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Newtown, Connecticut

My little warrior, Newton, ConnecticutNewtown, Connecticut
(a poem for my son)

You cannot promise anyone anything.
I promised my son just last night
I would always be there forever
to protect him,
to keep him always safe,
to make sure nothing bad
would ever happen to him.
I pulled his blankets up around him
and told him what a good boy he was,
and how much his daddy loved him.

O God. You were such a perfect son.
My anger thumps like a shaking fist.

I want to hug you
and fall into the grave with you.
I want to hold you
as you cry in my arms,
as dirt falls on us.
Do not be afraid.
I will keep you safe.
I am here to protect you and keep you safe.
You are a good boy.
Daddy loves you very, very much.
Daddy keeps all his promises.

I know you need to feel love.
All I feel is anger
You are my little warrior.
You were so brave,
in those minutes
that passed
while your friends were being shot,
knowing your turn could be coming.
The silence between the gunshots
filled with the rage of angels.

I am sorry I did not keep my promise.
I am sure you were looking for me
to come and save you from dying.
I can picture your eyes.
Those eyes that looked up at me
the day you were born.

I am standing in the backyard
looking at your toys.
All those thing I want to say to you.
I just want us all, you and mom and me.
Gathered around the table again for supper.
I tell myself not to cry.

Lift up your head daddy
do not cry.
Remember the way things were
before I was broken.

Someday I will build a monument to you
So I never forget what blind hate stole from me.
Someday I will come to you my good little boy.
We are all but dust particles and water in sunlight.
Nothing else lies between us now.
Not time. Not space. Nothing, but the thinking.

The soul of my soul is sorry.
I am so sorry you and your classmates died.

I keep writing these sentences wondering
if the words are wilting,
because there is nothing that can be said
under the weight.
I will sit here for a moment longer

I had just come back from Christmas shopping,
when I first heard the news.
I felt guilty and folded in on myself
as I began to understand what happened.
It could have been my boy.
He is such a good boy.
His daddy loves him very, very much.


by Rowen Starr,

December 16, 2012

Note:  My son is ok. This work only attempts to describe the indescribable horror being experienced by the parents.

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I am back on-line. Ya! And As Serious As Ever, Serioiusly!

ImageI have decided to reopen my erotica blog.  It has been a long time since I posted anything (6 months).  This post is intended to do no more than to advertise my presence back on-line and my desire to reconnect and form/reform a new/old circle of friends.

I never intended to shut down my blog, but I have to admit it was a relief to stop writing. Writing is incurably time-consuming and was leading me to remember things in my past that have long retreated from my view.  As an adult I’ve patched things over as is proper.  New things requiring attention have advanced into the foreground and others in the past have faded in color.  My writing was most successful when I inspected old scars and remember how I had bled.  Some mouths are sadder than others. Waking up old memories can be painful.

I do regret not nurturing more fully my interest in erotica, this new and fantastical reality.  Until I read and started writing erotic did I become aware I was traveling for years down a long suffocating passageway.  Erotica was a remedy, balm for my chapped soul.  Erotica gave me a way to emerge in a new open space.  Still I found myself hiding in forests and wild thickets and again for the last six months I paced, hid away new feelings too complex and I retreated to confines of my daily life. 

 There is a stillness this blog creates for me. I take refuge in it, in these words. I aspire for much, but the mass of the internal repressive self can be a heavy burden.

I am grounded again for now, below ground, walking the catacombs, which has brought me here. The suffocation and the overwhelming variety of the situations I find myself in, and the unreasonableness of those demands, are stones around my neck.  I do not want to fill this wide space with words that do not mean lot to me.  It takes time and energy.

It could be I will wake tomorrow with the thought that if I don’t ever start writing anything again, then I don’t have to ever worry about stopping again.

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