This is a collection of poems which I was commanded to write. I didn't want to. I didn't choose to. I was ordered to. There was no bellowing bass voice (resembling Charton Heston's) thundering from the heavens but the requirement, nonetheless was made. It was forcefully, undeniably presented to me as a mission. It was an order. There was no appeal to a higher authority; it emanated from the highest authority.

      I'd written poems in the past but only when it was easy. A number of poems were authored when I was "in love"; a time of life when all kinds of joy is sparked and all things seem possible. Writing poetry, when in this place, is easy. Every thought, every day seems a terrific subject for a poem. Life is delightful and inspiration is everywhere. So the following collection, which I've struggled to compile, is not business as usual.

      For, these poems (except for the first two) weren't written in the glow of happiness. They were prompted from despair, anger, guilt and grief. This company of emotions hasn't been fertile grounds, in my life, for creativity.

      This bunch of emotions has been present at times in my life but these were very non inspirational periods. I wanted to shake the dust of these feelings off my boots, not memorialize them. These emotions showed up during times that were better being forgotten. They reminded me of weakness and failure.

      When these feelings were present, I wanted them to be finished. When they were finished, I wanted to forget about them. Whew! That's over! Don't want to go there again. There was no inclination to preserve those moments; to capture the tensions and the distress.

      Great artists throughout history have, indeed written and painted and composed with their inspiration being grief and hurt and loss and madness. But I'm not a great artist! My motivations for creativity have always been pleasure or sarcasm. The former needs no depth filled explanation. When we're in love we feel like great poets and great artists and great lovers. Preserving our feelings, at times such as these, is easy to comprehend. The later prod, sarcasm is also easy to understand. When responding to something with sarcasm, it makes us feel superior. To preserve these moments is natural, for me. I've felt this prod at various times over the years. Caricatures are a byproduct of this. Song parodies are too.

      Both of these, I've dabbled in, over the years. Most of them were cutely sarcastic. Some of them were bitingly critical. Most of these, I wrote and drew when I was in my twenties. I was young and smart. I knew so much more than the people in authority, who were my bosses and professors and policemen and politicians. I wrote a lot about the silliness that I saw and had to endure. But that's another book.

      I did, in fact collect a bunch of my song parodies and package them into a book but I never pursued getting it published. I kept the box, which held these musical gems for seventeen years.

      Occasionally I'd even ruminate about doing something with it. But I never advanced beyond rumination. That is until last fall. I tossed it out; along with a warehouse full of other stuff that I had accumulated over the years. It was time to acknowledge the death of a part of me. I needed to pass into a new place and I couldn't take all that junk with me. I had to let it go. It was time to move on. It wasn't an easy time.

      The parody inspirations resulted from superiority feelings; good ones to preserve. These were easy to let happen. I thought that the sluggards that filled the world deserved to be parodied and some of them definitely did. But the inspiration for all of these was strength and confidence. The creations were rather witty and amusing and clever but they didn't preserve trying feelings. They were conceived easily.

      When I moved, last Fall, it was a difficult time in my life. I discovered that poetry calmed me and helped me to deal with the issues which were so weighty in those days. I found I could clutch onto a moment of craziness and could sort it out, a bit.

      My life, then seemed like a huge disorderly mess. The task of rummaging through it and shelving the haphazard mass seemed mammoth and too great! It would never get done! The pile of clutter was too large and imposing. It was too difficult to even consider getting this mess straightened out. But with each poem, a small box of disorder was addressed and I could find it a home. One at a time, I touched pieces of my past and through this, I made peace with it.

      The first poems in this collection are shorter than the later ones (with the exception of the panic poem, which is more of a list than an expression of thoughts--thereby making its length something that had a life of its own). The first ones were scary! I was afraid of the thoughts and ideas that would be processed during the writing of these. This was new territory. No love to inspire me. No sarcasm to bolster me. This required: me facing me!

      I was more comfortable running fifteen miles or performing on stage before thousands of people than I was facing me. This trepidation assured the shortness of these early poems. Visiting the Lion's Mouth is not a fun task. So, my visits into the bowels of my thoughts were inevitably brief, at first. This was frightening stuff. This was unexplored territory. I was 43 years old and had never faced these emotions; never mind embraced them. I'd busily dashed through these periods. And now I was told to stop. Stop???

      Busyness was prevented. I had all energy extracted from me. I was commanded to cease and ride the waves. Quit fighting and face this thing known as life. I stopped jogging. This had always been a vehicle to allow me to dash through problems; till now. I dropped out of my college course. It had no meaning. I stopped reading the paper. All that news was a distraction. Everything had to be cleared out. I was just left with me. All that was around me was inconsequential drivel. Inside of me was where I had to focus. That can be damned hard; even terrifying!

      The first poems were therefore, brief. One can only tolerate scary, eye opening emotions in small doses. But as time progressed, I got more accustomed to this terrain; I got in better shape, if you will. The poems got longer. Returning to the warehouse metaphor, I at first, could only bear to lift a small piece of the mess and hold it only briefly. But with each one, I got a bit stronger and a little more able to cope with the ordeal.

      This job isn't one which has a finish. It's continuous and eternal. Completion is only arrived at when death occurs. That visit seemed like a viable solution for a while. I invited it! It would complete the task; end the pain; put everything in order, quickly and thoroughly. But these ordeals need to be worked through and that's a totally new experience for a person comfortable in our "quick solution" society. Escape is sought. Death is one route towards that end. Facing the looking glass, though, is the answer and that is damned frightening!

      These poems tell about, what it was I saw. They preserve a cornucopia of emotions. Writing about what I experienced, let me make peace with it. We all have demons. I was instructed to face some of mine. I was dragged before them. I know them a little better. I know me a little better.

      This collection, I have called: Nothing I Wished For. A poem written by the baseball Hall of Famer, Roy Campanella, which contained these words (though I selected the word: wished instead of: asked) struck a chord with me when I was title searching. The words were penned by a man who knew Life. He'd once been a teammate of Jackie Robinson on the Brooklyn Dodgers. He was an athlete and a hero. But after an auto accident, when he was 38, he spent his remaining years confined to a wheelchair. God works in strange ways.

      This journey was planned for me. Colette had her role and I had mine. The parts had to be performed, as written. The space that I'm in now could only be arrived at, through the territory which I trod. The trip wasn't fun. It wasn't a vacation. But, like a hike up a mountain, there's no way to reach the top except to deal with the slopes, cliffs, rocks, wind and snow. One can't reach the summit or get a view of the other side without putting one foot in front of the other and beginning the climb.

      The journey can be scary but that's life! The scenery which I'm privy to now, which is wonderful, couldn't have been seen without traveling where I've been. It's an awe-filled view! And the journey's not meant to be forgotten, either-- like other distasteful happenings. These poems assure that the trip will be remembered. These are the photos from the trip. This is the photo album.

      This is a poetic tour through a dangerous, dark jungle. But what is a jungle? It's a place full of life and action and mystery and beauty. If it frightens the traveler, making him detour around it, he will miss it. The wall of fear must be passed through. These poems have helped me to address those fears so I could reach what's hiding on the other side of this wall.

      This collection isn't one which begs for a conclusion. And I've always been uncomfortable with undefined conclusions. Things unfinished and not wrapped up suggests that more needs to be done. Let's get to the finish! But life doesn't work like a 10k race. It's a race that has no finish line, that we are made aware of.

      So, this is a collections of observations that have been made, up to this point. I can't wrap this act up and call it complete. They are--what they are! They're not a neat package that has a fixed ending; they're a work in progress. They represent my feelings as of today.

      My right side/left side brain conflict is in evidence here. The logical, analytical side of me (my left brain) says: I've got to do a wrap-up; like after a football game. My right side says this is unnecessary. Just embrace the experience and let it happen. These days, the right side holds sway, so here it is; as is. Each page is thus, a happening; a candid glimpse of me brought forth because of those who touched me.

      If some of my established but truly unbenificial philosophies could be rattled and questioned, is that not an act of guardianship? Was there any other way to impress upon me and show me that my ideological house needed attention? I didn't even see the mess.

      Was there any other route that could have brought me to where I am? How can I not be ultimately thankful? Indeed (to, again look to Mr Campanella for words) I am, among men, most richly blessed.