You were beautiful,
my tiny child,
wrapped tightly in my arms,
close to my heart.
I listened to you breathing.
I counted your fingers
and your toes.
you cried out to me
and I loved you
with every ounce of my soul.
Will you hear me
when I cry out?
Will you hold me close
as I held you then?
I remember the day
You took your first step.
There was no stopping you.
Your feet gave you freedom
to explore the world
like never before
but danger lurked.
I opened those doors anyway,
you to the world.
Where will you be
when my legs
no longer run?
no longer work?
Will you realize
that I love
about that day
you first tied your shoe.
We tried and tried
to get that rabbit
in that hole
and you finally did it.
You pointed your toes
for everyone to see
how proud you were.
I am proud too,
of my writing
and my drawing,
of my needlework
and my cooking.
But my hands are beginning to ache
and my fingers will not bend.
I will lose the things
that make me proud
except for you.
Hopefully not you.
Will you let me
brag on you?
Even tell wild stories
that are a bit beyond the truth?
Will you be proud of me too?
I waved good-bye
that morning when you left
on that large, yellow bus.
I was so scared.
I know you were too.
You waved at me bravely
through the dusty window
but I saw the water
forming in your eyes.
You came home, however,
full of pride and joy.
You sang the alphabet song
and got most of it right.
You practiced for hours
until you could sing it
even in your sleep.
whether I took
my pills today or not.
if I told this story before.
I even forgot once
who you were
and it terrified me.
is my treasure
the only thing I have left,
and I heard you make
fun of me
for not remembering
that I gave you the
same gift as last year.
Will you love me
when I no longer
know who I am?
You came home blushing
from the glow of
your first kiss.
Your first love,
the one you thought was real.
You talked about him non-stop.
You changed for him. You gave.
But he left you anyway
for a blue-eyed girl
and I held you
while you cried for him.
I too have a
The love of my life
left me after
He left me here
to live life on my own
while he moved on
to another realm
And I cry for him too.
I long for his shoulder
and strong embrace.
I feel betrayed
because he and I
made a deal
that we would never
leave the other alone.
Yet I am alone
sitting in an echoing house
with no hands to hold.
You welcomed her home today-
your tiny baby girl.
She has your eyes
and possibly your toes.
I see you counting them
as they roll me
into the room.
You finally came
It has been a while.
You look up at me
with tears in your eyes
"Will she tie my
when I get old? "
I've passed it by, so many times before
While traveling this twisted asphalt highway
That weathered sign, nailed, so crudely fashioned
To peeling bark, upon the yoke
Of one ancient, gnarled and battered cottonwood tree
It marks a fork of the old backwood road
Where gravel branches, bends and sways
And meanders through the glade
Where the dry creek bed, goes high into the hills...
Where poison oak thrives, and secrets hide...
There it is!.... That feeling, that inclination to explore...
I've had before....
Stabbing that place of my wanderlust
An old dented mailbox....sitting alone...whose, do you suppose?
Where does the mail go? Does anyone know?
So many times,.....we have passed on by...
I've caught a glimpse, and thoughts would rise...
What lies beyond this fork in the road?
What lies beyond the bend, the turn?...What would we learn?
What course, would we follow
If just this once, we turned, and broke away from the ordinary...
Changed our direction...followed the unknown
Where the creek runs dry
And the banks are rife...
With chokecherry....and willow scrub
Where leaves are layered with chalk white dust?...
Will we ever know?
What lies beyond the fork in the road?....
As I turn my head, and watch my chance disappear once again....
Will I ever know?.....
On the edge
of the evacuation zone
Miyuki holds her daughter
tip-toeing in pink sneakers
her small hands fragile
to the man with the beeping wand
They were outside in the karesansui
washing and raking
rocks, when the school
then pressed into silence
voices rising inside
So now they wait with strangers
in ordered lines of sorrow
for bread and drinking water
as an adolescent, eyes downcast
sees the small pink laces and
offers up his only ration
of precious onigiri
Hooded and white masked they walk
three days and bed-less nights toward
Ishinomaki by the ocean
to family, friends, and home forever
The landscape jumbles unfamiliar
with plastic wreckage
detritus flooded in a field
where Japonica once grew
while moon-suited men
and women gather
albums for the living
And after sunset Miyuki moves
her little girl away
from a white-taped blue-bagged
toward the humming black-robed Monk, his
prayers for light
and workers burned
exposed to radiation ten
thousand times too high
And in the shadows one old man kneels
beside a fetid pool and scoops
rice to carry back to neighbours
moved to higher ground, un-opens
one last bottled spirit
bows his head and offers
Miyuki and her first and only
everything he has
At last they reach the shelter’s glow
beneath the starless robe of night
not used to wearing
Miyuki helps her daughter fold
sheets of painful news into
an origami box to hold
her last and only pair
And in the morning as they face
the stretch of road for home
to unknown love and losses there
they turn and gaze toward the east
spring’s warming breeze
to rise with brilliant red once more
new light of wondrous dawn
'karesansui' is a Japanese rock garden or 'dry landscape'. Rocks are often washed.
'onigiri' is the emergency rice being distributed to survivors in Japan.
'Japonica' is a type of (short-grained) Japanese rice.
for Debbie Guzzie's contest, 'Tribute to Japan'
It's winter's evening, I am driving home. The bare trees whisper my vulnerability like a secret to the sky. I've come again to an all too familiar crossroads; the one of dreams and fear. I stop at the traffic light waiting but I am lost within a cold ocean of myself. Overhead on the telephone wires, a flock of blackbirds have gathered. The electric current keeps their toes snug and warm as they chatter; eavesdropping on my thoughts. I wonder why the birds have chosen this particular place with all its confusion? Perhaps they are my muse, my witnesses and they wait for a change in the signal too. With a slight ripple in the wind and the light, their wings lift up in unison and I am lifted too. I have no need to tarry; I turn towards the fading sun. My heart is carried by a light haven. Inhaling a deep breath of me, I pass a billboard that tells me to have courage.
Part One- Reality
The door is closing
I’m loath to close it
And yet….and yet
I feel….I must
Close it gently
Close is surely
Oh, so very slowly
Hoping against hope
Part Two- Fantasy
How I long to fling it open
And dash outside
Grab your retreating frame
And pull you inside
Eager to show you
The wonders I’ve prepared
The love decorations I’ve hung
Perhaps if you could see
With your own eyes
My little and cozy heart
The warm fire that continually burns
The bed that I’ve prepared and perfumed
The food…delicacies for your tongue
Treats bursting with flavors
You’ve never tasted before
Sweet dainty desserts for when
The night has turned to day
And we arise hungry
Searching for what will sustain us
For our next expenditure
Of passion tinged energy
From which we never tire
You'd come inside
My heart kingdom
Here, you reign
In this kingdom
All is under your command
My soul and body
Yours to do with as you wish
For I belong to you
And I know you well
Aware of what will please
When to appease
When to placate
And when to tease…
I serve you with tender hand
Longing to satisfy you
So you will never want to leave
To make you dream contented dreams
As you sleep soundly
On the soft silken pillows
Of my body
And awake to dream again
For life is but “A Dream within a Dream”
Part 3- Back to Reality
No, your figure continues to retreat
My voice does not reach you
My tears fall unnoticed
This door of my heart
Must close forever
I will bolt it too
For I cannot bear the thought
Of letting another in
I sigh behind the door
Looking at the bed
That will not hear
My moans and cries of ecstasy
Nor your contended sighs
A bed that will never hold
Our entwined bodies
Tossing and turning
Finely tuned to the rhythm of delight
A bed that will never feel
Hands that clutch at its silken sheets
Desperate to hold on…a little longer
In that pulsating world of blinding light
Part 4- The Final Act
I lean with all my strength against the door
To close it “forevermore”
There is resistance
It will not close
Frustrated, with tears spilling down
Threatening to turn into a deluge
I fling the door open
Only to look at a massive chest
My eyes travel up to your face
And those beautiful eyes
My source of delight
Your hand reaches out
And wipes away tears
My breath catches in my throat
As I hear your mellow voice speak
“Won’t you invite me in?”
Part 5- Yes, the happy ever after!
Eileen Manassian Ghali
As I gaze out the upstairs window, it feels like yesterday
It is early, and a burst of sun gleams through the branches of the Cottonwood tree
It's not there anymore....
that string of washing that used to wave on the clothesline,
looking like colorful flags flapping in the wind....
and I wonder...who does that anymore...hangs their wash?
Doves are still strutting on the cobbled path, cooing their song....
or perhaps complaining about the chill of the October morn...
I look about the room,...
Right there, that's where marguerite daisies sat in a jug on the dressing table
next to a framed photo of five, smiling young cousins...
Scrubbed and shining faces, dressed for church one Easter morning, long ago
The faded chintz curtains, and the cover on the four poster is a pale primrose yellow
And the wallpaper is striped in blue and white....
It all looks a bit more worn, but still rather pretty
The bedroom is small,....a bit cramped, and a bit shabby, but comfortably familiar
Over on the north wall hangs a painting of Willowby Pond...
so pleasant to look at, just before falling to sleep...
Mother would tuck into each dresser drawer, a bar of soap....to scent the clothes
I recognize the fragrance of English Lavender, still lingering in the air...
even though she has been gone these many years...
Here I stand again, having things so familiar, ...so much the same...yet changed..
I take a deep breath, recalling the sense of home, the fragrance of lavender
and the sound of the doves...
Like slipping into an old pair of slippers
after spending the day wearing high heeled shoes....
This piece is dedicated with love to J.E. Gauthier, Jr. Active addict and father.
Only by the grace of God may he be saved from the error of his ways.
For years a dark man walked through a seemingly revolving door
Steadily leaving his wife and kids as he searched for something more
Occasionally calling home every now and again
In his voice they could hear the taint of black sin
Back then life on the road meant drugs money and women far as the eye could see
He said he'd never look back 'cuz he was born free
Life grew emptier as he grew older
The drugs grew heavier as his heart grew colder
His four children left behind with no place to call home
From day one they made it in this world alone
For years a dark man walked through a seemingly revolving door
Steadily leaving his wife and kids as he searched for something more
Occasionally calling home every now and again
In his voice they could hear the taint of black sin
Every few years he'd arrive unannounced offering money and a hug
All while using the garage to hide his drug
His spitting image could smell his guilt a mile away
She rolled her gloomy blue eyes in unison with every false word he had to say
Today his girls are grown raising girls of thier own
December came and went
February turned to Lent
On a stormy midnight he still turns to his blue eyed spitting image
As the clouds clear she is again lost in the scrimmage
She lies awake with a bottle of wine in hand
On her mind weighs a dark man
His ways make him lonely and lost
Yet to her death she will fight for him at all costs
For years a dark man walked through a seemingly revolving door
Steadily leaving his wife and kids as he searched for something more
Occasionally calling home every now and again
In his voice they could hear the taint of black sin
It was the first day of the new school year
The children of Beslan had no need to fear
In anticipation they eagerly left home for school
Some walked hand in hand with Mom and Dad
Others skipped along the well known path
Excitement filled the sidewalks and the streets
As fleeting thoughts collided in mid air
Some thought of new friends to be made
Others of old friends with whom to play
A little sister left at home
Of baby brother asleep in his crib
Much too young to run and play
Some favorite lullabies which Grandmama sang
As Grandpapa played his violin
The first day of the new school year
Mothers beamed with such pride
How their little ones had grown
Never would they ever want to let go
Others gave in to their children’s cries
‘Mamma, I do not want to go to school.
May I stay with you today?’
On wings of hate evil had already arrived
With diabolical plans and bombs in hand
To maim and murder the children of Beslan
Who became captives in their little school house
After the dastardly deed was done
Dreams and aspirations lay splattered 'cross the floor
Childhood innocence forever vanished!
On the day of internment the sun in his temple hid
Earth wept pouring rain, her bitter tears
As Mothers’ voices cracked and strained
Cried out loud, their children’s names
While others pleaded in vain for death
Fathers in a state of shock stood stoically in the cold autumn rain
Wearing faces carved in stone
The blood of children cried out to Heaven
Where at the throne of mercy
Sits a God who is just
Though their bodies lay broken in tiny white coffins
On angels' wings their souls did ascend
He will judge all men and their deeds
All, on one appointed day
A tribute to the children of Beslan, No. Ostetia, Russia 9/1-3/ 2004
He sits in a corner
Like a stranger in wander.
He knew it wasn't worth it
Yet asunder became winner,
Now he is a lone ranger
For giving in to the
Anger, slander, character,
He carried his lunchbox
In order to catch up with
The school bus...,
Pale, pathetic, not to
Miss daddy's absence
Is a paradox,
For he could not understand
Why things are thus.
All he knew is daddy's
All day long his image crept in,
She tried to let it go but
It remained within.
Her bed seemed bigger
And the time looked slower,
Love missing in action,
For anger, slander, character, causing
Silhouette of a broken home,
Love turned sour...
If you think is to garbage
And retire, then you're
A lair and a romantic slacker
For letting the innocent
A cousin called the other day saying "Another cousin has passed away".
Well my husband said "How old was she.""
A stalwart woman who had served family and community well. Producing one child that
became a missionary serving in a foreign land..
While talking the cousin asked "Did you know ______"?
My husband answered, "Well, I don't think that I knew them".
The cousin proceeded to tale this story.
"The man had been down with cancer for a while and passed recently..The funeral had been
conducted and the hearse had gone on to the cemetary..The family car with the family was
not to far behind..But when it pulled up, the wife of the deceased did not get out and the
funeral home staff was gathering around..The funeral home director decided to go see what
was going on ...."
The cousin said, " That this funeral home director told him". "That he had been in this
business for thirty-five years and faced something that he had never had happen to him or
any other funeral home director that he knew."
The funeral home director said, "When I got to the family car, I found the wife of the
deceased had passed from a massive corornary."
She had said, "I don't know how I will live without him." She didn't have to learn. God called
The roosters crow, the crows craw and are answered by the gobble of the turkey across the
Mike came home from Afghanistan yesterday,
I ran into him at the VFW...he looked at me
from behind eyes that had seen what no 22 yr. old
kid should have to see....he told me he didn't
belong here, that his brothers were in the s---
and he wasn't there to help......
Mike came home from Afghanistan two-weeks ago,
but only his body was here, his head was
still playin' tricks on him....... Mike didn't say much,
just blasted his drinks and looked uncomfortable.
Mike came home from Afghanistan three-months ago,
I heard he had been a recon sniper in the Stan,
and watched as one of his brothers had been
ambushed and snatched in the distance,
unable to help.......
Mike came home from Afghanistan four-months ago,
people said he went crazy at the bar, raced-off
on his motorcycle and crashed goin' 110 mph.
around a highway crossover in the pourin'-rain.
Mike never came home from Afghanistan,
but his body's in a box, buried in his hometown.
The house sits silent.
All but for the creaks and groans
as the house settles on it’s aging foundation.
The arthritic sound of wood.
A faint hum from the refrigerator,
is the backdrop, to the passing of time
from the Grandfather clock in the hall.
A cat sits on the stairwell landing.
A silent witness to the night.
It’s green eyes glowing softly,
within the slash of moonlight.
The gentle sounds of sleep
come from the rooms above.
The slow steady drip of a faucet,
the only sound within the home.
A breeze sweeps through an open
French door, billowing, gauzy curtains.
Carrying with it the scents
of Honey suckle and Rose.
The wood rope swing that hangs
from the gnarled tree, is caught
up in the nighttime breath, to cast about.
The old rope squeaks it’s protest.
The wind in the leaves rustle out
their own soft song. Singing to sleep
the birds and small creatures of the day.
Welcoming the night hunters.
As the night passes and the sun begins to rise,
so too the house awakens.
The cat uncurls to stretch
and head out the open door.
the drip of the faucet,
is now a steady stream,
Washing off a face of sleep.
From the kitchen, comes the smell
of coffee freshly brewing.
So starts the new day.
The sun will ride this day's sky,
to set once again.
The house will settle anew,
welcoming the night time stage.
Once described as an intense artist
He now sits comfortably
Patiently being interviewed
By a reporter
Half his age
When I was a younger
I would come home from school
To an empty apartment
To keep myself occupied
Until my mother came home
I would spend hours
Drawing random sketches
And imaginary shapes in a notebook
That I kept hidden behind a couch
My mind was full of images
I was young
I was vulnerable
It wasn’t until
I got much older
That I decided to study art.
Speaking softly, he continues
People respect art and imagination
But recognition for an artist has a life of its own
An artist must push himself to do
What he hasn’t done before
But art is complicated
What often comes with it
Is all extraneous stuff
Which you try to control
Before it consumes you.
And the questions ended hours ago
The artist gazes out his bedroom window
The Greek Orthodox
Dome of St. George
Maintains a stoic vigil
Over the East Village
Toward the dusky sky
Light from an open window
Highlights his forehead
Drifting down to his lips
Near his open collar
Only to resurface
In the middle of his shirt
Hands, calloused and strong,
Are down by his side
The left touching his thigh
The right hand dangling in freedom
Deep lines furrow his face
Shadows under his eyes
Mark a life spent
Perfecting his craft.
In the silence
He takes a deep breathe
That the Roman in his heart
Prideful and defiant
A day of his life.
Germ-free Mason jars, hot from the pot of boiling water, gurgling on the cast iron wood stove, stood ready to receive the fruits and vegetables, fresh from the fields and orchards. Lids and sealing rings locked in the freshness. Mama, in her apron skillfully flavored the veggies as she prepared for meals months ahead. The old pressure cooker hissed as it played its part in preserving the bounty of the family farm. Preserves, jams and jellies, sealed in wax, filled the cupboard just waiting for future hot buttered biscuits.
Peeling, dicing, chopping, pickling were all part of the process that brought kin from far away to socialize and join in preserving food for times when the land rested and awaited the start of a new season.
Outside, Sauerkraut (layer of shredded cabbage, layer of salt,) repeated and compressed, awaiting fermentation filled the depth of a Crock on the front porch.
These glimpses of the times that are all but gone will remain with me forever. Life was tough at times but love was the balm that treated the abrasions of near poverty. And the tender touch of those who came for “Canning Days” was felt until the last jar was consumed. God’s bounty awaited, and next year’s promises stood always before us.
Written by: John Posey 10/21/13
Inspired by Canning Colors,
A poem by Donna Jones
The long drive is almost over
Slowly I head down the hill
In anxious anticipation
Of what I will find
I don't really know what I'm expecting
Just something new maybe
An overgrown path in the center of the road
Lets me know I am one of the first
I wildly shift my eyes back and forth taking in all
The beauty this place gives never disappoints
Sometimes it's a flower peeking through the leaves
Or a vine growing, maybe a new bush
Slowly I exit in anticipation of familiar scents
The cedar, the green, the lake all have their own flavors
As I put in the key and slowly turn the knob
The scent of cottage envelops me
For a second, I am at peace, home
And after all is settled, and all is unpacked
I listen, to the sounds of the forest
I try to hear the waves, are they crashing
Or still, I wonder what tomorrow will bring
But for now, I lie still and exhale
Nothing can find me here
No stress, nothing, but peace
And a familiarness felt by those before me
I often wonder if they visit here too
But for now, I am alone in my calm
Until tomorrow, when I will explore
My favorite places, do my favorite things
If I want to
Because here time stands still
Winding around the curve of the road
the brilliant blue of the morning sky had faded
and seemed it had been left out too long in the sun......
Something,...... some new kind of threshold, waited in the November chill
We didn't know yet, just what it was, but the memory
would be imprisoned by our young, and eager eyes
for decades, to come
We had arrived........
with an alive sense of enthusiasm and a vivid anticipation
We left our children in the car, for a few minutes
until we saw the perfect yard.....that seemed to go for miles
the hills surrounded.....and a battered, eye-sore house, somehow had found us
I remember the house half timbered
with white paint peeling on the southern side
We had been expecting nothing much,
nothing more than a weekend's new adventure
not realizing we were entering the future
while the grey haired woman, who met us there,
produced a key, and unlocked the door.
We looked out behind us,
where our children were already running up and down the grassy slope
"Twin Pine Real Estate" , scrolled across the door of the woman's car parked next to ours
If hesitation and....common-sense had overruled
The story would end here...
I do recall.....we said it all......
"Ramshackle dump" ! ? "Good bone structure"
"Good inspiration" "They'll think we're crazy"
"With sweat and guts......."IF ....AND....or BUT!"
"Elbow grease"........"Dedication" "Celebrations"
We fell head over heels........we'll... beg, borrow, steal!
We hollered out to call the children
and then brought them in. They shared the wish,
to own a place to call our own, a home, some land, a mountain view
our grand ideas of property....of priority, of possibility, of probability, ..of family.....
Everyone would work, everyone would reap,
A house we loved.........a dream to keep
and years have come, and years have gone......
.........in the place that we still call home
9/16/14 A Special Memory Contest: sponsored by Regina Riddle
Love is a season
And holidays mark the seasons, like signs in the road
Reflecting the bumps in our journey, but showing us a way back home...
Sixteen, in pajamas, watching the rain pelt down
It was long past midnight, Christmas eve
Twinkling lights on one house across the road, stared back at me
It was if they were trying to fill our void with color
The block was filled with a hundred black windows
And the blackness somehow seemed more appropriate
There was no Christmas tree in our house this year
I suppose Dad felt it was too soon, or perhaps just the effort to get through each day
had taken all the strength he had...
We had stayed up and watched a Christmas program together...
It was Perry Como, I think....somehow I remember how he sang "Ava Maria"...
My brother had come home from the Air Force earlier that week
He had helped bring us a bit of cheer....at least for awhile...
but he had been called back to duty, and I missed him terribly...
The house was silent after Dad had gone to bed
I wasn't sleepy....and it was lonely looking out at the cold night
It seemed the whole world was sleeping,
getting ready for the sun to shine on Christmas morning...
I started to head for bed, but noticed a light had been left on in the front coat closet
I opened the door, and looking up, to pull the chain, I noticed the box...
The little box that kept the sugar cube house
It was one that Mom and I had made together when I was 8 years old...
Little sugar cubes stacked into walls and a roof, glued together with red frosting.
We had copied one out of her Ladies' Home Journal....surrounding it with little trees, and
people skating on a mirror for a pond, things we had found at the 5 and 10 cent store
Carefully packed away last year, on Mom's last Christmas....
Throughout the night, I sat in the dimness of the house, laying out the sugary scene on the
fireplace mantel....as Mom would have done .
When the freckled morning moved into day...
I woke on the sofa...Dad sitting next to me. He had covered me with a warm blanket.
He held me and we cried together.
After breakfast....he disappeared outside, and soon came in carrying a sorry looking branch
from our old evergreen tree.
We decorated that bedraggled branch...it wasn't the most beautiful tree we had ever had
But it brought Christmas back to my family...
For Constance La France's contest "Your Saddest Christmas Ever"
Glen Campbell – A Special Person
It was September 4th, 1968 and I threw an empty suitcase into the trunk of my car, telling Joan, my daughter, that I might not be home to celebrate her birthday. She would turn 13 the following day and Wanda, my wife, had planned something special. As I dropped her off at school she had no clue as to what was in store.
Joan had become an ardent fan of a young Glen Campbell and he was due to be in town that very night for a concert. We led Joan to believe we had given up all hopes of taking her to see him since my travel plans would probably keep me out of town that night. Joan reconciled herself to the distinct possibility she would not be in attendance at his concert. She was a very understanding young lady.
When I returned home that evening, Joan was advised we would celebrate her upcoming birthday with a simple dinner out and maybe a movie. As we drove, Joan was very animated and proceeded to tell us of all the activity of the day. She didn’t pay much attention to where we were headed. Her chatter told us she wasn’t on to our plan.
Well, when we approached the Music Hall in Houston, TX Joan realized where we were and became so excited I thought she was going to faint. She shrieked with joy and showed the textbook signs of one about to see their idol. I don’t believe we had ever seen her so excited.
Wanda had managed to reserve some wonderful seats, center stage 3 rows back. We took our seats and soon were enjoying watching our daughter watch this young performer transform the audience, mostly young people, into an almost hypnotic state. We had joined Joan as fans of this young man from Arkansas. He was really putting on a great show. But something special was about to happen.
He finished the first half of his show and we sat there and listened to Joan excitedly chatter about what was taking place.
About halfway through the 2nd half Glenn pulled up a stool, sat down and asked, “Is there a Miss Joan Posey in the audience?” Joan was literally dumbfounded. We acknowledged to Glen that indeed she was here. Glen looked at here and said, “Well, tomorrow you’ll become a teenybopper. This one is for you.” He proceeded to sing “Hey, Little One” and there were probably as many tears in Dad’s eyes as in Joan’s. Her insistent question was, “How did he know?” repeated time after time.
Wanda, in her fantastic way of pulling off the impossible, had written to Glen Campbell, in care of the Music Hall, and told him of Joan’s upcoming birthday. It would mean a lot to her if he could only wish her a happy birthday. It was a long shot and he only received the letter some 2 hours before show time. Someone on his staff picked up on it and took it from there. He finished and instantly became a very special person to two proud parents. Joan became an instant VIP since almost half her class had been in attendance. It was a most memorable time and Glen Campbell will always have a special spot in our hearts…. Jake
No one knew his background, he did not speak of family
Not even the one left, whom he felt was a burden
His younger sister with whom he’d been out of touch
Financially, he was doing alright, handsome and perfectly fit
Friends wondered why he wasn’t dating
When asked, he’d merely laugh it off
If they only knew the burden he bore, haunted by his crippling addiction
A demon that had seized his body now hungered for his soul
Making its lustful demands at will by day or night
At first he seemed to keep his secret well, appearing as, just one of the guys
While apart, he rode the subway daily
With eyes of a hunter he surveyed
A different girl he took each time, In his home or some dark street corner
When he had no access to girls, alone, he’d easily play “solitaire”
Or browse the magazines and internet
Secrets like acorns take a while to grow, his were no different; just biding
Til the day of discovery arrived unannounced
Hidden files on the office hard drive
Confronted, he walked away in shame, and some ray of light seared his mind
At home he bagged and trashed his toys
Especially his favorite, the laptop
Temptation came fiercer and with maddening force, took him on a binge
That night he sank to the lowest belly of the beast
Ignoring his sister’s desperate call for help
When he'd had his fill of a sordid, assortment of lust, a flicker of conscience
emerged from within
Off he ran in the cold, pouring rain to find his sister alone
Alone, in the bath with her wrists cut; her precious life slowly ebbing away
It was mercy which kept her alive, barely, and by her hospital bed he sat for
Later, outside her room in the parking lot as he left, beyond broken he fell
upon his knees
And through his tears and the rain, he cried out loud , “God have mercy!”
That’s how a man, bankrupt; without love or self worth gained a second
At a most pivotal time in his life; in need of redemption
The shackles of addiction laid broken in torrent rain...free once more to be
Inspired by the HBO movie, "Shame"
A young shepherd living near the hill,
taking his flocks everyday to drumlin.
He wonders deeply while sitting upon the rocks,
looking at afar house while feeding his flocks.
The shepherd's desire is fantasy of afar home,
that has golden windows behind hedge of anemone.
He wonders if the windows of the house are gold
how other appurtenance of the house are mould?
He starts his journey to there, finally after some time,
going along the way across the hill while biting a loaf of naan.
When arrives, he finds the house in fully collapsed condition.
There are no golden windows but a poor crumbled house.
He looks to his own house down the drumlin
surprised by the heavenliness of his own dwelling
The sun was casting back on his house's stained windows
just like the sparkling on the gold as the sun downs
He starts singing songs of Ireland and we are home in a jiffy
"What's a jiffy," my mother wonders
"Guess where we went Granny?"
"I don't know but I have a feeling you are gonna tell me," answers my grandmother
"And Don't call me Granny!"
"We went to church so Poppy could ask secret questions."
"The priest gave Poppy a shot and a beer and Poppy sent me next store and he gave me money for taffy."
"He told me not to tell anyone especially you about the priest cause it's only for the priests ears."
"He said God would take away taffy and I'd never get another goodie and God would strike me dead if I told."
"So I can't tell anyone."
"He did," and she starts yelling and grabs a weapon,"what kind of idiot would be scaring a little child?"
Granny is standing on Poppy's toes and and asking him questions of where he'd been and getting a sniff of his breath
"So what did you tell the priest and him giving you consolation and a shot and beer."
"That little rat ," and thinks about the money for candy
Later, Granny is chasing Poppy with that big iron frying pan and poppy running and singing
"In Heaven they have no beer, that's why we drink it here."
"You damn fool I'm gonna bust you in the head, "and throws the pan at his head
Cousin Francis has bill collectors come to the house looking for him
Granny was four foot seven inches and she starts kicking him in the shin
My Mother grabs his Dick Tracy hat and she jumps on it and flattens it
I ask my mom where I was when this happened and she pauses
" You were in Heaven Patrick waiting with your brother!"
The truancy officers bang on the door and want to know where Uncle Charles is
Granny shrugs and says, "He is upstairs and the sound of the window going up sounds
They all run upstairs and see Uncle sliding down the tree and running as fast as his
seven year legs can move
He comes home later that evening holding a goose under his arm
And Poppy has a soft-boiled goose egg for breakfast every morning
I ask Uncle what happened to that goose and He said,"one day he came home and
they had chicken for dinner."
And Poppy was gone to heaven to get me and my brother ready Mom says
And Granny sits my brother and me on her lap and says,"you two knuckleheads listen up."
"This is very important so don't forget it."
"Treat people the way you want to be treated, because you never know who is going to hand you your last glass of water"
(Learning prudence at a young age.)
Granddaughter is back
for another weekend visit.
She's a voracious talker.
"Mom and Kenny,"
she says. "argue about
who gets to do the dishes.
Mom says, I will do them.
Then Kenny says, No,
It's my turn."
"That will soon be resolved,”
I say. “Your mom will decide
Kenny gets the job."
"I said that in my mind,”
“But not out loud.”
Remax can sale you a home but can't sale you happiness. I never visit the state of Georgia but things do get a little peaches. See this what happens when you eat finger food and take out orders. I never receive your Southern Hospitality/ I couldn’t even receive a plate of food you cook/ you can finally see now when I walk away out your life forever I don’t even have a single word for you. Only thing you will receive from me is this middle finger. You was taught at young age to go to School and learn in Class. But surely class can’t teach you “CLASS”!!
A moment silent things were so quiet and complicate in the beginning I thought we could have reconnect /But just like the chips to connect four they don’t always stay in the same order. You had play a handful of games and this when the “Battleship” games has to end. Now I hope you feel the water rise from your sinking ship and allow your tears to fumble into your lap.
There is no place as better as home
not even heaven is as better as home
He strolled aimlessly in the streets of Amsterdam,
deep in reverie and gnashing his teeth.
Here, he had come for greener pastures
and gold,he had hoarded.
He lives in affluence, in destitude of nothing.
But lurking somewhere in his heart is a longing,
a longing that cannot be satisfied there,
A longing for home.
To yaounde because of an obligation
that is important for my education,
Everything cruises well for me but for one thing;
A longing for home.
A home is a haven more that heaven
She is the mother to all orphans
a place to relieve you of your solitude
it is an antidote to loneliness and homesickness
On several occasions, from Amsterdam he had called,
calling to tell me of his one unhappiness.
‘MICHAEL, I MISS HOME’
So really, there is no place as better as home,
NOT EVEN HEAVEN
By Nate Spears
Published 2013 in “Death OF A Rose” By Nate Spears
White suit, top hat, pride feeling higher than spectacular
The ugly duckling has opened a new chapter
Revealing transformation that’s becoming a true sensation
Buried in his inaugural feelings of gold treatment
There’s always a silver lining after the disaster
Every battle, each day
Sanity is mastered
Life tries to defeat us, expiration tries to meets us
But tonight he’s on top of the world
He’s on top of Thee
He’s on top of a feathered fame beak
This is one hell of a duckling I must proclaim.
Our love floats in current
Through the City of Jacks
You’re the only Queen of my deck
As we coast along these sparkling waters splashing our tails
The momentum of the St. Johns River flows to a love hotel
Vapors of our spirits arises above
Elevating beyond the skies
There’s no limit tonight
As my mind is blown on cloud nine
With love and happiness is in the atmosphere
Scrolling the screams of these peaceful waters
With mean swagger
This night is unbelievable
Unbelievable is this; unbelievable I won’t miss
I was once viewed as a total tragedy, with no immunity from havoc
Frowned upon by my community as a under achiever
As if I was an oil spill disaster
With no relief at hand,
But to tonight I clean up well with Dawn
The river flows peacefully after the storm deforms
Accompanied by grace, I’m accompanied by love
Accompanying my side
Is a woman of grace.
As we keep our heads above these judgmental waters in Florida
The rivers will flow to Fingers Point
At the end of this place called home sweet home tonight
I’m just a kiss away
From the Full Moonlight.
All I remember is going into the garage to get the snow shovel.
I am not even sure how much of the driveway I managed to shovel. Apparently, I was lying in the snow for several hours before one of the neighbors noticed me.
The next thing I remember is waking up from a deep sleep to the sounds of beeping machines with tubes and wires stuck into and on my body.
As I slowly regained consciousness and my eyes were able to focus, I was aware of a young, bald child looking down on me.
“Hi,” said the smiling, angelic face. Given the child’s age and complete baldness, I could not tell whether they were a boy or a girl. And, with the tube inserted in my throat and taped to my mouth, I was in no position to return their salutation.
I tried to remember who this child might be and why they were here with me. I guess my eyes displayed my confusion as the child said, “I'm Elizabeth. They let me walk around the hospital a little. Sometimes I sneak out of the oncology wing and look for people who have no visitors. I like to make sure someone is there when they wake up. I know I always like to see someone when I wake up from my operations.”
She just stood above me smiling. I then noticed she was holding my hand.
“Sometimes it is hard for family members or friends to come visit. Some people just really don’t like hospitals. And, I guess”, she said, “not everybody has someone that close to them. So, I like to become their visitor for them. I hope you don’t mind.”
I didn’t mind. Although it did make me embarrassed to realize that I fit in the latter category; I didn’t have anybody that close to me.
She just smiled at me and petted my hand as the medications worked their magic on me and I started to drift back off to sleep. I heard a nurse come into the room and say, “There you are, Honey. You need to get back to your room now and leave this nice man be.”
The next time I regained consciousness, I noticed a hand drawn picture of a house with a Christmas tree out front with a note that said, “I hope you get home before Christmas” and was signed by Elizabeth.
Each new day, I was welcomed by another drawing of Christmas scenes; smiling faces; reindeer; and, starry skies. All containing a happy note and all signed, ”Love, Elizabeth”.
After ten days of recovery and following the insertion of two stents into my heart, I was well enough to return to my empty home. On my way out of the hospital, I stopped by the Oncology Wing to say good-bye and thank you to Elizabeth. When I asked the nurse at the floor station where I could find Elizabeth, she replied, “Oh I'm sorry, Elizabeth is no longer with us.”
I then said, “Well can you tell me her home address or phone number, I would really like to thank her for visiting me in my hospital room this past week.”
The look on the nurse’s face indicated that I misunderstood what she had meant. Elizabeth was no longer with us.
Sadly, I started walking towards the exit.
Just before I got to the elevator, I noticed an open door with a man lying on his bed, with tubes in his nose and throat and nobody else in the room with him. I went into his room and sat in the empty chair.
When he opened his eyes two hours later, I said, “Hi, I'm Joe. I noticed there was nobody here when you were brought back from your operation and I know how nice it is to see a smiling face when you wake up, so I thought I would sit here with you for a while. I hope you don’t mind.”
He squeezed my hand; gave a slight smile; and, slowly drifted off back to sleep.
For a few days each year they call this house home
as once it had been before they started to roam.
The walls will be ringing with so much love and good cheer
they'll be storing it up to last through the year.
Every chick of my own will be under my wing.
I've prepared all their favorites, planned everything.
Twenty-one loved ones at once in my home.
The house is too small, should have rented the dome.
I call out each name as they enter the door
and think of the ones who aren't here any more.
My heart is so full of thanks to the Lord,
that the love my heart holds is returned many fold.
They greet each other with laughter and jokes.
This home and I have raised some good folks.
The turkey and gravy, did I make enough?
We've all eased our hunger but continue to stuff.
The pie will come later when the dishes are done.
Even the clean-up is happy and fun.
I gaze at them all and know in my heart.
they'll be as sorry as I when it's time to depart.
One Day I’ll go Home.
Home is where I could do anything. I would listen to my music and clean as often as
I liked. There was no right or wrong as time belonged to me. When I listened to my
music nothing else mattered I was just happy. Happy was a simple thing with only
music and cleaning for my home was a happy place for me!
Music brought an upbeat rhythm to lift my spirit at all times. I felt the beat as I
moved about doing all things in time with the songs. I enjoyed cleaning my home
with joy as things shined so for my pleasure. A combination of music and cleaning
nothing could beat. I wanted and needed to feel so complete.
Now a new house and life with music I still have. Now the music is less and the
cleaning so rare. The joy of the shine is far from my home and the call of pleasure
and being complete I’ve left behind. The feeling’s once felt while my music played
and I scrubbed things down has been handed over to another.
My purpose has changed to be that of another. I fill this house with things from life
with part time music and rarely clean as someone other does this. I have a purpose
in this house and although kept secret my spirit knows things come to pass. The
rhythm of my music and the spirit of the song will ensure happiness come along!
Now as I grow old my mind turns inward to find my home. I am there at last the
place where my music plays and I find rhythm. I see myself start to clean and the
shine appears. What welcomed relief to hear and see these things that made me so
complete. Once again I am just that for joy fills my heart and I know I am home
This train ride is long, too long.
Seem to have spent most of my life on it
In and out of tunnels.
The glaring brightness of the stations
No reflections in windows there -
Brief interludes between long tunnels.
We plunge into another dark tube and
See reflection of face with red hat in window
People crowding too close
But shut eyes and think own thoughts
Of when I was younger, fitter.
I still look out of thirty year old eyes;
But reverie is interrupted by
A young girl who taps my sleeve
And offers her seat
To a sixty year old man in a red hat
Standing in front of her eyes.
Early in the trip I mostly refused such seats
But am glad of them now
As the final tunnel approaches
And the train pulls into the terminal -
And I’m glad of the quiet in the carriage
On my way home.
When we think of traveling we most often think of going from one location to another. That’s good but I sometimes like to return in reverie to times in my past. Places where I spent my childhood are precious to me.
We seem to race through childhood never slowing down to enjoy the moments we may seek to recover in years to come. I remember the place of my early years. Cameron, Texas was the only world I knew until I was eight years old. Names and landmarks still cross my mind in moments of remembrance.
I still remember the path that led me home hundreds of times from Ada Henderson Elementary School. It passed through a park about two city blocks in size. In this park were the normal things such as those galvanized metal slides polished by literally thousands of khaki or denim clad rear ends. Two slides stood side by side. One was a simple one-hump slide. The other was over twice as high using two humps on the journey to the ground from what seemed to be such a lofty height. The kid sized slide was seldom used after one had experienced the thrill of the ‘big’ slide. There were seesaws that weathered years of teeter tottering by excited boys and girls. There were simple gymnastic pipes that were just the right height to sit on and do back flips, nearly slamming your head into the ground beneath. All these things were so much fun to a kid and his friends as they made their way home from another day at school.
But one fun piece of equipment always furnished the thrills that last a lifetime and are remembered in the fondest reverie. About halfway through the park was a merry-go-round made of the strongest and seemingly indestructible pipe. It, too, was polished by years of holding on by squealing children, lest they be thrown off by the magic of centrifugal force. It was about 12 feet in diameter and the center pipe was about 8 inches in diameter and must have been anchored somewhere in China since all the many years of use it yielded not a fraction. There were some 8 or 10 pipes on the outer portion of the merry-go-round that allowed you to grab and step onto the running board and hold on for dear life. Kids would grab these posts as they came around and spin them as hard as possible. The speed they built up was surprisingly fast and it took some agility to master the art of stepping on and grabbing the handle. I have no recollection of grievous mishaps, just an occasional scrape or bruise. This contraption has served at least 4 generations of school kids and has not changed the last time I saw it some 20 years ago.
Farther down the path home was a giant gazebo with a stage and seats around the outside. It was equipped with public restrooms beneath the gazebo. It has been there for many years and sometimes I can close my eyes and see that gazebo and hear the faint strains of Sousa marches from the brass bands that played summer concerts there. I remember many happy times there on family picnics and occasional reunions.
God watched over the kids and me whose paths home took them through the park. Just past the gazebo was a huge drainpipe, which during heavy rains drained water from the park into a ravine running through the park. It was some 50 to 60 feet in length and about 6 feet in diameter. It was always on a dare that we would walk through that dark, dank and scary tunnel. We were sure there was all manner of creepy crawly creatures lurking in the shadows waiting for unsuspecting kids to slowly make their way through this scary conduit. I remember going through it once and that was enough. I’d rather walk through the cemetery alone …. But that’s another story.