I keep hearing myself say “I’m Sorry”—hearing no “thank-yous.”
And I am a bit. I should have been better at marketing a “worthy perspective.”
Some doors closed my attempts. Astronauts couldn’t wear glasses.
That didn’t work. Left home at 18 with $125 from paper route savings.
Med school required 5G. I only had $25 after BA. No money to pursue acting, either.
Thinking of both, I got drafted. (That’s a book by itself.) Then, from corporate world management,
I married Marilyn: we opted for family and liberal ministry for me, arts for her. Two more Degrees.
Our three children came joyfully: WV-MN-IN. Their “thank-yous” programmed.
A great prospect in corporate management came too late. Talk about timing.
Thirty years of ministry a free-for-all as some thought ministers were “playthings.”
Survived cancer and bankruptcy (King riots in LA/LB caved our home’s value).
Marilyn’s company moved too far away. My return to acting—blocked.
So, back to home State WV, I became a Family Therapist for two Agencies.
Both retired from “jobs” at 65. I did 4 more years as Consulting Minister,
Officially retired in 2016. Finally, I’ve written some books which nobody reads.
Plan: Self-publish while still alive. More to come. But I’ve never “made” a book.
I’ve planted no fields of corn, milked no cows, nor made any clothes.
I’ve healed no bodies, made no tires for cars, or cars, or oars for boats.
Home’s full of everything others made: shoes, dishes, pizza…medicines.
Truly, I’ve made nothing for the nurturing, bettering of humanity.
Our children had to make it on their own. Guess they’re my best contribution.
Marilyn had more important employment than me. Cancer took her in 2009.
We had 50 years. Still crying. Her paintings will grace homes/family – years to come.
My poems/books, most likely, will hide on dusty shelves: never to sing for others.
By some quirk in my quotidians, I’m still alive midst a bunch of elderly happenings.
Social Security, savings, and minimal retirement funds keep me solvent.
The closest I’ve come to killing anything was having my little dog put to sleep.
Still cry for that. But, I eat what others have killed. I’ve never hurt anyone.
This is no Apologia of defense, though tainted with some regret.
This Apologia needs no apology, really. Just a normal human being – mostly.
I had hoped to achieve a professional life of consequence,
That nourished, with truth and art the human spirit and its promise.
Went into ministry/counseling/writing for that. Maybe some “thanks” will surface yet.
Probably not, given the stats so far of no interest. Never stopped doing my “thing.”
Now retired (a rather forced reclusive state) into the chapters of obit-to-come.
Still, I stand in the sun with no “apologies” for my shadow. Sun still shines!
I can still sing. Had hoped to leave a significant legacy. The silence persists.
Health issues keep shuffling the deck: loneliness is a face on all the cards.
Still, I’m not an age – I’m a life. So thankful for the songsungpoetries still in my mind.
Doing My New Me Now! For this I Live! I am that I am! I’m holding-on! Will be what I will be!
No apologies for no laurels or applause! – So what!?! My doings be done as best he can.
Will any me survive Beyond Gone? Who knows? For now, I’ve no one to apologize to.
I’m slower, but still in the deal—rolling with the dice. – Staying Alive!!!
But should my craft lose its moorings before I’ve finished loading The Hold. . .
I must apologize for too many naps in the sun – dreaming of Ports of Call.
—mdok–12/9/19 – [My, OhSoBrief, Autobiographical PoetEssay. . .if nevermore.]