On your last breath..
I told you there was nothing to forgive
Stubbornness and bitterness - sure are a hard pill to swallow
Four years and not a word from you
How sad - your last words were full of rage
No chance to rectify them - you left without saying a word
In reality, you walked out a long time ago
Tell me father - who was to teach me how to be a man?
Tell me father - who was to teach me how to be a dad?
Guess you didn't know yourself - for a father you never proved to be
Lost with your demons - intoxicated by the evils of society
The fear you caused to so many - did you ever ask yourself why?
Leaving those who loved you behind - to chase decadence
Seduced by sinful deeds - your forgot you had a son
Isn't a father supposed to be a child's hero?
Even from a distance - I still loved you for being my dad
You made me strong - told me never to cry
Forgive me father - the tears didn't stop when I saw you dying
It was too much to hold them for so long - guess I'm only human
But, I promise you - I have not shed another tear since that day
You told me - son live to be feared - no need to be loved
But, I don't want to be like you - I have too much love to give
I guess you were right - after all I am my mother's son
You had your favourites and I guess I wasn't one of them
In reality - it is because of you I am so strong
because, I never wanted to be anything like what you had become
I know that you're looking down at me from up above
Tell me father - are you proud?
Of all that I have become? For at the end of the day it's your name I have
Cancer took you away - does it make you happy I survived?
You can't really miss something that you never had
Guess, I will always wonder what it is like to have a dad
You took away my childhood - but I hold nothing against you
Life was dysfunctional, but I didn't succumb to your manipulation
All is forgiven - I hold no grudges - life is full of challenges
Sometimes your thoughts cross mind - but then they just go away
I know you were misunderstood
But I hope you found your peace today..
The Silent One
13 October 2015
Copyright © Silent One
As a young boy
Sitting in a pew
The winter darkness pressing down
Candlelight waves from hidden drafts
Shadows danced on the walls
I heard the words destined to me
“Be still . . . know that I am God”
So I listen . . . eyes open
“The Passion of Christ”
I was gone . . .
I saw eyes . . .
Judas under the olive trees - Gethsemane
His eyes . . . cold, darting . . . filled with manic evil
Torchlights hissing . . . turning eyes yellow
Then a kiss and chaos erupts
I closed my eyes . . . suddenly afraid
Now I see a set of eyes . . . filled with burning hate
A High Priest screaming . . . B-L-A-S-S-P-H-E-M-Y ! ! ! ! !
All around ugly eyes staring with dripping contempt
Old men spitting with bared rotting teeth
Then I noticed . . . and . . .
And my heart ached . . .
Jesus . . . standing quietly with closed eyes
Then we were off to Roman authority -- Pontius Pilate
I saw his slanted eyes . . . squinting as if too much sunlight
Loud voices yelling outside . . . “Crucify him!”
In my heart, I cursed these people – but his eyes
His eyes were dark, soft – forgiving
A hand washing and we are walking . . .
To a hillside, a place called Golgotha – the skull
Empty eye sockets . . . a place of death
The eyes of soldiers hard, focused . . .
Spikes, woods – his sad eyes burning my heart
Closing my eyes, I heard a sharp gasp . . . soldiers yelling
As I opened my eyes – I was looking out with his eyes
We were seeing the same things
Angry faces with eyes of burning ashes
Taunting and jeering – a wave of hysteria hitting us
I heard and felt a deep groan
Fear gripping me – I knew instantly we needed to go
Men, women, soldiers, slaves, leaders, teachers
Eyes filled with blood lust
Evil, hatred . . . . I can’t breath
Death coming with the darkness
Jesus! Can’t you see . . .
Then I heard him whisper
“Father, forgive them, they know not what they do.”
My heart sank realizing with horror
Jesus is staying . . . dying
I felt his purposeful breathing
Muscles, bones, joints aching with a searing pain
My eyes filled with tears
I saw another set of bloodshot eyes
A voice next to me yelling
“If you’re the Christ, get down from the cross
And take me too! Let’s go!”
NO, NO!!! . . . What is he saying
Those are my words – I am sick
My stomach seizes . . . guilt fills me
I close my eyes
Another voice – on our right speaks
“Lord, remember me . . . “
Jesus painfully turns, twisting his body . . . looking . . .
He sees blue eyes – my eyes
I am hanging next to Jesus
“Today you will be with me in Paradise”
We were one – together . . . one body
Now separate crosses . . . I feel crushed by loneliness
But his words . . . “Paradise” . . . “today”
He loves me – I see him looking at me
His eyes illuminating my soul . . . it hurts
I tried crying out – I love you . . .
But only a sob squeaks out
Gravity pulling down pulling down
Eyes straining against the pain
Joints and ribs stretching . . . popping
Chest heaving for each breath
Body convulsing against wood
Head back . . . eyes wide open . . . he screams
“My God! My God! Why have you forsaken me?”
No one answers . . . surprised eyes
In my tears I felt the agony of the cross
The bleakness . . . hell
Back in the pew
I heard the preacher
“He died for you”
What . . . why . . . no . . .
No, I don’t want you dead
Hey, wait for me – slow down
Running hard, breathing deeply
I stuck my head in empty tomb – hum??? . . . .
I sat quietly next to Mary Magdalene . . . wondering
The gardener spoke – “Mary”
But he was looking at me – bright eyes
He said . . . “David”
“David, I love you”
Yes!! Woo Hoo . . .
Look at me . . . I am dancing
With shinning eyes
“I love you too”
“I love you”
Copyright © David Meade
"THERE HE WAS HOLDING HIS HAND OUT"
God, can I hold your hand and follow you?
My child, it is I who will walk with you! You walked down my path with and without faith. You took my protection to ease your pain. My shielded wings comfort you during your moments of suffering while your life staggered across earth. Your love and devotion are what made you strong. Every time your dreams were broken. You managed to build more dreams in their place. You called my name during your happiest and saddest moments. You ran to me when you fell behind. Your secrets became our private talks. The key to your heart was always unlocked. I was there during your trials and troubles and tribulations. We could not speak, it was my light that kept you from going weak.
God, are you a dream of beauty? The holy book.
My preacher spoke of the afterlife, calling it paradise.
I remember now, I felt this company once before, this light.
Many times, I forsake the light and still you never left my door.
I felt it on the day I was born,
the day I became baptized in your holy name.
I felt this light before, can you explain it once more?
Lord pleases clarify the day I fell down to my knees, accepted Jesus as my savior?
On that day, I felt as if you stood away and walked on by, allowing me to face my failures’.
Was my life a waste in this impossible world?"
My child, this is the everlasting light you will feel every time your body is re-born onto a new road. This light never left you.
My sweet child did you not listen,
Matthew *19:26* MY SON looked at them and said, "With man this is impossible, but with ME all things are possible.
My child, you were not searching for the right answers.
My Lord everyone told me if I prayed you would come. Did I not pray enough?
My child sometimes your heart asked for more than life itself,
I always answered even when you shunned heaven away from your eyes?
The obvious question is whether this is the final immersing of your soul's disguises.
Lord, I have other questions to ask.
What should I expect out of my personal sins?
My testimonial sits in the palm of your hand
My mind and my heart's inner core have been wicked since my adolescence--
How is it that I am in your promise land?
Getting right with me has brought you here!
One more question My Heavenly Father
Can I see My Daughter, Mothers, Sisters, family, and friends?
Copyright © Poet Destroyer A
One night a guy & a girl were
driving home from the movies. The
boy sensed there was
something wrong because of the painful
silence they shared between them
that night. The girl then asked the boy to pull over
because she wanted to talk. She told him that her
feelings had changed & that it was time to move on.
A silent tear slid down his cheek as he
slowly reached into his pocket & passed her a folded note.
At that moment, a drunk driver was speeding down
that very same street. He swerved
right into the drivers seat, killing the boy.
Miraculously, the girl survived. Remembering the note, she
pulled it out & read it.
"Without your love, I would die."
Copyright © Le'Rita Clark
"I heard an angel speak last night and he said "write" - Elizabeth Barrett Browning
that was the last word he whispered before his eyes closed forever...
I close my own eyes, bite my lower lip, 'til I taste tin, stone angel crying with me...
The wind sends chills through me, as the heavens threatened to weep
brown leaves skittering between my feet, seeking for shelter.
How I related to those leaves: dry...brittle...dead.
I look at the Angel that watches over him,imploring for answers,
begging this Guardian to take pity on me, help me remember.
She only looks at me, with tears in her eyes, her beautiful face
always looked enigmatic to me, for she was smiling...
and yet those tears hinted at sadness,
seemingly reprimanding me with her look.
I bow my head in shame, and reach for her hands,
but I only feel cold, hard stone...not unlike my heart
My throat catches, I can hardly breathe--
I loosen my grip, feeling it might burn this time
...from guilt, for forgetting...
I glance at her magnificent wings, and wished I had them, too,
if only to fly away, but my feet are stuck on the ground,
with a heart buried in regret.
I whisper one word: "Sorry":spoken so softly, I think I only said it in my heart;
I say it louder, my body wracked with sobs, my heart bleeding crimson tears of anguish.
I look at the Angel and notice something on her sash--
One pristine white feather lay there-a stark contrast to the moss covered stone.
I take the feather, notice wordings etched on the sash--and scraped off moss,
Tennyson's words go straight to my heart...
" 'Tis better to have loved and lost, than never to have loved at all."
The memories come back like a flash flood, assaulting me, bringing me back to that day.
He told me he had an angel carved to be with him at his grave,
since I, his angel, couldn't always be there for him. And that he understood,
that it was okay. I shrugged it off, told him I love him forever.
I still do, that's why it shamed me that I also love another now.
Seeing those words, I felt such a sense of peace, like he was embracing me,
smoothing out my hair like he used to, telling me it was all right.
I blink back tears, and say "Thank you" this time...I hug the Angel and I felt warm.
Drizzle and sunlight bounced off each other as I walked away.
I turn my head around to his grave
--and the Angel looked on with a smile.
Constance's Angels in Cemeteries contest
June 18, 2011
Copyright © binibining P.iNk
I am dead.
I travel towards a blue ball of LIGHT.
It calls me, communicates.
Whether we are billions, trillions or
even just millions.
we are eternal, we are one.
The time we spend on Earth
Hate has no place inside the light.
Give people the benefit of the doubt
there is nothing to be gained or lost
you just must.
Power is fleeting and it too means nothing.
I am speaking these word out loud
but my understanding is greater than that
a lot greater.
All life is vital; all of it travels back and forth.
Cleanse your spirit your mind and heart,
Your purpose is not what it seems.
Do not be afraid of those who hate you.
Fear no one.
Fear is a wasted emotion that only drains energy.
When you speak of peace the confused will attack.
Stay kind, stay pure.
There is nothing to win
there is nothing to lose you just must.
Look deep into others eyes
there you will see who you are.
Cleanse yourself there is a light,
a life that awaits us all,
what awaits us is greater
than any words or ideas.
In our simple form
we cannot conceive the after light.
Light not dark is our destiny
brighter than you've ever seen.
Live by the light, it will set you free.
It is the peaceful who are brave.
Just rid yourself of hate believe in peace,
walk lightly and all will be clear!
We are and will always be one.
........never ever give up on anyone.........
I am back.......
but I am back........
........I know because all my angst returns.
All my family is around me.
There are tubes down my throat
I am blessed my family with me
tears and smiles a love that blankets me.
Sponsor: Anthony Slausen
Contest Name: Near Death or Near Life Experience
Copyright © Maurice Yvonne
Once upon a time, many years ago,
There was a sweet and lovely - red, red Irish rose,
That was plucked prematurely, from the garden vine;
A budding beauty, taken in her prime.
She was laid to rest, upon the death, of a lovers dream;
Upon a chest of ebony, where lie, his would-be Queen;
Lowered deep into the depths, of the church yard cemetery;
Her scarlet petals, wilting in the summer breeze.
Then the earth begin to fall, like autumn leaves;
Upon her petals, and the chest of ebony,
From above her tomb, where stood the grieving groom
Weeping , weeping, like a willow tree.
Then the sky begin to disappear, amid that mournful cry,
As tears - from above, fell from that lovers eyes,
And came to rest, like dew drops on that Irish rose,
As she disappeared beneath the earth, there in his grief below
In time, he laid a stone of ivory - upon her grave;
Etched deeply - with the promise he had made:
To love his Irish Rose - forever and a day.
The years and all their seasons came and went
And a million lonely tears were cried and spent
Upon her grave where everyday he kneeled and prayed
And dreamed of her until his dying day.
The epigram has long since faded on the ivory stone
That still stands alone upon her grave
Where from the million tears of love he gave
A seemingly impossible - blue, blue rose has grown.
Written: June 18, 2010
Note: To late for the contest,
but I thought I would post it anyway.
Copyright © Elaine George
JE SUIS CHARLIE — Afterthought
The shock of this most frightening tragedy is practically beyond
the pale of any reasonable or adequate attempt or effort to explain
it or to rationalize the horrible circumstances surrounding it.
Let me just say that all of us who are writers and poets ply our
poetry, “our intellectual wares,” if you will, in a common written
medium that expects the same unrestricted level of freedom of
speech and expression exercised by those extraordinarily brave
artists at “Charlie Hebdo” who were recently murdered in cold
blood by self-styled Islamic extremists in Paris.
It is also equally saddening and deplorable that some courageous
police officers died in the line of duty defending these freedoms
as well as some other security people and hostages caught up in
the midst of these most terrifying circumstances.
The heinous actions perpetrated by these armed extremists
destroyed innocent lives and affected the lives of a number of
loved ones whose burden of sadness and tragedy is unimaginable.
Their actions also were an attempt to strike at the very heart of
those sacred freedoms that all of us who live in open societies and
democracies cherish as part of our everyday lives. The armed
extremists, by their actions, also personified and demonstrated an
obvious affectation for barbarity, stupidity, ignorance, and cowardice
that were all on ample display as a result of what they did.
Freedom of speech and expression are among those certain
historic inalienable rights given to all of us by the divine hand of
God himself, and certainly not by the generosity of any government
or religious group (regardless of faith). The brave souls who died
at Charlie Hebdo, died exercising this most sacred franchise.
The point I’m driving at is this: Those extremists who committed
these most reprehensible actions of recent against their fellow man
did not win in spite of their collective efforts to destroy lives and to
sully these precious freedoms that all of us as writers and artists
hold so very dear.
The outpouring of emotion and sadness in support of these slain
heroes in the face of this most despicable crime is quite compelling,
and underlies the continuing determination of all of us who love
and cherish the freedoms of speech and expression to continue to
speak out and to exercise these sacred rights without reservation.
With all of this in mind, I humbly and proudly conclude my narrative
to all of you here by saying and echoing as loudly as possible:
“Je Suis Charlie” . . . “I am Charlie.”
Gary Bateman, Copyright © All Rights Reserved (January 10, 2015)
Copyright © Gary Bateman
Birth was suppose to come easier than this.
I pant quickly as I was taught,
but it isn't helping, nor does squinting my eyes.
But again, the pain evaporates for a moment
like the tears in the corners of my eyes.
It fools me in thinking it is almost over now, and I try to relax.
But all I can think about is my mother
and how different it was for her,
especially, since her young husband was so far away
My back aches, and once again, I look for the owner of the mysterious voice
That voice is my own...
I groan, and the doctor finally makes a quick-fire decision.
I am given a block for the pain, an incision is made,
and although I feel numb, and my mind is foggy,
I can feel someone's hands groping,
... a tug, a void,...a small noise... of a babe..
The next several hours are a bit of a blur
until everything clears and I'm back in my room
on the sterilized sheets, too stiff, and too sleek,
too fragrant of bleach, to think about sleep.
This miracle I bore, as soft as fine silk,
with tiny closed fists, rose-petal nails
fills me with joy, with relief, I am filled
with a deep pang of grief
for a long ago thief
I can feel the connection, mixed joy, and compassion
I bathe in the scent of my brand new beginning ......
But my thoughts stream behind me,...... to a hope that had ended
My mother in bed, after losing her first....
So young, in her bed, without child,........ bleeding red
from the war that she fought, while my Dad fought his own
I cry tears all alone.... for the grief that she owned
I so cherish the breath.....of this babe on my breast
The circle of life, starts with birth .....sometimes, death
(Mood- happiness/mixed with sadness)
Copyright © Carrie Richards
here, where I walk,
confused silence swirls around my feet,
and the anguished summer leaves
are lingering limp, waiting for autumn...,
waiting to crumble and mingle with earth
drunk with the morning dew
somewhere beneath them
under the thunder
earth wears the scab of a fresh wound
in a place that will not be forgotten...
corrupt with mourning
sprouting with questions
immersed with regret
hollowed with anger
and shadowed by trees of despair
birch-bark faces, heads bent low, shadowed eyes
stone-cold voices, carried in the wind, behind disguise
while mute birds watch without a song
the leaves will decay, green goes, and the eye forgets
while pawing on the hard and bitter earth
of reason, is impossible...
and autumn goes
I will live in hope that baffled minds
will clearly see a winter sun
and give up blaming ... who?
Copyright © Carrie Richards
Once bloomed a rose so young and fair
With dark brown eyes and long black hair
Beside her be a tall dark tree
Whose branches stretch to smother thee
Too close beside the shadowy bark
That soon begins to leave its mark
She cries for help, but none shall hear
Her thorns too sharp, who’d dare go near?
To save this rose, who’d risk their life?
With naught to gain but pain and strife
Alone, afraid, she lays to rest
Her heart beats low inside her chest
And with the hour growing near
She sheds her final grieving tear
And so the rose soon falls asunder
Her final day, eternal slumber
She lies beside the old dark tree
The only one who mourns for thee
Copyright © Nina Hernandez
We stepped out of the car, my father and I,
on that shattering day, under a dark springtime sky
Like the end of the world, the whole world was gray
while the dawn, took our hope, sucking all the air away
For, even my tears, had nowhere to land
Frozen thick in my throat, like the dry desert sand
If just one would escape, how could they stop? ...no shoulder, ...no dam?
My Dad was in shock, as he stood by the gate,
a glaze in his eyes, ...... and a million years old
My feet froze in place, my knees shivered cold
but without hesitation, I grabbed hold of his hand
I took him inside, and with deliberate intrusion
I fed him some soup, and put him to bed
He was the child, and I the adult
Day after day, somehow by default
our roles were reversed, ...and I became strong
My childhood had ended,.....and his had begun
Submitted and Inspired by the contest "The True Meaning of being an Adult"
Sponsor: FJ Thomas
Copyright © Carrie Richards
Terrified in a corner
Hearing the rockets
Shattering her heart
Their heads not accepting
Is happening again
Forced to move out
They leave their homes
With no place to go
The horrors of war
Are just to many
No food, no water
Destruction and death
Piles stacked up
Of smoking debris
Breathing no more
In their eyes
And pain for those
Children to witness
A treated of Peace
That can't never work
For a long time
Only till Jesus
Dorian Petersen Potter
Copyright © Dorian Petersen Potter
Today I looked at your picture and I shed a silent tear
We had never met yet, still I cry and I grieve for your family
Cut down in your prime just seventeen years old
Your friend – oh how he wishes he could turn the clock back
But he faces the rest of his life knowing he killed you
Guess you never dreamed when you went on a car journey
That it would be the last trip you ever made
At the end of the day a car is a machine
Machines are dangerous if used incorrectly
Why Why Why don’t people realise
25th August 2014
Copyright © JAN ALLISON
No longer at desk the typewriter has been given
it's final rest.
As he cant recall the day or year.
The once strong mind is closed the body
but a museum or tribute to what once was.
he his home but locked within himself.
Vist's from thoose who once knew the man
are like people viewing a body at a wake.
he calls from within the shell for for release.
Yet his lips will not move his voice never sounds.
Inside he burns for the chance to run as the river
chases the sea.
To be the man they never knew and the one he
could admire and both despise.
The page sits in typewriter like a willing
eager lover in bed.
Waitting in stockings that cling to delicate thigh.
the tears escapes it's minds prison.
He thirsts for it like a drunk for that morning drink
of whiskey waitting hands held togather trying
to keep from shaking.
He sits as a painter without hand.
watching the most beautiful sunset fade without
a chance of ever capturing this moment.
The ink is drying he feels it everyday.
Soon he hopes like the dust that does gather
he will be swept away.
Copyright © John Patrick Robbins AKA Gonzo
I wept upon the news deployed
For now within, exists a void
My heart has stopped, it’s turned about
For life with love is now without
Now cast away, the physical form
I await the fate, to be reborn
To one day greet you there, again
The Gates of Heaven then let us in
Hand in hand, we move ahead
As souls permit, though bodies’ dead
A smile to you I then will give
For past our deaths, I know we’ll live
Copyright © Michael Degenhardt
She sits alone
She draws her knees up to her shoulders, hugging them tightly
She shivers in the icy wind
Her teeth chatter and the stream of tears from her eyes, sting her cheeks
As she lifts her head towards the heavens,
Her eyes burn with pain and her piercing scream, barely human, expresses her Excruciating
suffering and anguish
She is gripped by immense sorrow, the most powerful and destructive emotion
It roughly envelopes her, throwing her into a pit of darkness, filled with evil shadows
The shadows claw at her, ripping into her flesh like daggers
She shakes violently, tasting blood as she bites down hard on her bottom lip
But she feels no pain, her body is numb, numbed by the demons of sorrow, who,
Are slowly overpowering her, devouring her heart
And locking her in an eternal web of pain
She is engulfed by fear as the intense sorrow surrounding her, compresses her
She gasps for air as the merciless hands of sorrow close around her throat
She fights in her lonely vacuum, with everything she has
She reaches for her only comfort, her fingers coil around the blade
As she stretches her arms out in front of her, her void eyes gaze upon her pale skin
Her skin is etched with scars
Her scars an eternal, entwined, tattoo of her excruciating suffering
As she runs the jagged blade over her skin, its cold feel calms her
The compressing sorrow surrenders
This is her saviour, the one who can release her from this life of pure hell
Her skin begins to open, the river of blood flowing strong
Her pain is flung into the open, through her wounds,
Leaving a sense of tranquility in her distraught heart
Her red stained fingertips caress her raw wounds
She is mesmorised by the life force flowing from her, as it paints
Her tragic story on her body
Painful tears bleed from her eyes as regret shudders through her
She rocks backwards and forwards, lulling herself into a sense of peace
Her body is drained
As she lies back she becomes limp
Her eyes close and her whispered prayers fill the open air,
Creating the painful melody her heart sings
As she slips away
Thunder roars and the starry heavens open
As God’s tears rain over His beloved daughter,
Healing her wounds and piecing her broken soul back together
As the sun rises above her,
It illuminates her peaceful expression
Her earthly father collapses besides her
His silent tears wash over her beautiful, pale face
As he lifts his dead child in his arms,
Vicious sorrow rips his heart apart,
Creating wounds which will never heal
Copyright © Amy Sullivan
In a small town there lived a little lady
The lady`s name was Lucinda
Lucinda was always bubbling, cheerful and happy
When she laughed here rolling laughter,
both her cheeks and bosom shaked
She was a beautiful woman with wide hips,
and a butt as big as a dinner table
Lucinda was old and walking was difficult
and life was not so easy for her
She had not so much in this world,
but she always brought a bicycle
Everyone in the small town would help her
as best they could
Whatever you did for her, she thanked with these words:
"You shall have my old bike when I die"
Following the bubbling laughter, shaking cheeks and bosom
Everyone in the small town knew Lucinda,
loved her and wanted to help her
Same thanks every time:
"You shall have my old bike when I die"
Now Lucinda is dead
Her bike the city has received as a gift from Lucinda
If you see a bike in the flower park in the small town
Is it to remind the beloved sweet, rolling round Lucinda
that was always cheerful and happy
A-L Andresen :)
Copyright © All Rights Reserved
Copyright © Anne Lise Andresen
They dragged my mother away
kicking and screaming
arms outstretched towards
my little sister
who lay dying on the ground
her lips parched
her eyes sunken
her wasted arms reaching out
“Myreik (Mother), don’t leave me!”
My father pulled my mother away
the young soldier’s grasping hands
the one who had violated her
the one who now sneered
“Keep moving….she will be dead
I hurried after them
stumbling through my tears
afraid of being left behind
I turned for one last look
There she lay…her eyes closing
left behind to join the
the dead along the path
That night I didn’t hear her cry
or complain as the soldiers
dragged her away
she was beautiful
with eyes the color
of the sea
eyes that danced
like stars on a clear night
eyes that smiled
eyes that embraced
eyes that spoke
what words couldn’t say
I fell asleep to the sound of my father’s weeping
“Wake up,” I heard her say
as I fought to keep my dreams alive
my eyes fluttered open
I closed them to the hungry faces
I closed them to the filth on her dress
I searched her eyes
calm and glassy
they looked past me
In them I read
Tears sprang to my eyes
tears for the death of my sister’s body
tears for the death of my mother’s soul…
My mother’s eyes
my mother’s eyes...
They haunt me still.
Though this is a fictitious write, the events depicted did happen during the Armenian Genocide in 1915 by the Ottoman Turks. One million and a half Armenians were marched into the desert in what has come to be known as the Death March. My mother's family were fortunate. They were able to run away in time. They relocated to Lebanon. My mother was a refugee at 14 years of age. She and her two sisters suffered poverty and had to work hard to make a living for the family. Their fate could have been worse. April 24 marks 100 years since that event. Not all countries have recognized the genocide. Unfortunately, America is one of them.
If you want to read an account of those days, read The Sandcastle Girls. Read of how woman were tied to stakes as the soldiers rode past on their horses and decapitated them. Read of how the orphaned children were gathered at night and put in caves and burned alive. Read of how the woman marched naked...their wounds festering, their hair matted...almost inhuman. Read of how women committed suicide rather suffer rape while others disfigured themselves to go unnoticed. History cannot deny the genocide. If justice is not served here...it will be....one day. God told Cain..."the blood of your brother Abel is crying out to me." The blood of these martyrs cries out today for recognition.
Copyright © Eileen Manassian
I have died so long ago.
The pieces of my bones were buried in Sheol.
It was so dark where I lay now.
My flesh is rotten and almost gone.
I have lived once in this world,
Where a loving family I was involved.
A dearest mom who loved me so,
Loving siblings I treasured most!
I'm a free-spirited young lady.
I love to entertain the world,
Wind hums as I hit the notes.
The nature became my hidden world.
I was once a fruit in a tree.
Until one day, a harvester picked me.
Still unripe, too young and fresh.
He stole my innocence.
Too many years past and my seed grew.
I have started bearring fruits.
But the harvester did not content,
He pulled me out from where I'd been.
He murdered me on one darkest night.
Then buried me beneath the ground.
I'm so helpless, no voice to shout!
My breath is counting one by one.
Until I surrendered the last air in my lungs.
I have died so long ago.
This girl that you used to know,
Isn't the one who writes a poem.
She had died so long ago.
She walks every night to find her home.
Copyright © Aiyah de Torres
The 18th of December was her last day;
she neither knew the date nor cared to.
Gathered at the hospital, keeping vigil,
we couldn't overcome her fright, or ours.
The pain, too great to be driven away,
was only "managed" with IV drips,
needles stuck in bruised appendages --
bony things -- arms and legs, hands and feet.
Above the medicines and washes, we sniffed
her scent, which, more than her yet familiar
face, to us identified our mother --
a smell we never would mistake
for any other. It went quickly
as her body cooled. The rouged and pickled
carcass they displayed was more a statue
than a person. We planned to bury her
with homely tokens, like an ancient mummy:
a family photo, a brooch she liked,
a pink hairbrush, and the brass bell she rang
to call her keeper during her last years.
But, when the time came, I could not bear
to have her leave so finally;
I took the bell from her metal box.
And, now, I ring it -- not to bring a keeper,
but to recall my mother on her birthday,
and on many dark days when I need her.
Copyright © Leo Larry Amadore
They were married for sixty-seven years.
Lovely she still was to him,
though wrinkled of face and hair of pure snow.
Entwined hearts forever held sparkle and glow.
Honestly believing, he was the luckiest man alive.
Just thankful to be by her side,
sharing her life and giving her all that he could.
But fate did loom, bringing unmerciful doom....
she died a long time too soon....
leaving a lonely and broken-hearted man.
To his son, he said, "Say it ain’t so, Joe!
Just say it ain’t so!
She can’t be gone.
She’s been with me so long.
What can I do without her?"
As news spread throughout the town,
many a friend came to call.
He tried to maintain, but three months away,
his heart just couldn’t withstand.....he died that day.
Mourned, his daughter to her brother, amid flowing tears:
"Say it ain’t so, Joe!
Please say it ain’t so!"
CATCH PHRASE: SAY IT AIN'T SO, JOE
Contest Sponsored by: Deborah Guzzi
Won: 5th Place
Copyright © Carolyn Henderson
“Good-bye my daughter dear,” she said
As tears welled up in her eyes
“It’s time for me to go to sleep
This must be no surprise
The good Lord knows my battles
And my health is ailing still
He’s given me so many blessings
I’ve passed them to you in my will
I’m sad to say good-bye
For we have shared much joy
Remember me to Sarah
My grandchild I love and enjoy
I love you my daughter
These years together have been sweet
I’m so glad you love the Lord
And again we will meet
I’m not afraid of dying
‘Cause I know that in a while
Christ will call me from my grave
I feel my life has been worthwhile
For I taught you to seek your Father
To help you through every trial
He’ll always be there to guide you
With never a denial
I leave you in His hands”, she said
As she gently kissed her daughter’s hand
Her eyes closed very slowly
Against cancer she’d lost her stand
She’d been a wonderful mother
Teacher and true friend
Faithful to her Lord
And gracious to the end.
Copyright © Maureen LeFanue 2007-2012
Copyright © MAUREEN LEFANUE
Raven was Death. She dwelt in death. She lived on death. Ages past, she had worn
the blue-black, purple, feathers of the raven and dined on royalty at Tower hill. A
tumble from grace had lodged her here in this fragile form. No more would her maw
drip ruby red, no more would her caw fill the mourning, or her soaring flight slice
the air like a Frenchman’s sword. A Raven, with clipped wings, was she.
Centuries had passed since she, in her feathered form, had feasted on the King.
**Bran the Blessed, giant, King of Wales, had been her down fall. Cursed was she,
as she dined on his eyes, in the field of battle. Ah, what did a raven know
of the curses of man. But, she knew now. Bran's head was placed,
as a talisman, on the grounds of Tower Keep in Londontown. She,
transformed, cursed, walks the night in this beautiful, weak, human vessel for
as long as, Bran's name is remembered.
Her satin-sandaled feet hold her earthbound. Just as superstition
holds her clip-winged brethren in the Tower courtyard, Bran's Curse holds her here.
No longer can she fly, but, she is free to roam. The churchyard calls her. Ashen skies no longer welcome her, but the gravestones, spade-shaped like the tails of carrion feeder, beckon. The evening corpse has arrived. Draped in mourning weeds of black, her death-like pall, luminescent in the moonlight, her lips a tell-tale crimson, she arms her self with a firebrand. The bluish steel glistens. Death with a gun, certainly, one could see the
over kill? She laughs. Looking skyward, she calls. “Husband*, children…”
she mimicks the caw of her unfettered kin. “Come to Ma Ma..dinner is served.”
*Raven's mate for life...or death? ;)
**Bran is the Welsh word for Raven/ King Bran the Blessed
Copyright © Debbie Guzzi
A shaman prays, the Spirit hears
While a Seventh Calvary regiment waits
Unarmed, a tribe endures a Union's hate
Their animosities, and their fears
As the blue coats begin to circle...
Their wrath begins to circle.
That shaman saw but a single Spirit
That was split between different beliefs
He could accept the white Spirit Chief
But the white men would not hear it
They would not blend their God
With the red heathen God.
Anger explodes behind powdered shot
Spraying death from muzzled shame
Cruelly winning their ill gotten fame
Painted heroes claim a tainted spot
History claims the Ghost Dance...
As death claims the last dance.
A Dakota creek runs darkly red
Forever silencing the Ghost Dance
A chanting shaman dies in his trance
One hundred fifty Sioux lay dead
Now, only blue coats remain...
Only the blue remain.
A creek ran red with Union shame
When a shaman called the Spirit Great
And that Spirit did not hesitate
He fell on Wounded Knee and came
To take His people home...
His people swiftly home.
Timothy I. Brumley
Copyright © Timothy Brumley
My heart was in such pain
I felt like I was going to go insane
I just don't know what to do
And my eyes full of tears that distort my view
I fell to my knees and felt the urge
My muscle tighten and pin needles struck me like a surge
My body was warm and with feelings so confused
My mind felt sadness had fused
I could not conquer my fears
I just sat down and fell into tears
When some close to you passes on
It felt like a warmth has gone
So I raised my hand towards a box that was empty with no tissue
I first was embarrass and had a little bit of issue
All my friends hugged me and said sorry for your loss
So now I cry in my bed and toss
April 14, 2013
Copyright © Reynaldo Mast
Rushing to your bedside,
cars blurred, people passed me by
yet I still looked for a sign
to know you would be all right
but I only felt God's tears on my cheeks that day
You just lay there,
the fire in you set to low
and I could not see your bright smile
but your heart still beat, ever so strong
and I felt God’s arms embrace me that day
For seven days you held on,
a day for each of us
even then you were so thoughtful...
you could not speak, but we still heard you breathe
then I heard God whisper to me that day…
As I left with papa to buy your mattress
to soothe your aching sores
I heard His voice say, “Go back and kiss him,”
“This just may be your last.”
And true enough, it was.
We left you there still breathing,
not on your own though, but still
Then that dreaded phone call...
No more need to buy that mattress,
your heart had already gone still
A part of my heart will always be numb,
and I shall never be the same again
a certain twinkle in my eye won’t shine anymore,
it died as you took your final breath
but my smile, how thankful I am I have a hint of yours...
Tears still flow from my soul you know
for all my mistakes, for my version of coping
I am just so sorry, I hope you have forgiven me
and I still hope to feel your embrace once more
when I reach Heaven’s door someday...
It may only be in dreams that I truly see you,
only in prayer do we speak
You are here no more and yet I feel you,
inside my heart, the depths of my soul…
** this is about the last image of seeing my only brother alive...
he was diagnosed with a brain tumor the size of a tennis ball
5 months prior to his seizure which led to a 7-day coma,
which he finally succumbed to,
just 2 days before I turned 23...he was 32...
** originally wrote this for Frank's Images contest-
thanks Frank for coming up with this,
it's helped me to write and share this...
please say a prayer for Raphael, my brother--thank you...
** submitting this as well for HG's Personify a Tear contest
Copyright © binibining P.iNk
He's used to war, he fights real hard,
He's a soldier, he's battle scarred.
The enemy is weak, there is nothing to fear,
His compassion is gone, he has no tears.
He was taught well, was taught how to kill,
He's done it so much, it's lost it's thrill.
He no longer feels bad, when the enemy dies,
Tears don't come any more to his tired eyes.
In the beginning it was against his will,
But he soon broke down, and got used to kill.
Never thinking that his foe, was also just a man,
Like him with a family, doing the best he can.
He cannot have feelings, for anyone,
But then, for a moment, he thinks of his son.
He wants to go home, but it's not time yet,
So he goes back to a war, that he wants to forget.
Next day on the beach, on his tour of duty,
Lies a child's body, on the coast of Turkey.
He cannot believe what he sees with his own eyes,
A cute little boy, with no signs of life.
Lying face down, right there on the sand,
He picks him up, with his big strong hands.
And when he saw that there was no hope,
The soldier realized he could not cope.
He shuddered deeply...letting out a sigh,
And that's when...the soldier cried.
Now the whole world mourns that little boy,
Many children elsewhere, receive another toy.
Yes, people stand by, while these refugees die,
Some see the news and say, please...pass the pie.
John Derek Hamilton September 04,2015
Copyright © John Hamilton
Her childhood indelible painted upon her brain. She can still see the knife in her stepfather’s hand and her screaming mother pinned to the bed beneath him, and she knew her mom was dead, even before the last breath escaped her body. But for one brief moment their eyes met, and she could not erase the horror it has painted upon her brain. It was a seed that has grown into a tree. It is revenge.
He went home early that day to “butcher” his step daughter; she was only ten. When her mom returned from work, she was hiding under the bed, and blood was flowing down her legs. Her mom entered the room, and saw him lying on the bed; she fetched the kitchen knife and leaped towards him. They fought, and he stabbed her to death.Yet she cannot be convinced that her mom is dead. She still believes that her mom exists in her, and the doctor has mistakenly pronounced her dead.
Leaving the bed soaked, dripping red, he bolted through the door, and a voice that was not her own screaming above her head. When last she heard of him, he was sentenced to be hanged, but she was in another world. She thought that God would come that day, but he didn’t and her mom has not risen.
©2013 Christine Phillips
Copyright © Christine Phillips
My favorite of songs is The Old Rugged Cross.
The most tragic of days was the worlds’ greatest loss.
For sinners that day were all given their chance.
His Father in heaven could not even bear to look not even one glance.
Forgive them He prayed as His life’s blood ran down to the ground.
Can you picture Him there wearing that thorny old crown?
On that hill so far away, sad but precious memories were made.
Born of a virgin mother in the tomb He was laid.
Death could not hold Him, death would not last.
Three days in that tomb, so long ago, death too it would pass.
He arose and was seen by many it was said.
Our Savior arose from the grave and no longer was dead.
As He gave His final words to His apostles and friends.
He ascended to the clouds but they knew they would see Him again.
He made us a promise He would rule once again.
I feel that day is coming we’re reaching the end.
The prophecies that abound.
With each new day they seem to be coming unwound.
Are you ready my friend for the Millennium Reign?
Are have you sunk to wearing the mark worn by Cain?
Sacrifices my friend we all have to do.
Just look at Jesus and the sacrifice He made, was made just for you .
So on that hill so far away I kneel at the thought.
With His precious blood my cleansing was bought.
And what have we learned, or did He die just for nought?
I look to Jesus and His love I have sought.
He must come first in all that we do.
And when the day comes you’ll see I speak true.
Copyright © Ronald Bingham