A pair of birthday Haiku – by Bruce Whealton">A pair of birthday Haiku – by Bruce Whealton
Published June 9, 2009 | 
">Bruce WhealtonThis is what I wrote before my birthday on the 22nd of April. I was overwhelmed by the darkness that night before my birthday and the feeling of utter despair, loneliness and isolation.
Long tiring walk home
alone on a dark silent night -
tomorrow my birthday
tears make it hard
to see and write
my suicide note.
Posted in Bruce Whealton, poetry by Bruce Whealton | 
Bruce Whealton, Haiku, suicide note | 
Leave a commentHonest Confessions – Poetry by Bruce Whealton">Honest Confessions – Poetry by Bruce Whealton
Published June 5, 2009 | ">Bruce WhealtonHere’s a revised poem, that I wrote a few years back, called “Honest Confessions.” I end this latest revision with the lines, “I am a poem/ revised too many times.
Honest Confessions
I've been explaining myself over and over and again, to you, my sister, my brother - My reader - confessing some of my deepest secrets. I left a nice home... Yet I have nothing against the beaches I left, with those hypnotic waves that kept me still and steady how much better to nurture a poet than any other place. Why leave or move to anywhere? Is there anything about a place that defines what a poet becomes? Perhaps, it's through the persons we meet that we become who we are. Psychiatrist, Dr. R. D. Laing explains that I am defined by my social interactions. I am a poem revised too many times. By Bruce Whealton - revised June 5, 2009
The Poet's Development – poem by Bruce Whealton">The Poet's Development – poem by Bruce Whealton
Published June 3, 2009 | ">Bruce WhealtonThe Poet’s Development
I think back to those first days after my birth as a poet and wonder what I've learned. It's hard to say exactly how I've grown. I've had to be my own parent encouraging myself that there is meaning and value in what I am trying to become. Sometimes life hurts so much or seems so pointless and lonely. What am I talking about? Being a poet or just being? Is there a difference? Sometimes I wonder how fully I've developed and sometimes I feel a powerful need to regress back to some earlier stage of becoming - a poet. I'm a child again, with a vague sense that I had to go back had to return to where I was just 10 or 15 years ago - there is that sense of something incomplete. By Bruce Whealton - June 1, 2009
Birth of the Poem – by Bruce Whealton">Birth of the Poem – by Bruce Whealton
Published June 3, 2009 | ">Bruce WhealtonBirth of the Poem
I think that just as the poet is born so is the poem. What would mark the birth of a poem? Is it the first spark of an idea? Or does it begin in the writing of those first words? Like any living thing, the poem cannot stand on its own immediately. Perhaps it starts as prose- a few sketchy ideas... Like the newborn, often that first form or shape bears little resemblance to its juvenile form much less its adult form. Sometimes I've wanted my poems to be born into perfection with no need for multiple drafts that appear in increasingly more mature form. I once thought that a great poet could do this always... Summon the Muse and out comes a masterpiece in the first draft. Some of my poems I've loved like a parent, and watched them grow. And I've listened to them. Sometimes they call for my attention reminding me of how incomplete they are. How undeveloped. Little by little they grow, take new form, inspire other poems. In so doing, they never stand alone... they more or less, stand related to one another. By Bruce Whealton, June 1st, 2009.
Goodbye Anne – Poem by Bruce Whealton">Goodbye Anne – Poem by Bruce Whealton
Published May 30, 2009 | ">Bruce WhealtonGood Bye Anne
Letter To Anne Sexton I thought I knew you by your poetry but in the recent biography I glanced at, revealed a different Anne. I thought I could relate... that the only one you hurt was yourself - but this bio says you abused your children. I had sympathized with you and felt a certain kindred connection but perhaps I just ignored the differences. I've really confessed more of myself to the world - people can read my poems and truly know who I am... Another thing, I really never got your love of Death - never really could relate... though, I've known the despair of which you've spoken but that's where them similarity ends. I may still, some day, feel the urge to quote your poem “Wanting to Die,” as if I shared your feelings.
by Bruce Whealton
Posted in Bruce Whealton, poetry by Bruce Whealton | anne sexton, biography, Bruce Whealton, Death | Leave a commentLetter to Doctor M. – Poem by Bruce Whealton">Letter to Doctor M. – Poem by Bruce Whealton
Published May 30, 2009 | ">Bruce WhealtonLetter to Doctor M.
What kind of question is that, Doctor? You want to know why I came to you? what you can do for me? The honest truth? I don't know! What is it you do? I was told you are a Psychiatrist and a therapist as well... you counsel people. So tell me Doctor, what can you do? Make things right? Tell me I shouldn't think the way I do! You think I like things this way? Or like to feel that way? How can you make things better? I'm not even sure what better is. Maybe the answer is in those pills - right, if they don't work well enough, let's double them. Maybe then I'll start to think differently. I'll know what I want and be able to imagine a better existence. I'll think Gee, there are good things in life. But right now I don't feel there is much of any hope - I cannot imagine there could be anything better or worthwhile about life But I'll keep coming just in case I am wrong.
by Bruce Whealton
Posted in Bruce Whealton, poetry by Bruce Whealton | Bruce Whealton, Doctor M, psychiatrist, whealton | Leave a commentAnonymous – poem by Bruce Whealton">Anonymous – poem by Bruce Whealton
Published May 30, 2009 | ">Bruce WhealtonAnonymous
There is a fantasy in every letter
I write to you.
I don't even admit it
to myself
really -
it remains somewhere
subconscious...
this fantasy I have.
I'm a bit embarrassed
to even be writing this
but it's ok
no one will
recognize
the meaning
of what I'm writing
or to whom
the words
and thoughts are directed.
For a few moments
I entertained my fantasy
to see
and
just think what if...
I wondered what
it would be like
to be close to you
to feel your lips
on mine.
It's not often
I let myself
explore
my fantasies like this.Anonymous
There is a fantasy in every letter
I write to you.
I don't even admit it
to myself
really -
it remains somewhere
subconscious...
this fantasy I have.
I'm a bit embarrassed
to even be writing this
but it's ok
no one will
recognize
the meaning
of what I'm writing
or to whom
the words
and thoughts are directed.
For a few moments
I entertained my fantasy
to see
and
just think what if...
I wondered what
it would be like
to be close to you
to feel your lips
on mine.
It's not often
I let myself
explore
my fantasies like this.
by Bruce Whealton
My poetry was published at Venus Rising not long ago">My poetry was published at Venus Rising not long ago
Published May 24, 2009 | ">Bruce WhealtonI had not recorded this or mentioned this on my blog, I don’t think. So, I thought now would be a good time to do so. These poems were published in Venus Rising by John Marshall. The poems of mine that were published are as follows: “I wrote a love poem once,” “Not even footprints,” and “In the Dream.” I’ll post those poems below as well.
I wrote a love poem once.
I wrote a love poem Once… heard it was good – the love… the love poem. It was 10 years ago or more lost - I lost that in the fire, as it were, the love… the love poem. I forget how it goes the love… the love poem. I just cannot remember the words I wrote. But I know I wrote a love poem, Once. - Bruce Whealton 2008Not Even Footprints
Sometimes it seems that I’m just writing these words On the sand, (Like in that quaint picture, Called “Footprints in the sand.”) With the wind in my face… Is that all there is now? Words that fade as fast as I write them? My words as dry as the sand That blows in my face, Blinding me. If only I could get you to look, Before my words are lost. In my vision, the sand doesn’t even Hold any image of my footprints… As if I’d never come here, And never written these words. Or it never mattered what I said, You would not hear or see. Bruce Whealton 2007In the Dream
In the dream I'm walking along a familiar wooded path trees above block out most of the sunlight. I come upon a small patch of pansies I bend down to look closer she appears She reaches out her hand How strange to touch a ghost! We walk hand-in-hand with pansies appearing along the path like spectators in a wedding procession. © 2006 Bruce Whealton, Jr.
My poems appeared at Childe Bryde">My poems appeared at Childe Bryde
Published May 24, 2009 | ">Bruce WhealtonRecently, three of my poems appeared at Childe Bryde – a publication about women and equality. The link to my publication is here: http://childebryde.art.officelive.com/bwhe.aspx
and the poems appear as follows:
[inspired by readings from an interpretation of Genesis in the publication, "The Woman's Bible," by Elizabeth Cady Stanton.]The Fall of Woman
Why was man so stupid, in the beginning, in Eden? You, God, gave him directions, Guidance. The serpent approached the woman, thinking, "If I can convince the woman, the man will follow." With cunning he tricked her and she did eat of the forbidden fruit and her husband did follow. She said "eat," and he ate. It was so simple. Confronted by God, he blames the woman, subjugating himself, as if he lacked the will. The first and greatest curse on mankind, male and female, was to allow man to be in charge of things from this point. >>>>Guide me, Mom
I am an infant - your son, in your arms, God, nourished at your breast, warmed by your milk, Mother. Don't let me go. As man or infant, and son, I come to you. Lying back in your arms, listening to your heart and my heart together. Speak to this boy, this man. I don't know what to do. I'm afraid I'll make a mistake. Tell me where to go, and what to do. Take my hand, Guide me. >>>>>Mother, Protector
Mother, I am vulnerable, food for predators. Protect me as a bear protects her cubs. Devour the enemy, that would devour me. >>>>>In Search of Sophia
I come to you - Sophia - bright, dazzling white, surrounded by translucent angels. My eyes never leave such a sight. You are the Wisdom of God! The manifestation of the Divinity! Can I know the point where earth ends and heaven begins? the place where we all go? you've painted the earth in darkness, God. mere shadows of what once was, hope is but a curse here. You've shut all doors to the past and to my future. I only see a stairway. >>>>Prayer for Comfort
“Now lay back in the chair, resting your feet in the chair in front of you, begin with a few deep breaths, breathing in relaxation breathing out tension becoming more and more relaxed.” Sister Jean was guiding us in a new way to pray. I had come for comfort and consolation - I was grieving and needed a mother a heavenly Mother who would hold me in her arms. She continued, “Now begin to feel yourself resting in the arms of God. Let go relax deeper and deeper you drift into re-lax-a-tion. Feel yourself supported in the arms of a loving compassionate God... Held close, softly. A God that listens and understands and cares. Look into her eyes” - Did she say 'her' eyes? I asked myself... that was what I was hearing. “Tell her what you are feeling.” Take all the time you need now, to be with your God, in her arms, comforted in a state of complete relaxation.” This is what I remember... Like it was yesterday. Someone from church reminded me of this. © 2009 Bruce Whealton
Memories of Grandmother and Grandaddy">Memories of Grandmother and Grandaddy
Published May 13, 2009 | ">Bruce WhealtonMemories of Grandmother and Grandaddy
Today I shed tears for the passing of my Grandmother and Grandaddy. Perhaps it was the poem I wrote for Dad that triggered these thoughts. I remember my Grandad's funeral - over 10 years ago - the way I sat there pretending, for some strange reason, that it didn't hurt... seeing my cousin crying. But he had lived in that same town as Grandaddy and I always lived in another state and I'd only see my Grandparents briefly, twice a year... But I had memories. I don't think for me, the reality of death hits me right away. My Grandmother died last November but it took about 5 months before I shed that first tear. I had not seen her in years prior to her death. I don't think she knew she would just fade away like she did. I know she meant to leave more than these memories that sting and bring tears. Still, these occasional tears seem right and they really don't hurt too badly. But the way she died? She seemed to fade away - dying in a nursing home; unaware of when my father and mother visited her - sometimes not recognizing her son. Sometimes, I was told, she wasn't even aware that her husband had died years earlier or that her daughter died before her a few years ago. I know she didn't intend things to go this way - She intended to leave behind for me, something more than memories.
by Bruce Whealton
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