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SUNDAY MORNING
Every Sunday morning my parents,usually my father at mother’s directionwould drive me the four blocksto attend Sunday school. I could easily have walked, a longblock and a half by cutting through yards,but they were afraid of I haveabsolutely no idea what. My friends that weren’t there with mewere probably in church soit wasn’t like I…
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WHERE?
It is hard,painfully hardto realizeyour guidedoesn’t knowwhere youneed to go. And the onewho could guideyou isn’tthere, doesn’tknow youat all, hadyou whenshe couldonly place youfor adoption. So you wanderguideless,self-guided,deeper intothe unknown.
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IN MY BAG
I carry my pastin a monk’s bagthat rests on my shoulder. In it you will findmy history, or bitsof it, names I havebeen given, given up,memories of childhood,pictures of my parentswho I never knew,aged in my mind fromthe photos in yearbooks,all that I have of them.. I still have roomin my bag, perhapsmore room than…
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OF THE CHILD
How many times have weheard someone intonethe never ending expression:“in the best interests of the child.” Never, I imagine, has anyoneasked the child what he or shethought was in their best interest,for children, we assume, cannotknow what is in their interest. A child would gladly tell youbut an adult would often disagree,anchored to the memoryof…
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SIEGAN’S COST OF RICE
How long have you wanderedalways searching for the oneanswer, the hidden truththat, when revealed to you,will show you enlightenment? Where have you searchedfor this one truth, onethat will collapse the past,present and future intoa single moment of purepresence which you can graspand carry with you through life? Stop and ask the infantstrapped to his mother’s…
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ANCESTRY
Children have an innate senseof their ancestry.I was a child of the cityit’s streets my paths, alwaysunder the watchful eyeof my warden – mother. Dirt was to be avoidedat all possible cost,so I never dug my handsinto the fertile soil of myvillage in the heart of Lithuania,or tasted the readying harvestthat dirt would remember. I…
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YEARBOOK REFLECTION
Knowing that mybiological parents’pictures were somewherein the yearbooksI had before meI thought that Iwould search withoutlooking at the names. No one lookedat all like the meI see in the mirrornor the me I amshocked to seein my own yearbook. Yet finding themby name I quicklyrealized that Iwas their amalgama face neitherwould have recognizedno matter howsmall…
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TREASURES
I keep in my pocketall the treasures of my family,all of the keepsakes from my mother,and those from my fathergiven to me when they died. I would share them with you,but they are highly personaland would not mean much to onewho never knew my parentsor my step brother, the one with whom I have not…
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FORWARD
As a child I was quite fondof staring into the futurefor hours on end, whenmy parents told meto get my head out of booksand go outside to play. I never could see muchin my staring, thoughtI was probably myopicbut my parents said Icouldn’t need glasses, theycost far too muchfor someone my age. I realize now,…
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ORIGIN
I am told that I should writeabout my origins, that is the stuffthat long poems are made of, orrather the soil from which they bloom. I have written about my birth motherand visited her grave in West Virginiaseen those of my grandparents, meta cousin, I’ve written all of that. So its time to write aboutmy…
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an old writer and his words 