Saturday Morning Epiphany

This morning after Robert left for work, I sat in the living room with my coffee, looking out my front window. 

Although I saw nothing spectacular there, nothing actually drawing my attention, I was suddenly aware that I was aware of nothing. In the prevailing silence, I realized something significant.

The wind was blowing my wind chimes and I could hear them tinkling. The canvas awning over the patio gently rippled and I could see the fronds of the fern on the glass table swaying. It was mesmerizing and I had a sense that I was floating, too, and it seemed so real. I felt I was the wind, even though I knew I was only a witness to it. In the quiet, the wind and my awareness of it had become one, and everything moving in the wind had also blended with me.

It suddenly became clear to me. Everything and everyone is connected through awareness. We are a part of all things, even though they do not define us. We can sense our thoughts and feelings, just like the wind, but we are not those either, only a silent witness to them. We feel pain, sorrow, anger, doubt, happiness and joy, and those still are not who we are.

Spontaneously and naturally, these things all arise on their own within our awareness. It is only important we recognize and validate their passing as part of our growth.

Even though I knew these things, I learned again that no one thing, or feeling, or feature of the universe is separate from the whole. The real me, my true self, is a part of the whole of existence.

That's profound.

His Hands

I was thinking, you can tell so much about a man by looking at his hands. Hands are so expressive. They can be kind, generous and loving, or they can be tough and aggressive and very unkind.

Are they working hands, calloused and rough, yet gentle? Are they hands that live at a desk, always clean and smooth and ever busy? Are they well-manicured and neat, or nervous, their nails chewed to the nub?  Are they wild and expressive, flying this way and that in a conversation?  Or, are they shy and pocketed, subdued like their owner?

However hands look, they seem to have their own personality.  And, maybe, they're connected to a man's heart ...

His Hands

His hands should have

their own identity,

a name, perhaps,

befitting each vocation

they enjoy:

Skillful Hands --

Finely tuned,

they hold every tool

with equal panache.

Each callous earned,

a trophy,

but self-aware

and gentle

as they browse

my every curve.

Comical Hands --

The right one

scraping whiskers,

razoring down

a field of white

revealing trails of

pink-skinned angles.

I laugh at the silly poses

skewed by the left

so the right

won't miss a spot.

My just reward,

a foamy kiss.

Angry Hands --

His driving hands,

hands that slap

the wheel

as assholes

go too slow

or cut in front,

turn signals

up their butts

with their heads.

I'm glad the

angry hands

are only known

to live in cars.

Those hands --

I love his hands.

End of a Marriage

I saw this on another website today and it touched me deeply.  I don't know who wrote it.  The only thing I could find as to the author was this:  Credits: Prince (NBBC)

End of a Marriage

When I got home that night as my wife served dinner, I held her hand and said, "I've got something to tell you."  She sat down and ate quietly.  Again I observed the hurt in her eyes.  Suddenly I didn't know how to open my mouth, but I had to let her know what I was thinking.  I want a divorce.

I raised the topic calmly.  She didn't seem to be annoyed by my words.  Instead, she asked me softly, "Why?"

I avoided her question. This made her angry. She threw away the chopsticks and shouted at me, "You are not a man!"

That night, we didn't  talk to each other. She was weeping. I knew she wanted to find out what had happened to our marriage, but I could hardly give her a satisfactory answer.  She had lost my heart and  I have given it to Jane. I didn't love her anymore. I just pitied her.

With a deep sense of guilt, I drafted a divorce agreement which stated that she could own our house, our car, and 30% stake of my company.  She glanced at it and then tore it into pieces. The woman who had spent ten years of her life with me had become a stranger.  I felt sorry for her wasted  time, resources, and energy but I could not take back what I had said because I loved Jane so dearly.

Finally, she cried loudly in front of me, which was what I had expected to see. To me, her crying was actually a kind of release. The idea of divorce which had obsessed me for several weeks seemed to be firmer and clearer now.

The next day, I came  home very late and found her writing something at the desk.  I didn't have supper but went straight to bed and fell asleep very fast because I was tired after an eventful day with Jane.  When I woke up, she was still there at the desk writing.  I just did not care so I turned over and went to asleep again.

In the morning, she presented her divorce conditions.  She didn't want anything from me.  What she asked for was one month’s notice before the divorce.  She requested that during that one month, we would both struggle to live as normal a life as possible.  Her reasons were simple.  Our young son had exams in a month’s time and she didn't want to disrupt him with our broken marriage.

This was agreeable to me.  But she said something more.  She asked if I remembered how I had carried her into our bedroom on our wedding day.  I told her I did.  She requested that every day for the month’s duration, I am to carry her OUT of our bedroom every morning and to the front door.  I thought she must be going crazy!  But to make our last days together bearable, I accepted her odd request.

When I got to work, I told Jane about my wife’s divorce conditions.  She laughed loudly and said it was absurd.  "No matter what tricks she tries, she has to face the divorce."  She said scornfully.

My wife and I hadn't had any bodily contact since I told her I wanted the divorce, so when I carried her out on the first day, we both felt clumsy.   Our son clapped behind us, "Daddy is holding mommy in his arms!"   His words brought me a sense of pain.

From the bedroom to the living room, then to the door, I walked  with her in my arms. She closed her eyes and said softly, "Don’t tell our son about the divorce."   I nodded, feeling somewhat upset.  I put her down outside the door. She went to wait for the bus to work, while I drove alone to the office.

On the second day, both of us acted more easily.  She leaned into my chest and I could smell the fragrance of her blouse. I realized that I hadn't looked at this woman carefully for a long time.  I realized she was not young any more. There were fine wrinkles on her face and her hair was graying!  Our marriage had taken its toll on her.  For a minute, I wondered what I had done to her.

On the fourth day, when I lifted her up, I felt a sense of intimacy returning.  This was the woman who had given ten years of her life to me.  On the fifth and sixth days, I realized that our sense of intimacy seemed to be growing again.  I didn't tell Jane about this.  It became easier to carry her as the month slipped by.  Perhaps the everyday workout was making me stronger.

She was choosing what  to wear one morning.  She tried on quite a few dresses but could not find a suitable one. Then she sighed.  "All my dresses have grown bigger."  I suddenly realized that she had grown so thin.  That was the reason why I could carry her more easily.  Suddenly it hit me.  She had buried so much pain and bitterness in her heart.  Subconsciously, I reached out and touched her head.

Our son came in at that moment and said, "Dad, it’s time to carry mom out."  To him, seeing his father carry his mother out had become an essential part of his life.  My wife gestured to our son to come closer and hugged him tightly.  I turned my face away because I was afraid I might change my mind at this last minute.  I then held her in my arms, walking from the bedroom, through the living room, to the hallway. Her hand surrounded my neck softly and naturally.  I held her body tightly; it was just like our wedding day, but her much lighter weight made me sad.

On the last day, when I held her in my arms I could hardly move a step. Our son had gone to school. I held her tightly and said, "I hadn't noticed that our life lacked intimacy."  

I drove to the office and  jumped out of the car swiftly without locking the door.  I was afraid any delay would make me change my mind.  I walked upstairs.  Jane opened the door and I said to her, "I'm sorry, Jane, I don't want the divorce anymore.

She looked at me, astonished, and then she touched my forehead.  "Do you have a fever?"  She asked.

I brushed her hand off my head.  "I am sorry, Jane,"  I said, "I won’t divorce her.  My marriage was boring, probably because she and I didn't value the details of our lives, not because we didn't love each other anymore.  Now I realize that since I carried her into my home on our wedding day, I am supposed to hold her until death do us part."

Jane seemed to suddenly wake up. She gave me a harsh slap and then slammed the door and burst into tears.  I walked back downstairs and drove away in my car.  At a floral shop along the way, I bought a bouquet of flowers for my wife.  The salesgirl told me to write something on the card. I smiled and wrote, "I’ll carry you out every morning until death do us part."

That evening I arrived home, flowers in my hand, a smile on my face, and ran upstairs, only to find my wife in the bed, dead.  I later found out she had been fighting cancer for months and I had been so busy with Jane I didn't even notice.  She knew she would die soon and she wanted to save me from a negative reaction from our son, just in case we went through with the divorce.  At least in the eyes of our son,  I’m a loving husband.

The smallest details of our lives are what really matter in a relationship, not the house, car, property, or money in the bank. These create an environment conducive for happiness, but they cannot give happiness.  So many couples give up, not realizing how close they were to success when they gave up.

  

The Doppelganger

Daddy and Mama

Robert and I moved to Florida last September from Pennsylvania, just a couple of months after my father passed away. 

I was very close to Daddy and this past ten months has been a slow, but necessary, time of healing. Loving it here has helped, but I often think of the many conversations I had with him about our probable move. Daddy was all for the move and already planning to come down and stay for a month ("or forever", he teased). I miss him terribly and the road to healing has been slow -- at times, there have been more downs than ups, but I know in my heart that the move was good. Robert has been wonderful and my rock through it all.

The other day, I was puttering around town in our golf cart doing some errands and enjoying the beautiful weather. The honeysuckle was in full bloom along the streets, its scent sweet and intoxicating, and I noticed my favorite trees, the crepe myrtles, were greening up nicely everywhere, soon to wear their deep red flower bunches. Once, I even pulled over and parked in the grass so I could smell one of the huge flowers on a magnolia tree. It was all so peaceful and relaxing -- it really is paradise here and I'm continually amazed by the native plants and animals, many so different from those up north.

I wasn't in any particular hurry as I shopped for groceries, picked up a couple of things in the hardware store, and then headed to my last stop at CVS for vitamins. My mind was filled with thoughts of my new book and ways to market and publicize as I headed toward the checkout and got in the short line.

Suddenly, my world flip-flopped wildly, taking my breath away. The man just in front of me in line was Daddy. How could that be? I asked myself in disbelief. But this man did have the same build, the same thinning hair and clothes, and he was sitting in a red motorized scooter like my father used because of his painful knees and ankle. When he slowly reached up to the counter to swipe his credit card in the machine, I also saw my father's hand. That's when my emotions came crashing down and tears filled my eyes. Could it somehow be …

Then he turned to look at the cashier and I could see his features. No, this was not Daddy at all. As much as I wanted it to be him, this man was just a nice older gentleman in a red scooter making his purchase at the CVS drug store. I wiped my eyes with a tissue, took a deep breath, and struggled to regain my composure.

That's the way life works sometimes. Just when you least expect it, a sound, a song, a scent … or a nice elderly man in a red scooter, will trigger a sweet memory. Yes, it tugs at the heart, but it also brings a loved one close just one more time to help us heal.

I wonder if he would have been upset, had I asked him for a hug …

Anatomy of a Poet: The Truth Behind

"There is a brokenness out of which comes the unbroken. There is a shatteredness out of which blooms the unshatterable. There is a sorrow beyond all grief, which leads to joy. And a fragility out of whose depths emerges strength. There is a hollow space too vast for words through which we pass with each loss, out of whose darkness we are sanctioned into being." ~ Bri Maya Tiwari

That quote astutely describes not only my life, but the poetry in my newest book, "Anatomy of a Poet" .  

One of six children, I grew up in a small Ohio town and married my high school sweetheart at nineteen.  A Vietnam War widow at twenty, I went on too soon to marry and then divorce twice more.  I made a lot of choices, some good, some not so good, but as one of the poems in the book ends, "...at least I made choices.  How sad for those who merely hitchhike along, never daring to choose at all."

I have three beautiful daughters, nine grandsons, two granddaughters, and a wonderful partner, Robert Cosmar.  I have finally learned that true happiness begins and ends within.

"Anatomy of a Poet" was written over a period of nearly forty years.  The poetry is rich with memoir, rife with humor, and at times, it is sensual in nature and for adults only.  Most of the poems are at least semi-autobiographical, but it's also peppered throughout with pure fiction.  

Therein lies the challenge:  you'll have to read the book to decide which is which ...

Recent Reviews:

[In answer to the question: "This was only a short excerpt from my book. Did it make you want to read more?"]

"Yes it did make me want to read more, and I have ordered the book. It's my kind of poetry ... wonderful, marvelous, it touches on the realities of life." ~Jack Henry Kraven

"Yes, I will definitely read more! This is excellent writing, easily understood -- I am going to buy your book. Thank you!" ~Jeffery S. Tumblin

"The in-depth longing presenting here is very interesting. It makes one want to read more. Very good!" ~Walter Reed Mellott

"Yes, it did, and now I have your book and I love it!" ~Christine Campbell

"Beautiful poetry. I usually don't like poems that don't rhyme, but yours is different. Beautiful!" ~Dee Wagner

"Thank you and I agree with you that poetry must be understood to reach the soul. It must have sensitivity, conjure up vivid images when read, and touch the heart. Your poetry does all of that so well." ~Anonymous

"Yes! Definitely!" ~Diane Kohler

"Absolutely. Your poems are full of imagery, beautiful as to bring tears, and you made me laugh out loud." ~Vicki S. Ramsay

Why do Poets Write Poetry?

A friend once asked me why I write poetry. She had this pinched look on her face and I believe she secretly equated writing poetry with juggling rattle snakes, or sucking on a germy fly swatter. 

Well, maybe her expression wasn't quite that bad, but the look did remind me of someone who was sucking on a lemon wedge.

I don't know why poetry gets such a bad rap. I write fiction and non-fiction, too, and I can tell you, poetry is much harder to write. Writers and novelists have a lot of leeway and unlimited words to tell a story. When writing a poem, you have to condense it, without straying from the main theme and it, too, has a beginning, middle and end.

I can only speak for myself, but I'm reasonably sure other poets would understand. Maybe they can't explain the "why" any better than I, but they certainly understand. A poet writes poetry because they love poetry.

While I'm convinced writing poetry is not a disease, it just might be an addiction (with NO twelve-step program for recovery). Based on my friend's surprising question, I asked myself, "Why DO I write poetry?" I mean, other than the obvious, which is that I can't NOT write poetry. If that's an addiction, then I enjoy my addiction. In fact, I actually revel in it, scribbling thoughts and ideas wherever I am, on whatever I can find, and with total abandon.

But to be honest, I should have explained to my friend that for me to hold back a poem would be like trying to hold in a sneeze. When I finally allow it to bust out, it just feels good. Again, other poets would understand what I'm talking about.

To my friend, I simply explained that there are things inside that I have to get out. They're uncomfortable where they are. Think of it like having a mosquito bite you can't quite reach. When you finally find someone to scratch it, it just feels good.

So I've decided I'll live with my addiction, no matter what friends or anyone else might think. But geez oh man, I've got to make this short ... I feel a poetic sneeze coming on and it's gonna feel so damned good when I let it out ...

Hair Wax

I saw this on Facebook early this morning.  I have no idea who wrote it, but I just had to post it because it's so darn funny.  I hope you enjoy it as much as I have.


Hair Wax ...

My night began as any other normal weeknight...

Come home, fix dinner, play with the kids. I then had the brilliant thought that would ring painfully in my mind for the next few hours: 

"Maybe I should pull the waxing kit out of the medicine cabinet." 

 So I headed to the site of my demise: the bathroom.

It was one of those 'cold wax' kits. No melting a clump of hot wax.  Directions say you just rub the strips together in your hand until they get warm and then peel them apart, press them to your leg (or wherever else) and you will pull the hair right off. No muss, no fuss. How hard can it be? I mean, I'm not a genius, but I am mechanically inclined enough to figure this out. (YA THINK!?!)

So I pull one of the thin strips out of the box -- it's actually two strips facing each other and stuck together. Instead of just rubbing them together, my genius kicks in ... I decide I know what will work faster, so I get out the hair dryer and heat it to 1000 degrees. Cold wax, yeah...right.

I lay the strip across my thigh, hold the skin around it tight, and pull. Hey, it works! OK, so it wasn't the best feeling in the world, but it wasn't THAT bad. I can do this! Hair removal no longer eludes me!

I am She-Rah, fighter of all wayward body hair and maker of smooth skin extraordinaire.

So, with my next wax strip, I moved north. After checking on the kids, I sneak back into the bathroom for the ultimate hair fighting championship. I drop my panties and place one foot on the toilet.

Using the same procedure, I applied the wax strip across the right side of my bikini line, covering the right half of my hoo-ha and stretching down to the inside of my butt cheek (it was a long strip).  I inhale deeply and brace myself...RRRRIIIPPP!!!!

I'm blind!!!  I'm totally blind from the pain!!!!....OH MY GAWD!!!!!

My vision slowly returning, I notice that I've only managed to pull off half the strip. CRAP! I take another deep breath and RIP! Now everything is spinning and my vision is spotted.

I think I may pass out.....I must stay conscious...I must stay conscious. Do I hear crashing drums??? Breathe, breathe...OK, back to normal.

I want to see my trophy -- a wax covered strip, the one that has caused me so much pain, with my hairy pelt sticking to it. I want to revel in the glory that is my triumph over body hair.

I hold up the strip, but there's no hair on it. Matter of fact, there is nothing on the strip at all.

Where is the hair??? WHERE THE HELL IS THE WAX???

Slowly I ease my head downward for a peek, with my foot still perched on the toilet. I see the hair. The hair that is supposed to be on the strip is not! I hesitantly touch. What I am touching IS wax.

I run my fingers over the most sensitive part of my body, which is now covered in cold wax and matted hair. Then I make the next BIG mistake... remember, my foot is still propped on the toilet, right? Well, I know I need to do SOMEthing. So I put my foot down.

No! No! NOOO!  I'm sealed shut!  My butt is sealed shut. Oh Sweet Lord, my friggin' butt is sealed shut!

I penguin-walk around the bathroom trying to figure out what to do and I think to myself, 'Please, God, don't let me get the urge to poop... my head may pop off!' 

 

What can I do to melt the wax?

Hot water!! Yesss!  Hot water melts wax!! I'll run the hottest water I can stand into the bathtub, get in, and immerse the wax-covered parts. The wax should melt and I can gently wipe it off ... right???

WRONG!!!!!

I get in the tub -- the water is slightly hotter than what they use to torture prisoners of war, or sterilize surgical equipment -- but frantic, I sit.

Now ... the only thing worse than having your nether regions glued together, is having them glued together AND glued to the bottom of a bathtub....in scalding hot water ... which, by the way, doesn't melt cold wax.

So now I'm stuck to the bottom of the tub as though I had cemented myself to the porcelain!!  God bless the man who convinced me a few months ago to have a phone installed in the bathroom!!!!!

I call my friend, thinking surely she has waxed before and has some secret of how to get me undone. It's a very good conversation starter.

"...so Sally, my butt and hoo-ha are glued together to the bottom of the tub. Tell me what to do to undo it."

There is a slight pause on the other end of the phone. She doesn't know any secret tricks for wax removal, but she does try to hide her laughter from me. She wants to know EXACTLY where the wax is located. 

"Are we talking cheeks, or hoo-ha?"

I give her the rundown. She's laughing out loud now. I can hear her. She suggests between guffaws that I call the number on the side of the box. YEAH, Right!! I should be the joke of someone else's night.

While we go through various solutions, I resort to trying to scrape the wax off with a razor. Nothing feels better than to have your girlie goodies covered in hot wax, glued shut, stuck to the bottom of the bathtub in super hot water and then dry-shaving the sticky wax off!!

By now the brain is not working, dignity has taken a major hike, and I'm pretty sure I'm going to need Post-Traumatic Stress counseling because of this.

My friend is still talking with me when I finally see my saving grace....there in the box is a tiny tube of lotion they give you to remove excess wax. What do I really have to lose at this point?

I rub some on and OH MY GOD!!!!!  The scream probably woke the kids and scared the dickens out of my friend. It's sooo painful, but I really don't care. IT WORKS!! It works!!  I get a hearty congratulations from my friend and she hangs up.

I successfully remove the remainder of the wax and then notice to my grief and despair... THE HAIR IS STILL THERE...ALL OF IT! So, I recklessly shave it off.  Heck, I'm numb by this time. Nothing hurts. I could have amputated my own leg at this point.

Next week I'm going to try hair color......