Do you like to write more than you read?

IMG_4192I am a slow reader with good comprehension; How about you? Are you a good conversationalist or a better listener like my dog LuLu with her ear perked up listening to my every word? LaLa looks like she could care less, what does he want from me now? I grew up like LaLa, a day dreamer who could care less what was happening around me. Mom would get angry when I was not paying attention. You know, Are you listening to me? Was it a question or a demand? I listened if I deemed it important. I loved to write more than read because of my shy nature as a kid it was easier, like playing sports was an outlet to hide in my fantasy world. Where you like this growing up, hiding from family difficulties in a good book, writing, or playing sports?

As an adult a became more extroverted; because of my proclivity to stand out as an athelete, it forced me to come out of my shell. I hid my writing from friends and family because it was my fantasy world only I was allowed into. How about you, you have a diary hidden away somewhere? In my book Understanding, my poetry hopefully makes you think about what is or what it can be. You the reader make your own decision on what my poems are saying. In school you are asked to follow the teachers interpretation; as you read a book, can you decide yourself what the ideas mean? I read sporadically but I write continuously. A day does not go by without my I Pad pounding out a story or poem. I was told to read how a good Author writes a story and learn to write well. I read excerpts from great writers to get the feeling for their rhythm. Being a slow reader, I would rather spend my time writing and learn as I go. Arrogant, no productive with my imagination, because someday I may lose my ability to concentrate. Let us hope not, enjoy your passion, whether it is reading or writing. I will have my ear up listening. Pura Vida!


The Blond-haired, Blue-eyed Little Boy

He sat on the porch folding the newspapers,
Helping his brother to deliver later;
His big blue eyes smiling happily,
Working to support his family.

Ten years old and eager to help,
One person who never thought of himself,
A fair-skinned, freckle-faced boy,
Who was Father’s favorite joy.

That afternoon his life would change;
A bicycle accident made it that way.
A couple weeks later, late at night,
He awoke me to a terrible sight.

“Help me!” he cried.
His legs and arms were flailing by his side.
I ran to his bed and held him softly but tight,
Laid beside him for an hour that night.

He calmed down and fell asleep.
I lay next to him and began to weep.
I jumped out of bed and went next door,
Told Dad what happened to his son he adored.

We ran back home to a quiet boy.
Dad said it was a bad dream.
I became annoyed.
He said, “Do not worry, he is all right.”
Two weeks later, he convulsed at night.

It was the beginning of ten years of pain,
Several surgeries and hospital stays.
At the age of twenty, he would die;
Surgery would be his demise.

The blond-headed boy would succumb
From the experiments that were done.
The fifties and sixties began the rise of medicine;
Today’s cures make me reticent.

I lost my baby brother
So others did not have to suffer.
Did it have to be with such a terrible cost?
In today’s world, he would have never been lost.

He was the apple of his father’s eyes,
The blond-haired, blue-eyed little boy
Whom I love for the rest of my life.

TMNugent Books LLC


Author: tmnugent

Poet Author. Living in Costa rica Pura Vida. Love to travel, play with my dogs and write poetry. My girlfriend and I enjoy life and could't be happier living here

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