; Welkommen...Bienvenue....Welcome...!!!!! '

 03/09/12

My very dear, and hoped-for constant readers,

Perhaps you may have found my blog quite by accident, while looking for something else, something completely different from the blog you now are reading.
When I did begin my blog, soon almost--now--a year ago, although I knew a million blogs existed, granted, appealing to every taste, still, I in my naivete, fully believed that mine would somehow be unlike the others; something by way of expostion that would appeal to a more thoughtful audience to whom my writing might prove to be of sufficient interest so that you might want to read it, and then tarry but a while in some considered reverie, leaving comments that would--over time--shape and sharpen my discourse.
I had found 'Face Book', while popular, to be a 'status-driven', incoherent mess, listing thousands of so-called friends I did not know, nor would ever meet.
And so, in my attempt to be more personable, accessable, and readable, I launched this blog.
Of course, my friends, in the beginning, I suffered from self-delusion, dreaming, one day, of having thousands of massed readers around the world, as simply, we all too often share the same problems, the same hopes and wished, and much the same fears.
I wrote...and 'write', as I would to a friend, while seeking greater readership, until my 'works' were known world-wide.
I am not grandious to think to change the world with but a handful of words, though were I indeed able to change it, I most definitely would.
I know my 'posts' are overlong, and with some infrequency, which I was earlier informed meant the death of any blog.
Recently--though--I have tried to revive it, to take its muttable clay, and try again to breathe life into it.
My intention has never changed: to always speak truthfully, to never lie to you, but rather to inform, and entertain you, especially on some evening when there is nothing to watch on television, and, other sites seem puerile, and not worth the attention.  So that, should you desire smething to read, presented as sub-short stories, often of the events in my life, my blog would be here for you.
I meanwhile canot thank, in near-full measure, those kind readers that I still have, and do have.
And I would ever ask, please, for your most kind comments.
Please come and stay with me a while...whenever days are too long, or when the nights are cold and seemingly bereft of comfort; it remains my heart's desire that you find it here.

I thank you,

'Zahc/Charles', for we are but one in the same.

'My Thoughts Regarding My Dear, Dear Friend,'Strenuba's Work: " Walking Dead "'

My Thoughts Regarding My Dear, Dear Friend, ‘Strenuba's Work: " Walking Dead" ‘

03/07/12

To my wonderfully kind, and constant friends, and
ever-loyal readers:


There are often so many things I wish to share with
you, that are too often lost among the totality
of my daily agonies; whispered hopes that lay beyond the scope of hopelessness
and the confusion and unfaithfulness of an uncertain mind. Of rushed, and half-remembered prayers I say
for all of us, even as I sit and rock in pain, and cry, or with trembling hands-in
an attempt to find pain medications-drop, in my blinded haste, to see
bright-colored pills fall to scatter on the countertop, below.


How often do I think of you, dearest friends, who
have granted to me the pardon that Life did not, and in your kindest,
befriending me, and remaining by my side to be near to me and to my pain; you,
who have accepted me in my most flawed and ugly state. Not as did ‘other' friends I thought I would
have for life; not like these, ‘schadenfreunds', or shadowed friends who left
me when I could no longer entertain them, or be of use to them; who flew away
before me, scattered, as Autumn leaves blown aloft, and to a thousand new
places as before a sudden storm.


Yes...they almost to a person left me, as did my few
relatives, as if-in becoming ill, and still more ill, until illness had piled
upon illness-I had somehow become tainted, dirty, or like some loathsome
stranger.


And, yet, these are the ones I once thought I loved,
and who would never go away. Now, in the
depth of my gratitude and humbled thanks to you, my sweet and constant friends,
it is YOU who I keep nestled safe within the sheltering wings of my secret
heart.


Of course, in times so long lost ago, I thought I
knew romantic love; so sure of it was I that I cast to it my heart in whole,
and for that, had my heart returned to me in pieces, leaving scars that last to
this day.


Since I was young, and in the fullness of my
strength, I thought that I would die...but, in time, did not. Who knew that that betrayal, or that
rejection would remain for my older Self to weigh and consider, weigh, and
consider, until adjudging it no longer worth the while.


Once, too, I was and Artist, both in art and words,
and in my youthful rashness thought that I had tamed the Muses, and dropped
them in my pocket...so sure was I that there they would remain forever; mine to
summon out of wind, and fire, and smoke whenever I happened to lift a pen or
brush. The apex of my artistic desire-while made of clay-was breathed to life,
when, while at college, I held a one-man exhibition of watercolors, pen and ink
drawings, and mixed media at my University's gallery, and was joyously happy,
when it was held-over another six weeks. In my youthful hubris, I left a large,
blank, sign-in book upon a pedestal, with a message to encourage thoughts, and
stray impressions from the viewers. And
I loved when strangers were thus inspire to leave within it, their own drawing
and poems; to me it was as if I were creating life, by providing such a stimulating
and fertile ground, for other seeds to take root, and blossom.


And this is most important, my dearest friends;
while at the time, I sought to push-aside the Gods, and thus emblaze the
twilight sky with my talent, now, thirty-something years have passed.


In that time:


1) Some of the works were plainly stolen.


2) The majority of what was left, was disposed of
accidentally, by a friend who, while I was ill, took charge of emptying out a
storage space; in it were probably sixty sketchbooks, matted, and unmated art,
cassette tapes of my piano compositions ( not surprisingly, also among my
better work ), and, half a lifetime of memories: of irreplaceable
correspondence from my mother and father to me, furniture, collections, found
pieces, photography ( as I had played with that medium, too).




Which is why, I would
like to bring before you yet another, gifted piece by very dear MDJunction
friend, ‘Strenuba', as in it, there is his hallmark style of meaning and
construction, a brevity I will never evidence, and his remarkable ability to
absolutely ‘nail down' with a perfect, Olympic score of ‘10', those questions,
and concerns that in their humanness, seek to speak to a greater Humanity.


I wish his works were more widely read, and
published, for his poems, that can only be referred to as ,'word song', seeks
to appeal to the very heart in each of us, with an honesty, and a truth that is
undeniable.


With his-and your-most kind permission, I would like
to present his latest work here, as I so gratefully appreciate that my
readership has grown, for which I can never thank you in near-full measure.




<> <> <> <> <>

Walking Dead

Mar 03 2012

WalkingDead

I mourn


for those
who are no longer here


and those
of us


who are
still


Still


mourning
for that past life


No longer
having the will


to
continue


But still


having the
courage


to endure
living


I mourn


For those
who have gone before


and those
who long to follow


I mourn...


STRENUBA





For me, my friend ‘Strenuba's work
at once parted the veil of all my past, fond hopes, desires, and assumed
reality. It escaped the forgotten and secret past.


One morning, I awoke from a troubled,
unrefreshing sleep, if sleep can be measured in those scant minutes of respite
from assembled nightmare and horror, to find that Life had been somehow
condensed, collapsed, and that thirty-five years were gone, disappeared,
vanished, and could not be found, nor ever recalled again, except-perhaps-in some
fevered reverie.




My mother and father were dead, and
suddenly I missed the reassuring susurrus of the nightly breathing in the
house. I cried for the lack of their love and protecting strength, and mourned
their loss.




Somehow, I had been aged, twisted,
reformed into a much lesser child of God; my once youthful strength, and
sureness of the universe were gone, wiped clean, as if they'd never been.




The few, remaining pieces from that
long-ago exhibition I had framed, but somehow, they had not been created by my
hand, but another's, someone I no longer knew.
Only by the scrawled signature at each picture's base, did I even know
that it had been me.


And in my gathering pain, trapped,
now, within a Caliban-like, monstrously changed body, whose hand could no
longer limn a creative line; whose mind was filled by fog, consisting of
nothing more than shining bits of gutter trash, whose body follows, now, a
different master...that of Lupus, Fibromyalgia, Chronic pain (and added to the
sum of delinquent illnesses that already were there), whose legs and feet are-by
neuropathy-scarcely able to bear my greater weight, and now barely look as
human-form, I bemoaned and mourned a Present in which all my Art was lost, as
was most of my volition, even will to live.




And to this grinding, whoresome,
inescapable periods of worry, panic, anxiety of the unknown, and that agony of undistilled
pain, which debilitates me into stark inaction, and inattention, and that makes
any sense of the Future unknowable; yes, it is in fear, and dread I mourn the
loss of purpose, and of a reliable and sustainable comfort, that I had hope
might abide with me yet a while.




I mourn the loss of self-sufficiency,
and of having-now-to rely upon faceless goodwill, or bad, or that conceived of
whim, by others upon whom so much of my current situation depends. It now frightens me, that-with just a mere
pen stroke-how completely directed is my utter existence. And that, as with a mark over, I-too---could
be just as easily erased.


For once, it was I who controlled my
limited, clockwork world; now, others keep it wound. Or not, as they so choose.


When last I looked, I had been
better tutored by some base Evil, but-instead-am made to stumble blindly down a
path that leads to a vile uncertainty; to eat my solitary, lonely, plastic
dinner which sates, but never satisfies; to later seek some wearied rest upon a
cold, unwelcome bed, lined fully with Christ's thorns, where only an unsettled ‘sleep'
is marked by bathroom calls, or cries for extra medication, or rent by horrific
nightmares, full propelled by Hell's tortuous minions


Only to find no greater hope with
each grey dawn.




It is a confluence of all these
things and more that we regret, and hate; regret and mourn: the sum of whom we
are, what we've become, and what we have irreparably lost.




It is all of this that has so
eloquently written by my dear, dear friend, ‘Strenuba'. Which-my most dear friends, and loyal readers-I
would urge you to read and consider; to re-read, and consider,




With all my heart I wish for you ‘lessened'
or no pain; days of glorious Spring to be enjoyed, as ever surrounded safely,
by those who genuinely love you, and ever hope to protect and keep you,
afternoons of quiet, without warning of bad things, your pantries full, with
enough to share, your vigil, and your voice to protect the damaged, and the

abused, evenings of quiet contemplation of a future that can be readily assured
of its fruition; and, at the end of a long, but satisfying day, a natural
tiredness, and a sleep that is both blissful, and restorative, watched over,
and always kept secure by healing angels.

I
love you dearly,

‘Zahc'

My Thoughts Regarding My Dear, Dear Friend, ‘Strenuba's Work: " Walking Dead" ‘

03/07/12

To my wonderfully kind, and constant friends, and
ever-loyal readers:


There are often so many things I wish to share with
you, that are too often lost among the totality
of my daily agonies; whispered hopes that lay beyond the scope of hopelessness
and the confusion and unfaithfulness of an uncertain mind. Of rushed, and half-remembered prayers I say
for all of us, even as I sit and rock in pain, and cry, or with trembling hands-in
an attempt to find pain medications-drop, in my blinded haste, to see
bright-colored pills fall to scatter on the countertop, below.


How often do I think of you, dearest friends, who
have granted to me the pardon that Life did not, and in your kindest,
befriending me, and remaining by my side to be near to me and to my pain; you,
who have accepted me in my most flawed and ugly state. Not as did ‘other' friends I thought I would
have for life; not like these, ‘schadenfreunds', or shadowed friends who left
me when I could no longer entertain them, or be of use to them; who flew away
before me, scattered, as Autumn leaves blown aloft, and to a thousand new
places as before a sudden storm.


Yes...they almost to a person left me, as did my few
relatives, as if-in becoming ill, and still more ill, until illness had piled
upon illness-I had somehow become tainted, dirty, or like some loathsome
stranger.


And, yet, these are the ones I once thought I loved,
and who would never go away. Now, in the
depth of my gratitude and humbled thanks to you, my sweet and constant friends,
it is YOU who I keep nestled safe within the sheltering wings of my secret
heart.


Of course, in times so long lost ago, I thought I
knew romantic love; so sure of it was I that I cast to it my heart in whole,
and for that, had my heart returned to me in pieces, leaving scars that last to
this day.


Since I was young, and in the fullness of my
strength, I thought that I would die...but, in time, did not. Who knew that that betrayal, or that
rejection would remain for my older Self to weigh and consider, weigh, and
consider, until adjudging it no longer worth the while.


Once, too, I was and Artist, both in art and words,
and in my youthful rashness thought that I had tamed the Muses, and dropped
them in my pocket...so sure was I that there they would remain forever; mine to
summon out of wind, and fire, and smoke whenever I happened to lift a pen or
brush. The apex of my artistic desire-while made of clay-was breathed to life,
when, while at college, I held a one-man exhibition of watercolors, pen and ink
drawings, and mixed media at my University's gallery, and was joyously happy,
when it was held-over another six weeks. In my youthful hubris, I left a large,
blank, sign-in book upon a pedestal, with a message to encourage thoughts, and
stray impressions from the viewers. And
I loved when strangers were thus inspire to leave within it, their own drawing
and poems; to me it was as if I were creating life, by providing such a stimulating
and fertile ground, for other seeds to take root, and blossom.


And this is most important, my dearest friends;
while at the time, I sought to push-aside the Gods, and thus emblaze the
twilight sky with my talent, now, thirty-something years have passed.


In that time:


1) Some of the works were plainly stolen.


2) The majority of what was left, was disposed of
accidentally, by a friend who, while I was ill, took charge of emptying out a
storage space; in it were probably sixty sketchbooks, matted, and unmated art,
cassette tapes of my piano compositions ( not surprisingly, also among my
better work ), and, half a lifetime of memories: of irreplaceable
correspondence from my mother and father to me, furniture, collections, found
pieces, photography ( as I had played with that medium, too).




Which is why, I would
like to bring before you yet another, gifted piece by very dear MDJunction
friend, ‘Strenuba', as in it, there is his hallmark style of meaning and
construction, a brevity I will never evidence, and his remarkable ability to
absolutely ‘nail down' with a perfect, Olympic score of ‘10', those questions,
and concerns that in their humanness, seek to speak to a greater Humanity.


I wish his works were more widely read, and
published, for his poems, that can only be referred to as ,'word song', seeks
to appeal to the very heart in each of us, with an honesty, and a truth that is
undeniable.


With his-and your-most kind permission, I would like
to present his latest work here, as I so gratefully appreciate that my
readership has grown, for which I can never thank you in near-full measure.




<> <> <> <> <>

Walking Dead

Mar 03 2012

WalkingDead

I mourn


for those
who are no longer here


and those
of us


who are
still


Still


mourning
for that past life


No longer
having the will


to
continue


But still


having the
courage


to endure
living


I mourn


For those
who have gone before


and those
who long to follow


I mourn...


STRENUBA





For me, my friend ‘Strenuba's work
at once parted the veil of all my past, fond hopes, desires, and assumed
reality. It escaped the forgotten and secret past.


One morning, I awoke from a troubled,
unrefreshing sleep, if sleep can be measured in those scant minutes of respite
from assembled nightmare and horror, to find that Life had been somehow
condensed, collapsed, and that thirty-five years were gone, disappeared,
vanished, and could not be found, nor ever recalled again, except-perhaps-in some
fevered reverie.




My mother and father were dead, and
suddenly I missed the reassuring susurrus of the nightly breathing in the
house. I cried for the lack of their love and protecting strength, and mourned
their loss.




Somehow, I had been aged, twisted,
reformed into a much lesser child of God; my once youthful strength, and
sureness of the universe were gone, wiped clean, as if they'd never been.




The few, remaining pieces from that
long-ago exhibition I had framed, but somehow, they had not been created by my
hand, but another's, someone I no longer knew.
Only by the scrawled signature at each picture's base, did I even know
that it had been me.


And in my gathering pain, trapped,
now, within a Caliban-like, monstrously changed body, whose hand could no
longer limn a creative line; whose mind was filled by fog, consisting of
nothing more than shining bits of gutter trash, whose body follows, now, a
different master...that of Lupus, Fibromyalgia, Chronic pain (and added to the
sum of delinquent illnesses that already were there), whose legs and feet are-by
neuropathy-scarcely able to bear my greater weight, and now barely look as
human-form, I bemoaned and mourned a Present in which all my Art was lost, as
was most of my volition, even will to live.




And to this grinding, whoresome,
inescapable periods of worry, panic, anxiety of the unknown, and that agony of undistilled
pain, which debilitates me into stark inaction, and inattention, and that makes
any sense of the Future unknowable; yes, it is in fear, and dread I mourn the
loss of purpose, and of a reliable and sustainable comfort, that I had hope
might abide with me yet a while.




I mourn the loss of self-sufficiency,
and of having-now-to rely upon faceless goodwill, or bad, or that conceived of
whim, by others upon whom so much of my current situation depends. It now frightens me, that-with just a mere
pen stroke-how completely directed is my utter existence. And that, as with a mark over, I-too---could
be just as easily erased.


For once, it was I who controlled my
limited, clockwork world; now, others keep it wound. Or not, as they so choose.


When last I looked, I had been
better tutored by some base Evil, but-instead-am made to stumble blindly down a
path that leads to a vile uncertainty; to eat my solitary, lonely, plastic
dinner which sates, but never satisfies; to later seek some wearied rest upon a
cold, unwelcome bed, lined fully with Christ's thorns, where only an unsettled ‘sleep'
is marked by bathroom calls, or cries for extra medication, or rent by horrific
nightmares, full propelled by Hell's tortuous minions


Only to find no greater hope with
each grey dawn.




It is a confluence of all these
things and more that we regret, and hate; regret and mourn: the sum of whom we
are, what we've become, and what we have irreparably lost.




It is all of this that has so
eloquently written by my dear, dear friend, ‘Strenuba'. Which-my most dear friends, and loyal readers-I
would urge you to read and consider; to re-read, and consider,




With all my heart I wish for you ‘lessened'
or no pain; days of glorious Spring to be enjoyed, as ever surrounded safely,
by those who genuinely love you, and ever hope to protect and keep you,
afternoons of quiet, without warning of bad things, your pantries full, with
enough to share, your vigil, and your voice to protect the damaged, and the

abused, evenings of quiet contemplation of a future that can be readily assured
of its fruition; and, at the end of a long, but satisfying day, a natural
tiredness, and a sleep that is both blissful, and restorative, watched over,
and always kept secure by healing angels.

I
love you dearly,

‘Zahc'

My Thoughts Regarding My Dear, Dear Friend, ‘Strenuba's Work: " Walking Dead" ‘

03/07/12

To my wonderfully kind, and constant friends, and
ever-loyal readers:


There are often so many things I wish to share with
you, that are too often lost among the totality
of my daily agonies; whispered hopes that lay beyond the scope of hopelessness
and the confusion and unfaithfulness of an uncertain mind. Of rushed, and half-remembered prayers I say
for all of us, even as I sit and rock in pain, and cry, or with trembling hands-in
an attempt to find pain medications-drop, in my blinded haste, to see
bright-colored pills fall to scatter on the countertop, below.


How often do I think of you, dearest friends, who
have granted to me the pardon that Life did not, and in your kindest,
befriending me, and remaining by my side to be near to me and to my pain; you,
who have accepted me in my most flawed and ugly state. Not as did ‘other' friends I thought I would
have for life; not like these, ‘schadenfreunds', or shadowed friends who left
me when I could no longer entertain them, or be of use to them; who flew away
before me, scattered, as Autumn leaves blown aloft, and to a thousand new
places as before a sudden storm.


Yes...they almost to a person left me, as did my few
relatives, as if-in becoming ill, and still more ill, until illness had piled
upon illness-I had somehow become tainted, dirty, or like some loathsome
stranger.


And, yet, these are the ones I once thought I loved,
and who would never go away. Now, in the
depth of my gratitude and humbled thanks to you, my sweet and constant friends,
it is YOU who I keep nestled safe within the sheltering wings of my secret
heart.


Of course, in times so long lost ago, I thought I
knew romantic love; so sure of it was I that I cast to it my heart in whole,
and for that, had my heart returned to me in pieces, leaving scars that last to
this day.


Since I was young, and in the fullness of my
strength, I thought that I would die...but, in time, did not. Who knew that that betrayal, or that
rejection would remain for my older Self to weigh and consider, weigh, and
consider, until adjudging it no longer worth the while.


Once, too, I was and Artist, both in art and words,
and in my youthful rashness thought that I had tamed the Muses, and dropped
them in my pocket...so sure was I that there they would remain forever; mine to
summon out of wind, and fire, and smoke whenever I happened to lift a pen or
brush. The apex of my artistic desire-while made of clay-was breathed to life,
when, while at college, I held a one-man exhibition of watercolors, pen and ink
drawings, and mixed media at my University's gallery, and was joyously happy,
when it was held-over another six weeks. In my youthful hubris, I left a large,
blank, sign-in book upon a pedestal, with a message to encourage thoughts, and
stray impressions from the viewers. And
I loved when strangers were thus inspire to leave within it, their own drawing
and poems; to me it was as if I were creating life, by providing such a stimulating
and fertile ground, for other seeds to take root, and blossom.


And this is most important, my dearest friends;
while at the time, I sought to push-aside the Gods, and thus emblaze the
twilight sky with my talent, now, thirty-something years have passed.


In that time:


1) Some of the works were plainly stolen.


2) The majority of what was left, was disposed of
accidentally, by a friend who, while I was ill, took charge of emptying out a
storage space; in it were probably sixty sketchbooks, matted, and unmated art,
cassette tapes of my piano compositions ( not surprisingly, also among my
better work ), and, half a lifetime of memories: of irreplaceable
correspondence from my mother and father to me, furniture, collections, found
pieces, photography ( as I had played with that medium, too).




Which is why, I would
like to bring before you yet another, gifted piece by very dear MDJunction
friend, ‘Strenuba', as in it, there is his hallmark style of meaning and
construction, a brevity I will never evidence, and his remarkable ability to
absolutely ‘nail down' with a perfect, Olympic score of ‘10', those questions,
and concerns that in their humanness, seek to speak to a greater Humanity.


I wish his works were more widely read, and
published, for his poems, that can only be referred to as ,'word song', seeks
to appeal to the very heart in each of us, with an honesty, and a truth that is
undeniable.


With his-and your-most kind permission, I would like
to present his latest work here, as I so gratefully appreciate that my
readership has grown, for which I can never thank you in near-full measure.




<> <> <> <> <>

Walking Dead

Mar 03 2012

WalkingDead

I mourn


for those
who are no longer here


and those
of us


who are
still


Still


mourning
for that past life


No longer
having the will


to
continue


But still


having the
courage


to endure
living


I mourn


For those
who have gone before


and those
who long to follow


I mourn...


STRENUBA





For me, my friend ‘Strenuba's work
at once parted the veil of all my past, fond hopes, desires, and assumed
reality. It escaped the forgotten and secret past.


One morning, I awoke from a troubled,
unrefreshing sleep, if sleep can be measured in those scant minutes of respite
from assembled nightmare and horror, to find that Life had been somehow
condensed, collapsed, and that thirty-five years were gone, disappeared,
vanished, and could not be found, nor ever recalled again, except-perhaps-in some
fevered reverie.




My mother and father were dead, and
suddenly I missed the reassuring susurrus of the nightly breathing in the
house. I cried for the lack of their love and protecting strength, and mourned
their loss.




Somehow, I had been aged, twisted,
reformed into a much lesser child of God; my once youthful strength, and
sureness of the universe were gone, wiped clean, as if they'd never been.




The few, remaining pieces from that
long-ago exhibition I had framed, but somehow, they had not been created by my
hand, but another's, someone I no longer knew.
Only by the scrawled signature at each picture's base, did I even know
that it had been me.


And in my gathering pain, trapped,
now, within a Caliban-like, monstrously changed body, whose hand could no
longer limn a creative line; whose mind was filled by fog, consisting of
nothing more than shining bits of gutter trash, whose body follows, now, a
different master...that of Lupus, Fibromyalgia, Chronic pain (and added to the
sum of delinquent illnesses that already were there), whose legs and feet are-by
neuropathy-scarcely able to bear my greater weight, and now barely look as
human-form, I bemoaned and mourned a Present in which all my Art was lost, as
was most of my volition, even will to live.




And to this grinding, whoresome,
inescapable periods of worry, panic, anxiety of the unknown, and that agony of undistilled
pain, which debilitates me into stark inaction, and inattention, and that makes
any sense of the Future unknowable; yes, it is in fear, and dread I mourn the
loss of purpose, and of a reliable and sustainable comfort, that I had hope
might abide with me yet a while.




I mourn the loss of self-sufficiency,
and of having-now-to rely upon faceless goodwill, or bad, or that conceived of
whim, by others upon whom so much of my current situation depends. It now frightens me, that-with just a mere
pen stroke-how completely directed is my utter existence. And that, as with a mark over, I-too---could
be just as easily erased.


For once, it was I who controlled my
limited, clockwork world; now, others keep it wound. Or not, as they so choose.


When last I looked, I had been
better tutored by some base Evil, but-instead-am made to stumble blindly down a
path that leads to a vile uncertainty; to eat my solitary, lonely, plastic
dinner which sates, but never satisfies; to later seek some wearied rest upon a
cold, unwelcome bed, lined fully with Christ's thorns, where only an unsettled ‘sleep'
is marked by bathroom calls, or cries for extra medication, or rent by horrific
nightmares, full propelled by Hell's tortuous minions


Only to find no greater hope with
each grey dawn.




It is a confluence of all these
things and more that we regret, and hate; regret and mourn: the sum of whom we
are, what we've become, and what we have irreparably lost.




It is all of this that has so
eloquently written by my dear, dear friend, ‘Strenuba'. Which-my most dear friends, and loyal readers-I
would urge you to read and consider; to re-read, and consider,




With all my heart I wish for you ‘lessened'
or no pain; days of glorious Spring to be enjoyed, as ever surrounded safely,
by those who genuinely love you, and ever hope to protect and keep you,
afternoons of quiet, without warning of bad things, your pantries full, with
enough to share, your vigil, and your voice to protect the damaged, and the

abused, evenings of quiet contemplation of a future that can be readily assured
of its fruition; and, at the end of a long, but satisfying day, a natural
tiredness, and a sleep that is both blissful, and restorative, watched over,
and always kept secure by healing angels.

I
love you dearly,

‘Zahc'

My Thoughts Regarding My Dear, Dear Friend, ‘Strenuba's Work: " Walking Dead" ‘

03/07/12

To my wonderfully kind, and constant friends, and
ever-loyal readers:


There are often so many things I wish to share with
you, that are too often lost among the totality
of my daily agonies; whispered hopes that lay beyond the scope of hopelessness
and the confusion and unfaithfulness of an uncertain mind. Of rushed, and half-remembered prayers I say
for all of us, even as I sit and rock in pain, and cry, or with trembling hands-in
an attempt to find pain medications-drop, in my blinded haste, to see
bright-colored pills fall to scatter on the countertop, below.


How often do I think of you, dearest friends, who
have granted to me the pardon that Life did not, and in your kindest,
befriending me, and remaining by my side to be near to me and to my pain; you,
who have accepted me in my most flawed and ugly state. Not as did ‘other' friends I thought I would
have for life; not like these, ‘schadenfreunds', or shadowed friends who left
me when I could no longer entertain them, or be of use to them; who flew away
before me, scattered, as Autumn leaves blown aloft, and to a thousand new
places as before a sudden storm.


Yes...they almost to a person left me, as did my few
relatives, as if-in becoming ill, and still more ill, until illness had piled
upon illness-I had somehow become tainted, dirty, or like some loathsome
stranger.


And, yet, these are the ones I once thought I loved,
and who would never go away. Now, in the
depth of my gratitude and humbled thanks to you, my sweet and constant friends,
it is YOU who I keep nestled safe within the sheltering wings of my secret
heart.


Of course, in times so long lost ago, I thought I
knew romantic love; so sure of it was I that I cast to it my heart in whole,
and for that, had my heart returned to me in pieces, leaving scars that last to
this day.


Since I was young, and in the fullness of my
strength, I thought that I would die...but, in time, did not. Who knew that that betrayal, or that
rejection would remain for my older Self to weigh and consider, weigh, and
consider, until adjudging it no longer worth the while.


Once, too, I was and Artist, both in art and words,
and in my youthful rashness thought that I had tamed the Muses, and dropped
them in my pocket...so sure was I that there they would remain forever; mine to
summon out of wind, and fire, and smoke whenever I happened to lift a pen or
brush. The apex of my artistic desire-while made of clay-was breathed to life,
when, while at college, I held a one-man exhibition of watercolors, pen and ink
drawings, and mixed media at my University's gallery, and was joyously happy,
when it was held-over another six weeks. In my youthful hubris, I left a large,
blank, sign-in book upon a pedestal, with a message to encourage thoughts, and
stray impressions from the viewers. And
I loved when strangers were thus inspire to leave within it, their own drawing
and poems; to me it was as if I were creating life, by providing such a stimulating
and fertile ground, for other seeds to take root, and blossom.


And this is most important, my dearest friends;
while at the time, I sought to push-aside the Gods, and thus emblaze the
twilight sky with my talent, now, thirty-something years have passed.


In that time:


1) Some of the works were plainly stolen.


2) The majority of what was left, was disposed of
accidentally, by a friend who, while I was ill, took charge of emptying out a
storage space; in it were probably sixty sketchbooks, matted, and unmated art,
cassette tapes of my piano compositions ( not surprisingly, also among my
better work ), and, half a lifetime of memories: of irreplaceable
correspondence from my mother and father to me, furniture, collections, found
pieces, photography ( as I had played with that medium, too).




Which is why, I would
like to bring before you yet another, gifted piece by very dear MDJunction
friend, ‘Strenuba', as in it, there is his hallmark style of meaning and
construction, a brevity I will never evidence, and his remarkable ability to
absolutely ‘nail down' with a perfect, Olympic score of ‘10', those questions,
and concerns that in their humanness, seek to speak to a greater Humanity.


I wish his works were more widely read, and
published, for his poems, that can only be referred to as ,'word song', seeks
to appeal to the very heart in each of us, with an honesty, and a truth that is
undeniable.


With his-and your-most kind permission, I would like
to present his latest work here, as I so gratefully appreciate that my
readership has grown, for which I can never thank you in near-full measure.




<> <> <> <> <>

Walking Dead

Mar 03 2012

WalkingDead

I mourn


for those
who are no longer here


and those
of us


who are
still


Still


mourning
for that past life


No longer
having the will


to
continue


But still


having the
courage


to endure
living


I mourn


For those
who have gone before


and those
who long to follow


I mourn...


STRENUBA





For me, my friend ‘Strenuba's work
at once parted the veil of all my past, fond hopes, desires, and assumed
reality. It escaped the forgotten and secret past.


One morning, I awoke from a troubled,
unrefreshing sleep, if sleep can be measured in those scant minutes of respite
from assembled nightmare and horror, to find that Life had been somehow
condensed, collapsed, and that thirty-five years were gone, disappeared,
vanished, and could not be found, nor ever recalled again, except-perhaps-in some
fevered reverie.




My mother and father were dead, and
suddenly I missed the reassuring susurrus of the nightly breathing in the
house. I cried for the lack of their love and protecting strength, and mourned
their loss.




Somehow, I had been aged, twisted,
reformed into a much lesser child of God; my once youthful strength, and
sureness of the universe were gone, wiped clean, as if they'd never been.




The few, remaining pieces from that
long-ago exhibition I had framed, but somehow, they had not been created by my
hand, but another's, someone I no longer knew.
Only by the scrawled signature at each picture's base, did I even know
that it had been me.


And in my gathering pain, trapped,
now, within a Caliban-like, monstrously changed body, whose hand could no
longer limn a creative line; whose mind was filled by fog, consisting of
nothing more than shining bits of gutter trash, whose body follows, now, a
different master...that of Lupus, Fibromyalgia, Chronic pain (and added to the
sum of delinquent illnesses that already were there), whose legs and feet are-by
neuropathy-scarcely able to bear my greater weight, and now barely look as
human-form, I bemoaned and mourned a Present in which all my Art was lost, as
was most of my volition, even will to live.




And to this grinding, whoresome,
inescapable periods of worry, panic, anxiety of the unknown, and that agony of undistilled
pain, which debilitates me into stark inaction, and inattention, and that makes
any sense of the Future unknowable; yes, it is in fear, and dread I mourn the
loss of purpose, and of a reliable and sustainable comfort, that I had hope
might abide with me yet a while.




I mourn the loss of self-sufficiency,
and of having-now-to rely upon faceless goodwill, or bad, or that conceived of
whim, by others upon whom so much of my current situation depends. It now frightens me, that-with just a mere
pen stroke-how completely directed is my utter existence. And that, as with a mark over, I-too---could
be just as easily erased.


For once, it was I who controlled my
limited, clockwork world; now, others keep it wound. Or not, as they so choose.


When last I looked, I had been
better tutored by some base Evil, but-instead-am made to stumble blindly down a
path that leads to a vile uncertainty; to eat my solitary, lonely, plastic
dinner which sates, but never satisfies; to later seek some wearied rest upon a
cold, unwelcome bed, lined fully with Christ's thorns, where only an unsettled ‘sleep'
is marked by bathroom calls, or cries for extra medication, or rent by horrific
nightmares, full propelled by Hell's tortuous minions


Only to find no greater hope with
each grey dawn.




It is a confluence of all these
things and more that we regret, and hate; regret and mourn: the sum of whom we
are, what we've become, and what we have irreparably lost.




It is all of this that has so
eloquently written by my dear, dear friend, ‘Strenuba'. Which-my most dear friends, and loyal readers-I
would urge you to read and consider; to re-read, and consider,




With all my heart I wish for you ‘lessened'
or no pain; days of glorious Spring to be enjoyed, as ever surrounded safely,
by those who genuinely love you, and ever hope to protect and keep you,
afternoons of quiet, without warning of bad things, your pantries full, with
enough to share, your vigil, and your voice to protect the damaged, and the

abused, evenings of quiet contemplation of a future that can be readily assured
of its fruition; and, at the end of a long, but satisfying day, a natural
tiredness, and a sleep that is both blissful, and restorative, watched over,
and always kept secure by healing angels.

I
love you dearly,

‘Zahc'

My Thoughts Regarding My Dear, Dear Friend, ‘Strenuba's Work: " Walking Dead" ‘

03/07/12

To my wonderfully kind, and constant friends, and
ever-loyal readers:


There are often so many things I wish to share with
you, that are too often lost among the totality
of my daily agonies; whispered hopes that lay beyond the scope of hopelessness
and the confusion and unfaithfulness of an uncertain mind. Of rushed, and half-remembered prayers I say
for all of us, even as I sit and rock in pain, and cry, or with trembling hands-in
an attempt to find pain medications-drop, in my blinded haste, to see
bright-colored pills fall to scatter on the countertop, below.


How often do I think of you, dearest friends, who
have granted to me the pardon that Life did not, and in your kindest,
befriending me, and remaining by my side to be near to me and to my pain; you,
who have accepted me in my most flawed and ugly state. Not as did ‘other' friends I thought I would
have for life; not like these, ‘schadenfreunds', or shadowed friends who left
me when I could no longer entertain them, or be of use to them; who flew away
before me, scattered, as Autumn leaves blown aloft, and to a thousand new
places as before a sudden storm.


Yes...they almost to a person left me, as did my few
relatives, as if-in becoming ill, and still more ill, until illness had piled
upon illness-I had somehow become tainted, dirty, or like some loathsome
stranger.


And, yet, these are the ones I once thought I loved,
and who would never go away. Now, in the
depth of my gratitude and humbled thanks to you, my sweet and constant friends,
it is YOU who I keep nestled safe within the sheltering wings of my secret
heart.


Of course, in times so long lost ago, I thought I
knew romantic love; so sure of it was I that I cast to it my heart in whole,
and for that, had my heart returned to me in pieces, leaving scars that last to
this day.


Since I was young, and in the fullness of my
strength, I thought that I would die...but, in time, did not. Who knew that that betrayal, or that
rejection would remain for my older Self to weigh and consider, weigh, and
consider, until adjudging it no longer worth the while.


Once, too, I was and Artist, both in art and words,
and in my youthful rashness thought that I had tamed the Muses, and dropped
them in my pocket...so sure was I that there they would remain forever; mine to
summon out of wind, and fire, and smoke whenever I happened to lift a pen or
brush. The apex of my artistic desire-while made of clay-was breathed to life,
when, while at college, I held a one-man exhibition of watercolors, pen and ink
drawings, and mixed media at my University's gallery, and was joyously happy,
when it was held-over another six weeks. In my youthful hubris, I left a large,
blank, sign-in book upon a pedestal, with a message to encourage thoughts, and
stray impressions from the viewers. And
I loved when strangers were thus inspire to leave within it, their own drawing
and poems; to me it was as if I were creating life, by providing such a stimulating
and fertile ground, for other seeds to take root, and blossom.


And this is most important, my dearest friends;
while at the time, I sought to push-aside the Gods, and thus emblaze the
twilight sky with my talent, now, thirty-something years have passed.


In that time:


1) Some of the works were plainly stolen.


2) The majority of what was left, was disposed of
accidentally, by a friend who, while I was ill, took charge of emptying out a
storage space; in it were probably sixty sketchbooks, matted, and unmated art,
cassette tapes of my piano compositions ( not surprisingly, also among my
better work ), and, half a lifetime of memories: of irreplaceable
correspondence from my mother and father to me, furniture, collections, found
pieces, photography ( as I had played with that medium, too).




Which is why, I would
like to bring before you yet another, gifted piece by very dear MDJunction
friend, ‘Strenuba', as in it, there is his hallmark style of meaning and
construction, a brevity I will never evidence, and his remarkable ability to
absolutely ‘nail down' with a perfect, Olympic score of ‘10', those questions,
and concerns that in their humanness, seek to speak to a greater Humanity.


I wish his works were more widely read, and
published, for his poems, that can only be referred to as ,'word song', seeks
to appeal to the very heart in each of us, with an honesty, and a truth that is
undeniable.


With his-and your-most kind permission, I would like
to present his latest work here, as I so gratefully appreciate that my
readership has grown, for which I can never thank you in near-full measure.




<> <> <> <> <>

Walking Dead

Mar 03 2012

WalkingDead

I mourn


for those
who are no longer here


and those
of us


who are
still


Still


mourning
for that past life


No longer
having the will


to
continue


But still


having the
courage


to endure
living


I mourn


For those
who have gone before


and those
who long to follow


I mourn...


STRENUBA





For me, my friend ‘Strenuba's work
at once parted the veil of all my past, fond hopes, desires, and assumed
reality. It escaped the forgotten and secret past.


One morning, I awoke from a troubled,
unrefreshing sleep, if sleep can be measured in those scant minutes of respite
from assembled nightmare and horror, to find that Life had been somehow
condensed, collapsed, and that thirty-five years were gone, disappeared,
vanished, and could not be found, nor ever recalled again, except-perhaps-in some
fevered reverie.




My mother and father were dead, and
suddenly I missed the reassuring susurrus of the nightly breathing in the
house. I cried for the lack of their love and protecting strength, and mourned
their loss.




Somehow, I had been aged, twisted,
reformed into a much lesser child of God; my once youthful strength, and
sureness of the universe were gone, wiped clean, as if they'd never been.




The few, remaining pieces from that
long-ago exhibition I had framed, but somehow, they had not been created by my
hand, but another's, someone I no longer knew.
Only by the scrawled signature at each picture's base, did I even know
that it had been me.


And in my gathering pain, trapped,
now, within a Caliban-like, monstrously changed body, whose hand could no
longer limn a creative line; whose mind was filled by fog, consisting of
nothing more than shining bits of gutter trash, whose body follows, now, a
different master...that of Lupus, Fibromyalgia, Chronic pain (and added to the
sum of delinquent illnesses that already were there), whose legs and feet are-by
neuropathy-scarcely able to bear my greater weight, and now barely look as
human-form, I bemoaned and mourned a Present in which all my Art was lost, as
was most of my volition, even will to live.




And to this grinding, whoresome,
inescapable periods of worry, panic, anxiety of the unknown, and that agony of undistilled
pain, which debilitates me into stark inaction, and inattention, and that makes
any sense of the Future unknowable; yes, it is in fear, and dread I mourn the
loss of purpose, and of a reliable and sustainable comfort, that I had hope
might abide with me yet a while.




I mourn the loss of self-sufficiency,
and of having-now-to rely upon faceless goodwill, or bad, or that conceived of
whim, by others upon whom so much of my current situation depends. It now frightens me, that-with just a mere
pen stroke-how completely directed is my utter existence. And that, as with a mark over, I-too---could
be just as easily erased.


For once, it was I who controlled my
limited, clockwork world; now, others keep it wound. Or not, as they so choose.


When last I looked, I had been
better tutored by some base Evil, but-instead-am made to stumble blindly down a
path that leads to a vile uncertainty; to eat my solitary, lonely, plastic
dinner which sates, but never satisfies; to later seek some wearied rest upon a
cold, unwelcome bed, lined fully with Christ's thorns, where only an unsettled ‘sleep'
is marked by bathroom calls, or cries for extra medication, or rent by horrific
nightmares, full propelled by Hell's tortuous minions


Only to find no greater hope with
each grey dawn.




It is a confluence of all these
things and more that we regret, and hate; regret and mourn: the sum of whom we
are, what we've become, and what we have irreparably lost.




It is all of this that has so
eloquently written by my dear, dear friend, ‘Strenuba'. Which-my most dear friends, and loyal readers-I
would urge you to read and consider; to re-read, and consider,




With all my heart I wish for you ‘lessened'
or no pain; days of glorious Spring to be enjoyed, as ever surrounded safely,
by those who genuinely love you, and ever hope to protect and keep you,
afternoons of quiet, without warning of bad things, your pantries full, with
enough to share, your vigil, and your voice to protect the damaged, and the

abused, evenings of quiet contemplation of a future that can be readily assured
of its fruition; and, at the end of a long, but satisfying day, a natural
tiredness, and a sleep that is both blissful, and restorative, watched over,
and always kept secure by healing angels.

I
love you dearly,

‘Zahc'

My Thoughts Regarding My Dear, Dear Friend, ‘Strenuba's Work: " Walking Dead" ‘

03/07/12

To my wonderfully kind, and constant friends, and
ever-loyal readers:


There are often so many things I wish to share with
you, that are too often lost among the totality
of my daily agonies; whispered hopes that lay beyond the scope of hopelessness
and the confusion and unfaithfulness of an uncertain mind. Of rushed, and half-remembered prayers I say
for all of us, even as I sit and rock in pain, and cry, or with trembling hands-in
an attempt to find pain medications-drop, in my blinded haste, to see
bright-colored pills fall to scatter on the countertop, below.


How often do I think of you, dearest friends, who
have granted to me the pardon that Life did not, and in your kindest,
befriending me, and remaining by my side to be near to me and to my pain; you,
who have accepted me in my most flawed and ugly state. Not as did ‘other' friends I thought I would
have for life; not like these, ‘schadenfreunds', or shadowed friends who left
me when I could no longer entertain them, or be of use to them; who flew away
before me, scattered, as Autumn leaves blown aloft, and to a thousand new
places as before a sudden storm.


Yes...they almost to a person left me, as did my few
relatives, as if-in becoming ill, and still more ill, until illness had piled
upon illness-I had somehow become tainted, dirty, or like some loathsome
stranger.


And, yet, these are the ones I once thought I loved,
and who would never go away. Now, in the
depth of my gratitude and humbled thanks to you, my sweet and constant friends,
it is YOU who I keep nestled safe within the sheltering wings of my secret
heart.


Of course, in times so long lost ago, I thought I
knew romantic love; so sure of it was I that I cast to it my heart in whole,
and for that, had my heart returned to me in pieces, leaving scars that last to
this day.


Since I was young, and in the fullness of my
strength, I thought that I would die...but, in time, did not. Who knew that that betrayal, or that
rejection would remain for my older Self to weigh and consider, weigh, and
consider, until adjudging it no longer worth the while.


Once, too, I was and Artist, both in art and words,
and in my youthful rashness thought that I had tamed the Muses, and dropped
them in my pocket...so sure was I that there they would remain forever; mine to
summon out of wind, and fire, and smoke whenever I happened to lift a pen or
brush. The apex of my artistic desire-while made of clay-was breathed to life,
when, while at college, I held a one-man exhibition of watercolors, pen and ink
drawings, and mixed media at my University's gallery, and was joyously happy,
when it was held-over another six weeks. In my youthful hubris, I left a large,
blank, sign-in book upon a pedestal, with a message to encourage thoughts, and
stray impressions from the viewers. And
I loved when strangers were thus inspire to leave within it, their own drawing
and poems; to me it was as if I were creating life, by providing such a stimulating
and fertile ground, for other seeds to take root, and blossom.


And this is most important, my dearest friends;
while at the time, I sought to push-aside the Gods, and thus emblaze the
twilight sky with my talent, now, thirty-something years have passed.


In that time:


1) Some of the works were plainly stolen.


2) The majority of what was left, was disposed of
accidentally, by a friend who, while I was ill, took charge of emptying out a
storage space; in it were probably sixty sketchbooks, matted, and unmated art,
cassette tapes of my piano compositions ( not surprisingly, also among my
better work ), and, half a lifetime of memories: of irreplaceable
correspondence from my mother and father to me, furniture, collections, found
pieces, photography ( as I had played with that medium, too).




Which is why, I would
like to bring before you yet another, gifted piece by very dear MDJunction
friend, ‘Strenuba', as in it, there is his hallmark style of meaning and
construction, a brevity I will never evidence, and his remarkable ability to
absolutely ‘nail down' with a perfect, Olympic score of ‘10', those questions,
and concerns that in their humanness, seek to speak to a greater Humanity.


I wish his works were more widely read, and
published, for his poems, that can only be referred to as ,'word song', seeks
to appeal to the very heart in each of us, with an honesty, and a truth that is
undeniable.


With his-and your-most kind permission, I would like
to present his latest work here, as I so gratefully appreciate that my
readership has grown, for which I can never thank you in near-full measure.




<> <> <> <> <>

Walking Dead

Mar 03 2012

WalkingDead

I mourn


for those
who are no longer here


and those
of us


who are
still


Still


mourning
for that past life


No longer
having the will


to
continue


But still


having the
courage


to endure
living


I mourn


For those
who have gone before


and those
who long to follow


I mourn...


STRENUBA





For me, my friend ‘Strenuba's work
at once parted the veil of all my past, fond hopes, desires, and assumed
reality. It escaped the forgotten and secret past.


One morning, I awoke from a troubled,
unrefreshing sleep, if sleep can be measured in those scant minutes of respite
from assembled nightmare and horror, to find that Life had been somehow
condensed, collapsed, and that thirty-five years were gone, disappeared,
vanished, and could not be found, nor ever recalled again, except-perhaps-in some
fevered reverie.




My mother and father were dead, and
suddenly I missed the reassuring susurrus of the nightly breathing in the
house. I cried for the lack of their love and protecting strength, and mourned
their loss.




Somehow, I had been aged, twisted,
reformed into a much lesser child of God; my once youthful strength, and
sureness of the universe were gone, wiped clean, as if they'd never been.




The few, remaining pieces from that
long-ago exhibition I had framed, but somehow, they had not been created by my
hand, but another's, someone I no longer knew.
Only by the scrawled signature at each picture's base, did I even know
that it had been me.


And in my gathering pain, trapped,
now, within a Caliban-like, monstrously changed body, whose hand could no
longer limn a creative line; whose mind was filled by fog, consisting of
nothing more than shining bits of gutter trash, whose body follows, now, a
different master...that of Lupus, Fibromyalgia, Chronic pain (and added to the
sum of delinquent illnesses that already were there), whose legs and feet are-by
neuropathy-scarcely able to bear my greater weight, and now barely look as
human-form, I bemoaned and mourned a Present in which all my Art was lost, as
was most of my volition, even will to live.




And to this grinding, whoresome,
inescapable periods of worry, panic, anxiety of the unknown, and that agony of undistilled
pain, which debilitates me into stark inaction, and inattention, and that makes
any sense of the Future unknowable; yes, it is in fear, and dread I mourn the
loss of purpose, and of a reliable and sustainable comfort, that I had hope
might abide with me yet a while.




I mourn the loss of self-sufficiency,
and of having-now-to rely upon faceless goodwill, or bad, or that conceived of
whim, by others upon whom so much of my current situation depends. It now frightens me, that-with just a mere
pen stroke-how completely directed is my utter existence. And that, as with a mark over, I-too---could
be just as easily erased.


For once, it was I who controlled my
limited, clockwork world; now, others keep it wound. Or not, as they so choose.


When last I looked, I had been
better tutored by some base Evil, but-instead-am made to stumble blindly down a
path that leads to a vile uncertainty; to eat my solitary, lonely, plastic
dinner which sates, but never satisfies; to later seek some wearied rest upon a
cold, unwelcome bed, lined fully with Christ's thorns, where only an unsettled ‘sleep'
is marked by bathroom calls, or cries for extra medication, or rent by horrific
nightmares, full propelled by Hell's tortuous minions


Only to find no greater hope with
each grey dawn.




It is a confluence of all these
things and more that we regret, and hate; regret and mourn: the sum of whom we
are, what we've become, and what we have irreparably lost.




It is all of this that has so
eloquently written by my dear, dear friend, ‘Strenuba'. Which-my most dear friends, and loyal readers-I
would urge you to read and consider; to re-read, and consider,




With all my heart I wish for you ‘lessened'
or no pain; days of glorious Spring to be enjoyed, as ever surrounded safely,
by those who genuinely love you, and ever hope to protect and keep you,
afternoons of quiet, without warning of bad things, your pantries full, with
enough to share, your vigil, and your voice to protect the damaged, and the

abused, evenings of quiet contemplation of a future that can be readily assured
of its fruition; and, at the end of a long, but satisfying day, a natural
tiredness, and a sleep that is both blissful, and restorative, watched over,
and always kept secure by healing angels.

I
love you dearly,

‘Zahc'

My Thoughts Regarding My Dear, Dear Friend, ‘Strenuba's Work: " Walking Dead" ‘

03/07/12

To my wonderfully kind, and constant friends, and
ever-loyal readers:


There are often so many things I wish to share with
you, that are too often lost among the totality
of my daily agonies; whispered hopes that lay beyond the scope of hopelessness
and the confusion and unfaithfulness of an uncertain mind. Of rushed, and half-remembered prayers I say
for all of us, even as I sit and rock in pain, and cry, or with trembling hands-in
an attempt to find pain medications-drop, in my blinded haste, to see
bright-colored pills fall to scatter on the countertop, below.


How often do I think of you, dearest friends, who
have granted to me the pardon that Life did not, and in your kindest,
befriending me, and remaining by my side to be near to me and to my pain; you,
who have accepted me in my most flawed and ugly state. Not as did ‘other' friends I thought I would
have for life; not like these, ‘schadenfreunds', or shadowed friends who left
me when I could no longer entertain them, or be of use to them; who flew away
before me, scattered, as Autumn leaves blown aloft, and to a thousand new
places as before a sudden storm.


Yes...they almost to a person left me, as did my few
relatives, as if-in becoming ill, and still more ill, until illness had piled
upon illness-I had somehow become tainted, dirty, or like some loathsome
stranger.


And, yet, these are the ones I once thought I loved,
and who would never go away. Now, in the
depth of my gratitude and humbled thanks to you, my sweet and constant friends,
it is YOU who I keep nestled safe within the sheltering wings of my secret
heart.


Of course, in times so long lost ago, I thought I
knew romantic love; so sure of it was I that I cast to it my heart in whole,
and for that, had my heart returned to me in pieces, leaving scars that last to
this day.


Since I was young, and in the fullness of my
strength, I thought that I would die...but, in time, did not. Who knew that that betrayal, or that
rejection would remain for my older Self to weigh and consider, weigh, and
consider, until adjudging it no longer worth the while.


Once, too, I was and Artist, both in art and words,
and in my youthful rashness thought that I had tamed the Muses, and dropped
them in my pocket...so sure was I that there they would remain forever; mine to
summon out of wind, and fire, and smoke whenever I happened to lift a pen or
brush. The apex of my artistic desire-while made of clay-was breathed to life,
when, while at college, I held a one-man exhibition of watercolors, pen and ink
drawings, and mixed media at my University's gallery, and was joyously happy,
when it was held-over another six weeks. In my youthful hubris, I left a large,
blank, sign-in book upon a pedestal, with a message to encourage thoughts, and
stray impressions from the viewers. And
I loved when strangers were thus inspire to leave within it, their own drawing
and poems; to me it was as if I were creating life, by providing such a stimulating
and fertile ground, for other seeds to take root, and blossom.


And this is most important, my dearest friends;
while at the time, I sought to push-aside the Gods, and thus emblaze the
twilight sky with my talent, now, thirty-something years have passed.


In that time:


1) Some of the works were plainly stolen.


2) The majority of what was left, was disposed of
accidentally, by a friend who, while I was ill, took charge of emptying out a
storage space; in it were probably sixty sketchbooks, matted, and unmated art,
cassette tapes of my piano compositions ( not surprisingly, also among my
better work ), and, half a lifetime of memories: of irreplaceable
correspondence from my mother and father to me, furniture, collections, found
pieces, photography ( as I had played with that medium, too).




Which is why, I would
like to bring before you yet another, gifted piece by very dear MDJunction
friend, ‘Strenuba', as in it, there is his hallmark style of meaning and
construction, a brevity I will never evidence, and his remarkable ability to
absolutely ‘nail down' with a perfect, Olympic score of ‘10', those questions,
and concerns that in their humanness, seek to speak to a greater Humanity.


I wish his works were more widely read, and
published, for his poems, that can only be referred to as ,'word song', seeks
to appeal to the very heart in each of us, with an honesty, and a truth that is
undeniable.


With his-and your-most kind permission, I would like
to present his latest work here, as I so gratefully appreciate that my
readership has grown, for which I can never thank you in near-full measure.




<> <> <> <> <>

Walking Dead

Mar 03 2012

WalkingDead

I mourn


for those
who are no longer here


and those
of us


who are
still


Still


mourning
for that past life


No longer
having the will


to
continue


But still


having the
courage


to endure
living


I mourn


For those
who have gone before


and those
who long to follow


I mourn...


STRENUBA





For me, my friend ‘Strenuba's work
at once parted the veil of all my past, fond hopes, desires, and assumed
reality. It escaped the forgotten and secret past.


One morning, I awoke from a troubled,
unrefreshing sleep, if sleep can be measured in those scant minutes of respite
from assembled nightmare and horror, to find that Life had been somehow
condensed, collapsed, and that thirty-five years were gone, disappeared,
vanished, and could not be found, nor ever recalled again, except-perhaps-in some
fevered reverie.




My mother and father were dead, and
suddenly I missed the reassuring susurrus of the nightly breathing in the
house. I cried for the lack of their love and protecting strength, and mourned
their loss.




Somehow, I had been aged, twisted,
reformed into a much lesser child of God; my once youthful strength, and
sureness of the universe were gone, wiped clean, as if they'd never been.




The few, remaining pieces from that
long-ago exhibition I had framed, but somehow, they had not been created by my
hand, but another's, someone I no longer knew.
Only by the scrawled signature at each picture's base, did I even know
that it had been me.


And in my gathering pain, trapped,
now, within a Caliban-like, monstrously changed body, whose hand could no
longer limn a creative line; whose mind was filled by fog, consisting of
nothing more than shining bits of gutter trash, whose body follows, now, a
different master...that of Lupus, Fibromyalgia, Chronic pain (and added to the
sum of delinquent illnesses that already were there), whose legs and feet are-by
neuropathy-scarcely able to bear my greater weight, and now barely look as
human-form, I bemoaned and mourned a Present in which all my Art was lost, as
was most of my volition, even will to live.




And to this grinding, whoresome,
inescapable periods of worry, panic, anxiety of the unknown, and that agony of undistilled
pain, which debilitates me into stark inaction, and inattention, and that makes
any sense of the Future unknowable; yes, it is in fear, and dread I mourn the
loss of purpose, and of a reliable and sustainable comfort, that I had hope
might abide with me yet a while.




I mourn the loss of self-sufficiency,
and of having-now-to rely upon faceless goodwill, or bad, or that conceived of
whim, by others upon whom so much of my current situation depends. It now frightens me, that-with just a mere
pen stroke-how completely directed is my utter existence. And that, as with a mark over, I-too---could
be just as easily erased.


For once, it was I who controlled my
limited, clockwork world; now, others keep it wound. Or not, as they so choose.


When last I looked, I had been
better tutored by some base Evil, but-instead-am made to stumble blindly down a
path that leads to a vile uncertainty; to eat my solitary, lonely, plastic
dinner which sates, but never satisfies; to later seek some wearied rest upon a
cold, unwelcome bed, lined fully with Christ's thorns, where only an unsettled ‘sleep'
is marked by bathroom calls, or cries for extra medication, or rent by horrific
nightmares, full propelled by Hell's tortuous minions


Only to find no greater hope with
each grey dawn.




It is a confluence of all these
things and more that we regret, and hate; regret and mourn: the sum of whom we
are, what we've become, and what we have irreparably lost.




It is all of this that has so
eloquently written by my dear, dear friend, ‘Strenuba'. Which-my most dear friends, and loyal readers-I
would urge you to read and consider; to re-read, and consider,




With all my heart I wish for you ‘lessened'
or no pain; days of glorious Spring to be enjoyed, as ever surrounded safely,
by those who genuinely love you, and ever hope to protect and keep you,
afternoons of quiet, without warning of bad things, your pantries full, with
enough to share, your vigil, and your voice to protect the damaged, and the

abused, evenings of quiet contemplation of a future that can be readily assured
of its fruition; and, at the end of a long, but satisfying day, a natural
tiredness, and a sleep that is both blissful, and restorative, watched over,
and always kept secure by healing angels.

I
love you dearly,

‘Zahc'

My Thoughts Regarding My Dear, Dear Friend, ‘Strenuba's Work: " Walking Dead" ‘

03/07/12

To my wonderfully kind, and constant friends, and
ever-loyal readers:


There are often so many things I wish to share with
you, that are too often lost among the totality
of my daily agonies; whispered hopes that lay beyond the scope of hopelessness
and the confusion and unfaithfulness of an uncertain mind. Of rushed, and half-remembered prayers I say
for all of us, even as I sit and rock in pain, and cry, or with trembling hands-in
an attempt to find pain medications-drop, in my blinded haste, to see
bright-colored pills fall to scatter on the countertop, below.


How often do I think of you, dearest friends, who
have granted to me the pardon that Life did not, and in your kindest,
befriending me, and remaining by my side to be near to me and to my pain; you,
who have accepted me in my most flawed and ugly state. Not as did ‘other' friends I thought I would
have for life; not like these, ‘schadenfreunds', or shadowed friends who left
me when I could no longer entertain them, or be of use to them; who flew away
before me, scattered, as Autumn leaves blown aloft, and to a thousand new
places as before a sudden storm.


Yes...they almost to a person left me, as did my few
relatives, as if-in becoming ill, and still more ill, until illness had piled
upon illness-I had somehow become tainted, dirty, or like some loathsome
stranger.


And, yet, these are the ones I once thought I loved,
and who would never go away. Now, in the
depth of my gratitude and humbled thanks to you, my sweet and constant friends,
it is YOU who I keep nestled safe within the sheltering wings of my secret
heart.


Of course, in times so long lost ago, I thought I
knew romantic love; so sure of it was I that I cast to it my heart in whole,
and for that, had my heart returned to me in pieces, leaving scars that last to
this day.


Since I was young, and in the fullness of my
strength, I thought that I would die...but, in time, did not. Who knew that that betrayal, or that
rejection would remain for my older Self to weigh and consider, weigh, and
consider, until adjudging it no longer worth the while.


Once, too, I was and Artist, both in art and words,
and in my youthful rashness thought that I had tamed the Muses, and dropped
them in my pocket...so sure was I that there they would remain forever; mine to
summon out of wind, and fire, and smoke whenever I happened to lift a pen or
brush. The apex of my artistic desire-while made of clay-was breathed to life,
when, while at college, I held a one-man exhibition of watercolors, pen and ink
drawings, and mixed media at my University's gallery, and was joyously happy,
when it was held-over another six weeks. In my youthful hubris, I left a large,
blank, sign-in book upon a pedestal, with a message to encourage thoughts, and
stray impressions from the viewers. And
I loved when strangers were thus inspire to leave within it, their own drawing
and poems; to me it was as if I were creating life, by providing such a stimulating
and fertile ground, for other seeds to take root, and blossom.


And this is most important, my dearest friends;
while at the time, I sought to push-aside the Gods, and thus emblaze the
twilight sky with my talent, now, thirty-something years have passed.


In that time:


1) Some of the works were plainly stolen.


2) The majority of what was left, was disposed of
accidentally, by a friend who, while I was ill, took charge of emptying out a
storage space; in it were probably sixty sketchbooks, matted, and unmated art,
cassette tapes of my piano compositions ( not surprisingly, also among my
better work ), and, half a lifetime of memories: of irreplaceable
correspondence from my mother and father to me, furniture, collections, found
pieces, photography ( as I had played with that medium, too).




Which is why, I would
like to bring before you yet another, gifted piece by very dear MDJunction
friend, ‘Strenuba', as in it, there is his hallmark style of meaning and
construction, a brevity I will never evidence, and his remarkable ability to
absolutely ‘nail down' with a perfect, Olympic score of ‘10', those questions,
and concerns that in their humanness, seek to speak to a greater Humanity.


I wish his works were more widely read, and
published, for his poems, that can only be referred to as ,'word song', seeks
to appeal to the very heart in each of us, with an honesty, and a truth that is
undeniable.


With his-and your-most kind permission, I would like
to present his latest work here, as I so gratefully appreciate that my
readership has grown, for which I can never thank you in near-full measure.




<> <> <> <> <>

Walking Dead

Mar 03 2012

WalkingDead

I mourn


for those
who are no longer here


and those
of us


who are
still


Still


mourning
for that past life


No longer
having the will


to
continue


But still


having the
courage


to endure
living


I mourn


For those
who have gone before


and those
who long to follow


I mourn...


STRENUBA





For me, my friend ‘Strenuba's work
at once parted the veil of all my past, fond hopes, desires, and assumed
reality. It escaped the forgotten and secret past.


One morning, I awoke from a troubled,
unrefreshing sleep, if sleep can be measured in those scant minutes of respite
from assembled nightmare and horror, to find that Life had been somehow
condensed, collapsed, and that thirty-five years were gone, disappeared,
vanished, and could not be found, nor ever recalled again, except-perhaps-in some
fevered reverie.




My mother and father were dead, and
suddenly I missed the reassuring susurrus of the nightly breathing in the
house. I cried for the lack of their love and protecting strength, and mourned
their loss.




Somehow, I had been aged, twisted,
reformed into a much lesser child of God; my once youthful strength, and
sureness of the universe were gone, wiped clean, as if they'd never been.




The few, remaining pieces from that
long-ago exhibition I had framed, but somehow, they had not been created by my
hand, but another's, someone I no longer knew.
Only by the scrawled signature at each picture's base, did I even know
that it had been me.


And in my gathering pain, trapped,
now, within a Caliban-like, monstrously changed body, whose hand could no
longer limn a creative line; whose mind was filled by fog, consisting of
nothing more than shining bits of gutter trash, whose body follows, now, a
different master...that of Lupus, Fibromyalgia, Chronic pain (and added to the
sum of delinquent illnesses that already were there), whose legs and feet are-by
neuropathy-scarcely able to bear my greater weight, and now barely look as
human-form, I bemoaned and mourned a Present in which all my Art was lost, as
was most of my volition, even will to live.




And to this grinding, whoresome,
inescapable periods of worry, panic, anxiety of the unknown, and that agony of undistilled
pain, which debilitates me into stark inaction, and inattention, and that makes
any sense of the Future unknowable; yes, it is in fear, and dread I mourn the
loss of purpose, and of a reliable and sustainable comfort, that I had hope
might abide with me yet a while.




I mourn the loss of self-sufficiency,
and of having-now-to rely upon faceless goodwill, or bad, or that conceived of
whim, by others upon whom so much of my current situation depends. It now frightens me, that-with just a mere
pen stroke-how completely directed is my utter existence. And that, as with a mark over, I-too---could
be just as easily erased.


For once, it was I who controlled my
limited, clockwork world; now, others keep it wound. Or not, as they so choose.


When last I looked, I had been
better tutored by some base Evil, but-instead-am made to stumble blindly down a
path that leads to a vile uncertainty; to eat my solitary, lonely, plastic
dinner which sates, but never satisfies; to later seek some wearied rest upon a
cold, unwelcome bed, lined fully with Christ's thorns, where only an unsettled ‘sleep'
is marked by bathroom calls, or cries for extra medication, or rent by horrific
nightmares, full propelled by Hell's tortuous minions


Only to find no greater hope with
each grey dawn.




It is a confluence of all these
things and more that we regret, and hate; regret and mourn: the sum of whom we
are, what we've become, and what we have irreparably lost.




It is all of this that has so
eloquently written by my dear, dear friend, ‘Strenuba'. Which-my most dear friends, and loyal readers-I
would urge you to read and consider; to re-read, and consider,




With all my heart I wish for you ‘lessened'
or no pain; days of glorious Spring to be enjoyed, as ever surrounded safely,
by those who genuinely love you, and ever hope to protect and keep you,
afternoons of quiet, without warning of bad things, your pantries full, with
enough to share, your vigil, and your voice to protect the damaged, and the

abused, evenings of quiet contemplation of a future that can be readily assured
of its fruition; and, at the end of a long, but satisfying day, a natural
tiredness, and a sleep that is both blissful, and restorative, watched over,
and always kept secure by healing angels.

I
love you dearly,

‘Zahc'

My Thoughts Regarding My Dear, Dear Friend, ‘Strenuba's Work: " Walking Dead" ‘

03/07/12

To my wonderfully kind, and constant friends, and
ever-loyal readers:


There are often so many things I wish to share with
you, that are too often lost among the totality
of my daily agonies; whispered hopes that lay beyond the scope of hopelessness
and the confusion and unfaithfulness of an uncertain mind. Of rushed, and half-remembered prayers I say
for all of us, even as I sit and rock in pain, and cry, or with trembling hands-in
an attempt to find pain medications-drop, in my blinded haste, to see
bright-colored pills fall to scatter on the countertop, below.


How often do I think of you, dearest friends, who
have granted to me the pardon that Life did not, and in your kindest,
befriending me, and remaining by my side to be near to me and to my pain; you,
who have accepted me in my most flawed and ugly state. Not as did ‘other' friends I thought I would
have for life; not like these, ‘schadenfreunds', or shadowed friends who left
me when I could no longer entertain them, or be of use to them; who flew away
before me, scattered, as Autumn leaves blown aloft, and to a thousand new
places as before a sudden storm.


Yes...they almost to a person left me, as did my few
relatives, as if-in becoming ill, and still more ill, until illness had piled
upon illness-I had somehow become tainted, dirty, or like some loathsome
stranger.


And, yet, these are the ones I once thought I loved,
and who would never go away. Now, in the
depth of my gratitude and humbled thanks to you, my sweet and constant friends,
it is YOU who I keep nestled safe within the sheltering wings of my secret
heart.


Of course, in times so long lost ago, I thought I
knew romantic love; so sure of it was I that I cast to it my heart in whole,
and for that, had my heart returned to me in pieces, leaving scars that last to
this day.


Since I was young, and in the fullness of my
strength, I thought that I would die...but, in time, did not. Who knew that that betrayal, or that
rejection would remain for my older Self to weigh and consider, weigh, and
consider, until adjudging it no longer worth the while.


Once, too, I was and Artist, both in art and words,
and in my youthful rashness thought that I had tamed the Muses, and dropped
them in my pocket...so sure was I that there they would remain forever; mine to
summon out of wind, and fire, and smoke whenever I happened to lift a pen or
brush. The apex of my artistic desire-while made of clay-was breathed to life,
when, while at college, I held a one-man exhibition of watercolors, pen and ink
drawings, and mixed media at my University's gallery, and was joyously happy,
when it was held-over another six weeks. In my youthful hubris, I left a large,
blank, sign-in book upon a pedestal, with a message to encourage thoughts, and
stray impressions from the viewers. And
I loved when strangers were thus inspire to leave within it, their own drawing
and poems; to me it was as if I were creating life, by providing such a stimulating
and fertile ground, for other seeds to take root, and blossom.


And this is most important, my dearest friends;
while at the time, I sought to push-aside the Gods, and thus emblaze the
twilight sky with my talent, now, thirty-something years have passed.


In that time:


1) Some of the works were plainly stolen.


2) The majority of what was left, was disposed of
accidentally, by a friend who, while I was ill, took charge of emptying out a
storage space; in it were probably sixty sketchbooks, matted, and unmated art,
cassette tapes of my piano compositions ( not surprisingly, also among my
better work ), and, half a lifetime of memories: of irreplaceable
correspondence from my mother and father to me, furniture, collections, found
pieces, photography ( as I had played with that medium, too).




Which is why, I would
like to bring before you yet another, gifted piece by very dear MDJunction
friend, ‘Strenuba', as in it, there is his hallmark style of meaning and
construction, a brevity I will never evidence, and his remarkable ability to
absolutely ‘nail down' with a perfect, Olympic score of ‘10', those questions,
and concerns that in their humanness, seek to speak to a greater Humanity.


I wish his works were more widely read, and
published, for his poems, that can only be referred to as ,'word song', seeks
to appeal to the very heart in each of us, with an honesty, and a truth that is
undeniable.


With his-and your-most kind permission, I would like
to present his latest work here, as I so gratefully appreciate that my
readership has grown, for which I can never thank you in near-full measure.




<> <> <> <> <>

Walking Dead

Mar 03 2012

WalkingDead

I mourn


for those
who are no longer here


and those
of us


who are
still


Still


mourning
for that past life


No longer
having the will


to
continue


But still


having the
courage


to endure
living


I mourn


For those
who have gone before


and those
who long to follow


I mourn...


STRENUBA





For me, my friend ‘Strenuba's work
at once parted the veil of all my past, fond hopes, desires, and assumed
reality. It escaped the forgotten and secret past.


One morning, I awoke from a troubled,
unrefreshing sleep, if sleep can be measured in those scant minutes of respite
from assembled nightmare and horror, to find that Life had been somehow
condensed, collapsed, and that thirty-five years were gone, disappeared,
vanished, and could not be found, nor ever recalled again, except-perhaps-in some
fevered reverie.




My mother and father were dead, and
suddenly I missed the reassuring susurrus of the nightly breathing in the
house. I cried for the lack of their love and protecting strength, and mourned
their loss.




Somehow, I had been aged, twisted,
reformed into a much lesser child of God; my once youthful strength, and
sureness of the universe were gone, wiped clean, as if they'd never been.




The few, remaining pieces from that
long-ago exhibition I had framed, but somehow, they had not been created by my
hand, but another's, someone I no longer knew.
Only by the scrawled signature at each picture's base, did I even know
that it had been me.


And in my gathering pain, trapped,
now, within a Caliban-like, monstrously changed body, whose hand could no
longer limn a creative line; whose mind was filled by fog, consisting of
nothing more than shining bits of gutter trash, whose body follows, now, a
different master...that of Lupus, Fibromyalgia, Chronic pain (and added to the
sum of delinquent illnesses that already were there), whose legs and feet are-by
neuropathy-scarcely able to bear my greater weight, and now barely look as
human-form, I bemoaned and mourned a Present in which all my Art was lost, as
was most of my volition, even will to live.




And to this grinding, whoresome,
inescapable periods of worry, panic, anxiety of the unknown, and that agony of undistilled
pain, which debilitates me into stark inaction, and inattention, and that makes
any sense of the Future unknowable; yes, it is in fear, and dread I mourn the
loss of purpose, and of a reliable and sustainable comfort, that I had hope
might abide with me yet a while.




I mourn the loss of self-sufficiency,
and of having-now-to rely upon faceless goodwill, or bad, or that conceived of
whim, by others upon whom so much of my current situation depends. It now frightens me, that-with just a mere
pen stroke-how completely directed is my utter existence. And that, as with a mark over, I-too---could
be just as easily erased.


For once, it was I who controlled my
limited, clockwork world; now, others keep it wound. Or not, as they so choose.


When last I looked, I had been
better tutored by some base Evil, but-instead-am made to stumble blindly down a
path that leads to a vile uncertainty; to eat my solitary, lonely, plastic
dinner which sates, but never satisfies; to later seek some wearied rest upon a
cold, unwelcome bed, lined fully with Christ's thorns, where only an unsettled ‘sleep'
is marked by bathroom calls, or cries for extra medication, or rent by horrific
nightmares, full propelled by Hell's tortuous minions


Only to find no greater hope with
each grey dawn.




It is a confluence of all these
things and more that we regret, and hate; regret and mourn: the sum of whom we
are, what we've become, and what we have irreparably lost.




It is all of this that has so
eloquently written by my dear, dear friend, ‘Strenuba'. Which-my most dear friends, and loyal readers-I
would urge you to read and consider; to re-read, and consider,




With all my heart I wish for you ‘lessened'
or no pain; days of glorious Spring to be enjoyed, as ever surrounded safely,
by those who genuinely love you, and ever hope to protect and keep you,
afternoons of quiet, without warning of bad things, your pantries full, with
enough to share, your vigil, and your voice to protect the damaged, and the

abused, evenings of quiet contemplation of a future that can be readily assured
of its fruition; and, at the end of a long, but satisfying day, a natural
tiredness, and a sleep that is both blissful, and restorative, watched over,
and always kept secure by healing angels.

I
love you dearly,

‘Zahc'

My Thoughts Regarding My Dear, Dear Friend, ‘Strenuba's Work: " Walking Dead" ‘

03/07/12

To my wonderfully kind, and constant friends, and
ever-loyal readers:


There are often so many things I wish to share with
you, that are too often lost among the totality
of my daily agonies; whispered hopes that lay beyond the scope of hopelessness
and the confusion and unfaithfulness of an uncertain mind. Of rushed, and half-remembered prayers I say
for all of us, even as I sit and rock in pain, and cry, or with trembling hands-in
an attempt to find pain medications-drop, in my blinded haste, to see
bright-colored pills fall to scatter on the countertop, below.


How often do I think of you, dearest friends, who
have granted to me the pardon that Life did not, and in your kindest,
befriending me, and remaining by my side to be near to me and to my pain; you,
who have accepted me in my most flawed and ugly state. Not as did ‘other' friends I thought I would
have for life; not like these, ‘schadenfreunds', or shadowed friends who left
me when I could no longer entertain them, or be of use to them; who flew away
before me, scattered, as Autumn leaves blown aloft, and to a thousand new
places as before a sudden storm.


Yes...they almost to a person left me, as did my few
relatives, as if-in becoming ill, and still more ill, until illness had piled
upon illness-I had somehow become tainted, dirty, or like some loathsome
stranger.


And, yet, these are the ones I once thought I loved,
and who would never go away. Now, in the
depth of my gratitude and humbled thanks to you, my sweet and constant friends,
it is YOU who I keep nestled safe within the sheltering wings of my secret
heart.


Of course, in times so long lost ago, I thought I
knew romantic love; so sure of it was I that I cast to it my heart in whole,
and for that, had my heart returned to me in pieces, leaving scars that last to
this day.


Since I was young, and in the fullness of my
strength, I thought that I would die...but, in time, did not. Who knew that that betrayal, or that
rejection would remain for my older Self to weigh and consider, weigh, and
consider, until adjudging it no longer worth the while.


Once, too, I was and Artist, both in art and words,
and in my youthful rashness thought that I had tamed the Muses, and dropped
them in my pocket...so sure was I that there they would remain forever; mine to
summon out of wind, and fire, and smoke whenever I happened to lift a pen or
brush. The apex of my artistic desire-while made of clay-was breathed to life,
when, while at college, I held a one-man exhibition of watercolors, pen and ink
drawings, and mixed media at my University's gallery, and was joyously happy,
when it was held-over another six weeks. In my youthful hubris, I left a large,
blank, sign-in book upon a pedestal, with a message to encourage thoughts, and
stray impressions from the viewers. And
I loved when strangers were thus inspire to leave within it, their own drawing
and poems; to me it was as if I were creating life, by providing such a stimulating
and fertile ground, for other seeds to take root, and blossom.


And this is most important, my dearest friends;
while at the time, I sought to push-aside the Gods, and thus emblaze the
twilight sky with my talent, now, thirty-something years have passed.


In that time:


1) Some of the works were plainly stolen.


2) The majority of what was left, was disposed of
accidentally, by a friend who, while I was ill, took charge of emptying out a
storage space; in it were probably sixty sketchbooks, matted, and unmated art,
cassette tapes of my piano compositions ( not surprisingly, also among my
better work ), and, half a lifetime of memories: of irreplaceable
correspondence from my mother and father to me, furniture, collections, found
pieces, photography ( as I had played with that medium, too).




Which is why, I would
like to bring before you yet another, gifted piece by very dear MDJunction
friend, ‘Strenuba', as in it, there is his hallmark style of meaning and
construction, a brevity I will never evidence, and his remarkable ability to
absolutely ‘nail down' with a perfect, Olympic score of ‘10', those questions,
and concerns that in their humanness, seek to speak to a greater Humanity.


I wish his works were more widely read, and
published, for his poems, that can only be referred to as ,'word song', seeks
to appeal to the very heart in each of us, with an honesty, and a truth that is
undeniable.


With his-and your-most kind permission, I would like
to present his latest work here, as I so gratefully appreciate that my
readership has grown, for which I can never thank you in near-full measure.




<> <> <> <> <>

Walking Dead

Mar 03 2012

WalkingDead

I mourn


for those
who are no longer here


and those
of us


who are
still


Still


mourning
for that past life


No longer
having the will


to
continue


But still


having the
courage


to endure
living


I mourn


For those
who have gone before


and those
who long to follow


I mourn...


STRENUBA





For me, my friend ‘Strenuba's work
at once parted the veil of all my past, fond hopes, desires, and assumed
reality. It escaped the forgotten and secret past.


One morning, I awoke from a troubled,
unrefreshing sleep, if sleep can be measured in those scant minutes of respite
from assembled nightmare and horror, to find that Life had been somehow
condensed, collapsed, and that thirty-five years were gone, disappeared,
vanished, and could not be found, nor ever recalled again, except-perhaps-in some
fevered reverie.




My mother and father were dead, and
suddenly I missed the reassuring susurrus of the nightly breathing in the
house. I cried for the lack of their love and protecting strength, and mourned
their loss.




Somehow, I had been aged, twisted,
reformed into a much lesser child of God; my once youthful strength, and
sureness of the universe were gone, wiped clean, as if they'd never been.




The few, remaining pieces from that
long-ago exhibition I had framed, but somehow, they had not been created by my
hand, but another's, someone I no longer knew.
Only by the scrawled signature at each picture's base, did I even know
that it had been me.


And in my gathering pain, trapped,
now, within a Caliban-like, monstrously changed body, whose hand could no
longer limn a creative line; whose mind was filled by fog, consisting of
nothing more than shining bits of gutter trash, whose body follows, now, a
different master...that of Lupus, Fibromyalgia, Chronic pain (and added to the
sum of delinquent illnesses that already were there), whose legs and feet are-by
neuropathy-scarcely able to bear my greater weight, and now barely look as
human-form, I bemoaned and mourned a Present in which all my Art was lost, as
was most of my volition, even will to live.




And to this grinding, whoresome,
inescapable periods of worry, panic, anxiety of the unknown, and that agony of undistilled
pain, which debilitates me into stark inaction, and inattention, and that makes
any sense of the Future unknowable; yes, it is in fear, and dread I mourn the
loss of purpose, and of a reliable and sustainable comfort, that I had hope
might abide with me yet a while.




I mourn the loss of self-sufficiency,
and of having-now-to rely upon faceless goodwill, or bad, or that conceived of
whim, by others upon whom so much of my current situation depends. It now frightens me, that-with just a mere
pen stroke-how completely directed is my utter existence. And that, as with a mark over, I-too---could
be just as easily erased.


For once, it was I who controlled my
limited, clockwork world; now, others keep it wound. Or not, as they so choose.


When last I looked, I had been
better tutored by some base Evil, but-instead-am made to stumble blindly down a
path that leads to a vile uncertainty; to eat my solitary, lonely, plastic
dinner which sates, but never satisfies; to later seek some wearied rest upon a
cold, unwelcome bed, lined fully with Christ's thorns, where only an unsettled ‘sleep'
is marked by bathroom calls, or cries for extra medication, or rent by horrific
nightmares, full propelled by Hell's tortuous minions


Only to find no greater hope with
each grey dawn.




It is a confluence of all these
things and more that we regret, and hate; regret and mourn: the sum of whom we
are, what we've become, and what we have irreparably lost.




It is all of this that has so
eloquently written by my dear, dear friend, ‘Strenuba'. Which-my most dear friends, and loyal readers-I
would urge you to read and consider; to re-read, and consider,




With all my heart I wish for you ‘lessened'
or no pain; days of glorious Spring to be enjoyed, as ever surrounded safely,
by those who genuinely love you, and ever hope to protect and keep you,
afternoons of quiet, without warning of bad things, your pantries full, with
enough to share, your vigil, and your voice to protect the damaged, and the

abused, evenings of quiet contemplation of a future that can be readily assured
of its fruition; and, at the end of a long, but satisfying day, a natural
tiredness, and a sleep that is both blissful, and restorative, watched over,
and always kept secure by healing angels.

I
love you dearly,

‘Zahc'