in her questions
written April 2013
I’ve taken the plunge and nailed down a date for introducing my book, Broken Consciousness: Reflections of an Epileptic. On Thursday, March 28, at 7:00, at our local library, I will be talking about how I came to write poems about the epilepsy I’ve had since I was twelve years old. Our library director supports local authors and she has been gracious and generous in arranging this event for me.
A student I taught when she was in fourth grade (a talented writer even then) contacted me on Facebook and said both she and her mom are coming. That is very satisfying. I’ll have to count my books to make sure I have enough for a nice book table for selling.
Since my book is rather short (80 pages), I think I’ll read only one poem from the book itself, and share other poems I have written about living with epilepsy.
Keep your fingers crossed for me that I can be calm as I talk, and answer people’s questions with confidence.
March 28…I have more than enough time to plan.
At the time of arrival I saw you leaving
At the time of beginning you were withering away
At the time you must be here with me
You were sulking behind the curtain
At the time I needed your support
You were hiding beneath the invisibility cloak
Why do you do this, Why can’t you be a little
compassionate for me?
Why can’t you see how much I want you to be
with me in happy times and sad ones as well?
Why don’t you see me in the same light?
Why?- I wonder… I wonder… I wonder…
Random musings about my father. We spend so much time honoring mothers, women in general. Bedrock, sacrificing, patient or of great endurance…women are worthy of such honor. Fathers, men, are what? Taken for granted? Tainted by imperfections that diminish their worth. What is it? Do they contribute to this?
My father never told me he loved me. I never thought about it until later in life. He didn’t hug. He didn’t touch. He worked two jobs for most of his life. He worked until the day a stroke brought him down at seventy four years of age. His work ethic, his sense of duty was astounding. Not once did I ever hear my dad brag or did I ever once see him stay home from work ill. But aside from the most incredible outward persona and example, who was he inside? I never knew.
He left home at 13 years of age. He worked in saw mills, coal mines and rail yards. He lived in a violent place outside Panther, West Virginia, one of eleven children. Eventually, he made his way into the Army in WWII and served honorably in the hell hole Aleutian Islands and the historic Al-Can Hiway. Again, what did all that, amazing stuff actually, create inside my dad? I never knew. He didn’t offer and I didn’t know enough to ask.
I rubbed his forehead as he gasped in the end. I held his hand and said “I love you”. It was too late to hear it back.
For those of you that are a son, daughter or someone looking at that older gent puttering away in the shop, watching television, dozing in a chair…be courageous and gently, repeatedly seek more about that man. You the father, make the time to say it, write it, show it…that you care about those around you. Go ahead look them in the eye, say it…’I love you’.
I said it was random. Just contemplating today, while looking at an old picture.
It is quite difficult to understand a problem, especially, when it is personal and is responsible for the anxiety you are dealing with. Understanding it doesn’t mean the end of the problem. It just provides you the way to search for such methods which will help you deal with it. The problems doesn’t end so soon. It has to be dealt with, solved deliberately step by step. Problems are a part of life, I have heard. Some even say- life is nothing without the problems one faces everyday.
What does life mean to me? I am trying to understand nowadays.
Life for me is-
A burden, yes its true!
A thing of beauty
A dark beauty
A lively freedom
A hungry beast
An enlightening saint
I am trying to understand what life means to me? Is there any importance of problems in life? What do I mean by problems? The questions with answers, so conflicting, yet true always at different times.
If I ask you, what will be your answers to these questions? Do share!
Wonderment. My grandson was at a sports event. All eyes save his, and mine, were on a bunch of young girls struggling to make sense of soccer. He caught the glint of something silver, high in the sky. He stared in wonderment and muttered ‘PaPa look’. I turned and saw a jet very high above. His eyes, to me, were filled with such joy and someday, I’m sure, the questions of how, why, who and maybe.
What if today was the day
The day that defined your life
Your life and all that you have done
Have done along the way?
What if the moment was now
Was now, and you didn’t know
Didn’t know or even have a clue
A clue or a hint as to how?
Does the thought of that draw a smile
A smile or a gasp or a frown
A frown of regret or even a tear
A tear, wishing you had awhile?
Would you long for another day
Another day to prove yourself
Prove yourself and what you would do
Would do, or maybe say?
I will not waste this day
This day right here, right now
Right now, though I might want to sit
Today might be the day.
Fear of feeling good,
Fear of being joyous,
What does it mean?
Darkness has become so habitual, it means:
Lights, so distant.
What is light?
The beauty of the life is light:
Life, so musical.
How is life musical?
Life blooms with its pure lullaby, hence musical:
Musical, so mesmerizing
There are answers to every question.
The question holds no chance before answers.
The fear shatters now,
It is good to feel good;
It is good to feel joyous.
Getting to know what it means to live
Doesn’t sound so greedy to me
But whenever I try doing so
I’m called an impostor
Trying to know the secret ways that lie within
Within our reach but so beyond
I want to know what it means to live
I want to know why do I want to know it
The questions aren’t questions
There are no answers
But only the truth, still hidden beyond my reach
I just grieve; grieving to find it.