Inauguration Day – poem by Bruce Whealton">Inauguration Day – poem by Bruce Whealton
Published April 28, 2009 | 
">Bruce WhealtonInauguration Day
For the first time ever, as far as I can tell, they made a video of Inauguration Day - I checked a few places but could find no other presidential swearing-in day recorded for the general public. I suppose other presidents must have made their own recordings or requested a recordings for themselves – from what my friend says George W. Bush would likely want to forget his inauguration unless the events were seriously edited. I'd almost want to see that, just to see the eggs and tomatoes being flung at George. Almost. But this year, things were different. I remember my friend had feared that George would refuse to give up his position... Yep, he was holding his breath, afraid... he said, “I'll feel better when it is 'official.'” On that day, I didn't share my friend's fear. The day had come and chills of excitement flowed through me and I had to wipe away a few tears here and there. I didn't really need to rent the video, on DVD. I remember the day, still, vividly, the snow that was falling, who was with me, the feelings I felt... and I wanted to share that experience. By Bruce Whealton April 27th, 2009
After the Fire – poem by Bruce Whealton">After the Fire – poem by Bruce Whealton
Published April 25, 2009 | ">Bruce WhealtonAfter the Fire
I remember a red photo album that I kept of the first girl I ever loved - Celta - and there was this fire about two or so years ago, back in early 2007, in one of the rooms in the apartment where I was living... it seemed so chillingly ironic because that was how she died, back on New Years eve of 1990, in a fire. I was told she didn't suffer and that it was quick but they wouldn't open the casket and as strange as it may seem at the funeral I really wanted to open that casket yet I was also terrified of that very idea. I remember crying so uncontrollably at the funeral... I don't even remember crying before that ever. If I did I don't remember. And through the next year of 1991, I just remember crying or wanting to die or go away somewhere in my mind... I've been thinking about this just recently, I believe this is a fear I still face, that nothing remains, no matter how important or valuable or how loved, I just seem to see people and relationships disappear (like a bad dream) or in a vampire movie or show, where the vampire just turns to ashes. Like the photo album that I held while it was still burning, in that fire, a couple years ago. It was strange that it had to happen in just that one room. If the curtains went up in flames in the kitchen they could have been replaced... just as the clothing I lost can be replaced but not those photos... not when the negatives are lost... and several years of my poetry was gone as well, when the computer was destroyed in that fire. I don't even know where Celta is buried now... I went there once way back in 1991, after she died... I was crying so hard at the funeral that her mother told me not to come to the burial... and so I didn't... but I went to the cemetery later... found where she is buried in a a mausoleum, which probably cost more than a years rent where she was living when she died. I don't even know what her mother's last name is or how to reach her sister and ask for some photos of Celta - why do people just seem to disappear? For a while after Celta died, I would see and visit her mother but at some point, for reasons I don't know that stopped. I still have a vague image of Celta in my memory and I do still remember those moments where I felt a powerful sense of love – those moments that remain. I'm not holding onto this past - I was able to love again – but knowing I was loved is comforting. By Bruce Whealton April 25th, 2009
Posted in Bruce Whealton, Online Poetry | 
Bruce Whealton, mausoleum, new years eve | 
Leave a commentWhat really matters – poem by Bruce Whealton">What really matters – poem by Bruce Whealton
Published April 24, 2009 | ">Bruce WhealtonWhat really matters
On some beach that never ends I'm with her in my mind... and just for a few moments I can pretend that things never change that sometimes we walk hand-in-hand forever. This is my dream - to stop time like it seemed to happen long ago... when, in those moments, I had nothing else to do, no other responsibilities... nowhere to go no deadlines, no to-do lists, and just for a while there was no one else. That is what I remember! Moments frozen in time. That is what love seems to be... those moments you remember... There is something in those moments that has a certain meaning that endures - a feeling... an image... something said... or shared... certain sounds in the background... whatever it is you remember is all that really matters. By Bruce Whealton April 24th, 2009
Does anybody really care – poem by Bruce Whealton">Does anybody really care – poem by Bruce Whealton
Published April 24, 2009 | ">Bruce WhealtonDoes anybody really care?
As a poet, sometimes I think the reason I write is because there is something in each poem that I absolutely must share with someone... Something that I want you to see, in the imagery I paint for you... It is my way of dealing with an oppressive loneliness that overwhelms me from time to time. Sure I could just tell you, write you a letter explaining my feelings... but I doubt it would be the same. If I just told you, you'd hear my words but not feel and fully understand what it is that I'm describing. It is my deepest hope that some reader (or readers) will appreciate the importance of what I am trying to convey... maybe even share with me in my feelings. It is my greatest fear that I fail in this endeavor and no one understands or appreciates what it is I am going through... and the belief, that there is someone out there that understands, is just an illusion or an empty hope.
Posted in Bruce Whealton, poetry by Bruce Whealton | Bruce Whealton, fear, illusion, loneliness | Leave a commentDarkness – poem by Bruce Whealton">Darkness – poem by Bruce Whealton
Published April 24, 2009 | ">Bruce WhealtonDarkness
I wakeup for work late in the day, where even in these days of lengthened daylight only a few hours remain before the dark of night. Outside my window, where I look from my seat when I work, I cannot see the sun during the daylight hours, though the trees that block my view. I can tell when it's cloudy and gray - when the sun has been hidden more completely. From this perspective darkness is what predominates This is how everything seems to me but perhaps it is a matter of perspective and belief. Perhaps this is why I sleep all day knowing only darkness. It just seems appropriate that in my despair and depression I only see darkness. By Bruce Whealton April 24th 2009
Ashes – poem by Bruce Whealton">Ashes – poem by Bruce Whealton
Published April 24, 2009 | ">Bruce WhealtonAshes
It was so exciting to hear from Paul, when I got his email. Yet, I was afraid and didn't call him right away, when he gave me his phone number. I was afraid that I wouldn't know what to say, as if that would mean we weren't best friends. How long has it been since we last met or spoke? 12 years? 15? I was thinking about my hesitation to call Paul... One doesn't get shy or run out of things to say to one's best friend - it had never been that way. I called a couple times and just got a recording and so I left a message... Maybe I should have tried his other number or tried again soon... but instead the days turned into weeks and then the weeks turned into months. Why do things like this happen? Senseless losses victims of time and distance. Many friends and parts of my family have faded from my life like the photos that I lost in the fire. All those photos and photo negatives and the photo albums, just ashes from the fire. I remember trying to pick them up after the fire - The photos just flew away in the wind. Is this what life is all about? And the relationships of life... nothing more than just ashes? Like the passing of my cousin Sharon... How long had it been since I had seen her, fifteen years maybe? Why? I did not want things to be this way. I remember asking her son, how she was doing, just a couple months ago. I was wondering why I had not heard from her. Jaime said she had the big 'C' and in my melancholy state of mind within the darkness of my thoughts, I somehow knew how it would end and I was right. And though it had been years since I saw her or spoke to her, I wanted to believe for a while there, that I could recapture relationships with family and friends... that there was more than just photographs lost in a fire. Ashes, like the years since I saw my aunt... or my second cousin Tracy. She was not even a teenager when I saw her last - and now she is married with children and I have to relate to her differently, now. Like starting over... which isn't bad, I suppose, but there is something of a sense that these years are like the ashes that remained of the photos lost in the fire. By Bruce Whealton April 23, 2009
Regret – poem by Bruce Whealton">Regret – poem by Bruce Whealton
Published April 24, 2009 | ">Bruce WhealtonRegret
Sometimes it seems that I'm living in a dream, a very bad dream, and I hope so much that I'll wake up very soon. I'll say that I've found one possible future and I've decided that there is too much that I hate about this reality... there are too many mistakes that I've made. And while asleep I've learned so much, so many lessons learned where I've seen the consequences of so many decisions. There must be a purpose to this! This cannot be real! I could not truly be so cursed to live such a nightmare. What is the purpose of learning such difficult and painful lessons? Seeing a possible future, experiencing such pain, if there is no hope? What if we only learn these certain lessons after it is too late to do anything with the knowledge. All the regret that one can experience is nothing but a way to taunt and punish oneself, as if it mattered, as if one could make right one's mistakes. What if our lives are just entertainment for some entity that just watches us? and our lives are like the stories we read, and the shows and movies we watch? And our sense of free will or control over our circumstances is only an illusion? And the only choice we have is whether to live or die? If all else is just a game and if we are only actors for the amusement of another, then how can we find meaning? Yet, I do prefer to think of my life as just a bad dream from which I will soon awaken - there's comfort in that.
By Bruce Whealton April 24th 2009
Another publication of my poetry">Another publication of my poetry
Published April 20, 2009 | ">Bruce WhealtonMy poem entitled “Dreams of Nothingness” was recently published in the publication “lines written w/a razor.” The publication is available here: http://epicrites.typepad.com/epicritespress/lines-written-w-a-razor.html.
Birth of the Poet #2 – Poem by Bruce Whealton">Birth of the Poet #2 – Poem by Bruce Whealton
Published April 18, 2009 | ">Bruce WhealtonBirth of the Poet #2
I think that just as a poem is born, so the poet. 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 anything or any entity, 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 it's juvenile form much less its adult form. Sometimes I seem to want my poems to be born into perfection... that they will appear on paper, in their first written form, born into existence, by me, in their first form - they will appear as mature adults with no need for multiple drafts that appear in increasingly more mature form. Or somehow, I'd refine them in my mind or in the process of putting them to paper. I thought that a great poet could do this always... Summon the Muse and out comes a masterpiece - in the first draft. Maybe the great poet would make a slight edit – a second draft but that's all it ever took. Some of my poems I've loved like a parent, even if others have not. And I listen to them. Sometimes they call for my attention reminding me of how incomplete they are, how undeveloped... reminding me of thoughts I've had and memories with which they want to be a part. Just as a poem needs a parent so does the poet... otherwise the world is only despair. This parent, this nurturing parent, needs to comfort me in my time of doubt... understand me when I cry. Assure me, believe in me, encourage me. Life hurts so much and seems so pointless and lonely. What am I talking about... being a poet or just being? These days I wonder... It seems as if I'm reliving that experience of being born a poet. It's as if I've regressed because some stage of the developmental process was not completed satisfactorily. There is just a vague feeling of something incomplete.
by Bruce Whealton
April 18th 2009
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