I was never truly loved by anyone
Only by me and I
and I am not even sure about either one

I love my therapy session with poetry
I can assess myself with self-evaluating
I am at the point in life when I don’t
Give a rat ***, about what others think of me
Retirement has taught me to be a free agent
I am now the captain of my soul
Free from other people's demands and clutches

I have not heard that demanding salutation in the
Morning of Mrs. Lander can you come to the front desk
Or waiting for the clock to strike 3 to make my exit
Time is of the essence, and it means nothing to me these days
I will be there when I get there.
Unless it is boarding time in row 3
To love me is to know me,
as for me to love you it will take
A strong will and endurance in my poetry sessions
I have been there and done that
And will not allow it into my life anymore,
Haven to be humble and being humiliated
I had to endure, haven to question myself
About my love for me, I lamented:



I was never truly loved by anyone, only by myself, and even that I question. Poetry is my therapy, a mirror for self-evaluation. I've reached a point where I don't care what others think. Retirement has made me a free agent, the captain of my soul, free from others' demands. No more morning calls to the front desk, no more waiting for the clock to strike three. Time is now my own, and it means nothing to me.
I'll be there when I get there
unless it's boarding time in row three.
To love me is to know me,
and for me to love you, it takes strength and endurance. I've been there, and done that, and won't allow it into my life anymore.
I've endured humility and humiliation, questioning my love for myself. I lamented:

the lyrics intimate, me inside recognized,
and I find it hard to believe,
not to recall my chest actual
aching from a lost love, a busted
heart,that my family physician told
me not a thing  to be done, and time
the only known cure and that was
only twenty five years,
a just short “long time ago”

but there is no such a thing as time
when the wounded heart is pierced fierce, there is no round the bend visible to tell
you, love will come again; and you’re so
cautious,  won’t trust, to open, but irony it’s
the only way to find it one mo’ time, to
give yourself up in whole, not just parts,
and you “discover” writing poetry helps,
and a new life long habit is forming that is a kind of meds that you disburse to oneself

later be
this song below, Bonnie Raitt
makes you ache with her rendition
keeping no secret she’s been there truly

used to look to ascribe fault, but learned,
t’was a time waster, more accurate, each
of us had our own fault lines, dormant,
till not, and when the lines touched and connect, it was an earthquake off the scale,
and the tremors just keep on coming

but the chest ache was so intense, close
my eyes, and relive it,  and makes me
feel kinder, more human, less angry? more forgiving cause there is no mark of Cain
on someone’s forehead to indicate that
one is suffering the aftermath, the aftershocks, of this loss, so be patient
when encountering a human who sighs
out loud often, as often as as
every breath

listen to the song, it will untie your chords,
maybe making some memories resurface,
for better as it is part of writing
only love poetry

yes, it is real, as real as daylight
how history recycles itself
darkness is falling with the speed of thoughts
of certainties, of pathos, of a wounded hope
I feel like screaming, I feel like weeping and
this can change nothing, and I can't find a better metaphor
we hurt each other unwittingly if we stop thinking together
if we stop talking, stop listening to each other
how vulnerable we can be, how deceptive
how potent the unhealed wounds
they write history books

an abstract darkness is near, a concrete darkness
division and such pain in the depth of the living
a darkness without perfume but blind screaming
disguised in a blinding light,
so old that it keeps reinventing
the destruction of saturated worlds
the social body can not survive without a heart
without a multiple mind

we the invisible

we, who learned from a young age
impossibility is accepted
verity, your mutability
every aspect of you is subject to change
my girl, my girl
empty eyes that look but don’t see
you
oh, how your tongue should bleed
under the crash of your silence
rip the blanket, they said
though you were only taught to sew
i paint myself to hide
razor cuts and scars
everything i’ve made for you, till death
do us part

I:

I searched an hour for my pjs
so that I could go to bed .
Quarantine has blurred my days
and wreaked havoc with my head.
A quick glance in the mirror,
I see my sanity foregone.
The pajama search abruptly ended.
I already have them on.

II:

My office space keeps moving
as I go from call to call.
Piano practice sends me upstairs
behind our bedroom wall.
Then in comes mom with Ana
to put her down for nap.
So I descend the stairs again.
End this quarantine ASAP!

III:

I’m rowing down the Schuylkill
in a race against a crew.
The art museum is up ahead
and the Rocky statue too.
Now I run across a mountainscape
and through an Alpine town.
Such fantasies! They fill my head.
I hate exercise in lockdown.

IV:

Go out to eat and see a show
the Governor just said.
It’s back to normal and back to school
so get out of your bed.
Stay in your house or six feet apart
is no longer the rule.
I dream of this most every day.
Oh! Today is April Fool.

V:

Office life is underrated
with meetings face to face.
You can criticize a job done poor
and put them in their place.
But in quarantine while on the phone
you dare not scream and yell.
The boss, she’ll hear you acting up.
She’ll come and ring your bell.

VI:

“Thank God it’s Friday,”
has lost all of the appeal.
For tomorrow will be like today
without a different feel.
I wonder did we lose,
the weekend or the week?
Is boredom about to go away?
Or is it even close to peak?

VII:

Log scale graphs are useful
for showing change in rate.
In visualizing the second derivative
they really work out great.
But if you want real people
to understand your math.
Please use less than/greater.
When you project contagion path.

Healing your mind and soul requires personal distance
from a world that does not provide the nutrient of peace
Sit quietly by the waterfall and entrench yourself in it
take the journey of self, allow your  thoughts to blossom
beneath God's parapet, lies the resurgence of still life

Healing your body is an aftermath of wholesome assembly
drink from the waters of obsolete and be that empty vessel
that holds space with everything and everyone, ...
Do not move nor speak, just breathe and be immortal  
inside this magic hour you will find,  the breath of life

Extinguish the embers of your burning fire, take time
to sift through your feelings,  allow them to take flight
Permit the dusk to settle and allow the dawn to rise
for they were both created for tomorrows afterglow
heal your mind, soul & body, remain in the flow..