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It feels like I’m walking a circus high wire
suspended between heaven and hell.
From where I sit, I have a view of both.

I can see where I’ve been. That would be
mostly hell. I can only hope for whatever
lies ahead. That would be heaven; but
heaven on earth for the most part seems
to be missing or something I’ve tasted
only overseas.

My life seems to run on the same old oval
cinder quarter-mile track I ran on in 8th
grade. Abused in silence; enter endless

No matter where I go, I’ve been there before.
Struggles never end; they merely continue in
a different place. Living overseas was always
magically medicinal. 

When I lived and worked abroad, it was like
a balm to my soul. The love of lands, language,
and people was a gift in the midst of constant

I’ve loved other lands and people so very
deeply, my heart ached to live or die there.

But It was not to be. It was love lost. Many times
lost. Because I always had to leave, never to
return. I ache to live and die anywhere but here.

Vietnam was my first foreign love. I never wanted
to leave. Not my choice. Home was never home
when I was there, and never home again.

Then, six years later, I was in Thailand. A year in
the far northeast in a small village. It was
inevitable. I fell in love again.

Add two trips to Korea. I fell in love with rugged
mountains and a wonderful people; then back
to Thailand, my bicycle, my one-room house
on stilts, and the laughter of children playing
in an around the village. I had to leave again.

Germany was next. Three years southeast of
Stuttgart. Rolling hills of Schwäbisch Gmünd.
Pfifferlinge mushrooms. The heavenly smell of
a Bauernomelette. Nor can I forget the strong
smell of the compost outside my window.

Still, I fell in love again.

Overseas again! Germany again. Small town on
the Nahe River. Do I dare say that for me, Bad
Kreuznach was my “Heimat.” I miss everything
German. Not just Brotchen, Teewurst, Mettwurst.

Then, there was Army retirement. Divorce came
in the mail. Abuse always comes at a high cost.

Yet, I am in love again. I love our desert home.
I love my red writing desk and meditative walks
on Thunderbird Mountain. I would be content to
stay there everyday to write and walk and write
some more. But struggles persist.

How do I get there from here?

My heart wanders overseas still looking for my
Heimat here or there. Could it be? Yet to come?
A desk in India. A walk in Brazil. Breakfast in

This is more than a travel log; it is a want ad
of my heart and soul.

Categories: Poetry

Tagged as:


Poet, Writer, US Army (Retired)

I dreamed of writing when I was a youngster. The love of books and writing may have helped to dull the pain of severe sexual abuse as I was sexually abused by two men at my father’s place of work from age 8 to 12 or so. I learned about this for the first time when I was 50 years old. So, as a boy, reading was the only place I had to go to. My fantasy world was better and safer than my real world. I loved reading and writing.
Reading books and writing poetry are a joy to me still and are an important part of my life. (See my About Me page on my blog for the complete profile.)

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