Poems and The Reasons Why

Introduction

In his own words

I do not profess to be a Poet, but I write poems. I did not intend for them to be shared among the masses, but I submit for all to read, learn, and grow. Some carry historical value. Some express emotion. Some beg questions and others answer them.

Pushing the boundaries of "Machismo" by exposing thoughts so deep and personal, I maintain myself a modern "Macho" willing to submit and share these poems in their raw and subtle forms.

Words fascinate me. Self-expression compels me to write poems. Pondering a single word to describe an event and building upon that and retire thought to paper.

Familiar with rhythm and rhyme, I knew God's great plan for me had nothing to do with radio or song. Yet, the misconstrued music from my mouth in the form of poetry and lyrical sentences is my path. From my mind, word games asked questions and found answers in how it felt to think and internalize real life issues.

Over and over and over again I was amazed at how many times I would ponder reasons why an individual would do what he did when I saw him doing it. What is he or she thinking? From an individual riding a bike on a major highway to the troops who would pass by every now and then, the question begged my mind to answer. A release of brain cells to entertain, enrich, or just the need to be inquisitive of ourselves.

This is how I began to write poems left to touch, teach, and test. Life experiences are the fuel for which we feed off of for our future generations. We live vicariously through those experiences. Traditions, patterns, unwritten rules and reasons are all built on life's events.

"A mother's, mother's, mother told her that she needed to bare, care and fulfill the needs of her children."

"A father's, father's, father told him that he would be the strength and leader of his clan and that he need understand his past."

Most would consider a poet or a writer the designated historian for these events, but neither of the above would describe who I am when I sit to pose words as a snapshot of my feelings. As opposed to verbally exposing myself for the anguish felt, I would prefer to sit and think, remember and muse about the good parts of the life that was served by the individual whose dramatic event has touched me at the time.

I felt with Poems and the Reasons Why it was important for me to explain why I felt the way I did when I wrote them. The reasons why have been from tragedy to love, from sorrow to joy and bewilderment — always with deep thought and time as the catalyst. From the relative who is in the onset of Alzheimer's to the friend who had lost a loved one. From a child who is stricken with MS to the aging of loved ones and their relation to God. It is a book of deep heart feeling, and I hope that those who read it will have a better understanding of why it was written.

The Story Behind the Poem

What is a Poem?

Words put together to form a meaning often show a one-sided thought that is the writer's confidential understanding of the subject he's writing about. When a true friend recognizes one's abilities or capabilities, the truest form of flattery is to request that of which is hidden from the rest of the world.

This was written for a true friend — a cousin who, in the truest sense of the words, is "God's creature here on earth." She exemplifies and personifies the truest sense of giving of oneself to the true nature of goodness. She requested and I gave true thought and deep concentration to how I would respond.

After much thought and soul searching, I feel that although written for an individual, it optimizes the true feeling of most friends we encounter. As you read, I only ask that you pause to think of the one or many friends who this writing would be aimed at within your own life, such as I did with mine.

The Story Behind the Poem

Why do old people choose to Die?

The time between being burdened with having to care for, and the loss of our remaining parents is miniscule compared to the void that is cast when that only parent is gone. I've written this in the hope of giving you an understanding of how short life is and how deeply hurt one can become by the loss of those we had cherished the most.

We may share the value once it happens, or we may experience it once we have lost our own partners in our own lives. We go on every day living in our own little world of self-dreams and commitment to the development of our own families. Love shown today will pay dividends in the future. But to who?

I've witnessed the devastation of losing "the significant other" and how lost, loneliness and desertion play a role in the deterioration of those left behind. The following are actual reminders of how deeply loneliness can dig, when a long relationship abruptly ends:

"I still see and hear him at night when sleep is near non-existence"

"I sit here hours watching the four walls, seeing nothing but emptiness"

"No one has called me in days, what did I do wrong"

"The kids are too busy with their own families to bother with me, I understand"

Teach your kids the importance of taking care of those who are left behind today, because if not, your partner will experience the same when you're gone. Some ideas — maybe that is all that is needed to make life a little more comfortable for those who have lost their partners: maybe just a call, even if it's just once a week. A planned visit, maybe just an hour of your time. Ask if they need anything from the store.

The words "Why do old people choose to die" were written when, during a party for my brother-in-law's mother, I asked how she was doing. I was told she was doing ok but had lost the ability to remember people or events happening even in the moment. Here was a woman who had numerous kids and had enjoyed a full life with her husband. What was not said was that the fun time playing out for most was lost to the person being celebrated — for that person was in a state of confusion, and within hours of the event's end would not even remember it had taken place.

As one grows older you have the advantage or disadvantage of being exposed to people who are in the latter part of their lives and who have lost a significant other. On a couple of occasions, I had heard my own family state that they would rather leave this earth than live the life they were living. And so, these words were written for them.

The Story Behind the Poem

The Fallen Leaf

The "blue hair", "the old person", "the grump", "grandma or pa" — the synonyms or symbolic names we take on as we age over time. Some demeaning and aggressive, others traditional and endearing. By whatever means attributed to the old, the true understanding of the mind of a person who has endured the test of time is complex and mysterious.

The wealth of knowledge and experience that beholds the older person somehow gets hidden with the fact that the younger generation is too fraught with their own inner circled destiny and emotions to seek out the steppingstone to their future. The old in every generation succumb to the realization that the space they consume in the moment is just an encasement in time that needs to be vacated to allow for the next generation to step in.

The tree of life, generations and lifelines are too often forgotten or hidden within. Maybe by choice or just with passing time, we tend to glimpse at the past in the moment and not with true care to find out where or why we are formed in the image that we are. Each limb, a branch of life. Each leaf, a significant group of family — all clinging, void of any recognition of the foundation that holds all generations and how deep the roots descend.

I wrote the following words as a testament to what I felt was truly needed to form a prosperous life of "Right". I felt the comfort of the move on, for the legacy that was left. A fruitful meaning to a life that had blazed a trail of good and God-loving individuals who would carry on the legacy of the life that had proceeded.

With strong roots and a vitality to grow with enormous truths and righteousness is what this tree bears. Looking back at one's own life, one can see the fullness of generations of leaves that give cause to a meaningful life.

The Story Behind the Poem

The New Branch

The New Branch was inspired by a small and yet monumental event that was both emotional yet exhilarating — the thought of God's creation of the perfect Union. People cross paths as they scurry around in all parts of the world, mindless of what's going on around them. And the day comes when they are stopped in their tracks and mesmerized by the sight of the one individual who has and will become the infatuation of their life. Eyes meet, hearts flutter, and all feelings become a cesspool of mushy uncontrollable emotions.

The extent of the meeting comes in all age groups, but nothing is more emotional or fulfilling as that of the young, innocent and unsuspecting. Love blinds the real emotional roller coaster about to take hold of their very existence. Trials and tribulations are the cornerstone of the true strength required to maintain the union.

The journey the young couple is about to make is fraught with curves and pitfalls, which without the strength of the family base, gives way to fright and confusion. The need to turn to the old and wise gives reassurance that a direction given is a time once spent.

The New Branch was written for my first granddaughter to marry, and I hope that the words expressed will truly be accepted as my enduring love for both. May the branch be filled with many new leaves and may those leaves forever dance and hold strong in God's ever soft blowing wind.

The Story Behind the Poem

A Stinging Bite

Given the time to think and to dwell on those we have lost, it enables us to feel that pain, that sting. We tend to not value the space that was, until the void is exposed. The aura that is space taken up by mass is unfeeling until said space is no longer in existence.

The loss of a parent is God's great plan for the cycle of life. It's the inevitable. The words written here were for the loss of many people in our lives who paved the way for the generations to come. The hurt and pain of this loss is usually absorbed and contained within the body and soul of all who were touched. We feel the void but never fill the void. A loss of this magnitude never quenches the thirst for the love lost.

I wrote this to my wife, who had lost her father, in the hopes that she could understand that my hurt and pain for the loss of our parents has a shared value. And the hope for anyone who reads this — they too will come to understand that the time we have for our parents is short lived, and that the time for loving and caring for them was to start on each yesterday.

One can only understand through this testimony that the time after our parents have gone is usually a reflection of what should have been done or accomplished if we had taken the time to do so. Love me now for when I can cherish the love, and not for when I'm gone, and you feel the void of the void that was never filled.

Every person has been touched by the loss, and we all react in different ways, but we all share — if for only a magical moment in time — the true hurt, pain and void that said loss creates. It's a stinging bite that cuts deep. Read, share, and remember, so compassion for others when stung will open your hearts.

The Story Behind the Poem

I Remember When but Then I Forgot

A mind erased like the chalk on a blackboard. The diagnosis was troubling and fearful. What does it mean? What is a slow diminishment of years of built-up memories? "Honey, where are my keys?" "No, I wasn't lost; I just don't know this neighborhood." "Who are you — oh yes, my wife." Who am I?

The electricity that runs the mind has slowed to a flicker, and with it comes the destruction of so many parts of who we may be. Dementia. Alzheimer's. Cruel creatures whose goal is to strip us of our minds.

To lose a limb or to be visibly damaged is something most may never become accustomed to but can accept as a fact of life. Once the mind has drawn its last thought or put together its very last meaning, the whole of the body begins to dissolve into a slab of nothingness and there begins to die out.

I wrote this after my father-in-law was diagnosed with the beginning stage of Alzheimer's. And although he never lived long enough to experience the full strength of the disease, it brought the awareness level out in all of us. For those who must live through this type of sickness, it's a cruel state of events. For those who must share the sickness as caretaker or family, it takes a toll on their lives.

For every instant of a moment's loss, it's a reminder to those around them that the inevitable will be shortened — a lonely road ahead. Every day you try to introduce yourself repeatedly and force-feed the memories in a futile attempt to help them gain control of the past.

To those who make the attempt with someone who will, in the end, lose all capacity to understand the sacrifice made — I say Bravo to you. May God extend his will to diminish your suffering as he recognizes your value as his angel on earth.

The Story Behind the Poem

Dangling on a String

Attacked by a creature — a serial killer not seen or heard — causing devastating effects to body, bone and soul. The anguish it causes from the declaration of non-cure, years of deterioration both mentally and physically, are all destined for unwanted accommodation. Nothing that the creature can do to debilitate the person could compare to the hurt, pain and disdain brought on by the human factor.

People pass but they don't look, they smile but they don't talk. They scurry away to avoid. Excluded, exposed, stared at, and dismissed — this embodies the life that the sick must live. The innocent ignorance of others is what causes the inflicted to feel less than the whole of themselves, and for most accelerates the outcome of the inevitable end.

I wrote the following based on a story I heard from a TV talk show host who had been diagnosed with MS and how the news could have gone in either direction to facilitate his own feelings of despair. He chose to expose the creature to what it was and how it has affected not only him but millions it has touched.

The vision in my mind was that of a puppet thrown to the floor in the corner of a room. The strings gathered in a heap, a tangled mess. Head down, yet slightly turned to see the smile and gleam in the eye — giving some substance of life to a hollow existence. For those who care, a hope that at any moment it would jump up and partake in the event of the moment.

The puppet dangles on a string just as the person with this creature in him is left limp and dangling. The soul is alive, the mind is strong, but the body does not respond. Imprisoned within the confines of the chair, they ask for no pity — only understanding. Wanting nothing more than to be a part of life as it exists for them.

The Story Behind the Poem

Angels

Fate is unknown to the many who question why. It's the label placed on the actions that are most misunderstood. To the faithful it's God's will for a greater journey in one's life. To those who have no faith it's never known nor accepted for what it is. When mixed with the tragic loss of youth, the mind starts to question what the true journey could possibly trail.

Could God be so cruel as to single out the innocents? We search and pray that God will cement the hole that spews the anger and distrust in what his plans are. It's said that "Time heals all wounds" — which is true to those who do not live within the boundary of the event. For those whose circle of life is within the light of the event, the hurt, pain, and wound are constantly exposed.

I wrote this for a man named George who worked with my wife. George was a southern black man who spoke in a soothing voice and whose character and mannerisms were those of the perfect gentleman. He had shared values when it came to family, and he was just as proud of his children and grandchildren as any other. He had just announced his retirement and had looked forward to sharing the rest of his life with his daughter and her children.

This proud gentleman, who gave all of himself to others, was about to embark on a journey of pain and devastation. The news came as a shock. One individual would take the steps to the most outer limits of pure stupidity — and along his journey he would take the lives of three innocent people, forever entwining his legacy to the bitter demise of this old gentle man.

To lose a child was more than anyone could stand. But to lose a child and all your grandchildren in one senseless act bore to question one's faith. As a grandfather myself, I could only sit in a room and do what I could to reconcile the thoughts running through my mind — and that was to write about the Angels.

The Story Behind the Poem

The Angels Have Come to Take Me Away

Could've, should've, would've — all past tense actions that are revisited once an event has taken place. An afterthought of a missed point in time, when one can expose their true feelings to a loved one or friend. Too often we are so consumed with the next junction in our lives we give little attention to the present, and therefore miss the opportunities to delve into the depths of a common relationship.

The following was written from the perspective of the soul that is in transformation — looking out over a vast sea of humanity and realizing that there was so much more that needed to be said and done. Pleading with God to allow for one last moment in time to amend for the lack of compassion that so needed to be addressed. Time waits for no one, and the absorbed are the first to recognize the lost moment in time.

"Time waits for no one so use the time wisely."

"Express to each and all and leave no regret for the lack thereof."

"I love you, I'm sorry, please forgive me, and remember me for the good and not the bad."

Don't could've, would've or should've — for in this life we have no second chance to be right with ourselves and others. Live life for how it should be and not waste the time for explanation for how it should have been.

Although this is the longest of all my writings, it is the most meaningful to me. It epitomizes all that I try to do to make sure that all has been said to all that need be said to.

The Story Behind the Poem

Judgment Day

Validation is the affirmation of a life lived as planned. Yet who does the validating, and how much is it biased by the person who even cares enough to want to know? We often ask ourselves, when consumed by idle time, how has the character that is oneself shown to others. We tend to dwell on the positive image and not consume ourselves with the faults or negative aspects of our lives.

But the true validation comes when judgment day is before us. Once an existence is depleted the soul has direction and makes the journey to judgment. Life's pleasures are shadowed by the dark side and conflict with the dictation of all that we know to be true. The road to the truth is paved by the way we lived and the life we lived.

I wrote this at a time in my life whereas I feared I had not allowed myself or applied myself as I should have, to be able to stand with confidence in judgment. I questioned the very existence of a higher being and until I found an outlet that I felt a part of, and was accepted by, I felt judgment would be damnation and a forever burning of my soul.

An idle mind plays tricks and roams to various degrees of state. Sometimes it journeys to places of the unknown and we tend to evolve ourselves within a mindless capsule of just where we want to be. Crazy as it may seem, everyone goes there — deep thought, dreams, or just mindless adventures within. I sat down to put the words of the experience to paper to show all its existence.