Despair is a companion
I’ve known well,
it almost seems that he is a part of me…
We’ve had a unique relationship
few would understand -
it was our intention -
we invented our own language.
Since he came back,
we have been talking endlessly,
we have so much catching up
to do.
There’s no time to think of anything else
these days…
Words, I cannot express
to anyone else
he understands -
I’d only be angry if I tried
to explain to anyone else
what I’m feeling…
there’s that disconnection.
It’s amazing the things
we find to discuss,
despair and I.
He tells me he has a sister
and how perfect
she would be for me…
I dream of her,
of resting in her arms
and a final serenity.
The Best Thing I’ve Ever Done
I forget how it happened,
was a kneeling?
Doesn’t matter.
It wasn’t a surprise.
She picked it out.
Had no doubt I was going
to get it.
While it is true
that many other details
around this event
have faded
over the years,
I do remember,
that though there was
no surprise surrounding
this event,
she had tears in her eyes
when she held the ring.
I made her happy…
I think that’s got to be
the most right
and best thing
I’ve ever done
in my life.
Bruce Whealton
Show me how you see me – Three Poems, Three Parts
Poem I.
Part I.
She asked,
“show me how
you see me.”
I said I cannot draw or paint.
So, I tried to paint
a picture
of her
with words -
a poem
to serve
as a painting
of what I saw
when I saw her.
Part II.
My challenge was
to convey something
beyond
what mere descriptive words
can do -
my desire/challenge
was to show her
or any reader
what I alone
was seeing (or feeling),
to convey something
of the nature of
an impression.
Part III.
What I saw…
She stood just over
five feet,
so very thin
and delicate.
I remember her falling
and I was so afraid
that if I were to
pick her up
I might break something…
and what I felt,
was something soft.
I’d imagine my arms
wrapped in pillows
so I both could hold her
closely, feel her touch
and hold her softly.
Advice to those wanting publication
Tell your stories,
paint your pictures
in verse…
be concise,
add passion
use vivid imagery
paint your reader
a picture
with words.
The Dark
There is a place
in the bedroom
that’s so much darker
than the rest of the room
and there is something there
you’ve known it,
sensed it’s presence…
your mind tells you to deny
it’s existence…
you feel childish
for believing in it.
You rationalize,
that in all these years
that I’ve noticed its
presence, or thought I had,
if there was something there
something intending harm
why would it have not acted?
Why does it wait?
Maybe, it draws energy
or finds some demon pleasure
in our fear.
Maybe it puts thoughts in our minds
and nightmares -
showing us what it wants to do…
to move out of
the corner
or the closet
and make us one with itself,
one with the darkness
wrapping us in it’s veil
or shroud of darkness,
forever.
I think we survive
and cope
through rational denial,
or by pretending it’s not real
or not really there
in the dark.
January 24, 2010
Bruce Whealton
Silent deserted
beach walk
alone
Uncle Demos
Uncle Demos
Who were you?
Brother of my great-great-Grandfather Stephen.
I found your grave
in the dark -
I think that was yours.
It says you died 55 years ago.
It was rather serendipitous
that I found your grave…
The cemetery on Cemetary Road -
(yep, they spelled the road wrong)
isn’t marked.
There isn’t even a headstone for you,
just a flat to the ground, overgrown marker
etched with your name -
our name.
The sun had gone down,
it was dark,
when I found your grave marker.
I know so little about you,
just a few facts.
I don’t know why I came here.
This doesn’t add anything
to my understanding of my family history
(or my understanding of me)
or my understanding of you.
Maybe a name
carved in stone
imparts truth
and meaning…
I wonder if decades after
my death
someone will remember me
and wonder
who I was
and want to see
the mark I left behind.