I was seventeen, had one year left of high school and a boyfriend I didn't even love.
It was the end of summer, and I was on the verge of a night indelible
because it was incredible for me.
If "tall, dark, and handsome" had a face, it belonged to one who walked
into the store I worked at nightly all alone. He brought with him a smile just for me -
beautiful, magical, seducing. Were he music, he'd have been the warmest song
to ever touch my soul. Perhaps it was the moon, lunacy-inducing, that made me crave
his visits more and more, for he'd come each night into the store,
his ritual to tease me with his glances; then stand in line with just one purchase,
engaging me with words deliciously belying that he spoke my native tongue.
Did he know I fairly worshiped him?
And where was Aphrodite to let her dear Adonis wander free?
I learned eventually he was staying with a brother and soon would be returning to Quebec.
I do not know, but I can now infer the moon waxed full by the time he asked me out,
for I had waxed complete in my audacity. Knowing it was his last night in town,
I closed the store up early and fled with my Prince Charming.
The stuff of poetry that night transpired. . .
fodder for the several poems of romance I've since penned.
Sitting in his car in front of my own house, late at night, into the early morning. . .
The way he gazed into my eyes, teaching me of butterfly kisses
and his breathing his sweet breath along my ear lobes,
the way our fingers interlaced, the way he caressed the small of my back. . .
He taught me how small things
can be just as sensuous as that act of love that virgins do not know,
and he branded me with a yearning for a sweet romantic love I'd never felt so strongly,
nor would I ever know again as wonderfully as I was shown that night,
for others in my life I've kissed, yet barely missed.
My dream love wrote me postcards from Quebec. Then it all died out.
I married. A few years passed; then I got a call from him, completely unexpected!
Somehow he'd tracked me down to my new home. I took the call,
as I held my firstborn baby daughter in one arm.
Heart in my throat, I told him it was nice to hear from him, but I was married now.
So though I'll never know what "may have been," I'm still left with the memory
I chose to make with him that one day of my life, my very best,
because for just one night, I was Cinderella. A prince still holds my slipper,
and infinite romance lives on inside my poems.
To me, fair friend, you never can be old,
For as you were when first your eye I eye'd,
Such seems your beauty still.
~ William Shakespeare
I have looked into the mirror
Looking for a trace....a trace of my youth
A trace of the girl that I used to be...
Is she there? Buried deep? Is she still part of me?
Years can't be halted, change can't erase..
And there...in my face, are the lines of experience
Stories and time...I see staring back at me
A part of me wants to grieve for that girl
The girl that I was.. Has she vanished for good?
Oh, I do understand....
That I can't hang on to "then"..
To days long ago, when time was our friend
When summers, together, seemed never to end
But, then............ , here by chance, we meet up once again.....
Our friendship born in childhood..so young, and carefree
You...with bright eyes, and brown hair that fell long
Around your high cheeks ...and a wide, gamin smile!
You were the one who's light shined so brightly
Who's charm, laugh, and wisdom I fondly admired
A girlhood where we danced together in sweet grass under sunny skies
And under nighttime stadium lights, to the music of the high school band
After years, that have taken us to separate worlds
In my mind, and in my dreams you have always been
The fair maiden, the one who held my hand
Two girls who made promises...who sat in the dark, under a summer sky
And talked of our "somedays", of our future, our hopes
By the light of the moon, we wished upon the stars
Now here in this moment, I have found you again
And here in this moment, I have found "me" again....
I can be that girl again....as we share our history
our moment in the sun, ....I am "her", again!..
I can be that child, I can be fifteen, I can wear a crown, upon a teenaged throne...
And I can still dance to the sound of the drum, and the tuba,
I can sing football songs, and gossip about the boys,
and make fun of the stuck-up girls
and laugh about the teachers we didn't like,
and about the night of the prom, when I cried in your arms
I can hear Johnny Mathis singing "Misty", and the words will make me weep
I can hear "Canadian Sunset" as it lulls me off to sleep
Perhaps the stars have faded a bit...but beyond the weary miles
They still shine when I look into your eyes...my dear friend, from the past...
They will shine through the ages.........where a summer will always last....
For Frank's Contest:
This poem was inspired by my best friend and her troubles: )
We go out on our first date,
We go back to your house,
Your parents are asleep,
We go to your bedroom,
You tell me you love me and that you will take care of me,
I wake up thinking of last night your laying next to me holding me,
You wake up and look at me and smile,
You lean over and kiss me,
I feel like you are the best thing to ever happen to me,
You are my first love,
Little do we know what’s happening,
Nine months latter we are parents,
We are planning our marriage,
Our lives are set in stone now,
We are parents at age fifteen, engaged at age fifteen,
Life has just left our eyes,
Now we are two teens in love living on their own parents disowned them, child with them
drop outs of high school and working jobs to survive.
What a stupid mistake we made at age fifteen.
Under aged sex is not a smart choice unless you want my life….
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
i caught your eyes on me. dont bother to look away. ive already noticed. i wish i was
brave enough to stare back. it doesnt bother me, just makes me curious. what are you
thinking? or are you just observing? try to figure me out. but you wont. because youve
only met the imposter. you havent stopped to look into my eyes.
The day’s hot-the wind like a convection oven
Blows hot air in our faces.
My cap and gown insulates me
Baking me like a potato wrapped in aluminum foil
I desperately fan myself and look around
My eyes search for my peers and see;
The bros that survived school with me;
The others who shouldn't have;
The girls with memories already wet in their eyes;
The people I never met and will never know;
All desperately fanning themselves
In silence and in waiting.
We all are waiting for the same thing-
What's next to come.
For some it will be their names
For another a trip to boot camp
For many including myself- college
A couple can't wait to forget the tortures of high school
And a few will already be planning our high school reunion
because it was the best years of their life.
As I bow my head, not out of sadness,
but out of sheer defeat by the sun,
I scuff up my dress shoes in the clumpy grass of the field-
that just finished another infamous drawn out lacrosse season,
I'll be thinking about the 4 plus years, 8 seasons,
worth of drilling and conditioning I did in that very field and on the surrounding track,
With a flash of ivory across my sweating face
I'll be thinking about
All the nooks and crannies
that I sanctioned for the intimate meetings of my girlfriends
The times caught and not,
All the heartbreaks and rejections,
The friends made, the best friends kept, and the many lost.
The drama, stupidity, and immaturity,
Everything that was and used to be.
And, all this time spent waiting-preparing
for this one moment
You can't help but remember it all
And with one, final sweet goodby-
still tiered eyes open,
She walks down stairs, packs up, and gets on the bus,
She stares out the window wishing to spend the day there and not at a desk.
7 FULL HOURS of of unempathetic teachers,
they give her 6 more hours of school work to do at home.
No one cares!
The homework starts on the bus and she's lucky to have it done by 10PM.
Finely, she gets to go to bed,
But all she does is stare at the sealing with the overhanging stress of the work she didn't finish combined with the work her unrelenting teachers will give her tomorrow.
It happens each day,
It's beyond her control,
she tells teachers and friends but they spit in her face telling her they don't care.
It won't change.
Luckily, she has her head on strait,
and while she trudges through the mud she stays strong,
knowing that everything is going to work out.
So she tells herself just wait.
I have been praying to God ever since I first understood the concept of a deity. Although I have struggled through life with my acceptance of and belief in the religion I was force fed as a child, the praying has always stayed with me – on an almost every day basis. In some way or some form or for some reason, it seems, I find myself praying to a God I am not sure I believe in.
Over the years, some of the things I have prayed for or prayed against have worked out in my favor. Other things didn’t quite work out the way I had hoped. So, I wondered, was this proof that my prayers are sometimes answered or simply the law of averages? It really didn’t matter, I was programed to pray and so pray I do.
This has been going on pretty routinely for over 50 years; so, imagine my surprise when, for the first time last night, God talked back to me!
I may not get this exactly right, but, in essence, this is what He had to say:
(I am not sure what font to type God’s words in, so I will just keep on with the default.)
“Joe, Joe, Joe. I have been listening to you for all your life. And, whereas I do enjoy your thoughts; your words; and your sentiments; I find it is time for me to respond.
You really do pray a lot for lots of things. Mostly good and humane things. Mostly with a pure and caring heart. But, son, you need to stop doing so much praying and start doing more stuff on your own. I am not up here to make your life easier and to do things for you.
When you were young, instead of praying for that bicycle, you should have been doing chores to earn money towards buying it. You could have cut more lawns, washed more cars, got a paper route, sold lemonade, or many other things other young boys were doing to earn money for the things that they wanted.
When you were in high school and prayed to me to help you do well in your wrestling matches, you should have, instead, been working harder at practice; spent more time on your conditioning; spent more time in the weight room; and studied harder on the art of wrestling.
In college, when you prayed for help on your mid-terms and finals, you should have, instead, spent more time studying and less time partying – I think that is something you already know.
Even when you pray on behalf of others – you should be doing more.
Instead of praying I would help old Mrs. Conner at the end of your street, you should have gotten up off your butt and walked down to the end of the street and looked in on her yourself. You could have offered to go to the store for her, pick up her prescriptions or simply keep her company in her final years.
When you prayed for me to care for the starving children around the world, you should have been volunteering to help out yourself or donating more money towards this cause. If you funneled all the money you spent on unnecessary junk food and extra meals you consumed throughout the years towards charities that help feed and clothe the poor, you could have saved many of the children you prayed that I would save.
Instead of praying that I cure your family, friends and acquaintances that you knew were ill or dying, you should have been visiting them in the hospital or writing them letters or providing assistance to their loved ones to help ease their pain.
Prayer is not the vehicle for you to be lazy and yet gain the rewards. Prayer is not a means to have me do for others what you have the power and ability to do yourself.
I am glad that you talk to me, but you have been granted the ability and means to do so much more by yourself and yet you choose to take the easy way out and pray to me – the God that I know you are confused about. Please, do me a favor, and before you pray, ask yourself, ‘Have I exhausted all avenues available to me to achieve the result I want God to perform?’
If, after you have done everything you can possibly do, then I may be more willing to consider what it is you ask for.
And now, my son, you can wake up.”
I sat up quickly in my bed, sweating and confused. Was I just dreaming? Was that really God talking to me? Then, somewhere from deep inside, either from my conscious or a left-over message from the Almighty Himself, I thought (or heard): “What does it matter? Whether it was God or not – the message is valid and something I probably already knew.”
“Well,” I said to myself, in prayer, “I will give it my best. But, is it okay if we still talk? It kind of helps to give me strength?”
I will take that as a, “Yes”.
(and long brown stockings)
I detest these stockings,
they're coarse, brown and ugly.
I hate the garters more;
elastic circles that cut off
circulation and fail to halt
the laddering down my skinny legs.
If only . . . I picture myself
in warm jeans and no teasing
from Tommy Rogers.
I put the garters to better use,
roll the repulsive stockings
down around my ankles.
"Who gave you
jointed toothpicks for legs?"
I lost it.
Now, Tommy has a black eye
and my nose is in the corner.
The eraser belonged to me; it was saved by my mother and returned along with many other
childhood items when I became middle aged. I was curious as to why she would save a
stubby old eraser from the primary grades, so she reminded me of its’ one and only use. My
faded memory of that time suddenly became crystal clear, as my mother recounted for me a
watershed episode from my formative years.
I had, as they say these days “acted out in school once again,” this time by writing
unspeakable words in a textbook. Without any hesitation or forethought, I chose as my
repository the teachers’ edition of our English composition book. Quite frankly, at the time, I
thought they were literary gems worthy of publication. That’s why I knowingly inscribed them
there for all to see. Upon further review by more knowledgeable minds, it was determined
corrective guidance and a phone call home was in order.
I was to spend several hours after school that day sweating in contemplative silence as I
erased the teachers’ edition and many other similarly defaced books. It was during this time
of reflection that I ground that eraser down to the stub as it remains today. The last visible
vestiges of my bad expositions disappeared forever that hot afternoon, along with more than
half of the eraser.
Mother then reminded me of what she overheard the Superintendent tell me, as she sat
mortally ashamed and waiting for hours in the hallway outside that sweltering classroom. I
can still visualize her ample adult size, trying in vain to get comfortable, in a sticky one
armed desk made for a 5th grader.
“ John, I want you to try and remember this:
WHAT YOU SAY to others might last with them until THEY DIE.
But regretful WORDS YOU WRITE, the residue of which, will last long after YOU DIE.
So you keep what’s left of this eraser and I hope you never need to use it again.”
*For the "Rub it out" contest, i still have the eraser.
I was a seventeen year old senior in a coed, catholic high school. Our gym classes however were still all boys and all girls. My senior year we had gym every other day and music every other day in the same time slot. The music classes, therefore, were also all boys or all girls.
She was a twenty-eight year old nun in her first teaching assignment. She was in way over her head. She was about five-foot-four and weighed practically nothing. The nuns in our school no longer wore habits and I remember thinking it was a good thing because she would probably fly away like Sally Fields. If you don’t know what I mean by that then you are too young to be reading my story.
The music class was a mad house. She could not control a room of twenty some boys bound and determined to make her life hell. I mean, music class? Really?
We never did the homework assigned; never answered her questions seriously; never believed her threats at discipline; wouldn’t accept the demerits she tried to hand out; and basically goofed off for the hour that was supposed to be dedicated to learning about music.
For some reason, she seemed too proud or too green or too determined to go to the principal or another teacher for help; and, sensing that, we knew we could get away with our childish behavior and so we did.
One day, a handful of us “got in trouble” and she said she wanted to talk to us after class. I was the only one that actually stayed. She tried to lecture me on my bad behavior but I guess my smirk was evidence it was not sinking in. Then, she started to cry, and for the first time I saw her as a person.
“What am I doing,” she cried. "I can’t do this. I am trying; I am really trying, but I am not cut out for this. Why are you boys so mean and hateful?”
I stood up in front of her not knowing what to do or what to say. I felt like a real jerk. I was a real jerk.
Tears poured down her face, which I finally recognized as being a pretty face. She bowed her head and just sobbed. In my awkward seventeen year old manner, I slowly opened my arms and allowed her to lean into me. And I hugged her while she wept.
At seventeen, I was no ladies’ man, and this crying nun was the first woman I had ever held so close to me. I could feel her breasts pressed against me; the heat emitting from her body; and, the delicate nature of her womanly form in my arms. I knew then that I was destined to go straight to hell for the thoughts that were going through my head and the feelings I felt between my legs.
She pulled away and whispered, “I am so sorry, I should not have done that. You may go.”
I simply said, “You know, you are doing fine, you just have a class of a bunch of butt holes”, and walked out of the room. It was that night that she started coming to see me in my dreams. To hell I go, for sure.
I wish I could tell you I had the moxie and the influence to whip that class into shape, but I did not. The mad house continued with one less student joining in the fun. I tried my best to behave, answer her questions, pay attention and feign interest in the topic of the day – but I was just one in a sea of monsters. I stayed after class and after school a few times to talk with her, ask her how she was doing, and see if I could help in any way. She was actually starting to get the hang of things and was able to focus on the few classes that were willing to learn.
At the end of the school year, I was one of the few students who had not enrolled in a college for the coming year. Because I was one of the better students, it caused a little bit of a fuss and a number of teachers talked to me about the huge mistake I was making taking some time off before going to college. It seems they were all convinced that if I did not start into college in the fall, I was doomed to never go to college. I challenged them by saying what they were really worried about was their statistics of percentage of students who went on to further their education.
During the last day of classes, the music teacher asked me to stay after class. It appears, it was her turn to try to talk some sense into me.
“So, I hear you are not going to college,” she said.
“No, I’m going to college … some day, just not this fall.”
“So what are you going to do?”
“I don’t know yet. Take some time off. Work. Nothing. I don’t know. Why is it so important to everyone? When the time is right, I’ll go to college.”
“They just care about you.”
“Bull loney,” I said, only it was another word.
She smiled at me. I had been dreaming about her now for six months. I changed the topic.
“Have you ever kissed a boy?”
She laughed, “You know, I grew up the same as every girl in this high school. I did have boyfriends.”
“Yeah, but have you ever kissed a boy,” I challenged.
“No. Not the way you mean.”
“Do you ever wonder what it would be like?”
“No. Never,” she lied.
“If I told you I will register for college if you kiss me, will you?”
“No. I believe you when you say you just need some time off. I think that is a good idea.”
Then she walked up close to me and stopped a heartbeat away. Suddenly, she reached down between my legs, grabbed the crouch of my pants and said, “Just don’t let this thing get you in trouble.”
She abruptly turned and walked out of the classroom while I tried to catch my breath.
During the graduation ceremony I saw her sitting with the other teachers and shared a private smile with her while walking back to my seat after being handed my diploma. I would never see her again … outside of my dreams.
I often think about my high school music teacher and my ticket straight to hell. Unfortunately, I never heeded her advice. That body part of mine she grabbed ahold of for a fleeting second those many years ago, has gotten me in trouble time and time again.
And my beliefs were soon belied.
"Socialized and confined"; you mocked the flock.
"What do you seek, you all?"
We screamed your sight in unison.
"You are a nice girl" consoled your sister.
My silence was insulted over and over.
Like a fool I traced it all,
Winding through all the steps,
To make some sense from it all.
One day, I decided to erase it.
My longing was a haste.
I finally learned to ink that day;
When my empty body walked through those closed gates.
Grief and guilt held that pursuit.
Moreover, I could not race with those shoes.
My words are empty as they were then.
I weep for a little ink from your pen.
Contest theme:- Writing
Judge:- Regina Riddle
8th Place win
Big bully,don't ask my name--
I can't allow you to know my name--
You would chant to me on the playground,
Make a silly song __make funny of my name:
That my parents thought was a beautiful and significant name.
You have harassed many boys and girls at school,
Just because they are too short,too tall or too heavy,
or because they are too shy,or too neat,
or their clothes not exactly right size,or their shoes not the right
brand, or their packed lunch not palatable__
Many kids at school are concerned about your attitude,
You bully them in the pathway or in classrooms.
And many fear to talk about you,
I don't want to lash out and fight you:
but I don't like your teasing words and tactics.
I will stay with my best friend or group to ward you off.
I have decided to ignore you big bully__ walking away;
Ready to use my body language to ward you off .
It is great to be confident___
When you want to harm me, I will seek help from
my teacher,parents, and adults__
To offer advice,support and immediate intervention.
*In remembrance of school-going days.
My magic Flute
My first and only instrument I received as a little girl was
My mom’s old boyfriend had gotten me a Flute and after they broke up I don’t recall what happened to my magic Flute.
A few years later I had music class my Freshman year in high school and we all got black plastic Flutes and we were supposed to learn how to play the Flute.
As an adult and a lover of good music I wish I had learned to play the Flute. I’d play on the sidewalks of city streets collecting money to pay for my children’s education and to pay the bills.
Give us your captains, your best and brightest,
From the buried vaults of Rangitoto:
The selfish! The selfless! The self-righteous!
Preened and pressed and posed to parley they go:
And from the diaries of fraternal drones
Are raw epic tales of ragin' hormones
To meet again my accidental peers
Who bare the soul to fleeting youth salvage;
Who, chastened by blurred grandiloquent years,
Covet the old glories that time ravage!
O dear! Before this night's out I'm thinkin'
Prep the bowl - it's time for a bogwashin'
Yet for those whom triumph is manifold,
Alas, are not spared life's tender complaints:
And for every life story that was told
I cheered for the lepers and not the saints!
From the corner of my visceral eye
I kept watch on my fellow alumni
With long memories in brief accordance
I longed for uniformed delinquency:
When batin' those of foolish importance
Eclipsed the pursuit of knowledge in me!
For each scoundrel, vamp, truant, and jackass -
To you I filled and gladly raised my glass
Verily I confessed my crimes henceforth,
Yet not then or now do nobly aspire:
That my compass followed its own true north
Led rites of passage farther and higher!
And not bravado could hide what was nigh -
That a part of me was about to die
O breathless kiss that does a lifetime keep,
And broken hearts conned by expectations:
The salutary lessons that cut so deep
Quickly learnin' of our limitations!
Those were interestin' times in our youth -
Not this bogus rabble's frayed strands of truth
Well, how counterintuitive methinks,
That I be part of this group hug yearnin':
Now hark back and fill in the missin' links
And think fondly on days not returnin'.
For this blowfest, if I am to be frank,
Is nothin' but a sentimental wank
The roll call of thirteen years continues
But raises a philosophical end:
Who among you has shuffled in my shoes?
Or stands before me a better man, friend?
Not one of you roused me to greater heights -
But agreed, some did rouse in your gym tights
I have drank largely a sailor's measure,
Bested my threshold for banal surprise!
Now I will carry on at my leisure
And leave you all to your own wild surmise.
So farewell folks - but do not misperceive:
Your small lives bore me - 'tis mine that intrigues
Dedicated to Steve and Bruce with whom I attended
The Rangitoto College Reunion in Auckland, New Zealand
At the Mon Desir Hotel. Cheers boys!
Lord God, send us Your Divine and Moral Virtues to assist people
Faith, to deeply understand and produce evidence to the unseen
Impart Hope to be determined and persevere successfully
For persons to consider a little generosity to Charity
To present Prudence by being careful
For untruthfulness to bring into Justice
Give fortitude for lawmakers and government officials to be strong
Bring in Temperance to exercise Patience and Tolerance
We ask these in the name of Father Christ Jesus to send out the Virtues of the Holy Spirit
Where I live
The land slopes downward
Towards Merrick Road
Inviting me for a walk.
Stopping at a corner
I hear my name
I say hello
To a neighbor
We exchange pleasantries
No need to say anymore
And I continue on my way.
My wife and I have roots here
Passing my daughter’s school
I remember that July
And office workers alike,
Toiled under a hot sun
To build a playground.
Near the park
I coached my son’s soccer team
Families came to watch
Their children run like the wind
Memory tells me
It was a good season.
On nearby streets
I helped neighbors
With routine chores
Lifting and pushing the unmovable
Shiny things for a kitchen
Or for the room upstairs
Odds and ends
We call possessions
My wife worked close by
To be home
When our children
Stepped off the school bus
Our house ran under
Her watchful eye
A job never done.
In return we are known here
And I take every opportunity
To walk through a quiet town
As early evening
On everyone and everything.
My daughter was 9 yrs old when my wife and I first separated. I tried to get custody; was
granted joint custody, but the children would physically remain living with their mother.
My career took me to New Jersey. My ex took the children back home with her to Ohio.
Over the next few years my daughter started getting into more and more trouble. Her
school grades were very poor; she was not allowed to participate in extracurricular activities
until they improved; her attendance record was poor; she was spending school nights over at
friends’ houses and skipping school the next day; and, who knows exactly what else?
The reports I received from the teachers, the school councilor, from her mother and from
her siblings had me very concerned. I shared my concerns with my daughter through a
series of long, verbose letters pleading with her to get control of her life before it was too
late. She was smart, talented and a beautiful person but was not applying herself and falling
into bad habits that could ruin a young girls’ life.
After three years I once again sued for custody. This time, it was much more obvious that
the children belonged with their father; I was awarded full custody of all three children.
In high school, my daughter started to excel. Her artistic talents were shining through and
she graduated in the top ten of her Senior class. This father was very proud to send her off
to college knowing she was a bright, mature, well-adjusted young woman.
Four years later, at her college graduation party, after she had opened all her presents, my
daughter announced she had a present for me. She pulled out a stack of well worn papers
and told me that they were the letters I had sent her so many years ago.
She told me she had been saving these letters and constantly rereading them throughout the
years determined to return them to me showing me she could right herself and not go down
the paths I feared. She admitted that she was headed there and probably would have ended
up in the trouble I foresaw had I not fought once more to gain custody.
She thanked me for caring enough to write those letters. She thanked me for caring enough
to not give up on her. She thanked me for continuing my efforts to get custody of her and
her two brothers.
I cannot thank her enough for such a wonderful graduation present.
There was a girl named Tracy Luke,
She cared so much about her looks,
She was blonde, pretty... slim and tall,
She loved her red lips most of all.
One day at school she mocked this girl,
Made fun of her looks, said bad words,
Then insulted another chick,
For being fat, ‘ugly and thick’,
Then barked at a girl who was black,
Called her a ‘colored, negro cat’
So this Tracy… she was so bad…
She bullied because she was sad…
She always had poor grades at school,
So she bullied, as though she ruled,
When she was done with junior high,
Her family told her goodbye,
She was moved to a private school,
Her senior years were not so cool,
She was the new girl, all loathed her,
For all were many times richer,
Days passed by, weeks and months would go,
Tracy was always feeling low,
The richer girls called her bad names,
Each day in class she’d be in shame,
Then one day she figured it out…
At her, her thoughts began to shout…
“Tracy, all the bad things you did
To those innocent and poor kids,
Back in your old school when you thought
You were ‘cool’ for the stuff you bought,
Are finding their way back to you,
God’s Justice, yes, is indeed true.”
So Tracy decided to stay
Patient, confirming her mistakes,
Until one day comes a new girl,
And Tracy says to her new self:
“Now this is my chance to amend,
Fix my mistakes, I’ll be her friend.
No longer will I be so rude.
I must be humble, not act ‘cool’,
For I know now that what you do
To others may come back to you!”
We sat next to one another in class
from the first to the third grade.
Her name was Jennifer Penelope.
She preferred to be called Jen.
I instead called her Jenny Penny just because
that was the way I was way back then.
Both of our fathers were in the Air Force.
War broke out in some place called Korea.
Jenny Penny’s father was sent off to Guam
and my father was sent off to Japan.
Her mother took her back to her home state of Ohio
and my mother, my sister and I went back to Louisiana.
Puff! Poof! Abracadabra! Puff! Poof! Alakazam!
Jenny Penny and I were both gone with the wind.
Growing Up Rich
My childhood home was just four rooms, heated by a black stove in the kitchen.
No phone, no car, a toilet in the basement. Money was tight. The rent had to be paid.
I spent my days in youthful endeavors. Playing baseball in the field where the high school now stands. My dad, a laborer, walked to work each day, every day. My mom typed envelopes at home for extra money.
At dinnertime my mom would ring a cowbell, calling me home. Responding was not an option. I'd ride my bike home, wash my hands, and join the family at the table. Food was not plentiful, but prepared with love. I never went hungry.
In my teens dad took ill and could no longer work. Mom got a job at the Woolworth s
I got two paper routes, my earnings split with my parents.
Neighborhoods were tightly knit then. Bad news arrived home before you did. Fruits of backyard gardens were shared, and helping hands lived right next door
School clothes were few in number, but were always clean and ironed. You took them off after school and donned the jeans with ironed on patches. Shoes were passed down from my brother, their lives extended by glued on half-soles or cardboard, cut to shape and stuffed inside. But mostly, I wore my high top P.F. Flyers.
Christmas meant a cut tree with strings of large colored lights. Our stockings were hung on hooks behind the old black stove, to be filled overnight with oranges, apples, candy, and maybe a toy. We thought we were the luckiest kids in town
Sitting here now, reflecting on my childhood, how hard it must have been to make ends meet, but meet they did. The things my folks must have gone without to make sure their kids didn'. We learned early the value of a dollar. They taught me to respect my elders, to know the difference between right and wrong, and to practice it. Their values became my values and stood me in good stead. Their greatest gifts were the love and guidance they provided
I realize now all my memories are good ones. My folks gave me everything it was important for me to have, and although I didn't realize it then, I understand now how lucky I was to have grown up rich.
It is a Wednesday afternoon during the school year.
That means sixth-grader Sallee Jacobs will be walking home today.
Sallee's mother works in the emergency room on Wednesdays,
Otherwise she picks Sallee up at the school that is one mile from their home.
On this particular Wednesday, it is pouring down rain.
As Sallee reaches the half-way point,
an empty stretch of road between two housing developments,
a red sedan pulls up next to her and the driver rolls down his window.
"Hi," shouts the man over the sound of the pouring rain beating down on the roof of his car, "your mother asked me to pick you up - come get in out of the rain."
Sallee simply stares at this stranger and quietly says, "No thank you", even though she is miserably soaking wet, cold and angry at her mother for working Wednesdays.
"It's okay," reassures the fully-bearded man, "my name is Mr. Thomas, and I am a friend of your mother."
Sallee studies his face, thinking, you don't look like any of my mom's friends. "No thank you," she repeats as she starts backing away from the car.
Then, out of nowhere, another man appears at Sallee's side. He is wearing a rain coat and flashes a reassuring smile. He looks at Sallee and asks, "Is everything all right here?"
Sallee, simply looks at the man in the car.
"Everything is fine," says the man in the car, "Her mother asked me to pick her up out of the rain."
"Do you know this man?", the rain coat asks Sallee.
"Do you want to get into his car?"
"How far away do you live from here?"
"Just up the hill and across Madison."
"Are you okay walking there by yourself?"
There are now four cars lined up behind the red sedan. They start honking their horns at the car in their way.
"I don't know, Mister," says the rain coated man, "I think you just best move along before I call the police."
The bearded man asks Sallee one more time, "Are you sure you don't want a ride?"
With water dripping down her face, Sallee shakes her head, yes.
The red sedan moves on.
It is 10:00 Wednesday night. The red sedan is parked in front of Sallee's house. Mr. Thomas holds Sallee's mother's hand while trying to describe to the police what the man in the raincoat looked like. Sallee is never seen again.
Susan sits by an open window
Remembering her brother
It was during the sixties when it happened
The exact date was May 8, 1966
They called the Sixties liberating
A time when America accepted change
But it wasn’t like that for everyone
Her brother Stevie
Was two years younger than she was
The guys in school used to call him names
Like sissy boy and queer
Saying if he got into trouble his sister would have to stick up for him.
But Stevie was better
Way better than the bullies at school.
At home Susan and her brother
Would move the living room coffee table
Push the old couch back
And then sing the old favorites
In close harmony
Songs about teenage love
Like the sad love ballads by the Everly Brothers
Or the Righteous Brothers
The sadder the love song
The more they liked it
They would stand together
Moving ever so slowly
And sing those songs so loud
And so close
To each other’s face
Over and over
And then Stevie would whistle the ending
While their parents
Clapped and clapped
Then one late afternoon
When Stevie didn’t come home from school
The phone rang and rang
With a strange incessant kind of ringing
That jarred their mother
It was someone from the school saying
That horseplay got out of hand
Then the police came
A man in a suit spoke to father in the kitchen
Whispering over the clouds of cigarette smoke
Susan could barely hear his hoarse whisper
Only things like “We‘re going to investigate this”
And “I promise I’ll do what I can”
Her family never did find out what happened to the investigation.
Along the way
Away from home
Something peculiar happened to Susan
She lost something of herself
And would sit
Staring out of the window
Not seeing anything
Just thinking of her brother.
She still does it today
Out to nowhere
Every time she hears one of those old songs
She feels that Stevie is still with her.
Forgiveness is a long word
For what happened a long time ago
All Susan has are memories
If she could just absorb them
And put them in a little bottle
And carry them around
So whenever she started feeling down
She’d open the bottle
And all those good memories
Would remind her just how special life is
And Stevie would still be there
Their bodies entwined
She holding the last note
He snapping his fingers
Whistling the last sad tune.
I may not be in active, thus, I may be proactive,
They say I am knowledgeable, But I am also approachable,
Though I am not generalist, However, I am an Specialist.
I am persuasive and adaptive,
Direct and indirect,
Sweet, kind, nice and persuasive.
I may know less about tomato,
Even Less about mango, even too little about papeeeta,
But I know more about Angoor (grapes) that is not related to papeeeta.
I am Wine Steward, Knowledgeable in Wine,
And approachable to all kind quests,
Very talented in wine that everyone consumes to
My only companions are my dreams
my only friends Who call out for me
their voices a melody for me to fallow
save me my friends from this Dark World
Wolfs teach me to be loyal and to fight the dark
and when make love to the dark embracing
it becoming dark myself yet not to succumb to its control
Fae teach me to kill with words And when to use them to save
Of the meanings of speech and its clever twists
To speak a truth one does not want to hear
And still make them hear tote truth
Twin sprits teach me to know the sprits
Those elusive things some call souls
Not knowing how to talk with them, we converse
Not knowing how to feel their presence, I touch them
I feel the hands brush against my skin
As dragons, teach of fire, rage, and bloodlust ,when to use it
and how to use it well like a well made WAR HAMMER
,and from the masters I learn lore and flight
for though I have no wings still I fly with them
Trees teach of patience
And the earth’s presence and how to care her
Of the minds herbs and streams to feed my roots
As my branches wither
Their Skills With The Wood Are Rival To None
Succubus and Incubus you teach of the heart,
it’s betrayals, loves, comforts
how to guard the heart, and still feel
for they know best, its mysterious ways
Whilst my heart, mind and body scream
Scream for release from this reality
To dreams and the worlds found
through their doorways
Call out to me my friends
save me from those who ridicule me
who constrain me in chains of iron as they sear my flesh
Holding me fast to things, I must not do or have
cages of words, deeds, people, and their judgments
I Hate Them, And Their Ways are both evil and cruel
I know not how long I have left
For my blood screams for vengeance
To bathe in its fires ,to soar free in the skies
where none but you can reach me
SAVE ME, MY FRIENDS I BEG YOU!!!
I long for your embrace your fiery breath
the sweet scent of wet moss you warm sprit upon mine
the pack running singing the songs
that change me to your likeness
the sleep where my heart lies in your hands
as you feed your lustful hungers upon my troubles
leaving me to sleep untroubled free of my cares and worries
giving me my heart backed still with its worries and cares but unburdened
you cleaver teachers I lust for your wisdom
and the peace you bring me
please come open the doorway
to the forests and the fire moors
save me my friends
this is also a personification
We are not perfect by no means at all,
some are too skinny, some are too tall,
I was always the tallest in my class,
until High school, then I found my match.
5' 7'' kinda tall for a girl,
then I decided, I wanted to twirl,
The football players always kidded with me,
but I knew they were flirting, they really liked me.
My hair was long, and blonde as can be,
they told me not past the shoulders, little Crissy.
I had to pile it up, but it never stayed,
stringy haired twirler, out on the stage.
Now , I think back to those football games,
remembering those memories, of my High School
"The music in my heart is from the tolling of the bell"
I drove in silence, watching the road closely as it coiled along the rocky coastline, occasionally flipping on the wipers to remove the sea mist that gathered on my windshield. How long had it been, I mused, since the last time I was here. More years then I liked to think I’m afraid. Yet still, the closer I came to the village that was my childhood home, the more a sense of belonging reawakened.
I entered the village, passing the old high school and several of the shops on Main St, most with new names and new owners while others sat dark and vacant. I couldn’t help but feel a little sad. This town was the soul of my childhood and I guess I had never expected it to forsake my memories. It would somehow remain frozen in time, waiting for my return to begin anew.
I searched for the familiar as I neared the old port, only to be greeted by a today I had not anticipated. I was home and my home was no longer there. Then I heard the bell. The mellow chime called to me, like the voice of an old friend. I drove with haste until arriving at the little Chapel by the Sea.
I stared as if seeing it for the first time, savoring the weather beaten wood and frosted windowpanes. The sturdy steeple urging me to enter. As I stepped into the dim, cool interior, it was as if I never left. I was that kid again with shined shoes and slicked down hair that came here every week to profess my faith.
The silence was overwhelming as I slid into a pew, letting the nostalgia of the moment wash over me. I had found my anchor. For all my absence, it had waited for my return and, wrapping me securely in its embrace, seemed to say "welcome back, I've missed you.
September 24, 2011
Written for “The Church by the Ocean” contest
I stood before the mirror
in my violet cotton shirt
and jeans from the Gap,
with combed brown hair
falling just below my shoulders,
my backpack in tow.
Small but mighty,
there I was,
ready to be one of
the big kids now.
I held on tightly to my mom's hand
on the corner of Hazel and Greenleaf,
anxiously awaiting the arrival
of the yellow school bus
to take me off to my first day
as a 1st grader.
She sensed my nerves
and knelt down beside me,
placing a small black leather pouch necklace
in my hand.
"Put this around your neck
and whenever you start to feel
scared or lonely at school,
just rub the pouch and I'll be there,"
she said with a smile.
I clutched the pouch
in my hand as the school bus
pulled up to the corner
and opened its doors.
Charlie the bus driver
welcomed kids with a warm smile,
but I didn't want to let go of mom's hand.
With the pouch in my right hand,
and her hand in my left,
everything was right.
But as the last of the other kids
boarded the bus,
I knew it was time to let go
of mom's hand.
I waved one more time from the bus
as I sat down on the sticky brown
school bus seats.
I looked out the window
trying to hold onto my mom
with my eyes until
I couldn't see her anymore.
I felt the tears begin to well,
and my lower lip trembled,
the only thing I wanted
was to be back with my mom.
I took the pouch out of my hand,
and slipped it over my head
onto my neck.
Closing my eyes
I rubbed the pouch,
and just like she said,
she was there with me
holding my hand.
on a humid day in late September
I stood in front of the mirror
in my apartment,
wearing a yellow tank top
and a loose brown skirt,
my short hair pulled back
in a ponytail.
As the time came for me to leave,
all I wanted to do was cry.
I wish mom was here to hold my hand,
I thought, looking down at my
I grabbed my bag from my chair,
and a worn black leather pouch
fell from the chair onto the carpet.
I stared at it for just a moment,
and then picked it up and tied it tightly
to the strap on my bag.
As I walked into the room
for my first day as a big girl
in the real world.
I realized I was rubbing the pouch
with the fingers on my right hand,
just as I did on the first day of
the 1st grade.
I knew she was there with me
holding my hand through my struggles,
just like she promised me years earlier
while waiting for the bus
on the corner of Hazel and Greenleaf.
Incomprehensible are the
Petty landmarks that linger in a person's life
It happened so long ago
That I'm surprised I still remember.
In St. Thomas' parochial school
When Sister Elizabeth held a ruler
In her pale white hands
Any signs of mercy
Mysteriously vanished from her blue eyes
Religion was her weapon
Corporal punishment it's end
Fueled by frustration
She held the class
Every school day
Was a grey morning
Of my longing to be somewhere else
Standing by the door
In a robe
Of darkest wool
Sister Elizabeth counted us in
One by one
As we walked in silence
Little backs held straight.
From her glance
The message was clear
Grade school was not about deep thoughts
Or clever ideas
Originality was not in vogue
It was about small things
That grown-ups winked at
And often ignored
Issues, important as the color of beige.
One dull morning
I whispered to a classmate
When I shouldn't have
Called to the front by Sister Elizabeth
I was given the ultimate punishment
The ruler and then some
In her capable hands my palms were lacerated
When I cried out
She turned my hands over
Until my knuckles bled
Darkening the cuffs of my white shirt.
That evening my mother cried at my bruises
And my father uttered a string of curses
Long into the night
Sister's time was not easy
Teaching mindless brats
Such as myself
Only added to her
Over the years
And Sister, childless and alone, realized
Much too late
That her days of sacrifice and Catholicism
Chastity and prayer
Had been a life against nature.
Even now my hands cringe
To a fist
When someone holds a ruler
For the wounds are marked deep
The day of Pentecost, Church celebrated
Administered Holy Baptism
St. Peter declares
“Repent and be baptized in the name of Jesus Christ for the forgiveness of sins and receive the gift of the Holy Spirit”
The apostles offer baptism to anyone who believed in Fr. Christ Jesus
You will be saved
You and your household
St. Paul declared to his baptized and with all his family
Baptism is birth into the new life in Fr. Christ Jesus
In accordance with Lord God’s will
It is necessary for salvation
As the Church herself, we enter by Baptism
Baptismal grace includes forgiveness of original sin
Birth to a new life by man becomes an adopted son of the Father
A member of Fr. Christ
A temple of the Holy Spirit
Those who die for faith
All those without knowing the Church under the inspiration of grace
Seek God sincerely, strive to fulfill his will
Can be saved even if they have not been baptize
With respect to children who have died without baptism
The Church invites us to trust in God’s mercy
The angel of Lord God said
The babies are safe in heaven
I was standing in my dining room, drinking a cup of coffee, staring out the window the other day. Across the street is the school bus stop, so for a brief time, each morning there stands a collection of young students, mindlessly milling around until the bus arrives. Of note is that this is winter time in Maine. Temperatures in the teens and twenties are the norm. Yet, there stood at least two boys, wearing parkas and, to my surprise and chagrin, shorts. What is the matter with kids today.
Then I thought about when I was a kid and how my mother would always be concerned that, when in my teens, I never buttoned or zipped up my coat. Didn't bother me near as much as it did her.
Where I grew up, there were no yellow buses. We all walked to school. In the summer, it was fun to jostle with your friends, sharing lies and tall tales with each other. But in the winter, it was quite something else again. Mom would dress us in the kitchen. Padded snow pants over which she would pull on and snap up a pair of rubber boots. They were called galoshes then. Next came a scarf over which a frayed but warm coat was buttoned, all the way up to the neck. Lastly, my prized leather aviator cap with shear-ling lined ear flaps, and of course, the requisite mittens, which when very young, were pinned to our sleeves.
Our books were carried in an old green book bag, cinched at the top and thrown over our shoulder, or more often then not, swung around or dragged during our school ward journey. Funny how I remember all this , but I don't remember ever being cold, even when my face was apple red. It was just something you did. If you weren't going to school, you would be playing outside anyway. Winter was subjective.
So when you hear the stories from your grandpa about how he used to walk to school in waist high snow and how the trip was uphill, both ways, you may want to think back on the fun you had, and how much those kids across the street are missing.
The NYC. Detective strolled into his little office that once had been a janitors supply
closet in an elementary school . It was converted into a police station after the school had
found a more suitable spot to try and teach those unteachable little darlings from this
neighborhood. The cops were cruising around here most of the time anyway. It just made
sense to the higher ups to operate from here, and besides, it fit into the limited budget. There was talk that next year we might even get a janitor. Till then we would hoe out our
own cubicles. The name plate on the painted peeling door read Detective Sgt. Bill Lipton.
Looking around he could see it was much the way he left it before heading out for a
much needed two week vacation. The tarnished coffee perculator was against the back
white washed wall on a bench where he dreamed there’d be a window some day. Ahh.. It
didn’t matter, he didn’t spend much time in here anyway. All… or at least most of the crimes
were happening outside these walls and he spent most of his time in the middle of that.
One picture of his partner decorated the wall; a police Warm Blood horse he named “Red Neck”. Bill toured a Central Park beat on Red Neck . Actually it was relaxing to work the beat on his trained horse as a mounted police officer...most of the time.
Continued as a part in unison with Richard Picketts Shogun/Samauri Stories on his site by his
permission. -to be continued-
Memories dance in her head
As she waited for his flight to land
She remembered their first date
The first time they held hands
The first time they kissed
The first time they said 'I love you'
It was long overdue for her to see him
He dreaded his flight was going to land
He knew it was wrong
But he had found someone who he loved dearly
He loved his high school sweetheart
But the new person was everything
He'd been looking for
They'd spent so much time together
The past two weeks
(He gets off the plane...)
She runs to greet him
Only to stop in her tracks
And see him holding on to another woman
Her first instinct was to cry
But she chose not to jump to conclusions
And run to greet him
Maybe she was just a friend
(He spots her...)
How am I going to explain this?
She is going to be crushed
Maybe I can still keep this a secret
But that would only make it worse
Only time will tell
But I love her
But I also love this woman too
What to do, what to do?
TO BE CONTINUED......
All people have problems and troubles in the world.
Provide children someone to love and be loved,
Help them have someone to walk with as far as they wish.
Give them wisdom or understanding and knowledge to do what is right and what is wrong.
Help children have strength and courage to face their oppressors who tease and bully them
Those who gather socialize and trade their images
Children who are being rape and abuse
Enlighten people to realize their horrifying acts
Please help children choose the right decisions to the things that happens
Help the children's attitude towards people.
Give them fortitude or strength to hope for their brighter future
Help them reach their teenage years in peace
Give them courage to face their trials,
Perseverance to strive hard to reach their best and be successful
Help them have Patience and Tolerance when dealing with hardships
Comfort them mentally and physically to be calm.
We ask this through Your Son, Fr. Christ
Who lives and reigns with You forever and ever.
There was music of course
Not the usual sort of girl at least in my fixated estimation
“Winnie the Pooh”
These survivors unto high school and through
Rather a “flower child’ she
It wasn’t the way she walked although?
She had a dancer’s spring in her step
She wore no perfume
Wasn’t the way she dressed but then I never saw her best
Ah! but that long brown hair a strand always in her face
(one eye’s worth)
And the way it hid her priceless blush
Yes! more than anything the blush!
The question must arise –
Was she beautiful?
Was she pretty?
High cheek bones
All must be in fine proportion and refined chiseled -
But? with her who could tell?
She had a way of inserting herself
(thrusting is too course a word)
of waltzing right in! of quietly mesmerizing someone
She knew how almost silently bold she was
A ballerina on stage
Every eye on her and she knew it!
It was all about her but I didn’t care
She looked at the floor yet
looked through your eyes and into your heart
No batting of lashes
No swinging of hips
No soft-talk honey
Oh what a small crowded room with just the two of us
She had that natural mascara
Lips needing no paint
Almost a Middle East complexion
(the basket with snake)
And I prisoner of the mind the enchanted moment
I did nothing to you
I did my job
I worked hard
You didn’t help me
You had me
At work until 7pm
Nightly for the first
As time rolled on
I started getting better
And you kept pouring
Showers of stormy weather
Giving me letters
Stating false information
You can to wreck
Tried to fail me
Boy did you
Dish a lot on my plate
I could never
Believe that one
So much hate
Maybe I made
In wanting to succeed
The whole time
I stayed on my knees
You will be charged
This is only
Of my grievance.
The fear of Public Speaking has been with me always
but never like it was on that June evening so many years ago.
I still get gut wrenching panic when I think about that time,
it really seems like only yesterday....
A late bloomer, extremely shy, it was a horror to be
selected as Valedictorian of my high school class. For weeks
I had trouble sleeping and could barely eat. I knew
disaster was close at hand..
The day of graduation I prayed for a quick death, thought
seriously of faking a terminal illness, and cried all afternoon.
And you know what? It was just a bad as I thought it
My throat closed, I whispered and croaked and didn't say
one coherent thing. Dead silence. Then clapping,
led by my frantic parents. No one ever mentioned the debacle..
but at our ten year reunion I was nominated as the girl
who had changed the most. Oh, that little victory was sweet.
but, dear God, I still remember......
For John Heck's contest..
There was once a little girl;
A little one who was her daddy’s whole world
She sits up upon his knee
And asks: “Daddy, why are all the kids mean to me?”
“They make me feel like dirt
I never asked to be hurt
I hate having to go to school every day
Daddy, why am I treated this way?”
Her father wiped that teardrop with his hand off her face
And told this to her: “Listen my darling Grace
Some kids may be mean
But you and the rest of them are only thirteen
There will be some that will put you down
But don’t you dare wear a frown
Because they know not what they do
They don’t mean what they’re doing to you
You stay strong and hold your head up high
Then you will never again cry
My loving daughter, just follow your heart
And you will always have a fresh start
At your school and in your life
So tender in years,
my heart still unhurt,
I remember his name,
sexy football Burt.
All the girls,
would moan, and sigh,
this hunk passed by.
Not a beauty,
I was tall, and lean,
some called me beanpole,
kids can be so mean.
and so very shy,
if a guy spoke to me,
I would nearly die.
My face turned red,
as my heart raced crazy wild,
it happened every time,
a guy would smile.
Then it seemed,
a change came overnight,
my clothes started clinging,
to my curves overnight.
My hair started growing,
and the color changed,
the sunshine had bleached it,
or that was what I claimed.
Enjoying my freshman year
in my mini skirt,
a high school girl,
learning to flirt.
So tender in years,
my heart still unhurt,
I remember his name,
sexy football Burt.
Astronomy club. After school.
Search for moon in vain. Play with telescope.
Stare at clouds. Learn to juggle.
Admire Mr. Milligan (Clym Yeobright)
and the invisible stars.
My spiritual journey is very different from other peoples because
my life has been very different from most people’s lives. The story
I relate to the most in the Bible is Job, because Job lost everything
but his faith ultimately grew stronger. As I grew up, my father was
an abuser which reminds me of Jobs abusers. Today, even my father
is dead and I have forgiven him. But I will never forget what he did.
Abuse leaves real scars and they don’t just magically go away, no matter
how blessed or spiritual you are. You may heal but there are still scars.
When I could barely put a sentence together my mother took to Max
Hickerson’s Congregational Church and I was Baptized, full emersion.
That would be the last time I went to Church, until I was an adult. To
sum it up my childhood my mother wasn’t all there, psychologically,
and my father was a dry drunk who abused my brothers and I. but mostly,
my mother. This was my first path toward righteousness.
My first religious path led me to being furious with God because when
I asked and prayed diligently for God’s for help there wasn’t any. But
later, When I felt the hollow and emptiness feeling I would go back to God.
Trough Faith and Righteousness and Eastern theology. I went back and
forth with God until I realized that I had to make a final commitment. I
chose Christianity, so I decided I go to the Theology School in Claremont
a very liberal community where all are welcome. I decided to become a
minister. In my denomination outside of STC they welcomed women
ministers. From Graduate school I decided I had to make a full commitment,
Wo I enrolled to get Masters of Divinity(mean you are a minister) and a
Doctor of Ministry(which means your qualified to teach Ministry to pastors).
I was the pastor of Metropolitan Community Church that was inter-
denominational, which meant what ever kind of religious and Christian
background you had, was respected and you were welcomed at our church.
After 4 years as a minister at the Los Angeles church, in the year 2001
I was diagnosed with a brain tumor in the left central lobe. This has made
me succumb to my handicapped and I had to give up ministry at least
church ministry. I think that all of us have our ministries. The term
“minister” just means “service” and you can serve God whether you’re
in a church or not.
It’s mid-October, and the cool morning air
refreshes and replenishes the players as they march
across a muddy lacrosse field, the low sun
that manages to peek through the gray clouds
glistening off the beady surface of grass blades.
The stage is set for glory.
Apostle is a priest
Eternal Son is the Apostle of Eternal Father
Eternal Father gave the name Christ when He was baptized by St. John the Baptist
He ordered the 12 apostle to preach His Gospel
He was the Highest Priest of the Universal Church
Universal means Catholic or Roman Catholic
There is a purgatory
Yes, purgatory is in the bible
The 2nd book of Maccabees, Old Testament
Purgatory or Purification
All as in everybody should be under Eternal Son’s Universal Church
Eternal Son is the Highest Priest of the Catholic or Roman Catholic Church
It is for the righteous to call Eternal Son Father Christ
Eternal Father is in Him
Father Christ sends the Holy Spirit
Christians will be in the Purgatory
Until they learn from their Initiation before going to heaven
On earth is called Rite of Christian Initiation for Adults R.C.I.A. to be the true Christian
Three types are slain
Father Christ is the pathway to heaven
To face Eternal Father and the Divines
It is my job to inform everybody
Visit www.fatherchristdivinetruth.org to know more
Colored pencils in an artist’s even hand
sketch rolling fields of wavy grass
sprouting from the barren plain
of barren pages.
Now she reaches for Burnt Sienna.
As a young child I had no fear
With Mommy and Daddy hovering near.
If ever a danger should draw nigh,
Four older brothers were standing by.
A happy child, I breezed through school;
I easily learned by rote and rule
Until in high school to arrive,
Eight years of learning reduced to five.
No other student as young as I,
Adrift from every familiar tie
I walked those halls a child alone,
Without the friendliness I'd known.
I puilled into protective shell
And though I learned my lessons well
I feared the limelight I must claim
When ever a teacher called my name.
At eleven years with the rest fourteen
And though in all truth they weren't mean,
All paired with boys and obsessed with hair,
They simply overlooked me there.
If asked to recite or forced to speak
My throat would close, my knees went weak.
I was so afraid I would be sick
Words wouldn't come, my tongue was thick.
And so it went for four long years,
I hid my fears and unshed tears,
Until my English teacher informed me
Salutatorian speaker I would be.
Tall enough now the mike to reach
I had no way to avoid that speech.
My advisor said to imagine there
Was a loved one sitting upon each chair.
My beaming folks, proud sis and brothers
I spoke to them, not to the others.
I settled into a comfort niche
And gave my speech without a hitch.
From that time on I have not known
That feeling of being all alone.
I've read my poems in public places
Without one fear of the sea of faces.
For "Edge" contest sponsored by John Heck took hm
Walking across a well-lit stage
I command my sequined graduation cap
stay perched up there!
I instruct my feet,
Gripping my Bachelor’s Degree
I recall the gruff,
Bronx-accented voice of my dad
Forty years ago I received
his high school graduation directive
“daughters ‘ain’t fer college,
‘git a husband, ‘git children.”
Today my father stands on the edge
of a Heavenly cloud,
hands on hips,
grinning at me
I done it anyway dad.
What you ‘tink ‘bout ‘dat?
mrs.pond your so beyond
like the stars in cars/the movie
your so smart
i feel like i have a part
your so nice
at the end of your class
i feel like im on broken glass
then i say bye mrs pond
see you beyond
hope u read this mrs.pond
I remember how I hated
That decorated box,
And wanted to be absent on that day.
My sad excuses did not fly
I just had to pretend
To be happy for the cards that I received.
Pretty Helen had the biggest pile
Accepted as her due.
We knew which boy had sent the biggest one.
He tried not to look at her
When she opened it and read
As he ignored all of his giggling friends.
My mama had insisted
I take one for every child,
So every one would get a card or two.
Allowing for the teacher’s,
As I took a look around,
Sue had only one more card, it came from me.
She opened it and read it
Smiled her shy smile at me.
I was so glad then for my mama’s warning
That if I did not remember
There would be some lonely child
With only teacher’s card to see her through.
It is still lightly drizzling, as I pull into the parking lot
The sun is hidden by the clouds
A bit of light spits tiny rainbows from the tips of Monterey pines
The old school hasn't changed much, since my children graced it's classrooms...
As if all time has been erased.....
Skinned knees on the playground, and stuck wads of gum under the desks
All those years ago that seem like yesterday.
I stop at the office, then wander down the familiar halls
I'm reminded of the teachers, who once taught my children
Those who have since retired,... Mr. Spencer, Mrs. Schueller, Miss Wilson
I wonder where they are now, and who could fill their shoes
I peek into the second grade classroom
And my I see my grandson working diligently
He looks up and sees me with a grin so wide
And soon a whisper scurries about the room.
Ten more faces are soon grinning at me.
But just then, the bell rings, and one happy little boy
Gathers his coat, and papers, and comes to me
He grabs my hand, and we walk to the car.
The clouds have disappeared.
There was a naughty girl
And what a naughty girl she was!
For nothing would she ever do
But daydream all day long!
She wouldn’t eat her oatmeal
Instead, would quietly suck her thumb
When came time to dress for school
She wouldn’t comb her hair
She'd much rather munch on a cookie
Scolded, run to Papa in tears
When the school bell rang at eight
She would be running late
And when walked to her school house
She wouldn’t enter her class!
She spent a whole year sitting in her eldest sister’s class
The nuns, they tried to bribe her
With cookies and some milk
There were times she’d eat the cookies
But wouldn’t drink all the milk!
She was taken on her first field trip
To the ocean’s shore one day
And Excitement filled those eyes
That widened at the sight of rolling waves
She screeched endlessly and clapped her hands in play!
On the next day she went willingly to her classroom
And was asked to write about the trip
She held her pencil to paper and wrote
Her very frst poem at the age of six
Walking through the guarded gate and onto my children’s school grounds, the impact of the
80mm and 120mm mortars crashing to earth caused me to pause. When you couple this with
the repetitive thrumming of the 50 caliber machine gun and the acoustics on the hill top, you
feel as if you’re in a combat zone. The deep reverberating pulses that the blast of the
weaponry left in my chest, the slight ringing in my ears, the un-worldly feeling that
something was going to land near me, gave me that very realistic feeling.
Yet the children ran to and fro, laughing, playing; seeming oblivious to the horror that those
sounds bring to our enemies. I am not sure if they even hear them, even think of them; are
even aware of the violence of the world around them. To them and the other family
members of this military community, they hear the sound of freedom. They hear the impact
of dominance in a world where, (to them) they believe our nation cannot, will not experience
defeat. Each and every impact is knowledge that their loved ones, (their Soldiers) the
fathers, mothers, sisters and brothers will live in absolution of the sin that they have or will in
the future commit in their country’s name.
Thus leaving the arguable question out on the table, is it a sin? Will they go to hell? It is the
disobedience of one of the commandments! Yet without hesitation we will pull the trigger and
thank god that we live to see our loved ones again.
To that man or woman who walks onto their children’s school ground, unguarded. To the
children who do not run to and fro, frolicking, laughing, and playing; to all who hear the
impact of a mortar or the repetitive thrumming of the 50 cal. Where the acoustics are
resounding off the cement buildings of your home and the laughter turns to horror, the
screams turn to nightmare; where going to school is a threat to life.
I am sorry, so sorry that the world sees even one human, one child, lover, mother, father,
sister, or brother; I am sorry they see us as so insignificant as to place you/us in harm’s
way. I apologize that they/we lift foot to step upon the masses.
Be it a terrorist, a misguided bomb, or the rage of a stressed out soldier who takes innocent
life because they believe it is right. We are all significant, we are relevant and to all… Should
peace ever come at last…?
I pray it lasts until our very last march…
One afternoon while cleaning the cupboard,
encountered my old school magazine,
in a flash came all the feelings,
the intimate feeling when we were
togetter, playing,enjoyed studing.
sharing our precious time and cheerful memories togetter,
make my heart light as the beautiful feather.
you know all good things which come to an end,
I hope our collections of mements dont come to an end,
because it belongs to both our quiet moments and tensions.
i really detested the moment when we had to part,
as it will leave emptiness in my heart...
I am proud of my school; which are having at least may be a golden and silver rules.
principle strict and fair, who guided us every time.
teachers who were strict and very just,
who nutured knowledge in us,
it signifies peace and love to all,
isnt that more than enough?
centpercent results came into limelight, our school isnt it very bright?
caste and creed of each and everykind,
had no place for discrimination in the mind.
jealousy and falseness thrown out of mind,
love and share u shall find
with our little hearts greeting always kind.
in activities we were best,
applauded we got with fill zest.
trophiees,awards,medals and cups,presented to us.
its the same old school which i stepped out 7yrs ago,
gone are those beautiful memories,
shall cherish them forever...
. We worked it out on paper and realized if we saved our ten cents a week allowance,
it would take years to pay for them, so we decided we needed to get a job. So began our
first enterprise ‘Hal and Elaine’s snow Removal.’
Each day after school we would go door to door offering to shovel the snow from
sidewalks and driveways for a fee of twenty- five cents. Each day we would return home
with our frozen hands clutching a quarter and our minds clutching the visions of those
bicycles as we prayed for snow once again.
Mom had taken a job working from home. Each night she would soak piles of
leather pieces to soften and stretch over balls of twine to stitch together the next day
making a baseball. She was paid five cents for each one that met their standards. Mom
stitched hour after hour, day after day until her fingers bled.
Dad would come home from Camp Borden after many hours of hard labor and
army maneuvers to have supper and make us giggle and laugh with his outrageous stories of
the day’s events. After supper he would leave again returning much later with red and blue
paint stains on his hands and a tired smile on his face.
The days flew by in a blur as we shoveled up and down the streets dreaming of
those bicycles that grew more solid with every quarter we put in our piggy banks. I would go
to sleep each night and ride through towns and cities and over hills and through valleys until
I heard the sound of buoy bells ringing in the harbor.
I would pedal faster and faster, knowing I was almost there. I could see my old
home just down the road. As the bells got louder, I would slowly awake to the truth as the
alarm clock wound down on the night stand. Once again I would head off for school and
stand daydreaming, peering at that gleaming bicycle in the window of the bicycle shop.
Suddenly – Christmas was almost upon us and we needed to buy mom and dad a
present, so we pulled the plug on the piggy bank and tool our loot, a total of four dollars each
continued in part 3.....
Bountiful Interactions; Plethora of discussions;
Oodles of gossiping; certainly with those
Precious ones known as ‘Friends;
Those were the days at school –
Innocence at zenith;
T’wos fun chatting over phone then;
Doing the Tittle-tattle about teachers,
Adoring those cute classmates;
Nostalgic are those moments;
Those moments with “Friends’
Then entered college, Innocence abridged;
With newer friends;
Conferring extensively on careers;
Unrelenting analogous trend;
Talking and gossiping; having a fantastic time;
College ended and so did friendship;
Work came anon, Innocence lost;
Extra mature, extra busy;
No time for friends, no time for anything;
Yet a thought about friends enduring within;
Recalling those wonderful moments with friends;
Alas! Have no hint how to get in touch;
Technology popped in;
Email, chatting, orkutting;
Reviving our friendships;
Reminiscence of school and college;
Wonderful are those moments;
Moments that we spent with friends;
Back is our friendship;
Back is our chitchatting;
Back to our old times;
Precious are those moments;
Nevertheless all those feelings remain unchanged;
Undoubtedly now shall emerge;
Better moments, Fun filled era;
Needless to mention;
Friends are forever.
My ears are ringing, singing
to the tune of invisible music
as I fall into bed after a
short, scalding shower after a
long, exhausting night of dancing at the clubs
after I left the game with that beautiful,
beautiful young black-haired lady after
I spirited her away from her friends in an old sedan
after I called to see if it was okay after
I spent an agonizing hour eating in silence in a
restaurant with my friends who all had dates
after she called to say she couldn’t come,
her little sister needed her, her friends were coming over,
after I thought we’d set our plans into stone
after we spent hours on the phone talking the night away
after I had asked her to Homecoming,
after I had first laid eyes on her,
after I had changed my schedule from Film
Studies to Creative Writing
on a whim.
Everywhere you look around is corrupt. It is because of this egotistical attitude about
ourselves. Why these bad things always happen, like on the news its always bad, like rape,
murder, not caring about people's lives, also, corruption in political relms. This list goes on
and on. I wonder about children who grow up in this mess. How will they turn out to be in the
future ? The earth is as it is, because people do not want to listen and do better. Education is
very important and look at all of these high school dropouts. It is really a shame, but all we
can do is pray and hope things will turn out for the better.
“The honor of the Mother reflects on Father Christ”
“Whatever honor and praise are given to the Mother bounces to the Son”
“The honor given to the Queen bestowed on the King”
The Honor we give to the Mother of the Lord was referred to Him Who was made incarnate (personified) of her”
The Mother is honored for her Son’s sake”
“Indeed in loving Mother Mary, we honor Eternal God”
“We will never love her as He loved her”
Father Christ was the first to honor her as His mother
“We will never be able to equal with which Father Christ loved her”
A few years ago
As dusk fell
It was blowing with snow
Billy Burke a young boy aged eight
Stayed after school until it was late
Helping teacher clear the party debris
When they left school they could hardly see
Teacher wanted to give Billy a ride
But brave little Billy politely declined
I'm taking the short cut thru the woods
And as he set out he drew up his hood
The wind howled and the air cold
As Billy struggled up another knoll
The trees were bare glistening with frost
Then Billy realized he was hopelessly lost
He should have seen his home by now
But all he saw was a broken down plow
Left in a clearing by a farmer years ago
Rusty and useless now covered with snow
Billy trudged on with beginnings of fright
But as he topped a rise a welcoming sight
The old Colby mansion but what was that din
Music and laughter he heard from within
The mansion had been abandoned for years
But not empty now he could tell by his ears
Billy drew closer light spilled on the snow
Thru the open door he stepped out of the cold
A Halloween costume party he saw at a glance
And by a blazing fireplace took up a stance
Carved out pumpkins had candles inside
These lit the room and the hallway besides
Billy saw monsters and a witch on a broom
His eyes opened wide as she flew about the room
How did she do that he wanted to know
But the guests only laughed in the fire's glow
They played games and ate party food
Then Billy hid a yawn he didn't want to be rude
He was bundled in his coat and sent on his way
But Billy protested he wanted to stay
However in a flash he was on the outside
The witch guest acting as guide
She led him back through the trees
Took him up on her broom when he said please
Billy looked down on the houses below
As they flew around town high above the snow
The storm had passed and they saw the moon
He was set down by his home and she flew off in the gloom
Billy went back to the mansion the next day at dawn
Imagine his surprise everything was gone
Dust thickly covered the furniture in the room
But in a cobwebbed corner he found the witch's broom
He remembered the witch goblins and ghosts
And the Count Dracula who acted as host
The dust in the mansion lay undisturbed on the wood
Except by the fireplace where Billy had stood
No one believed the story he told
Of Halloween night being lost in the cold
He stuck by his story they didn't know why
But you and I both know Billy wouldn't lie
Dark hard dark rubber shoe soles
jiggle up and down in boredom
classy, they’re the same he’ll wear
ten years from now, graduated,
at the office, still bored, wondering
where his youth went.
. Each year as Christmas rolls around, as I buckle under the pressure and stress of
shopping for gifts for people that already have everything, I find myself remembering that
Christmas of 1954.
Dad had joined the army that year and we moved from the East Coast of Canada
to Ontario, leaving behind our extended family and the only home I had ever know in a small
fishing village along the Bay of Fundy.
Now we stood gazing in horror at the rows of ugly buildings sitting on barren land
in the middle of nowhere. This was the housing provided by the army and was a major part
of the wage agreement.
My mother was inconsolable until dad rented us a small apartment over a Chinese
restaurant in downtown Barrie. There was no remuneration by the army for forfeiting the
housing, so it left dad with a very small pay-check
Pay day was once a month and we usually ran out of money in the last week, so,
off we would go to the pawn shop with dad’s prized possession; his short-wave radio, won for
Being kids, we finally adjusted to our new world as we watched the Santa Claus
Parade march below our living room window amid the honking horns, blaring bands and
throngs of people lined along the streets as far as the eye could see as we laughed with glee.
We had seen them on our way to school in the window of the bicycle shop;
gleaming with chrome spokes and handlebars and hand grips adorned with multi-colored
streamers. There I would stand until my feet grew numb from the cold, daydreaming of
riding back to the East Coast. I could actually see the sun glistening on the waves as I raced
along the ocean on the way to grandma’s house. More than once I had to stay after school
for being late.
My brother thought maybe if we were really good, Santa would bring those
bicycles to us. I being the older and therefore the wiser, knew the state of the real Santa’s
affairs and promptly convinced my brother I had heard from a reliable source Santa had a
shortage of bicycles this year and we would just have to earn the money and buy them
Continued in part 2....
To all of you young women who unplannedly , unpurposely were and are pregnant in highschool.You, who chose and choose to still stick to finishing school whether its attending actual public school or online classes etc.I commend you.My reasoning for that is because, I really cannot imagine how it mustv'e felt or feel to go through something such as being pregnant at a young age.From what Ive seen before, its not easy.Especially, without a specific support system.Yet, you may have one either in your parents, your child's dad, loved ones or even in your child.And, theres nothing wrong with that.From what I understand, there's alot of adjusting that takes place. But, seeing you ladies the ones I went to school with or the ones I've known for a good while, who went through it and graduated or are well on their way.You are absolutely admirable. I mean, not very many women could do what you have or are doing right now.You should be proud of yourselves, not just as individuals.But, as mothers or soon to be mothers. I believe you are all considered to be Real Heroes. =)
Somewhere in the distant hill
lies a dilapidated old house that might give one chill
An old gentleman and his lady fare
were loners of life because they were the only ones there
Protecting a little child-teen of 13
A lonely nerd or nebbish boy who only dreamed
to make friends with the outside but his inner self hide
the longings of a boy who was too bashful to confide
his parents took him from school because his
school-mates called him an Ugly and a Fool
Together,as three,they lived in this mansion ennui
The tales that can be told of this existence that
has kept them a Dead and one Cold
The Father took him Fishing(out back Yard there is a Hole)
to catch a big one-in their imagination mind-it is only a small peace
that both of them could ever find
Peri-Gonvre,the lad's name..that his school mates mocked LAME
All through the house,a child's laughter that scares away the most
disgusting cat or mouse
Both hands,left and right,has only two fingers each,that God made right
The attic above the 2nd story hall can only fit him because it is
5 inches too small(The Father-KinMen,designed it to be as confining as
the fireplace against the Stone Brick Wall)
Peri-Gonvre uses the room for his 'scape,from the island New England
that wanted to rape:the very spirit and the life of this like
sitting against the darkness,his eyes drifted far from the mortal Pike
SILVIA the feline little kitten coddled up next to him in this lonely Prison
She is the only cat to be allowed,
brighten up his disposition(disperse that iluminnescent Black Cloud)
Angel of the nightly SKY is first to shine upon the loneliness Guy
END OF PART 1
1960 and the world was changing
A time for living and rearranging
Baseball in the school yard with a sponge ball and a fist
Donnie Brooks sang Mission Bell and Chubby did The Twist
Bobbie sox and ponytails, school dances were so much fun
Johnny Preston’s Running Bear. I loved the theme from Peter Gunn
A young senator from Boston was in the presidential race
Marty sang El Paso and there was a theme from A Summer Place
Mr. Custer and Alley Oop were fun songs to listen to
While Elvis said It’s Now or Never and also Stuck on You
Ford came out with the Edsel. Remember the unsinkable Molly Brown.
Everybody’s Somebody’s Fool even Cathy’s Clown
We had air raid warnings and marbles in our pockets
Movies in the park and Cape Canaveral shooting rockets
Gable and Monroe in the Misfits, Perry Mason on TV
And the Drifters were singing Save the Last Dance for Me.
There was a draft to serve our country and we were always ready
A time for holding hands and a time for going steady
Kirk Douglas was Spartacus and Burt was Elmer Gantry
Pies were made from scratch and there were apples in the pantry
Larry Hall sang Sandy and Bobby Rydell wailed Wild One
O Dio Mio From Annette. She and Frankie had so much fun
Lonely Blue Boy by Conway Twitty and Bobby’s Beyond the Sea
Duane twanged Because they’re Young and the Everly’s Let it be Me
Those days are precious memories that I hope will never fade
The world was so much kinder then and I was in eighth grade.
“You guys are full of exercise” – nonsense
even after she has finished
scolding Kyle for laying down his head
“Not bored, just sleepy”
I don’t blame him,
and now CRAZY Mrs. Howe walks in,
crowing, breathless, sharing new information
buying me time to record the events
but alas! even now we check homework.
As the doors to my prison door slammed shut.
It was then I realized just how deeply my life had sunk into this rut.
And why, what was the reason that put me here?
Second degree manslaughter and they said it quite clear.
It seems I plowed into a van full of kids coming from a high school game.
One mother cryingly said, don’t you have any pity do you feel any shame?
For she lost two sons that night, that night of the game.
I was there executioner, I was to blame.
I was just out for a good time making all of the bars.
I didn’t know I was that drunk but I still pack those scars
The jury found me guilty that very first day.
And the old judge handed me my sentence he said son you must pay.
Well locked in those handcuffs they carried me back to my cell.
I heard one mother holler, I hope you rot, you rot in hell.
Thirty years was the sentence but not near enough.
For it was three young men’s lives that I did snuff.
The death penalty would have been more fitting for this deed that I’ve done.
Letting a drunk person drive is like giving a crazy person a gun.
And I think the people that sell the stuff need to be accountable as well.
Let them get a little taste of sitting in a cell.
Folks this is just a made up story but it could have been true.
For there were many nights I was out there driving drunk uncaring of what I
I’m the lucky one, for God took my desire to drink and I don’t anymore.
Alcohol is an addicting drug with a swinging door.
It weakens all your defenses and it makes you a bum.
And like the man in this story his life will never be worth nothing he turned it to
So friend if you’re an alcoholic, admit it to yourself then seek help, and right away.
But please do it before something like this happens, that’s all I have to say.
Summer day and a few minutes to spare
Take a swing around where the old school once stood
Finding only a parking lot and a tear in my eye
Another memory destroyed by progress
Pep rally in the school yard
How she smiled in her innocence
Laughing all the way to the corner store
Pinball's in the back room
Lucky dangling from the corner of your mouth
Two for a nickel to play it cool
Running Scared playing on the juke box
Maybe tonight in the park
Another memory fills my eyes
Dancing in the auditorium
Drifters singing Save The Last Dance For Me
A soft kiss with Goodnight Sweetheart Goodnight
Heart pounds. See you Monday
Walking those halls with her books under your arm
Passing notes in the classroom
Detention again. Oh no! Hitch hiking home.
Back on the bus in the morning. No Smoking!!
Prayer and Pledge. A new day starts
Sadie Hawkins Dance? Yes, I'll see you there
Bobbie socks and pedal pushers
Just another memory.
This letter is to the love of my life.
My precious sweet angel, my darling little wife.
Darling, I’m writing this to let you know.
Just six more days then they let me go.
Oh how I long for your tender touch.
You’re all that I think of I love you so much.
This place is getting so bizarre and out of control.
Some of these people I wonder if they even have a soul.
Six more days and I won’t look back.
Carlos, the one in the picture I sent was killed in last nights attack.
Well we fought them back they didn’t have a chance.
But we have to stay ready, you never know they may try to advance.
Oh and you remember Bobby Rodgers, my high school friend.
Two miles back down the road , Bobby met his end.
Sugar I’m sorry I shouldn’t be telling you all this stuff.
It’s just that I’m so lonely and I’ve had more than enough.
Just six more days and I’ll be coming home to you.
To restart our life and make itzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
This was the letter she received two days before his body was brought home,
back to friendly shores.
Said he was shot by a sniper right out front of headquarters doors.
They said he was going to be mustered out that night.
And he wanted to surprise his wife and he didn’t tell her of the good news in
this final write.
Another widow was made by this awful war.
I just hope it wasn’t for oil, cause if it was I’ll park my stinkin car.
“Chad deserves a round of applause!”
And more applause!
And more applause!
And a standing ovation!
And giggles get passed around!
Sixteen unique individuals
sit on sixteen washing machines.
As they make small-talk
they stare at sixteen dryers, all in a row
chugging and churning to the same hum.
My sandals give me
blisters and this blistering
screech deafens me.
Don’t get your jacket
It isn’t chilly outside
(you must have never
sat under a waterfall)
I suddenly remember! Here!
These very commons in which our physics class today
collects tiny manifestations of the laws that govern Nature
in the sunlight of the late morning
smiles and laughs beaming from every face
Yes, here, not even one week ago
club music thumped through the empty midnight
bodies were packed tight, sweaty, bouncing to the beat
dreams were made and broken just as quickly
(mine was recycled)
a plastic punch cup, kicked, skid across the floor
rolling to a stop in a shadowy corner of the night
where even now, in the light of day, students’ works of art
are illuminated, set on display for passersby
But look! Now tennis balls bounce across all-color tables!
A blue metal chair set atop!
Will they collide?
Untitled, their works of art (?), their minds
pried to the paper, full-out concentrate
only a few sigh and rub their eyes
and lean back, hands overhead, yawns,
relaxed, reclined, restrained, now!
Headfirst diving into the test once more!
Out of a moldy cavern I step into the afternoon sun’s radiant warmth
All around me pounds the pulse of life,
yet, among this crowd of my peers,
no other soul feels the Dharma nature. Still,
in their words, their movements, their expressions,
their sighs, their laughs, their struggles, the Dharma
preaches itself to me. Now I walk
straight forward through this cacophony,
slower than ever, no eye contact, deliberate through life,
knowing well I was on the point of epiphany.
There! A forest path reveals itself!
Upon it one lonely soul shoulders the
burden of his backpack as he plods his way home.
Oh, to forge every dull routine of life
into a miraculous, marvelous moment
is to put and end to your rebirths
and drink forever from the Fountain of Youth!