So often I dream of living in my poetry
where I find out something
that I would not have known
had I not been there.
Where I find beauty,
rhyme and reason,
sometimes no reason.
I am in a world where there is
passion, love, and peace nestled
in despair, conflict and sorrow.
My troubles don’t seem so impossible
because this is where I want to be.
I would never be lonely
I could paint so many colors
so many different images
I am in control of my destiny
It is my world
I hear my words
I control the tone
I am the maker
and the writer.
I can make my letters come into play.
Yes, I want to live
and breathe in my poetry
where everything is deeper and
you are forced to read between the lines
I mean so much more—
everything has more weight
because all of it has so much meaning.
When I dive into my poetry
it is refreshing, never dry
things are bright and ever colorful
all the language is so sweet
decadent and fulfilling
because of the limitless feelings that exist.
So often I dream
of living in my poetry
Constantly being my own instrument
my own muse, my own creativity.
My father’s head, I stare at it. I look at the many scars, scabs that on his head. His head is ever so rough to touch never smooth. His life also has turned rough. As if he did not have enough to weigh on his head now it is sensitive to touch, cancerous. So much now his days resemble my mother’s before her death. He is brittle with so much going on—dialysis, they drain the toxins—sometimes too little, other times too much. A defibrillator to aid his heart, shocking him when it does not beat the right way. Causing earthquakes in his body. My mother broke too slowly much the same way. When she contracted cancer the second time, she lost strength from radiation. Ached at every turn. Appetite dwindled. She would often count down the days much like my dad does. One breast missing, much more missing though. She wondered what to do with her free time. My dad does too watching reruns on the tube, trying to act interested. She slimmed down unwillingly much like my dad has now. My dad breathes, pulling it from the very depths of his stomach just as my mother did. I look at my father’s head again, studying the bandage that covers the wound. I question why he has to go through so much pain. Why they drain, why the earthquakes, and really what is it all for? Why prolong when there is no quality of life—he will often ask me this. A question I struggle to answer. My mother had to endure so much and now my father too. I put my hand to his face. It is cold, swollen. He grimaces, asking me to be careful as I try comfort him. Can you imagine? How do you carefully comfort someone? I go to pull away and he pulls my hand back. “I didn’t mean for you to not touch me, it’s just difficult, seems like pain is ever reverberating through my body. Please stay near, your touch is comforting.” I ask him, “How do you do it? How do you deal with pain?” He laughs—even that I can tell is difficult. “I don’t think about it.” I look at the mantel holding the many pictures of the grandchildren and I think he must of think of them when the pain comes. He must want to be strong for them. Ever so positive, my father is just like my mother. Never asking why, though here I am asking. These questions come alive on the anniversary of my mother’s death.
In the last years of his life,
my father lost so much,
death was fast approaching
and I had to gain much time with him.
None of it could be wasted.
My father’s strength was waning
I wanted our relationship to build
and grow, so often I would watch
television with him;
it was what he had enough energy for.
My father, like me,
did not appreciate a lot of the “trash”
as he put it, on television,
but there were a few shows
that were worth watching.
kept the viewer intrigued and interested
were the ones he gave his time to.
His brain was still sharp and intact
it was one of the few parts of his body
that could be challenged.
We watched a few shows together
but one was an oddity for both us.
one an FBI agent and the other a math genius.
They teamed together to solve crimes.
The numbers wiz used math to predict
where a killer may strike next or why;
he or she picks a pattern of crimes.
Numb3rs was an unusual love
because I detested math
my father also wasn’t
a lover of logistics.
Neither of us had an affinity for the
wiz brother’s passion. Many different
criminals and crimes are not
what peaked our interest either.
Rather, it was the bond shown between the brothers.
Their never-ending differences that
through time became similarities
fortifying their connection between one another.
Seven years this show lasted
seven years of a resilience
At the start of the show,
my father and I knew little about math and logistics.
At the end, I doubt we knew much more,
but over that seven years I gained so
much of a deeper union with my father.
solutions more adaptable
increased rapport between one another
respect between us extended
Our time not wasted but gained.
—Olga Blu Browne, Sacramento
Literary lovers, or a poet's
I hear the clouds
I see the silence
I feel the words
I taste the ink
I wear these memories
a poet's journey.
(prev. pub. in DADs DESK)
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