avatarJanaka Stagnaro

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e0">I went to serve in Cameroon, not so much to make their country better but to have an adventure, to test myself, to create new definitions. But most of all I wanted to write, to be a writer.</p><p id="1ffe">Along the way, since then, children have come along, and safer roads of income I took. I have had no regrets teaching. I have written books, but writing as a profession has not been my focus.</p><p id="46f1">My father was a technical writer and supported his family. He wrote detective books on the side. Never to be published. I remember him telling me one time in a fit of melancholy that he regretted having a family and not becoming a “writer.”</p><p id="0205">It is to that part of myself, the writer unfulfilled, that these words come forth.</p><p id="3dca">And it is to you, dear writer, if this is your passion, go for it with all you got before others come into your life for whom you need to provide.</p><p id="6b3c">Thank you for reading.</p><h2 id="f101">Related works of my time in Africa and travels.</h2><div id="595e" class="link-block"> <a href="https://readmedium.com/paul-658cd21ccf7e"> <div> <div> <h2>Paul</h2> <div><h3>A poem and commentary about my blind African friend</h3></div> <div><p>medium.com</p></div> </div> <div> <div style="background-image: url(https://miro.readmedium.com/v2/resize:fit:320/1*erSqssz7qzI2_sHp1oqfEw.jpeg)"></div> </div> </div> </a> </div><div id="9cce" class="lin

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POETRY

What Hours Remain?

A melancholic poem of a writer, with commentary

Image by Couleur from Pixabay

What hours remain?

Not even the cards or stars will say. I gaze upon an image made 40 years past. What ambition did that young man possess? By what dream was he harassed?

Caves to sink into, jungles to flee, heights to look down from; the rudder of a pen on the sea.

What hours remain?

How many more words to note? And when the bell tolls what import to the world with all that I have told?

Not even a tombstone awaits, with some witticism for passers-by, only a swirl of ashes, moving to and fro with the tides.

Author’s first solo adventure into the bush

A few days ago, I went into storage, looking for a picture for a previous poem of mine. And then began to wade into a pile of photos of my time in the Peace Corps.

I went to serve in Cameroon, not so much to make their country better but to have an adventure, to test myself, to create new definitions. But most of all I wanted to write, to be a writer.

Along the way, since then, children have come along, and safer roads of income I took. I have had no regrets teaching. I have written books, but writing as a profession has not been my focus.

My father was a technical writer and supported his family. He wrote detective books on the side. Never to be published. I remember him telling me one time in a fit of melancholy that he regretted having a family and not becoming a “writer.”

It is to that part of myself, the writer unfulfilled, that these words come forth.

And it is to you, dear writer, if this is your passion, go for it with all you got before others come into your life for whom you need to provide.

Thank you for reading.

Related works of my time in Africa and travels.

Visit my Author Page. You can view my artwork on Pinterest. You can follow me on Facebook. Cheers.

Poetry
Melancholy
Dreams
Life Lessons
Writing Life
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