Poems on my Scratchpad
Some very bad, some very sad
Have I really gone mad
Poems about life we’ve all had
Just like I may have been a writer in third grade, I may be one now; I wasn’t a poet then, and I’m still not a poet now. Gettit? I never was, I probably never will be. My husband Dennis is the poet. Susie Lee, my dear friend who decided to take her life a number of years ago was a wonderful writer and also a poet; she was a buddy court reporter and dear friend. I could not talk her out of her final deed. But that’s for another time, another story. However, it’s an incredibly sad story. Like my poems.
Migraines. I’ve had them since high school. Or earlier. A good reason to get out of gym? Nope. I never did that. I loved gym. I was even a cheerleader on top of it. I loved gymnastics, you see. Loved the rings. So, I never used it as an excuse. I think they started in my court reporting years – the migraines, not the excuses. Although I worked in court with them. It was only in the late years that I used that excuse once or twice. Like, who wouldn’t get headaches listening to all those complaining people – first in motor vehicle court, municipal court, district court, and then what they call bigtime court, the feds! I’ve heard it all, folks. It was the ins and outs of the people working there too. Yep, another book. I think the men in black would come after me if I divulged all.
What am I saying? I’ve been depressed for as long as I remember. Beginning with dear Aunt Helen with her head on her arms and hands on my Nani’s kitchen table. I felt her headache. When asked what is the matter with her, pre-grammar school, I believe, I was told “migraine.” How was I to know what that was. Thinking back, did I physically feel it? I am an empath. I could have. I picked up on it. Or is that when my migraines really started?
I have been a depressed person for a long time. Some of these poems talk about my childhood and they go all the way into adulthood, my senior years. I have to warn you, while they are bad and won’t win any contests – I tried, they are bad in the sense of being sad also. They talk about my friends, my family, holidays, events, and other things. I tried to snap out of it. It never worked. I sought help. The best psychologist I ever had was young, was also an empath, left the field to do what? He wanted to live off the grid, I think. Heard too much in his young life, I think he said. That’s a time in my life when I developed occipital neuralgia and was treated for that by a specialist after he left the business. It was causing my migraines – the occipital neuralgia, that is. Ha!
Now in my elder years, I hardly have them at all. But when my occipital nerves act up, I grab an ice pack, place it on the back of my neck and ward off the migraine. Makes me a happy camper. But still depressed. Reading and learning about WWII only depressed me more. Those poor men at Normandy and Okinawa, and everywhere else! And the innocent victims of the war! Oh, it was horrible for me. Me? For them! Writing this book was torture.
It was after my back surgery that the poem writing increased. In between the WWII pages, I snuck in a poem here or there. Dennis remained quiet, probably thinking, “Poor, Lynne,” not because of the intent of the poem, but because of the bad poem writing itself. He tends to say nothing when he has something bad to say. That’s how I could tell I’m not a poet. But that’s how the poems came to be. There are over 100 of them. Do you know what, readers? They have plenty to say. And I know there are plenty of you out there who believe the same darn thing! And do you know what? Knowing someone else feels the same way that you do just may help you. Don’t you think? I know it helps me.