for so long

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While today is my three year blog anniversary, multiple eyes surgeries forced me on a long hiatus and limited my actual blogging time to barely one and a half years.

As my long time followers already know, I suffer from permanent blurred vision.  My eyesight may be blurred, but I can clearly see that I wouldn’t be here without your wonderful support.

To celebrate (perhaps amuse is a better word) I have included the first poem I ever wrote in my life.  On November 3, 2015, I penned and posted this poem (and image). It was my first crude attempt at writing poetry.

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for so long

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for so long
I adored her through my window
far too long
I suffered her silent tears
so unloved
this siren breathes unappreciated
too unloved
retreating in the shadows of her fears

for so long
he abused her with indifference
far too long
drowning in her love in vain
so unloved
if only she would let me adore her
too unloved
my tears can wash away her pain

.

.

Please, excuse my slow return from vacation.  The change in climate from Cancun to New York has me sick as a dog.  I will be responding to your comments and reading your wonderful posts.

Fragments of Me (Words)

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Fragments Of Me  (Words)

My father emphasized the importance of being a man of your word.

My mother recited sticks and stones may break your bones but words will never hurt you.

I remember the night I learned about the power of words.

We visited a friend of my father. Mingling adults with drinks in hand and hyperactive children filled every room of the dinner party.

Not interested in watching my father drink, I sought refuge.

To my surprise I discovered an oasis as I entered a room of wall to wall books. Nearing a shelf, a closing door startled me.

“Did I scare you?” Robert the home owner asked.

Silent, my gaze returned to the books.

Robert sat behind a large wood desk, “Do you like to read?”

Looking at the man with the graying temples and thick framed glasses, I smiled, “Yeah.”

“Did your father tell you I am a writer? I haven’t published anything, but I love to write stories. Writers create worlds.”

He opened a book. “Read it.”

“It was the best of times it was the worst of times…”

“Isn’t that amazing?” Robert interrupted, “What a wonderful quote; a great description of the French Revolution and a fitting description of our lives.”

Robert got up to leave. “Feel free to enjoy the books. You will find beauty on every page.”

Running fingers along the books, I read the name out loud; Wilde, Orwell, Hemingway, Faulkner, Steinbeck, Dickinson.

Minutes later, the door opened. “What the hell are you doing here?”

The anger in my father’s voice sent chills up my spine.

His hand slapped the back of my head. “Plenty of girls out there and you’re in here. My son is not going to be a faggot.”

Exiting the room, a heavy foot kicked me, lifting me off my feet, slamming me into a wall.

My eyes swelled with tears, but I refused to cry.

Hours later that little boy stood at his bedroom window while his parents slept in the other room.

That night he learned some words create amazing beauty.

While the pain of other words linger long after the bruises have healed.

 

Fragments Of Me

Fragments of Me (Heroes & Butterflies)

Fragments Of Me (Time)

Happy International Day For the Elimination of Violence Against Women

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Yes, I know what you are thinking. Lonely Author is not playing with a full deck.

Well, this Chimp may have misplaced a few of his picture cards, but there is a method to his madness. Please bear with me.

Yes, I realize this is nine months early (November 25th).

Friends asked why I ignored International Woman’s Day on March 8th. Honesty, these days fail to excite me.

For those of you who have followed me closely, you know where this is coming from.

Why do we need these days?

Here we are in the 21st century and women are still abused, underpaid, and unappreciated. And I’m not even talking about the atrocities against women or the exploitation of young girls happening in many countries around the world.

That is why I don’t get excited about these days. I don’t think they are helping. Not the way I wish they would.

I will leave you with this thought.

Shouldn’t everyday be International Day for the Elimination of Violence Against Women?

Or better yet…

Shouldn’t we live in a world where we don’t need an International Day for the Elimination of Violence Against Women?

Be well butterflies.

 

Fragments of Me (Heroes & Butterflies)

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Heroes.

As children we believed they hit home runs or scored game winning touchdowns.

Lying in bed wearing Spiderman pajamas, I heard the hard crack of my father’s belt strike my mom.

Feeling nothing like a hero , I squeezed a pillow around my head to drown out her cries.

The next day, in an empty playground behind school, Lisa Barelli read my teacher’s note informing my father I slept during class.

She pointed at her notebook full of butterfly drawings. “Maybe you’re mother wants to be a butterfly like me.”

“What?”

“Nobody hurts butterflies.” A tear streaked down her round cheek. “Nobody calls them fat.”

My eyes swelled with burning tears.

Someone laughed. “Andrew wants to kiss the fat girl.”

Jumping to my feet, I stood face to face with the thick chin of the school bully.

I responded in a firm, but diplomatic whisper, “That wasn’t nice.”

“What did you say?”

Bless Lisa and her powerful lungs.

“Andrew said you better take that back.”

Thanks Lisa.

Before anyone could react, I slammed my face into bully’s fist and dropped like a sack of sweet potatoes.

Bully shook his fist at Lisa.

Staggering to my feet, a second punch caught the side of my mouth. I twirled like Julie Andrews on a hillside. My skull rung, but it wasn’t the sound of music.

Receiving worse beatings from my old man, stubborn determination urged me to rise.

Hard knuckles slammed my eye.

An hour later, I studied my Quasimodo reflection in the nursing office window.

Furious with my inability to fight the bully, my angry father sent me to school with my busted lip, swollen cheek, and black eye.

Standing outside the yard, fear pounded my heart. I would be the school joke.

But something unexpected happened…

Boys rushed me to pat my back. Some shook my hand.

Girls batted admiring eyes.

Apparently, Lisa told the entire school how I defended her. She spent the year telling everyone.

I became an instant rock star.

Later, in a cafeteria full of boys and butterflies, that little boy realized being a hero had nothing to do with winning.

It meant something more.

He confirmed it, years later…

On a day when he stood at his office window, watching the World Trade Center towers collapse before his eyes.

 

Fragments Of Me

Fragments Of Me (Time)

 

Photo of me taken by unknown photographer.

The Butterfly In You

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This is a reenactment of a telephone conversation.

“Well, I’m the kind of girl most guys aren’t interested in. I have stubby legs. So, I am very short. My arms are fat like a wrestler. My butt is average, but it looks small because my boobs are abnormally huge. I hate my smile because I have a crooked tooth. Other men aren’t interested in me, but maybe you would like to meet me.”

That was my first wife describing herself.

When I hung up, I vowed to become her best friend. (I don’t remember what I said to her, she swears she knew she was going to marry me after that first conversation).

We talked on the phone everyday four months. In November, I flew 1350 miles (to the Dominican Republic) to meet my friend.

During conversations with her sisters and her parents, I learned she had been abused by her prior boyfriend of seven years.

When I met her, the wounds from the slaps, punches, kicks, and head slamming against the wall (that was his favorite) all healed.

As you can see by her self description she never healed from the verbal abuse.

My mother always told me “women are sacred.” I feel that in my heart.

You don’t hurt a butterfly.

On nights of introspection, she used to say there’s a little girl inside her that wants to get out.

My style with ALL the women has always been to encourage growth. Explore and experience life. Love yourself. Appreciate who you are. Learn your hidden talents.

Find out who that little girl was meant to be.

With this spread your wings approach, my first wife discovered a talent for languages. My current wife Allie learned she has a talent for drawing, decorating, and photography. My friend in the bad relationship, she finished culinary school.

It is never too late to spread your wings. 

Focusing on your failed relationship will only waste precious time. Forget those lost years. You still have time to live, to explore, to be happy.

But your happiness depends on you. And that starts with loving the person in your mirror. When you learn to love yourself, when you value yourself, you will never permit anyone to hurt you.  There’s nothing more beautiful than a confident butterfly.

So ladies, it is up to you to spread your wings.

Fly. butterfly. fly.

 

Photo is a selfie taken by my wife Allie.

Love and Abuse

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Sorry, no poetry today, but love remains the topic.

Several months ago, I wrote a poem entitled, “For So Long.” (Here is the link for anyone who missed it.)

https://thelonelyauthorblog.wordpress.com/2015/11/03/for-so-long/

It was about a good friend who always finds herself trapped in abusive relationships. When I wrote it, my best friend had an incident with her lover.

Weeks later, in December, she came to live with me after another episode. Against my advice, she eventually went running back to “love.”

Late last night she called needing a place to stay. She and her three dogs will be moving into an extra bedroom in my apartment later this month.

Again, I will tell her seasons change, people rarely do.

She probably won’t listen.

Every major relationship in my life, my closest female friends, Ex’s, and even my current wife, I was left picking up the pieces after violent relationships.

As a child, many nights I lay in bed listening to my father whipping my mother.

And I was too scared to do anything…..

Can someone please tell me why I am magnet for abused women? Why does domestic violence appear to always follow me?

And somone please tell me why in this day and age there is a month (October) and day designated to stopping violence against women?

SHOULDN’T THAT BE EVERY FREAKING DAY???

This Chimp asks you: when are we going to evolve?

Love and abuse.

Those two words should never appear in the same sentence, let alone the same home.