Member of Mensa Foundation. Former business owner, Now mindful only that this actual moment in time Is dreadfully not as real as yesterday’s tomorrows.
Weeding worry stubbornly seized in depths of clay soil perdition. Bleeding time. Believing her beseeching isn’t reaching the Ear. Then, breakthroughs and dream-come-trues. Not of fantasy, but of being.
I wrote Detached in 2014 about my mentally ill daughter. Emerging, written now exactly ten years later. Though she still struggles, the difference is immense. There is so much for which to be thankful!
My son and I sit together with his little cat family in his humble Cleveland apartment. He grabs his book of Hubble Telescope photos. He is fascinated with the universe and knows a great deal more about it than I do. He turns page after page, oohing and ahh’ing over the astounding beauty. Immensity. Luminosity. Each stunning photo compels him to share with me what he knows, and launches him to the next. I am enjoying hearing the excitement in his swelling voice as we explore multiple moons and distant galaxies.
Then, the Milky Way. His eyes grow tender. Voice, soft. “And this? This is home.”
These are just a few of the stories of war-weary refugee friends of mine. These few don’t express but an infinitesimal spec of the havoc war wreaked on our planet in the time it took me to pen this poem. What we humans are willing to do to fellow humans is unspeakably horrific.