I was hopelessly adrift. I had forgotten important questions I should be addressing. I certainly had no answers. I did not know who I was, where I had been, or where I was going. I couldn’t determine what I needed to do to survive, let alone thrive, in the long years ahead. To say that I was desperate is something of an understatement. Then, suddenly, in a matter of moments, I found a very special way to communicate, address, and resolve the enormous personal problems confronting me. I could see a light at the end of my tunnel. 

I can vividly remember circumstances which have led ultimately to solutions and to my personal salvation. After awakening from a deep sleep at 4:00 a.m., I had gone into my darkened kitchen for some ice water. There, standing at the counter, I completed a poem in just five minutes. I had never done anything like this before. I was astonished by how easily it was accomplished. The spontaneity and freedom of my expressions came as a delightful surprise to me. After all, my university classes had taught me to believe free expression was anathema, that good writing required a great deal of work and effort. Creativity had been burned out of my soul by such instruction. At that time, I wrote only to please my professors and to get good grades. I was very successful on these counts. Unfortunately, in the course of this, I had become programmed to believe that any writing about one’s self was inconsequential and a wasteful form of indulgence. My education had blinded me from seeing a solution that was immediately available to me. This revelation in my kitchen told me that I could write and maybe would write poetry. 

After years of imposed inhibitions, I stood there feeling enormously free and fulfilled because of the poetry I had so easily created. It was clearly a peak experience in my life. I knew that poetry was a means to express truly important things about myself in ways that other people could understand. This discovery couldn’t have come at a better time. But even at that moment of triumph, I began to doubt myself and the staying power of my success. Could this level of jubilation be sustained as I continued to write? Over the course of years, the answer came forth resoundingly in the affirmative. The feelings of exultation recur regularly and abundantly. With this first poem, I had begun my introspective inquiry to discover the essence of my being. I had no idea where this journey would take me. That is as true today as it was then. My search is an exercise in serendipity. Over the course of ten years, I have created a mountain of verse in this pursuit. Each new creation is as exciting as the first.

I continue to think of poetry as a gift because it is created so effortlessly. Other people report far greater difficulty in its production. I simply let the writing flow. A poem is just there. I have only to write it down. I must write. The creative process has elements of a healthy compulsion within it. I cannot refrain from writing. It is as important to me as the food I eat or the air I breathe. It is my passion. 

I am an extrovert who gets much energy from interacting actively with others. Yet writing is a solitary endeavor which demands a lot of my time. It is an unending challenge to provide time for my personal refueling and my creations. In general, others recognize my need to write. They are unusually accommodating. When I announce to them out of the blue that “I have to write,” they are quick to supply me with whatever I need. This involves the tools of my craft as well as time and space necessary to accomplish my personal mission. In recognition of their help, I make it a point to return all the pencils that I borrow. 

The first volume of my poetry contained some two hundred poems which were written during one year. It was with great trepidation that I formed a selection committee to help me pick out some of these for “Poetry She Wrote with Music He Wrote,” a dinner theater performance sponsored by the Chippewa Valley Cultural Association (CVCA) in 1996. This was a collaborative creative effort with my talented friend, Jerry Way, composing music for selected lyrics. Committee members were women who were to perform in this event. They were instructed to pick poems that would speak personally and importantly to them and to their experiences. My insecurity was such that I was terrorized by the possibility that these women would fail to find anything they liked. This fear was completely unjustified. My poems were selected to become this CVCA event. I was deeply grateful for the encouragement that these women provided. The production itself was well received. A lot of people understood and appreciated what I had to say. 

This flood tide of acceptance was especially important to me. At one time, I felt compelled to pay people to listen to my works. As I look back on it now, the hiring of a “claque” reflected my insecurity, inventiveness, and sense of humor. My two sons would often be home from college on weekends. They would always be in need of money to spend as they frolicked at the local watering holes. I struck a deal with them. After supper, I would assemble them and their friends to listen as I read my latest poems. What they made of this experience is still a matter of conjecture. While they never applauded, they did ask questions. I read acceptance and encouragement into their reactions. The evening’s program officially terminated with the presentation of a $20 bill. There was much laughter then as they departed to spend it in their pursuit of pleasure. 

The creative process has changed over the years. I now get vague premonitions on occasion that I’m about to produce something. At other times, an idea floats in and out of my consciousness as it incubates. I have come to know and trust these changing processes. In the distant past, I was compelled to write my poetry the very moment it occurred to me. Now, it is possible for me to retain the vision until I can record it at some later time. After the spirit has moved me to produce, there is rarely any need for rewriting.

With the success of “Poetry She Wrote With Music He Wrote,” I was encouraged to seek out a larger and different audience for my

works. “Muses, Music, and More” was created with this in mind. This publication is yet another step in the natural progression and growth of my writings. It is my hope that this presentation will provide the reader with an opportunity to share in my continuing journey.

 

JOHN R. THURSTON . . . It seems to me that I have always been intrigued by words, their meaning, and what they can or cannot express. As a very young child, I spent a lot of time with an aging grandmother, Gertrude McKilligan McCluskey. A gifted, talkative, and homebound woman, she found me to be something of a “little blotter” for the many sayings or aphorisms that peppered her conversations. The meaning of some of these certainly escaped me at the time. It was years later that I came to appreciate fully the lively and risque, even bawdy, elements of her lifestyle that could find expression in her words and nowhere else.

While the library and radio certainly expanded my horizons in wordplay, it was listening to other individuals that really furthered my developing and enduring interest in the nuances and infinite complexities of verbal expression. It seems as though I have always seemed driven to go beyond what people said as I sought to understand what they really meant. This inquisitiveness has proven critical in my professional work as clinical psychologist and university professor. Punning has always been the anchor for my alleged humor.

In my capacity as a research psychologist, I have produced over sixty articles, pamphlets, and books. They were well-written in the technical manner required by psychological journals and the fund-granting institutions. But it is a commonplace to say that such works are rarely, if ever, read. You’ve heard the expression that “this book was so good that I couldn’t put it down.” I found that others could “put down” my writings with ease if they had ever picked them up in the first place. So, while this activity contributed to advancement and financial security, I found it personally unrewarding.

In retirement, I dabbled for a while in pursuit of activities involving tree farming, dogs, landscaping, topological / topographic art, and dog / horse racing. My continuing interests in language found expression in writings about what I had learned from my grandmother, my fellow shipmates during my extended naval

experience, and all points in between. In addition to a lengthy autobiography, I wrote special articles on photography, college basketball, and pull-tab gambling. My daughter Amy shared my enthusiasms for writing. She and I authored a manual, “Ago-ing,” which provided readers with the encouragement and format for recording personal events, thoughts, and feelings. We found one obstacle to such expressions was the conviction on the part of many that they had little to say, and that no one would really care to read anything they might write. 

While I believe that interested others are a decreasing breed, I think that I have something to say that is worthy of note. I have learned a great deal during the course of a long personal and professional life. It is clear to me also that I lacked those special skills necessary to convey this via novels, plays, and serious poetry. I was clearly stymied. Then I came across a tiny book entitled “Old Saws with New Teeth” by Will S. Adam (1906). Its contents consisted of short remarks and sayings offered as commentaries upon life and the human condition. In this, I had found a vehicle of expression that would work for me in light of my special talents and experiences. At least, I came to believe this. 

In the beginning, I was writing primarily for an audience of one, my daughter. While we had always talked freely and intimately upon many matters, I thought it would be useful if I could produce something in a more tangible and enduring form which would allow me to express my feelings and thoughts about a wide variety of past and current topics that were important to me. This just might be a tiny footprint on the sands of time that would be known only to her. On the other hand, interested others could come to know me, my views, and feelings better if they would but read and understand my Pithograms. 

In addition, I find it personally rewarding and cathartically comforting to say some things simply because they need to be said. In the “politically correct” climate of our times, people skirt issues with soft words or puffery. “Telling it like it is” remains important to me even though these expressions may only be read by a few individuals. 

I coined the term “Pithograms” to describe what I hoped to produce. The “pith” refers to “the essential part, the substance, the gist”; the “-gram” means “a combining form used to form nouns meaning: something written down, drawn, or recorded (telegram or electrocardiogram).” Pithograms range from brief remarks and wisecracks to poems and serious treatises. I have found that as I became more involved in these writings, the Pithograms have become longer.

Pithograms are developed in a spontaneous manner that is difficult to define. The only rule that applies seems to be that “there are no rules.” If one remains as constricted and proper as most English teachers deem is necessary, then there will be no Pithograms. I keep a pencil and pad handy so as to record the germ of the idea that will be fleshed out later. It is then that some grammatical considerations must be observed. 

It is at this time in this final writing I must attempt to make clear to general readers that which is already crystal clear to me. It only takes a matter of moments to type a Pithogram. However, the

 contents could be based on anything from requiring a few minutes of thought to a lifetime of living. All are designed to enlighten, provoke, engage, enrage, amuse, or bemuse the readers. Time is taken to make sure that the titles are special. Pithogram-production is a harmless and fulfilling activity for me. When I finish one to my satisfaction, when it says what I wanted to say in my own unique fashion, there is a deep feeling of accomplishment on my part.

 

Mistress of Thaw 

A beautiful warm mistress of thaw

came stealing

over the edge of my frozen feelings

into the spirit of day.

Within sunshine bright

she came to play

as snow disappears

into rivers over asphalt and clay.

She creeps by the wall

and laughs in a straw;

choreography arranged

by gravity’s fall.

Touching all in sight

she journeys into night

and I say prayers

for her to return –

when I call . . .

beautiful warm mistress of thaw.

I Look Into My Mother’s Eyes

I sit at my dressing table

and look into her eyes

the image of my Mother dear sitting there

reflection of my mirror.

What a precious and wonderful surprise!

Her auburn finger-waved hair

was once the shade identical to mine.

We both learned to walk,

stand up straight,

and approach a similar height.

Resembling each other

we laugh and smile alike

with a similar facial profile

and absolute embarrassment of fright.

Strong Eastern European women

sometimes mindful of our dreams

and insights.

Living for relationships to all

in this world and after life.

We learned the same steps to dance

back and forth, left to right.

We twirl together in deep trance

a whirl of happen-chance.

Mother, I hold you in a glance.

You enfold me with tender love

and warm delight

and I vow to keep you

forever - inside:

wise old woman,

playful child,

determined youth,

and vulnerable bride.

A part of me has died

and I am saddened.

The part of my womanhood

that myths are made of

my ability to procreate has dried

and blown away with the ticking of a clock.

The breeze was so light and gentle

that I barely noticed it was surrounding me

and when the hot flashes came

the breeze disappeared mysteriously.

I hoped not forever

but only as night does at day break.

I now know hell is hot-flashes

comparable to Dante’s Inferno

followed by the shakes of a freezing child

in Dante’s lowest level of hell.

And I endure extremes in body and mind.

Am I going insane or growing sane?

Relieved somehow knowing

that in all experience

there is a lesson to be taught

and Teacher - teach yourself first.

So, I silence my mind to listen and learn.

And in so doing my mind controls my body.

I am able to become centered

to become a woman of the new-age.

The metamorphosis has just begun

even though a part of me has died

and I am saddened.

The part of my womanhood

that myths are made of

and for the first time ever, I weep for myself.

 

I Am My Father’s Daughter 

My Father lived

my father died

and the words, “I love you,”

 

never said.

 

Stories enjoyed,

feelings hid

and the words, “I love you,”

never said.

 

Why do I seek approval

from a Father dead

and the words, “I love you,”

never said.

 

I am abandoned in life

and in my dreams

an image of my father

carefully disappearing scenes

and the words, “I love you,”

never said.

 

And to think

I blamed myself

for a Father dead

and the words, “I love you,”

never said.

 

Change                      

I hang onto the edge

of a high grey cliff

I am afraid to let go

- The terror -

for I know I will fall

to sure death below.

I cling till my arms are tired and sore

my hands are bleeding

and numb

- The pain -

I feel in my soul

I don't want to let go - but I will I know.

Exhausted I give up

- again -

- The terror -

I close my eyes

I slowly let go to die

and ready to fall

 

I fly . . .

 

Teacher Teaches Self 

I am a radiant and white being of light

white as snow that fell last night.

Radiant as ever moving sea

sparkling in light of morn

shimmering in a sunny day

so bright I close my eyes to see.

 

And my journey begins for me

a sojourn in my time and my space,

my relationship inward to myths and dreams

so unpredictable and fragile

beautifully meaningful to hold and perceive.

 

My visions are my reality.

The books that are written for me

right now are being conceived.

Their words surround my daily ritual.

I talk with them and we become one. 

And the teacher teaches herself first.

A Prayer 

Come to me Great Mother
when the clouds go flying by.
Come to me Great Mother
as wind is deep inside and circling sun does not hide.
Come to me Great Mother
when I am lonesome and could cry.
Let our arms embrace each other to escape away and fly.
Come to me Great Mother
in icy snow of winter time
in healing rain of summer sky.
Come to me Great Mother
when I am caring for an earthly rhyme
taking in loud screams and tender sighs.
Come to me Great Mother
“This is not all there is” – comes a reply
as I piece together perfect love to find.
Come to me Great Mother
searching out lightness and shadow kind
I struggle to celebrate each turn of tide.
Come to me Great Mother
it’s a wonderful process of becoming alive
for I see my reflection in your tender eyes.
Come to me Great Mother
for I am of this earthly rhyme
taking in laced screams and woven sighs.
Come to me Great Mother
I pray for you to be within and at my side
where I walk and wherever I abide.
Come to me Great Mother
it is your constant benediction in renewal contrived
for I am your daughter and you help me arise.

Talking, Not Real Walking

A man said in response to a question about the speed of his walking, “I don’t let any grass grow under my feet!” Lest you are led astray into thinking he is a “Rapid Robert,” it must be pointed out that he is a mallwalker where he has the nickname “Trudger.” No grass is involved. 

Obese Obeisance

Even regular members of Weight Watchers fail to lose the weight necessary to reach their goals. This failure to reach the weight level to which they “aspired” now occasions “despair!” (The same letters spell both words.) 

“Game Faces”

In the National Basketball Association, players are often said to “put on their game faces” when they are gearing up for the tip-off of a particularly important game. In doing so, their Stoic lack of expression denies their enemies insights and understanding of any fears or psychological weaknesses that might be exploited. 

I find that “game faces” are not restricted to the basketball court. The expression clearly describes the every day demeanor of large numbers of people. More and more people can be described with this term. Check it out next time you are at the mall, grocery store, race track, or any other place where large or small numbers of individuals congregate. What personal fears and insecurities are thus cloaked?

For Some

For some, “marriage” might be better spelled “mirage.” 

To Some

To some “life” is a word, for others it is an indeterminate sentence. 

Wondering and Stuff

What is the definition of “stuff,” as in “I’ve got all this stuff in my room..”

Or of “stuff,” as in “We went out to the mall and stuff” and  “I really love you and stuff.” 

Did You Know?

Why do people keep interjecting “You know” into the stream of an alleged conversation when it is abundantly clear that the listener does not “know”? 

In the Nick of Time

Long ago, some aficionados of classical music played on 33-rpm records would listen for the rare imperfections in these fragile records. This occasioned an observation to the effect that “In listening to great music, some people concentrate on the nicks while others hear the symphony.” There seem to be parallels in the way people live their lives.

Political Correctness

Currently, your influence and importance is less determined by what you say and do than by what you do not say and do. 

Personal Slights

Personal slights are hurts that have no healing. 

Denying Denial

There’s no denying that it doesn’t work. 

Communication

It’s not what you pour out of the pitcher, it’s what gets in the cup! 

The True Source of Worry . . .

. . . is to be told “Don’t worry about that!” 

Amazing Grace

Do some terrible singers sing religious songs to avoid criticism? 

Cutting Remarks

“Minor surgery” is any invasive procedure done on someone else.

“Major surgery” is any invasive procedure done on me.

Timely Personality Descriptors

If you are early for a scheduled appointment, you’re “anxious.”

If you are punctual, you’re “compulsive.”

If you are late, you’re “hostile.” 

Repetitious Advice

My best advice

involves advice:

Don’t give it;

Don’t take it! 

Priorities

Be not unduly concerned with your future,

Or your past.

Do you have a PRESENT? 

Commiseration

You get tired of hearing

In chapter and verse,

The unhelpful refrain,

“It could be worse.” 

“Could” and “Should”

If “could” and “should,”

Were sticks of wood,

We certainly could,

Most assuredly should,

Have a big bonfire!

Suburban Living

If the common denominator of neighbors is the amount of their financial resources, is it any wonder that they really have very little to talk about among themselves?

Questionable Behavior

“How old are you?”   

When asked of a 5-year-old girl, this is viewed as an innocent and pleasant inquiry. The answer is immediate, courteous, and correct.

When asked of a 60-year-old woman, the motivations of the questioner are suspect. If an answer is forthcoming, it is grudgingly given in an irritated manner and may or may not be accurate.

At what age does this change in response become notable? And why at that time? 

Here and There

People often seem preoccupied with costs and savings as they make travel plans. When this is the case, it would seem best if the would-be traveler saved a lot of money by simply staying at home. 

Wall Street Expertise

Stocks may get higher, go lower, or remain unchanged in price. 

Age-ism

The thing that I really like about Bob Dole
is that he is older than I! 

Copy Cat?

You pride yourself in that you imitate no one in the conduct of your life. But, no one chooses to imitate you either. What do you make out of all this? 

Perspective

A man told a woman of his joy and sense of wonder in seeing a magnificent rainbow. Huge and fantastically multi-colored against a backdrop of dark storm clouds, it was the greatest that he had ever seen. He went on to indicate that cars had stopped alongside the road so that pictures could be taken. Her response focused on the question of how many people would carry cameras in their cars with all the thievery, heat damage, and the like.

Relaxation 

Relaxation, center of my meditation.

Relaxation, song of my incantation.

Relaxation, journey to my destination.

Relaxation, gift of my celebration.

Relaxation, purpose of my incarnation.

Relaxation, circle of my rejuvenation.

Relaxation, healing to my sensations.

Relaxation, spirit of my pure vibration.

Relaxation, masses said for revelation.

MUSIC: Relaxation