Chuckie's World, another blog

Late February, I came, I came to, I came to God with an offering, the book I have believed would happen since I was sixteen; I have dedicated this offering to Marjorie--my best friend, and to Laurel Ann, our daughter. I had begun the project seventeen years ago with the advent of my M.F.A. thesis, thirty-five poems, some troubled, but a good launching into adulthood, and being so gracious as to have raised a daughter as a sober dad, and to have stayed true to my wife, and to have made mistakes, but ever mindful of carinr for others, and of three years ago making a committment to Christ, both privately, and before the congregation of my church, the book came into being as a collection of poetry and photos. My wife and I have resolve the book as acceptance, a labor, a thorn, as in the side of St. Paul, from which I will never recover, for in as much as some doctors know, they know so little. I pray for others, I live for my wife and daughter, and I praise god. Charles Taylor

Can you see this butterfly perched on my Thursday afternoon, sleep and yet weakening? It is brown with desire, feeding on bright red blooms that are yet so small they give us a hint of sweet, that perhaps has been tried over and over in an insect world.

My arthritis, like a saw tooth fish makes me want to stay in bed sometimes until noon or so, but then I get up and move around some, and by 2:30 I'm going. Sat in Black Sheep Coffee today listening to young people talk of photos, cameras. Two joined me and we talked of Dylan, "Forever Young," both of them about 22 years-old, young woman with a Sony Alpha 100, young man with two older cameras, a Canon and a Pentax, both film cameras. I was pleased to show them my Nikon L100, a beauty. Camera, eye, stabalized like a rock, Zoom to 15 power, a few years back, unthinkable, a menu of color, shape, easy on the pocket, easy for Marge. I am not in hock, Around the easy day of a lake in summer, Beautiful days, 75 degrees, soft wind in July.

I have lingered in the caves of winter, glass smooth houses containing brown clippers, satisfaction in green, blue and brown, leaves containing messages of butterflies, and one does not stop long to watch the moist drops of dew, for I am aging, already my bones have grown together in places, and I inject myself with interfurons to stop the ache. Then, I remember my fifteenth year and I was too young, but strong and worked a time with wood. That was long ago.

The small creek slim and glinting over rock, riverlets, and real water, pure, like the enunciation of summer, and I created dinner, two cornish hens for my love, stuffing for the small birds, strawberry cheesecake, fresh green seedless grapes, delicate and pungent at time, and this was our anaversary of 27 years on June 12, 2009.

From early spring to mid July, deep blue sky, elms and maples, shooting leaf and branch across prairie, nook of valley, inter- twining branches, grey then pale green, my Marjorie and I have a commonness, alive, she teaches me yet again surrender, and this is not the cradle of of our arms as once we felt for silence after making love those long ago, thirty year memories, her return from South Dakota to comfort my longing, and the wonder of her smile, the lips against my face there in our first home in Iowa. We have both come to South Dakota, approaching full retirement for both of us in three to five years. Surrender to less money, less travel, less work, and a gentle giving, different than the love we used to make, she is my best friend.

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