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Odds and Ends No. 9

I wanted to pray. I even closed the door,
but it didn’t help. Instead, I swapped out
Toodledo for TickTick. It hurt my eyes and

my brain this morning. So, here I sit, door
still closed, still no prayer. Maybe my
heart is closed. How many times have I

prayed the same things? How many times
must I pray the same things? I’ve heard it
preached that once is enough. God heard

it the first time. It is the answers that are
missing. It is the answers that haven’t
reached my ears. Or heart. My heart fails

me today as does my health. I’m weary
from constant struggle. Not days, years;
not years, decades. Enough! Where did

my blessings go? To another? No, I know
better; I believe better. They are coming.
I made Folgers this morning. Tasted okay

to me. But nothing really tastes good today.
I’m was supposed to make an appointment
with a neurologist. I was supposed to call

Medicare. Moving tasks from one day to
another can be habit forming. I can’t put
off the inevitable. Which do I hate more,

filing or making calls? They are both tied
for last. No, this is not depression, just
weariness tainted with who knows what!

Something has to improve. No, everything.
The weather included. I feel like I’m staring
down the angel of death. Even illness and

brain weariness, and pain cannot steal
away the promise of long life. Not even mid-
morning yet; a cup of Irish Breakfast may

help. (I’d prefer a single malt; not allowed
in this house. Someday again, it would be
nice to sit and sip a glass of Macallan. 18

year not in my budget; heck, 12 year isn’t
in my budget. The pocket-book dictates
that I’d have to go with a blended scotch

and enjoy Macallan on special occasions.
For now tea will do. I used to love a Martini
with Absolut up, green olives once in a

while. Not lately. I’ve never been the double-
oh-seven type. Socially, more like the
double-oh-oh type. Invisible by design. I’ll

pause here to shave and dress to meet the
day such as it is. And a cup of tea it will be.
I was a drink-once-in-a-while-before-dinner

type. From where I sit, scotch or vodka are
more like pipe dreams. Like my health. It
seems to be moving from maybe to pipe

dream. I must cling to faith even if it is the
thinnest thread. Having said that, I must
side with Abraham no matter how rotten I

feel. I’m rambling. I need to cleanup right
now. (Rethinking. I’m not shut down, just
frightened silly as EMDR disclosed another

branch of abuse. I want to know and I don’t
want to know! When will this end? I’ve
already missed my whole life! Got to be

joy here somewhere!) Electric won’t work;
I didn’t shave this weekend. Blade and
foam day. The smell of shaving cream!

I love it; it takes me back to 1965 every
time I use it. I didn’t know that I was abused
then. I had hopes, dreams, loves. Like

listening to Nancy Wilson. I’m back. Closer
to lunchtime. I needed something stronger;
so, I made my Friday coffee early and

strong. An eight-cup pot. Two for me and
the rest for my thermos for lunch. So good.
Swedish coffee for the Seattle weather

we’ve had in Phoenix for days. Rain again.
Odd about Abraham. God promised him that
he would be the father of nations. I wonder

if he felt at 100 what I’m feeling at my age?
He also knew that his wife was beyond child
bearing years. But there was this thread of

faith that he would not let go of. He believed
God was able to do all that he promised.
Even if this were the last poem I ever write,

I side with Abraham; even though my current
state of health does not. The calls may have to
wait another day. I don’t feel like it. Scotch

and good health may never come. But life
and the coffee are good. God never fails.
After lunch, I’ll work on my novel which

is another one of my impossible tasks for
today. Nothing is impossible for my God
who keeps all His promises.

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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