In-between sleep and wakefulness,
when my dream still lingers,
entwining free-flown fingers
with the morning rays, dancing across my eyelids.
It is in this state of in-between layers
that my inner-eye blinks its prayers,
and I can move backwards
through all of my many memories
until about the age of three -
the time when my imagination was truly free.
When I was three,
there wasn't one God for me to believe in.
There were thousands of Gods and Goddesses
hiding inside of each and every living thing:
Deities in the woods and wind.
Deities hiding beneath the surface
of our goldfish pond,
water nymphs kissing the feet
of the Lady in the lake.
One of my most vivid memories as a toddler,
was the day I caught a huge, black cricket.
My Father seemed shocked at the size of my catch,
punched holes into the lid of a mason jar
for me to keep the cricket inside of.
He had never seen such an enormous cricket before.
I was so proud.
I remember looking into its mysterious eyes,
believing for some strange reason,
that a loved one, was now inside of this creature.
Such strange thoughts for a three year-old to have.
But at the time, I truly believed in this.
This was sort of my first inner awakening.
My inner-eye was beginning to speye.
The first night with my cricket,
I listened to its hypnotic song,
and realized it sounded similar to the music
that the old Chinese lady listened to, down the street.
This was sort of my second inner awakening.
I didn't know about the Dao back then;
or maybe I just didn't know the labels?
But I did know how I was altering the destiny
of this creature....altering my own being.
The next day, my Father made me release the cricket.
He did not want it to die,
for it was the biggest cricket he had ever seen.
That was still the most proud I had ever been.
Reluctantly, I opened the jar,
waited an eternity for the escape.
That night I swore that I could hear
a distinct "Chiiiiiiirrrrrup" much louder than the rest.
This was sort of my third inner awakening -
my inner-eye, beginning to speye....
....just as I am awakening now,
the morning rays dancing across my eyelids.
What the Quack!
I dont want my poems in Poem Zoo!
A child with a crayon can color an imaginary world,
With dolls of mommies, daddies, boys and girls,
Full of horses, cowboys, cars and trains,
Can scratch them out and draw them all again,
Color me a rainbow with a pot of gold,
Color me a fairy with ribbons and bows,
Paint my face, a bright yellow sun,
In a green grassy field where a blue river runs,
With mountains and trees set in a colorful scene,
Monkey bars, teeter-totters, an old tire swing,
Color my face with a bright happy smile,
In a wonderful world, if only for awhile,
I can pretend my life is happy and gay,
Not worry about the mean stuff, just for the day,
Not worry about what I will eat, or where I will sleep,
Or the cockroaches and rats that make me creep,
Color me a family with brothers and sisters,
Color me a man to call Daddy, not Mister,
Color my mom in a bright yellow dress,
Stretched in a hammock under a tree with a nest,
In the yard of the house, we can call our own,
With neighbors on each side of our lovely home,
Color my dreams carefree and wild,
Color my life always as a child,
Color me a father, color me a Dad,
Color me the life that I never had.
Color me a garden with fruits of all kinds,
Apples, pears with grapes on the vine,
Color me a crayon that’s really a crayon,
Not this old sharpened pencil that I just found,
To draw my picture on this brown paper bag,
That was once filled with gin and Ole’ Granddad,
Now, Dream me a dream…Once upon a time,
I had a real father that I can call mine!
They needed help
Walking alone in the dark.
A broken down car.
The child frightened,
But not understanding
That would soon
Come her way.
Her parents petrified
That their baby was gone,
Over forbidden images
That crowded their way
Past ice cream sundays
And birthday parties
And wedding days.
A doer of good deeds.
He looks into
the little girl's eyes.
The girl speaks,
"This is not my dad"
And the coward
who took her,
Believing he saved
From a long, cold walk,
Saved a child
From a long, cold death.
your footsteps were crooked and a little off kilter
though I still tried to match your steps
your way of doing things was always a bit different
(detrimental to impressionable souls)
maybe you were not Mr. Brady or Leave it to beavers dad
but you were my dad…..and the only one I have….
through all the ruckus and the lunacy
I was a little girl who cried for you (while you cried)
through the tatter of ripped seams and too much whiskey
I whispered “its ok daddy” and I hurt for you….
so maybe you were never perfect in any sense….
and a round peg in a square hole trying to make a place
confused and confounded by life and its roller coaster ride
but I adored you in my broken heart (standing loyal)
through the crazy that you put me through
this one is for you daddy….and there is a silver lining
in every cloud that stings the sky…..beneath the rain
I have a smile I can toss to you through the downpour
and my small hands hold yours through the tempest
my eyes gazing up and watching each mistake you make
and loving you so much anyway…what else can I do?
Once I had a bicycle,
A loving present from my grandfather;
Since I was his favorite granddaughter,
He granted my wish at a snap of my finger .
Since he was so old,
A new bicycle he could hardly afford;
He took his bike when he was young,
Which I found it once at the back of our barn.
As far as I remember,
It was really so old and rugged;
But my grandpa was like Mr. Mac-Gyber,
Amazingly fixing all things all-over.
My granda was a well-known painter,
I thought he will repaint and use sandpapers;
When I surreptitiously sneaked into his hut,
He was there recycling all my milk cans.
When everything was done,
He gladly gave it to me with a big hug;
I hurriedly drove it at once,
Down the street and field with so much fun.
“My bike was real a unique one!” I thought.
So different from others in our neighborhood,
Its wailing siren was made up of a cow’s horn,
Tubes were made of dried bamboos and corn.
Other parts were still the same,
Like forks, hubs and chainwheel set,
The rest were made up of my milk cans,
They were pedal, brake and seatgear stem.
Handle bars were what I like most,
Converted from the handle of his old plow;
So sturdy and so strong all I knew,
And I can drive it so long in full control.
However, when I travelled quite afar,
Parts were falling one at a time;
Until everything suddenly split apart,
Eventually it dropped and rolled me down.
Date: Aug. 3, 2012
( A loving tribute to my dearest Dad)
4th Place Winner (My Very First Winning Poem)
Contest: Any Poem of the Week Contest
Contest Judged: 8/4/12
Poet Sponsor: Poet-Destroyer
learning from the past
turning the dark into light
grasping a lesson from our Father
climbing levels of enlightenment
The Almighty presents us with lessons each and everyday
it is our job to acknowledge the lessons and grow from them
Although presented in different ways
we all go through the same lessons in life
I call it "climbing levels of spiritual enlightenment"
if you grasp the lesson presented and live by that lesson you will begin your climb
if you fail to live by that lesson you will tumble back down over and over
hence the lessons will be presented to you once again until you achieve them
The lessons are not always pleasant as the flesh cries out in pain
as I climb and fall throughout my life
the agony is soon replace with delight
a little pain to receive a blessing from our King
What appears to be a failure or a loss with no way out
is simply a hidden blessing , a gift from our King......
It's time to start climbing!!!
lets grow strong..........
"Am I a man
I am old and frail son;
His smiles and hugs
could not be bought
I watched the penguins woddle along,
On cold-hard ice; where they belong.
From water to land, they scurried around,
Flapping their feet on frozen ground.
Herds of them were standing still,
Settling down to a long cold chill.
Mother passes her egg to father carefully;
Knowing he'll care for it, so, naturally.
He'll protect it from the harsh-cold nights,
In a warm snug pouch away from sight.
For mother must find many fish to catch,
While father stays until it is hatched.
Long-dark days of Winter will change to Fall,
Returning mother, with, her familiar call.
Such a sweet sound for father's ear,
Ending another, long-cold Winter year.
Giving father penguin a much needed break,
For their chick is born and fully awake.
With such a huge urge to quickly eat,
Yes, many tasty meals of fresh, fish-meat.
From the bottom of an abandoned gravel pit
behind my childhood home, seated,
leaning against its hardpacked sandy side,
he watched the July sun set,
the empty prescription bottle at his side.
Did he walk that day to his unnatural fate
slowly, shoulders rolling like a big cat,
alternating first one, then the other,
forward, head bent, one black errant
curl tumbling across his troubled forehead.
Did he hesitate or did he hurry
and did he think of me, just 12,
soon to be fatherless, before he
began his two weeks of decomposing
in the hot Texas sun until
the man on horseback found him
while looking for a lost calf.
I couldn't blame my mother
for the divorce she filed.
I had wanted him to leave, too,
and hadn't I prayed he would die
when he dragged her over the yard,
by a handful of her hair clasped
tightly in his fist,
because she had cut it without his permission.
Especially the next day when I found
the clump of auburn hair caught in the lush
purple blooms of the wisteria bush,
I wanted him to die.
He played his harmonica for me,
and I sang, "Daddy's Little Darling,
Don't you think I'm sweet?"
But I prayed my dad would die,
and though I asked God to ignore those
prayers of terror, I will never be able to
love enough wayward men to save my dad.
My grandfather on my father’s side, was a pecker-toothed sidle who raped his
daughter when she was just ten. He threw down vodka from an eternal well and took my father out to buy prostitutes when he was just fifteen... It was here that my father first learned the true value of a woman. Mercifully, a permanent steel brace got loose at the Pennsylvania steel mill where he worked and crushed Grandfather into a pool of blood and urine.
My father was a dried seed rattling in an empty gourd… he had grown up
hardened with leather-stiff roots exposed too long in the sun. My mother knew
that he wanted to rape me, so I kept guard with knives and ran away whenever I could. I went to bed fantasizing how to sneak into his bedroom and kill him with
the kitchen carving knife.
My older brother hadn’t adjusted well to the chaos either, so he put all his expectations and dreams into a matchbook and burned down three houses in the neighborhood. He secretly, robbed his friends of their valuable coin collections. He grew weary and confessed and was taken to a local Mental Hospital for evaluation. At fourteen, I needed a good stiff drink! I was transferred to two different foster care homes and grew up like a weed.
My mother Dolly was an auburn haired porcelain bisque, matt finished doll from a
discriminating collections of dolls... her father's dolls. She was not a witty woman
but silent, afraid and alone. She gave birth to three children who grew up like
wild dogs while Dolly made Betty Crocker weekends and otherwise TV dinners
until she grew tired... very tired.
One day the brothers were playing with Dolly tossing her back and forth…
like a ball, one to another... until we dropped her. Fragile, she shattered into pieces
on the gray cement patio. My father came out determined to put the pieces back
together but clumsily, he repeatedly stepped on Dolly crushing the refined
fragments into powdered dust.
The water tower stands above the town and can be seen for miles around. It has a
ladder leading up to the base of the tank. This ladder has been climbed by countless
teenagers, for thrills and mischief and young kids answering a dare.
Over the years, many symbols and words have been painted on the tank. From
Highschool mascots, to hearts of love and proposals. Flowers and Holiday wishes
It had always been one mans job to keep the water tank painted and to cover up
any impromptu artwork. He always took his time about it though. Making sure that
each message stayed up at least two weeks before he would paint over it.
One day he received a phone call. On the line was a little boy. This little boy asked
the man to please not paint over his message he had written on the tank, as it was
The man explained to the boy that it was his job to keep the tank painted and
clean. But, that he would leave his message up there, untouched, for two weeks. The
little boy, with tears in his voice said "Thank you, I hope it will be long enough".
The next day, as the man was driving past the water tank, he looked up. He saw no
message or pictures of any kind on that tank. He shrugged and assumed that the boy
had just been to scared to make the climb all the way to the top.
Three weeks later, the mans phone rings again. It was that same little boy. Very
excited, he proclaimed "Mister, I just wanted to thank you for not painting over my
message...It really worked!"
Intrigued, the man went to the tank with his paint and supplies. He climbed to the
top, set down his paint and brush. He walked around that tank several times and still
did not see a message. But, as he bent to pick up the paint can, there it was.
Towards the bottom of the tank, in crayon with a young child scroll was written:
"Dear God, pleeze let my daddy come home frum war I miss him
Your frend Mike"
The years passed. Many drawings and words were painted over by one man and then
the other, as they took the job over. But never, the one small patch, with that heart
For the contest: Story Time
Hostess: Carol Brown
Greet the little King,
who has been born in a cold manger
on the holiest of nights;
and by the glitter of a descending star,
He will spread peace in the land...
follow the shepherds and find that sight!
My gift to Him is my joyful song,
and with this clarinet I will usher in His coming...
walk side by side with the pretty angels and rejoice;
bring Him your gift, and surround Him with joy!
See the three Magi arriving on jewel-draped camels,
holding in their laps the gifts of His destiny.
A winter's night has always been completely bright,
every hill is hidden by darkness, but an heavenly light
appears across the frosty sky of Bethlehem, while divine
voices announce Emmanuel's glorious birth,
everyone wakes up and sees that star and follows it;
and where it stops, they find a baby without a crown.
Greet the Son of the Highest, the Wonderful Redeemer,
whom the Virgin Mary has borne in the humblest of places...
in the small town without a temple, or a palace for the Emperor,
where Mary and Joseph will train their child in Godly ways;
greet the little king, He will smile and invite you in,
and His smile will spread peace beyond the star-lit hill.
Copyright 2009 by Andrew Crisci
I have laughed as you have cried
I have lived as you have died
I love to make you hated
Being held above as you are degraded
I steal your future and prey on your past
I am socially accepted, as you become an outcast
I am a dealer of darkness, a deliverer of pain
I smoke your lungs and collapse your veins
I'll take all the things you dream about
After all its things you can live without
All you possess will be lost or traded
As those you love become hated
I’ll cover your body all over with sores
Turn those you love straight into whores
I come straight from hell believe me its true
The father of darkness brought me to you
I am a master deceiver a father of lies
So far ahead of the game I need no alibis
I've heard you scream my God it’s not true
As I joyfully take your children from you
I'm so good at deception you are unable to see
As I take them away you seek comfort in me
I open my arms and pull you into my chest
Cradle you up till the day of your death
So can please come join in my misery
But know your heart and soul will be my final fee
He loved you too, you know
Loved you like his very own
In away you were
You came into his life as my friend
Through the years you grew to be my brother in arms
Along the way you became the son he never had
He loved you as a friend
He loved you even more as a son
A son he never had
When things began to spiral out of control
You stayed when so many others ran away
You helped when I couldn’t
You meant a great deal to him
You never looked at him differently
Nor did you treat him differently
You stood by his side
When he fell, you stood by his side and mine
You were willing to help me fight his battle for him
You were there from the beginning
You were there until the bitter end
Always remember my friend, my brother
He loved you more than you’ll ever know
Dedicated to close Family friend Rodney Howard. He loved my Daddy just as much as I did/do.
My grandfather and I had a special relationship.
When I was young we lived near his home in Baltimore. But, my family moved away from
Baltimore when I was five and we lived most of my life in another state far away from my
grandfather. Whenever he called, however, I was the one grandchild he always wanted to
talk to so we could discuss his beloved Baltimore Orioles. I was the one grandchild who
followed sports closely and always remained a true Baltimore sports fan.
Later in life, I learned that my grandfather was actually a gifted baseball player himself when
he was young. In those days, he would explain, professional baseball players did not make
enough money to support a family so he had to make up his mind to either play baseball or
get married and raise a family. As it turned out, his love for baseball was only surpassed by
his love for my grandmother and, although he hung on to the newspaper clippings that
labeled him a “can’t miss professional baseball prospect”, he hung up his cleats and glove,
married my grandmother and went out to find a “real” job.
But his love for the game survived and year in and year out, he and I discussed the
intricacies of the game and enjoyed or lamented each baseball season based on the
successes and/or failures of the Baltimore Orioles. As crummy as the Baltimore bums are
today, I was fortunate enough to experience and share many more successful seasons than
poor ones during those limited years that I shared life with this amazing man.
I always felt sorry for my grandfather, considering him a victim of poor timing. Had he
been born about 50 years later in life, he would not have had to pick between being a
baseball player or earning a living – in fact, with his talent, he could have earned a much
better than average living while enjoying the one thing he loved most in life.
When my grandfather passed away, I was sure that he was joining a heavenly nine to once
again strap on his spikes and don the leather. Without a doubt, they must play baseball in
heaven. And I wait for the day that I sit in the heavenly bleachers and cheer on a young
grandfather playing this wonderful game with other boys of summer.
(Inspired by, “is there baseball in heaven”, by Constance, A Rambling Poet)
Grandmothers and grandfathers how they look,
how can we see that there is a grandmother or a grandfather
When I was a little girl we could see a grandmother and a grandfather
Grandparents used hats, glasses, and walking stick
The skin of their face was weathered and wrinkled
Some had teeth they put in a glass in the evening
Grandmothers always had time for a glass of juice and a hug
She was never impatient, tie shoelaces with pleasure
Always in floral dresses, which smelled like grandma
Grandmothers wont not be at work tomorrow, she has time for an adventure
She does not skip a single word, to be finished soon
It was always sweets in grandmother's hand bag
She never spared, but shared with a beautiful smile
Grandfathers were a bit more restrained,
bit concerned about the day's news in their newspaper
He would like to go for a walk, and he walks with small cautious steps
When he meet someone he knows, he lifts a bit on his hat and nod
He has very little hair on his head, and his head shines in the sun
Grandfathers have a strong hand to hold, I was confident in his hand
He could tell me what all the birds called, he was so wise
Everyone should experience an old-fashioned grandmother and grandfather
one that does not have a television, computer or washing machine
A grandmother and grandfather who always have good time
But it was in the past ..... not today...
A-L Andresen :)
Pity her as she cried
On the floor, ragged, she lied
She's covered with odd bruises
And hell things on mind cruises
She was there left alone
Mourning for help at home.
Hungry and parched she was,
Hoping someone would pass
“Click! Click!”, the door knob sounds
At last someone’s around.
Who’s there? Who could that be?
At last! She will be free!
But it widened her eyes
Scared and again she cried
‘Twas a man who appeared
Went to her and she feared.
He touched her hair and said
“Hush! Hush! Just go to bed
Stay quite, don’t be a heck!”
And kissed her on the neck.
Poor girl, she just abide
To the man whom she feared
“Why is he doing this?
I’m his daughter, why’s this?”
In the bedroom they were;
Father started kissing her.
Poor lil girl can’t defy
If she speak up, she’ll die.
“Oh my Lord, please help me,
I can’t take it, save me.”
Said her mind as tears flowed
Grieving in pain; she moaned.
Then suddenly she smiled
From what she heard outside.
A sudden hope in her eyes gleamed
From something she perceived.
She heard her mother’s voice
"I'll be saved" she rejoiced
“A miracle for me
Lord replied to my plea.”
And the door opened
Mother saw what happened
Shocked and startled she was
Then screamed for help, at last!
Mother bellowed and slapped him
Outraged and said to him
“She is your daughter!
Why did you rape her?”
Then neighbors came
Naked -- poor girl was ashamed
Dazed and shaken they were
Staring at poor girl and her father.
Then two cops came along
Grabbed the father for his wrong
He panicked and dreaded
Denied all he acted
Livid and offended
Lil girl stood and stated
“Oh yes, that man raped me,
Not just once but many times.”
Then her father uttered
“My dish is my daughter.
I’m the one who made her,
So I should also taste her.”
Wretched from what she heard
She spoke not a single word
Woeful and quite, she sniveled
Suddenly collapsed and fell
At last poor girl’s now free
From nightmare and agony
Yes she has a father
But she’s his dish not his daughter.
I wander through this house
As silent as a mouse
Though it is my own I feel I've been away
I'm rather speechless, having not much to say
I see my brother working in the shed
Just passing the time as if he's seen red
I see my other brother smoking a cigarette
With no enthusiasm... has he too seen red?
I do my daily routine
Pace, contemplate and clean
Though something is not quite right
This summer day bears no light
I come into the living room
Usually lively... filled with joy
Now it's naked and abandoned
Like a toddlers chest of old toys
But wait... I see Mother on the couch
She's sad with wet crimson face
She doesn't even say hello
Has my coming here been a waste?
"Why are you crying Mother
Have I done something wrong?"
She just sobs and sobs
... a rather disquieting song
My father looks down at her
With a smile
But something about him
Seems quite vile
"I miss him... I miss him so much"
She cries so helplessly
"Who do you miss Mother?
I don't understand what you mean..."
My dad buts in with no consideration
Revealing horrible secrets in such wicked display
"Alright, alright... I confess... I killed him!
But quite you're crying about it, it's better off this way!"
It all comes to me
In such a sudden burst
I feel the intense hatred
So much it hurts
I'm not here... I don't exist... (at least not anymore)
I'm the stranger in the house!
But soon I'll get my revenge
I'll make Father feel as tiny as a mouse!
I know what you've done
I should've known all along
I will tell everyone
And correct this home gone wrong
I'll come to life again! I'l---
Blanket wet... I feel cold...
Why am I laying down? Was all that just a---
"Morning son! I've made you breakfast;
Scrambled eggs and french toast, your favorite!"
Could he really? ... no...
Just a dream...
NOTE: This entire dream actually happened to me. The only thing that was fiction was the part about my dad making me breakfast in the morning.
For Russel Sivey's Dream Contest
03 - 19 - 2013
My mother, my grandmother before has always held a place in my heart.
My father, and my grandfather before has the same part.
I was young and very active with unwillingness to listen fully to what they had to say.
I had a problem, never could be solved without my parents and grandparents till today.
With patience they all come to my aid when I fall on my face.
With little dishonor I listen to them and what they had to say, I embrace.
Over the years I go to them with no doubt a feeling of no dismay.
Over the years I go to them and they help me solve problems that to me is O.K.
Now I am getting a bit more aware of what had happen to me when I was growing.
Now I remember how the ride was in my beginning: it was a trial of not knowing.
With the guided words of my parents and grandparents I survive through them all.
With it some being a problem that I remember I recall.
My mother and my grandmother always said to be patient and it will be easy to solve.
My father and my grandfather always knew that I would grow and evolve.
I could wonder everyday what if my parents and grandparents was not in my life.
I could just think that would be fatal like a stab with a knife.
With knowledge that they had past on to me of what they had experience.
With their proof of teachings they had past on to me is their self existence.
Over the years I grew with life so full of happiness that was because of my families love.
Over the years it showed me the path that led me to all the above.
Now cherish those words that help me through my troubles in my new family.
Now I listen to my parents healing words of wisdom and except them gladly.
Lone Wolf” Written by John Moses Freeman
A lone wolf far from the pack of his concern, entertains by flute in hopes of an appearance from Great White Father. Many moon have passed and no sacred white buffalo have been seen or heard of by himself or any of the other members of the tribe. It is always a bad omen to go for so many moons without a sacred appearance of a single white buffalo. Separating himself from the rest of the tribe eliminates the possibility of any bad medicine of unsacred mistakes that might have possibly been made by any of the other braves. Fasting for days Lone Wolf rescinds the weaker part of his soul, giving over to the spirit world. That he might be worthy of the divine appearing presence of the Great White Father. Should the Great White Father decided to divinely grant this mortal His holy appearance from inside the spirit world. Lone Wolf's proof of worthiness is his abstaining from food until his unworthy fleshly senses have rescinded; into the lower depths of darkness of the soul and obliged Lone Wolf’s sacred sense, giving over to the authority of the spirit of his stronger essence.
The nature of the trees of the woods, the air, the water, the sun of day and the moon of night are the image of the lesser senses that must be respected, for they are given to the lesser man’s needs in the lesser world as shelter and food. But today Lone Wolf plays his flute for the purpose of entertaining a presence of the Great White Father of mother earth. He will fast and play until his inner essence becomes one with the essence of creation! By this divinely granted appearance he will receive spiritual council and rectify his tribe with good medicine and receive new direction correcting the bad omen. The white buffalo will appear in the herd again!
For and in Honor of Constance La France ~ A Rambling Poet
And Contest: Tell HIS Story
I'm on a dusty backroad journey, in the Pearl of Africa;
They don't invest in road repair in the country of Uganda.
It's a pot-holed highway, that seems to go on forever;
We're in a worn out SUV, and our group is crammed together.
Finally, we pull off this road, to a sight I've never seen;
They call it a "Highway Orphanage", truly nothing there is clean.
There's just two broken down huts, and a large field of clay;
And the sun is beating down on us, it's the middle of the day.
The Chief tells us a tragic story, that's repeated almost every week;
How children are abandoned here, to a future that's somewhat bleak.
Mothers of these little children, so very desperate to simply survive;
Travel the long road to Kampala, in hopes of work to keep them alive.
Its here they leave their precious child, and sometimes more than one;
I'm sure they're confused and brokenhearted, when the sad deed is done.
The clothes on these children are old and torn, and many have none at all;
And they aren't left with any toys, there's no games, stuffed pet, or balls.
There seems to be scarce food here, and there's no close running water;
But I'm sure the greatest lack, is these kids don't have a mother or father.
Some of the children sit in the shade, but most are sitting in the field;
For them it's just another mundane day, till I walk over and kneel..
They are just starring at me, I wonder what they could be thinking;
"Who is this large, sweating, white man, with eyes that keep blinking?"
But soon my friendly smiles are returned, and the kids are drawing near;
Within minutes I'm a human jungle gym, and the children have no fears.
What happens next I'll never forget, if I live a hundred years;
Just the very thought of it, brings this grown man to tears.
One of the little climbers, gets real close to me and speaks;
"Are you my Daddy", he whispers, my knees instantly go weak.
A great well of emotion erupts, words still can not describe;
Feelings so overpowering, it was impossible for me to hide.
And one by one the children whispered, those same sad words to me;
Their little mouths would hug my ear, and say "Are you my Daddy?
*On the crossroads out of Kampala, Uganda
Sponsor: Kelly Deschler
Contest Name: Heart And Soul
it was already dark outside
silence had totally ruined the night
only my lampshade in my room was at my side
trying to comfort me in all my sorrows and trembling fear inside
as soft tick-tocks of the clock were heard
my heartbeat increased its rate
I asked, “Are they reckoning that few time for him has already been left?”
I began to feel, I was already in abyss of despair
the phone had rung for the second time
my mom and aunt once again were at the other end of the line
thunder storms blasted followed by a torrent of rain
when they asked me to talk to my dad to finally say goodbye to him
I tried to talk to him but he could no longer answer me
despite the silence at the other end
I didn’t stop begging him
I cried and cried out so hard
as the darkest moment started creeping through my veins
until my aunt answered the phone in lieu of him
begging me back to let him go, so as to release him from all the pains
to say the word goodbye to my dearest dad
was the hardest thing to do in my whole life
it had totally broken my heart and seemed as if I was losing my mind
so, I kept crying out and begging him to fight
he’s miles away and I couldn’t just reach him out or to be right there on his
I knew he can hear me, so I kept reminding him
about what I’ve promised when I went back home
to spend a short time and took care of him
I’d promised that I’ll fly right back home after my work
to take care of him again and walk him out of the door
together we supposed to walk around our house with his arms on my
my aunt begged me for the last time to finally free him
it was against my will but I decided to do what was best for him
when he was finally gone, I unconsciously screamed
alone in my room miles away from home, I was in deep pain
I felt like I was totally engulfed by the darkest of the night
I rolled my body on bed, crying out loud and hugging my pillows so tight
wishing someone had to put me into trance, so I closed my eyes
while in prayer, I imagined him waving goodbye
as he finally went up there through the brightest light
©2013by Leonora Galinta
Contest: New Poem
Poet Sponsor: Poet Linda/PD
Ana Cecilia Callejas
Rodrigo Perez Gavilan
The Bad King
“Lexer” was a lion who was the King of the entire animal kingdom, during his reign all the animals lived in complete harmony, they were all happy and graceful, and Lexer takes care of them and protects them. One day “Lexer” and his wife had an adorable baby lion that was named “Dylan” as he grew up Lexer teached him a lot of things since he was going to be the heir of the animal kingdom. Dylan also made a lot of friends but his best friend was Jim. Dylan and Jim spend almost all the days together, as the time passed Jim started to hang out with the Rhinos, which were the bad ones of the kingdom. Jim turned into a bad lion and started to incite Dylan to make bad things and he became also a bad lion. One day lexer got very sick and a few days later he passed away so Dylan became the king. All the animals were very sad because they loved Lexer he has been so far the best ruler of the animal kingdom. Time passed and Dylan forgot all the good things his father taught him and started to become a bad lion and a bad king. Influenced by Jim and the Rhinos that were friends with Jim Dylan started to do bad things. He put animals to fight between each other just for their amusement and had some of the animals as slaves just to be his servants, he also ordered other animals to kill so he can eat and have feasts, and this caused a lot of panic in the entire animal kingdom. Dylan mother tried to make him reconsider and change, to do all the good things his father taught him for him to be a good king but Dylan just became worse. All this caused that the animals lost his confidence towards the king and started to live just with the ones of their own kind and also began to fight with all the other animals to survive. This caused that the world became a bad place and since that moment the harmony did not existed anymore and the animals had to take care on their own.
Moral of the fable: if you are a good person and you have good values don’t let anyone to influence you and change the way you are.
Hostile Times II
By Nate Spears
Busted love is my Crystal Ball's fortune
My heart hurts in a torturing way
Nothing ever works in my favor
I lower my head and pray
Confessing to God
All I have to give
A 16 year old rebellious daughter
A 13 year old son that’s dead
My father is in prison; so is the one of my two kids
Is this really a way of living?
I didn’t have a choice from the days beginning
Would have a given me a chance
Walls of barriers bearing on us
On this earth we stand
Refusing to let go of this curse
If no bill is signed by Congress
My unemployment runs out next Thursday
Now I contemplate what’s next?
Sex dollars or Creflo's Dollars?
Be an honest woman; or
Be a fool that’s starving?
When pushed to the limit
All governors are discarded.
Hostile Times rains upon us
Other nations joins the honors
The Elite makes me vomit
There’s plenty of resources among us
God have mercy and let it trickle down on us
Rather than become degrading
In this pew
I choose prayer
Becoming Sunday Mornings best
Washing away my pains that become abreast; with my chest
Bringing in a new day,
For a better way
In these hostile times we live in.
Hi Dad, I guess we all will see our time and all will pass
Sometimes I lie awake and cry, longing for another chance
So much I never said, so often I said too much
Once in a while i'll drive by where Grandma's house was
Stop and reminisce awhile
Wonder what Mom's childhood was like in that old farm house
Remember you saying how you loved the place
Talking about how you walked all those miles to see Mom
At night the sounds of crickets and the truck traffic miles away on 54
Fourth of July gathering on the back porch and in the yard, beer on tap
Burnt fingers holding sparklers at night, Grandma's cooking
Old Jack barking and howling, uncles throwing horse shoes
Kids playing baseball in the grass between Grandma's and Chick's place
Did we lose the Utopia we dreamed about, never recognizing it
What I'd give to take you for a ride again, through your old haunts
Caught up in the nostalgia of your childhood and mine.
Times were tougher, times were better, Paradise lost.
You measured riches in family, friends and neighbors
Somewhere, somehow the present generation lost that
Seems as I got older, you got wiser, couldn't see it as a child
Never said I love you, Dad often enough
Never said thank you, Dad for the lessons on life and living
Got to go now, i'll say a prayer for you and mom
Who knows, maybe we'll find that peace within us
That we had growing up and you were here.
My father's Roger Maris mitt
Was kept in perfect health.
It showed no wrinkles no blemishes
Nor flakes of skin.
Its limber fingers were sheathed in leather,
Its pocket was well stretched
As it yawned with each breath.
Bathed in linseed oil,
It was a dark jersey cow
As it slept like an oyster
With a pearl cradled in its palm.
My father's attention was precious as gold;
His time was well spent with little to spare.
He was my coach, he was my father
Playing catch on our field of honor.
Years passed by with a blink of an eye;
His fraying attention became unraveled
By his job, by money, his family's health
And his aging body.
His golden mitt seldom saw light;
Snaring a baseball was wishing
Upon a starless night.
With patience and compassion
My father guided my life,
By catching a baseball my self-confidence grew.
But, his life was snatched by death
His game forever ended.
He was part of my foundation
Which will never fade from sight
As long as I remember, a baseball
Caught on an autumn night.
Standing in my backyard, I see my father's mitt
Like a baseball I recline
In his loving arms forever.
He sits there and cries
Big tears fall from his eyes
“Why, oh why?”
He wrings his hands
and tries to understand
Why I'm curled up in bed
No words come to my head
There is no answer
“Where has my little girl gone?”
You were the life of the party
Friendly and sweet
Everyone you’d greet
With a smile and hug
You’re just curled up in bed
With eyes full of dread
Oh, where has my little girl gone?"
His princess, his dream
Youngest of his team
Unwilling to face life and live
She’s stuck in her bed
Wants to stay home instead
To the words hung in the space
Between him and his child
His heart's going wild
"Where has my little girl gone"
"She’s gone, daddy, gone...
Seeing Mama die
Holding broken dreams
Stifling her screams
Broken heart night
Losing the fight
Nothing more to give
No will to live
That’s where, Daddy. That’s where your little girl’s gone"
Eileen Manassian Ghali
I called this a narrative because it actually happened last time dad came to visit me in Lebanon. We had this conversation in my bedroom, and it broke my heart that I've caused him so much pain. When he calls....he's quick to detect what spirits I'm in. He worries about me. I'm his baby....the little one of the family. Mom had me when she was 41....surprise surprise. After two boys, they really wanted a girl....Well, yes....I have changed...Yes...I was the life of the party. That old sparkle comes back now and again....Life can be difficult, and it wears you down if you let it. I adore my dad. His word was gospel when I was growing up. He was larger than life to me. We share a special bond....He is coming for Christmas....I'm so happy.
Gun fire all around, bombs going off in the distance
It was some of the angry mobs and resistance
Father was the king of SafeHaven a small kingdom
Like all other kingdoms it fell in random
Fire started in the castle
And along with it came a battle
It was a distance memory now because the child has now grew
Many things in this child that made memories stew
My name is Mastrey, a young orphan who was there that night
Mastrey saw her in the distance and her father and mother in his sight
Everyone was loud that night and made all the children hide
But that evening Mastrey saw her mother and father die
She ran into the bushes in such a fright
And evil doers were running around with flashlights
Mastrey remember it as he distracted them
Her eyes was so confused with problems
Mastrey new that it was because of what just occurred
His feelings of what those people did was not awkward
The distraction worked, he went back to were she was
Hiding and very scared she was, he asked her, can you trust me just because?
Her answer that night depended on her lively hood
As Mastrey was their with his hand reaching out to her as he stood
Pulling her up from the ground he looked into her eyes that were SeaBlue
Mastrey had made a life long friend and love, She knew it was true
Next: My Story Telling, Who is this Princess
It was a bit disturbing to look up from what I was doing and seeing my father standing right in front of me.
We simply stared into each other’s eyes without saying a word.
Somehow, I felt so old.
Somehow, he looked so young.
I am not sure what it was that I read in his eyes and his expression.
Was he being judgmental? Was he questioning the choices I had made with my life?
Or, was that the look of him being proud of the man I had become?
Was he trying to silently pass along his experiences and wisdom to me telepathically?
Or, was he simply content to be standing here next to one of his offspring?
The silence was growing awkward and I felt like I should say something … anything.
Then, I realized, just standing here next to my father at this point in time simply said it all. There was nothing else to add.
Staring at him, watching him stare at me, I couldn’t help keep a smile from appearing on my face. He responded back with that shit-eating grin that was uniquely my father.
I heard my wife calling from the bottom of the stairs, “Joe, if you don’t hurry we are going to be late.”
That is when I finished tying my tie and turned away from the bathroom mirror.
I could almost hear him say, “Goodbye, Pal”, as I slipped on his ring that my mother gave to me at his funeral.
As I walked down the stairs, Cindy looked up at me and laughed, “My God,” she said, “you look more and more like your father every day.”
I simply replied, “I know”, as I subtly wiped away the tear before it had a chance to escape my eye.
I miss you, Pal.
He oozed charm, this aging lothario.
Gallantry was his middle name.
Yet, he lived in the past
in the glory days of football wins
denying his saggy abdomen
blind eye, and fungus crusted feet…
Gallantry was his middle name
and he wheedled his way into the affections
of many lost and lonely woman.
When the only women
of true importance in his life
were his daughters…
He lived in the past
slept with his dog, and swam in Speedos
bald pate shining in the sun.
Once, long ago he was married to a cheerleader.
She’s stopped cheering, as his life filled
with their daughter and she was no longer his girl.
Caught between life, death,
and the deep blue sea, he swam.
Arriving at the home of each new prospective conquest
with the requisite flowers and small talk.
The glory days of football still danced
before his single good eye upon the giant bar screen,
where he served mimosa’s and other drinks with a wink.
He smiled with a well-worn charm, and didn’t touch the stuff.
Still, he tried. But, most times,
he felt more at home
with his daughters…
Due to health of Dad, I will not be posting new poems for a while.
Things are going downhill fast....
I will still read other poets when time permits.
Quality time spent with him is more important at this time.
I do appreciate all of you for your support
on my scribbles and for the warm welcome
that has been given me.
If you pray, I will ask for prayers for all involved.
Thank you ahead of time.
For whoever think story telling is that easy,
Would properly from this hilarious incident,
scene or whatever you might call it, would know is not.
Just some couple of months ago, I was invited
by a friend who knows me too well, back then in
school as a funny guy and story teller and so he taught this
night, that his grand pa (who is a famous story teller
of his village) had fall sick, I would be in a better position
to cover up for his father's so called responsibility
to his people. "For he (my friend's father, Williams) is a good story teller.
But what about me who has never faced
the ample crowd with my 'cripple' tale unless sharing it with friends?" I mumbled.
In the middle of this enigma, my friend, John called me to the hot seat
to tell my tale to the unbearable crowd of adolescence.
"God why am I here this day... But it shouldn't have been this day" I retorted.
The barbarian noise from the seats infront of me showed that truly I was
in the middle of something and not lost...
"Uncle tell us a story!... Brother tell us a story!" the crowd shouted.
This day, I needed a free moment but they couldn't let me be.
"Once upon a time" they heard me said and they all resited.
" I am sorry, I am sorry let me restart it all over again".
Now in old man's voice, I told my tale before them:
"Once upon a time,
In our mothers' womb, when she
Ate, we ate. Goodnight!"
They all cannot but burst to laughter while I stood and walked to the room with my
Anything after good night means nothing more till the next day.
Maybe I escaped the night by dissatisfying the emotions of those children,
in that scene, what about my friend?
"Have I not brought shame to John's family? Did I do the
right thing that full moon night?". My heart beats!
Not even do the audience remember or care to ask me: (In kid's voice)
"What if my mother do not eat while in my pregnancy, what will happen to her?" or
probably care to tell me: (Back to old man's voice) "What lesson they have derived from
the tale before their departure... Oh! No sorry, my bashful departure from their sight."
Note: The tale: "Once upon....Goodnight!" is a Haiku form of poetry.
The usual ashen sky
cursed the frozen road
because nothing ever changed
on that long ride home
The car skipped over the icy patches
as it so astutely had done before
there were no tepid words or half smiles
just a rattle in that old, neglected door
Yet, somehow, the car made no notice
of the rusty patches on our face
it just hugged that wintry road
leaving unforgettable tracks of rage
I remember once, when we all
laughed and stood in one place
never cowered from shadows
and the sun dried our face
But Dad raised his hand again
and I mistakenly winced in pain
I had broken my promise
we lost another game
It’s Christmas Eve and through the house
There creeps a curious little mouse.
He climbs into the big arm chair
And finds the cookies waiting there.
He only takes the smallest bite.
Santa will find his treat tonight.
He gazes with wonder at the tree
And the bright wrapped gifts left there to be
A mystery tale to tell his spouse,
When he gets home, this curious mouse.
What an adventure it has been,
He has drunk of some spilled over gin,
That had been left upon the table.
His wife will think it is a fable
He has concocted to amuse her.
She is home-bound, we must excuse her.
He once came home all out of breath
To say he had been scared to death
By a huge rat with fluffy tail.
She noticed he was very pale.
“While I was nibbling off some cheese
To bring to you, my love, to please.
He almost had me in his paws.
I’m sure he wasn’t Santa Claus”.
But this night is so very quiet.
He spies some fruitcake, has to try it.
It reminds him of that sip of gin
And wonders if his head will spin.
He hears a noise, runs for his life,
Carrying fruitcake for his wife.
Christmas morning, spread before their eyes
For the baby mice, a grand surprise.
Their mama had fixed a Christmas meal
From food their dad managed to steal.
A bit of butter, a glob of jam
And a fairly good-sized piece of ham.
Bread crumbs saved from other forays.
They had enough to eat for days.
Those little mice would never waste it.
If they didn’t like it they’d still taste it.
This food their mamma set before them,
Their dad risked his life to get it for them.
Said goodbye so many times,
To its occupants that once were babies.
New cradle to so many grand parents,
Gently rocked to sleep by memories.
Grandpa once told me he felt a kinship,
To this chair that creaked once in a while.
His limbs and its were very much the same;
Only difference was it would always have new customers.
As a little boy it was my rocking horse,
I climbed its high back like spiderman.
Couldn't tip it over no matter how hard I tried;
Just swung on a wooden toy that Grandpa hated to love.
My father sat there in that very same chair,
Swaying away in a chariot he had surely earned.
I sat next to him then and we reminisced,
Knowing that soon I would take his place.
Copyright © 2014 Robert William Gruhn - All Rights Reserved
"A poem to me is the essence of any thought,
Being built from its foundation into tower scraping sky.
It can fly like no other bird to places never seen,
Even spaceships can only dream of taking its place."
© 2014 Robert William Gruhn
A decade in to
a new millennium,
a woman, nearing
a century on Earth,
braces herself in
a doorway of
she has lived in since birth.
Her oldest son unfastens his belt, and takes a seat at the end of her table,
where her middle son just fixed the legs of the chair; to make sure it was stable.
Her youngest son brushes the webs off the wall, and scrubs the stains from the floor.
Her only daughter packs up her pictures, and helps her through the door.
A decade in to
a new millennium,
a life, almost
a century long,
comes flooding back
to the thoughts of a woman
who feels removed
from where she belongs.
Her daughter tries to lift her spirits, (from the room in which, she slept as a child)
but no one could easily witness their memories, all being sorted, and filed.
Her house is dissected, and put in a truck that waits - like a thief - in the drive.
-The cumbersome stance; the delicate dance; together, they help one another survive.
A decade in to
a new millennium,
a woman approaches
a century - passed.
A man in the attic
waves from the window -
This home will not be her last.
When I was ten I went to England
with my mother and younger sister.
It was the Queen's Silver Jubilee. For Monarchists,
you’ll know what a lot of fanfare goes on.
There were “block parties” everywhere—streets closed off
and whole neighbourhoods dancing.
And then the Royal Procession—that golden carriage,
the Queen with her little wave, Prince Phillip
smiling to the crowds of screaming people.
Like rock stars, but with really with good manners.
We did a lot of stuff in England:
went to the Tower of London,
where people used to get their heads cut off or get stretched
on the rack till they split open;
we ran through Trafalgar square,
with the pigeons that no one is allowed to feed anymore.
Going home, my Nan came with us to the airport.
I started to cry and she said; “now there,
brave soldiers don’t cry.”
I wasn’t sure that I wanted to be brave or a soldier
but I tried not to cry
when we had to go on without her.
Next thing I remember
we were at another airport,
probably in Vancouver, and my mum was in a phone booth.
My father was saying; “don’t come home right now.”
He’d decided to leave my mother and put the house up for sale.
Mum, never one to hold it together
under pressure, began to sob, incessantly.
I don’t think it stopped for a year or more.
There wasn't a "For Sale" sign on the lawn when we arrived home.
Apparently Dad had not got it organized. Nonetheless,
he had managed to pack a few things and find somewhere
(I think a girlfriend’s), to stay in the interim—of whatever this was.
My mother, looking for consolation and a shoulder,
understandably reached out to her eldest daughter of twenty-one,
only to find that she had eloped with her boyfriend.
At ten, almost eleven, the last weeks of summer lay before me.
Things were changing rapidly—most notably,
my father would move to a different city, where he’d stay for several years.
I’d get a paper route and buy my first bike with the earnings.
My younger sister withdrew into her art and
my older sister became increasingly isolated
living with an insecure husband who, when laid-off from the mill,
took to selling pot to make the mortgage.
My mum cut her hair and discovered disco.
Life has some strange curve balls.
Never could have seen these coming and not sure
how their spin affected my swing.
Sometimes, even with lousy pitches,
we can hit those balls right out of the park.
I never thought you'd be just a baby's father.
How can you call yourself a man then turn your back on your own daughter.
I wish you had to tell her to her face that you don't love her.
So you could wipe the tears from her cheeks while you make up an answer.
I can only hold her while she cries tears that I cannot relate to.
And make excuses for you of why you're missing so she don't hate you.
It’s not fair for her to be forced to deal with emotions she can't handle.
And the worst part is you never even gave her a chance at all to love you.
“My grandfather was strong and mighty, till he died at age of ninety.
The clock then stopped to run no more.
Then one of my relations wrote a song, sung for generations.
I think of it more and more:
“My grandfather’s clock was too large for the shelf,
So it stood ninety years on the floor.
It was taller by half than the old man himself,
Though it weighed not a penny-weight more . . .”
Shaken from his quaint digression, his face in tense expression,
He renewed his dire obsession
About what made the clock strike in the night.
He slipped to the room adjacent, above an empty basement,
Where stood the clock’s encasement – opened so very slight.
Moving with stealth, and in no hurry,
He saw an object hunched and furry;
His cat stood vigil in the night, with eyes reflecting light.
A mouse, the cat had faced, into the clock was chased,
And up the pendulum raced, quickly taking flight.
Climbing the clock’s encasement, the mouse’s weight displacement,
Tripped the spring so tight; it struck with awesome might!
Striking twelve it had numbered, his muddled thoughts encumbered,
Scared awake from slumber in the night.
“All of this is so confusing, could I, these years be using
The clock with spring so tight?”
In his mental delusion he added to the confusion,
For this intrusion in the night.
There was nothing he couldn’t handle
With his shotgun on the mantle by the door,
With it he could surely even up the score.
With the menace looming bigger, he quickly pulled the trigger
Then the grandfather clock was no more
And the cat and mouse— a taxidermy chore.
Dad you don’t have much time left in this world
Recently we sat and looked through yellowing photographs
Pictures I had never ever seen showing images from your past
Of places I have never visited, of faces I had never seen
One photograph in particular stunned me
It was a photograph of you in a military uniform
Standing with other men dressed the same
You were in the Lithuanian Resistance
Fighting for your freedom and that of your countrymen
Fighting against the Russians who invaded your homeland
Helping others to escape from these tyrants
Several years ago you were awarded a medal
This secret from your past was finally out in the open
Dad you are no longer an unsung hero; you are my hero
30th July 2014
Written for Unsung Hero's Contest Sponsored By Carol Eastman
Awarded 1st place
Mountain soften the gawp of sun
far beyond the boondocks,
where the fog plays in stillness,
‘fore the banties arouse the glade
When life came to Bottom Land
bare feet stomped common paths
Between the tall oak trees
echoes stood for seconds,
as tiny voices cartwheeled
from hanging rocks that bite into the dell
The Good River lend a hand, Big Sandy,
to water the Bottom Land,
three acres that fed nine mouths
and satisfy our bellies
When the snow turn up,
and pile high on the new year,
like cotton on a mule cart,
Pap wore rags to keep his toes;
we count ten in early spring
When God send Roosevelt and the WPA,
Pap wore cow hide boots like men ought to
The log cabin was heaven; we lived like gods
In winter, we listen to the hissing of burning
fir and pinewood, and Pap’s alluring hunting tales
Ma’s fried-green tomatoes and cornmeal pancakes
were more than quails falling ‘fore Mt Horeb,
and Pap was more than Moses,
We loved more than Israel,
far from the isle where milk and honey flow
My deplorable emotional collapse.
Lucky for me, she happened to be in her many hour siestas!
My dear sister amelie came over (previously arranged to pick up some rocks that z mama rolled in a pile) and upon opening the front door all internal hell broke loose!
Utter torturous sadness tore thru every fiber of my being - hence a logical explanation conclusion per the abdominal distress that thankfully diminished.
Aside from helplessness as of crumpling like a heap of cards, an extreme fright gripped me at the thought of yourself and shana returning to ramshackle mishmash.
Early today, she many hours sweeping (what her hands formerly hurled from the upstairs bedroom or glass and/or plastic containers blithely tossed on the kitchen floor) with some improvement.
Though, i might need to spend later today (Wednesday) gutting the refrigerator and discarding any potential alien life forms.
A prediction that a. you and shana will be quite sad leaving the tranquil home of the dunning family and b. stepping back into a place where disorder and entropy feast.
Please try to express sentiments per how you feel toward me! Such emotion might well be, but not necessarily limited to (just guessing) -- > anger, grief, hatred, loathing, rage.
Despite your impression or reaction toward and/or against me, i do value you more than any precious gem!
Matthew can honestly claim that "mother" acts considerably more pleasant to me. She politely greets me with what her "GOOD MORNING MISTER HARRIS"!
This message blurted soon after she espies me shuffling to the bathroom tending to that human toy let trees.
This and other of her cheery inquiries for attention (talk, contra dance, back rub...) find me practically catatonic at such ordinary desires.
Years on end never er or rarely found me to experience this personable facet, yet...SHE WANTS NOTHING TO DO WITH OCTAVIA LAMB NOR GAYLE BAIR!
As (possibly) mentioned in the previous email, i too shared similar antipathy, hostility, offer dollops of voluble vulgarity!
At some juncture in the recent past, a strong objection against reacting in that manner (no matter the three musketeers - as referred to by thee senora and chief television watcher), spoke to this papa in crudely fierce, immeasurably lambasting tone.
Matter of fact, i emailed Octavia to inform her of the legal documents en-route to her home in gap, pennsylvania and reiterated appreciation for our (albeit unwelcome and long overdo) stay at blank greentree lane.
No intent to augment change in the counterpart. We seem to be diverging in any former opinions.
Now, (meaning within the recent present)
numbness freezes and seems to cease up desire to be alive
sometimes i do not care if the grim reaper takes me for an eternal drive
aware that you and shana would be well tended in that busy bee hive
comprising cheerfulness, delight, happiness, liveliness, joy, kindness mirth,
et cetera where amity, comity, energy...does strive
among lovely offspring of shari and Andy, both troopers against challenges
as if...he married a heavenly wive.
Shari and amelie encouraged me to express churning agitation within me
which best be conveyed now rather than per your return,
where communication will be done as ease a lee.
Omg! The hour fast approaches four-ante meridian. Gawd cooks the time away. The task to organize the refrigerator hardly seems like a choice! You may not even notice since, (though the kitchen floor swept) aversion to enter the eatery might deter courage.
Your risk to board a plane considerably less than the hazards that lurk in said innocent locale.
Take care my dear.
We are on earth to know
To love Eternal God
To do good according to His will
And to go someday in heaven
Human being means to come from Eternal God
To go back to Eternal God
The Truth is
Our origins goes back farther than our parents
Our parents are Eternal God’s tool
For us to be on earth
Sometimes we feel our Creator is near
Sometimes we feel nothing at all
So that we might find the way home
Eternal God sent His Eternal Son
Who freed us from sin
Save us from the Eternal Father’s world destruction
Eternal God, wanted to destroy the world
People He created were sinning
Eternal Son stopped Him
Eternal Father is Yahweh
Means “I AM”
Eternal Son is Jesus Christ
He is the Highest Priest of the Catholic or Roman Catholic Church
We call Catholic priest, father
Represent Father Christ
He is the Highest Priest
The Eternal Father is in Him
Jesus Christ is Father Christ
He is the way
I hadn’t seen a house for an hour ; talking to a social worker, is pretty short
I’m off to a new Foster home; the Courtermarshe’s, a new Big Sister; Brenda
How much longer, Mr. Hodges I have to pee, so do I ; Behind a Mighty Oak
Harry we have to talk, I have bologna sandwiches, the family your going to today:
The Courtermarshe’s, can not have Children of there own Brenda is a foster child also
She’s going to have a hard time being a big Sister, after Alice Loved me so much
Alice and me still write back and forth, She is the Very Best “BIG SISTER”
Little did I know, how close Brenda and me would become as Black Clouds Weep
Blocking the smile of the Sun, closing the door to reality for two and a half Years
Harry, wake up there it is your New Home; Wow It’s a farm, cows, pigs, and chickens
The happiest nine year old, bolted out of the car zipping towards the Big, Red barn
Harry! Harry!! Yes Sir, Come over here and meet your Mom and Dad, Phoebe and Dan
Time for the (speech): Thank-you Mr. and Mrs. Courtermarshe, I'll try to be a good son
To be Cont.
(So sorry for the hearts I have broken
for the dreams that never came true...)
I wanted this madness to end
I have to stop this hurting spree:
1. I locked the door,
2. unlocked my gun,
3. cocked slowly, silently that no one will hear
4. and went naked (so they won't have to undress me anymore).
My uniform is neatly pressed lying in bed
with the shining badge and the laminated name plate ready.
5. Took the last breath,
6. closed my eyes,
7. then prepared for the fall (the devils inside me
rejoiced with blood and misery - as I put my finger
in the trigger).
Then a frail knock came (it was the loudest I ever heard)
the sound came less than three feet from the floor
outside the unpainted door panel
as though it was knocking in my heart.
A tiny voice called "Daddy?....Can I come inside?.."
in my mind : "Baby? Can I come inside?.."
So I let him in (and the sunlight came with him)
He asked why I am naked,
that it was cold I might get sick
He said he was hungry and cried because his playmates had left him.
I cried because I could not be completed
(We cried for a moment).
He wiped the falling debris lining in my face as he wiped his tears away,
he picked my clothes scattered in the floor
I hid my gun under my pillow in safety.
I wore what he gave me
I did what he asked of me (I went to the kitchen half-naked)
I could see he was sleepy so I went to lay him in the cradle,
he had his feed in his hands,
I have my pain reliever beside me---
as I am holding this little boy in my arms
(My angel came to rescue me and that was enough,
for the moment).
Then we both fell asleep.
His father named him Moses.
Devoid of speech yet blessed.
Doctors said he would live thirty years hereafter.
Buoyant nature and carried a smile always,
With sense of humor lived through derision.
On the day his father passed away
He sat still and hid his tears within.
Not long, few years later
His mother who would voucher him,
Understand the complexity of his heart
Laid on her final resting place,
He sat still and hid his tears within.
Later his bosom friend moved away,
He sat still and hid his tears within.
Enervate and lonely orphan he became,
Dolefully he wept when none would see.
Albeit the great sorrows of his heart,
No trauma ceased him to live mirthfully.
After thirty still he lives.
And walking through the paseo every morning,
They who pass him by with admiration schmoose of a man
Who can’t speak and had great sorrows;
Nonetheless so twinkly he lives on,
Knowing not yet parfay wishful,
when he would wake up one fine morning
And meet his loved ones again on the other side.
Another boring, Protestant Traditional, Sunday Family Dinner 1:00 pm sharp
This week it’s at Uncle David’s house in Alford, Mass. I haven’t meant Him
Actually the only Family I met so far “Momma“, Poppa, and Big Sister Brenda
YOU probably thought I was going to say “Momma, Poppa, and Baby Bear
Went for a walk in the forest“. Sorry I’m reading Goldilocks while I’m trying to Write
Brenda ( B B ) , and I use to wonder why they had to be called Momma and Poppa ?!!
Pizza for dinner, on a Saturday night ,Baths, pajamas, robes, and slippers out to the car
Alright kids, It’s a 3 hour drive to Uncle Dave’s Let’s play “Grandma’s Suitcase”
The subject Grandma is infatuated with is her : LOVE of Animals
Harry you start, Grandma went on a vacation , in her suitcase she put an alligator
Brenda, “Grandma went on a vacation, in her suitcase she puts a female Baboon
“Poppa, it’s your turn, “Grandma went a vacation, in her Suitcase she put a Catamount
I challenge You Poppa, Mount is Mountain ,not Animal I brought my dictionary, Read;
The definition of catamount; a mountain lion, Cougar A feline animal born in nature
Harry your out of the game; “Momma” Your turn “ Grandma put in her suitcase The Devil”
Rhythm In Rhyme
Remembering back, was so very sad, to lose dad.
But congenital heart disease, please! Is so very bad.
Was no thrill gathering my will, taking strife’s bitter pill.
Dad died at ease seems God was pleased, passed the test, laid at rest.
At sixty nine, heart wasn’t fine, he had done his very best.
His life quirk, was it seems hard work, did his best with little rest.
But humor was not swayed, one day I realized as he paid,
on an old beat up car, international Studebaker.
He said, “Some people drive all their life, and never have a wreck.
Has been all my life, all I’ve ever driven, by heck, is wrecks!”
I remember his words, as yesterday, his severe life’s way.
His plain quality of life, still cuts deeply as a knife.
Could not read or write was his plight; surely to some a sight.
Though he laughed and lived, no fancy earthly material to give,
his friendship was valued, for miles around, even in town.
His friends’ obvious abound, the day we laid him in the ground.
John Henry was his name; though steel driving, was never his aim.
His name was sound, in town, and for many, many miles around.
Sawmilling was his game, that so many said, was his fame.
He could saw more lumber than any, to many, a wonder.
Laughing long and loud, of his talent to saw, so very proud.
But in my childhood years, was the shedding of so many tears.
For from him to get a nod, was for me so very hard.
To me I was just a clod, while to me he was nearly God.
But in my latter years, I put away my fears, dried my tears.
For love was always in his heart; from first day of my start,
though he was a bit short, not knowing how to show that part.
I learn to know from his ways `Tis tough love, ultimately pays!'
It is now tough love that paves, me through many of life’s maze.
I love him still; that’s the deal! Bitter pill, only a life phase,
so putting flowers on his grave, is to me not a bit naïve.
For tough love made life better of the letter; of my PA'S LAW!!
Some believe that many names is a
sign of stature, of importance.
How appropriate Tata that you are called
father, well as all those other monikers
Father of so many, how did you fill the time?
Three short steps, two regular, from one end
of day, to another then back again, and again
Plenty of time to think, to brew a strong disdain
yet tea and mercy are your thirst and hunger
Monumental change can come with oppressive legions,
masks on, bayonets fixed, marching,
toe-in-step, step-in-toe, closing in,
or much more slowly, with a well-tempered gait
and careful steps, feeling a way to a new life
Sharpeville a dusty, bloody turning tide
turning emergency of state to state of emergency
yet another rational, to push, to oppress,
yet another opportunity to protest saying
"a change is gonna come", yet to wait on
I remember hearing on that cold northern Sunday
that you would be released, and drop into sight
after so many seasons, I became slightly aware,
vague to the happenings of the world,
as ascension starts to awaken me
The life of president of a country is full,
full of courageous opportunity, and pitfalls,
but to transform a nation from majority oppression,
to an erect healing democracy, is a gift of stature,
of moral fortitude, decency, a respect for humanity.
Tata, the nation of South Africa, owes much
to its first democratically elected black leader
The world, owes much to the example of you.
© Goode Guy 2013-06-28
I stumble upon a river
the way it flows and feels
I take my shoes off and run threw it
laughing looking up towards the sun
I wake up and it was all just a dream
my sister runs up the stairs
she slams her door
i asked her what was wrong
she looked at me
She says "mom told me you were adopted"
at first i laughed as i thought it was a joke
I run downstairs to see my mom and dad sitting on the couch
"mom?" i say
she replies "its true we adopted you!"
she got up and walked into the kitchen
"after all this time i thought i was yours" i say
My father gets up and walks out the door
My mom lays her hand on her forhead
Just dont worry about it everything will be okay
"No it wont i say"
i felt fake like i wasnt who i was suppose to be
i just sat on my bed thinking about the whole thing
my whole life and who i should have been
I packed my bags that light and i ran away
leaving the less important things behind
i set out on a journey to find my real parents
I had my sister get there info. from my dads office
I took a bus to indiana and looked up there address
As soon as i found it i knocked on the door
A man opened the door
he said "who are you?"
i say "apparently i am your son?!"
"you put me up for adoption?" i repeat
He yells "ANNA!?, Some kid is here for you!"
i repeat the story to her as she denied it
She looked bruised and beaten up
I wanted to help her but the man hut the door on my face
I had no where to go now
So i started on a journey back home
But i never made it there
I found that old river i use to go too
i stayed there for a few weeks until
i remembered the way back.
I found myself that day
I realized that i was fake but now im not because i know that i am just me not any of them
Hallo my friend
Pardon my intrusion into your domain
But you see, I am a student in the University of Life
Whereby I am pursuing a Doctorate Degree in the Science of Successful Living
As I was submitting my thesis of research into your life
It occurred to me that I might as well write to you directly
To save my notes from gathering dust on a professor’s shelf
The notion that you are poor is a fact I cannot deny
So I will not try to convince you otherwise
This is actually in concern of your son
You and I know that he is a good innocent child
And I know better than you that he is at a pivotal stage in life
As of now you possess so much influence over the direction his life will take
For in as much as you may not be proud of yourself in front of your peers
...who overcame similar past to make something better of their lives
...your son is very proud of you
He looks up to you with wondrous trust
And it only befits that you should be his hero
But being a hero comes with something which you are known to fear –
Well, I am not going to advise you to be responsible
For I know you live in denial mode, so you’ll look for the easiest way out
I will instead ask you to be a truthful teacher
Be brave and accept your mistakes
Then teach your son of the painful lessons you have learnt from your failures
Teach him not to limit his thinking to the unfortunate reality you have cast him into
But to dare to believe in himself
...and to listen to his heartbeat and follow its guide
Tell him that poverty is in fact a blessing
That from it he can create vivid reference of what life will be
...if he doesn’t diligently work in pursuit of his greatest dreams
Teach him to use his limitations as the source of motivation
And then tell him you believe in him
...and that he can be whatever he chooses to be
As long as he tries his honest best to be it
Tell him you support him fully, especially emotionally
The reason I am asking you to teach him
Is because the secret is that of what one is keen to teach
...he is guaranteed to learn even more than he knew before
In you teaching your son honest lessons from your heart and past
You will retrace your steps to where you got lost yourself
You will be possessed by renewed desire for success
Of your selfless and candid teachings to your son
...will emanate insurmountable delights
Dear poor dad,
It’s time to be a real dad
And you son holds that key... earn it and use it
The following is about my beloved father Albin J. Gruhn who passed away at the age of 94 years young. I Love You Dad and I am missing you so much! Robert
When Albin Gruhn got his card from the loggers union in 1934 after starting work for a Humboldt County lumber company, he never suspected that he was beginning what would become a lifelong career in California's labor movement. He went straight from high school to the lumber mills of Hammond Lumber Co. in Samoa and became a member of the Lumber and Sawmill Workers Union. A year later, in 1935, Mr. Gruhn was swept up in a bloody strike over poor working conditions that resulted in the deaths of three union workers.
He spent 36 years as President of the California Labor Federation, AFL-CIO, helping build the organization into a political and social powerhouse in the state.
"Few can match Al Gruhn's devotion to working men and women," said Art Pulaski, labor federation's executive secretary-treasurer. "Driven by his passion for justice in the workplace, Al's career has been an inspiration for all of us. He never backed down from a fight."
He was blacklisted by the lumber companies and joined the Laborers' Union, becoming secretary of the Eureka Federated Trades and Labor Council at the age of 22. In 1940, he was elected district vice president of the state labor federation and took over as the organization's President in 1960. He held that job until his retirement in 1996.
In 1972 he became a founding officer, and ultimately president emeritus, of the Consumer Federation of California.
"Al was a great pioneer of the consumer movement in California," said Jim Gordon, the federation's president. "Al Gruhn always had the interests of consumers and working people in his heart. He built bridges between the consumer movement and our allies in organized labor and in the community."
Mr. Gruhn served on a number of state and local commissions, accepting appointments from Govs. Earl Warren, Goodwin Knight, Edmund G. "Pat" Brown, George Deukmejian and Jerry Brown. He was a member from 1964 to 1971 of the California Constitution Revision Commission.
"The union movement was the cause of his life,"
Mr. Gruhn's son Robert said when his father retired at age 81, speakers at his retirement dinner included the Rev. Jesse Jackson, then-Lt. Gov. Gray Davis and current U.S. Secretary of Labor, Hilda Solis, who called Mr. Gruhn her "godfather" for his career advice.
Read more about my Dad at "Google Search"
How hard could it be to take my first step?
“Come to mommy, you can do it.”
“Oh you're home. Hon, look at him go.”
As I take another step, he picks me up.
He hugs me tight but gently and kisses me on the cheek.
I feel so safe, loved and happy. Perhaps that's how it was.
(I really don't remember back that far.)
How hard could it be, my first day at school.
My mom meets me at the front door of the building,
hugs me and says, “How was your first day? Did you have fun today?”
He comes home after a hard day at work and mom says,
“Hi Hon, it was Den’s first day of school.”
He picks me up in his strong arms and says,
“I knew you could do it.” A hug and a kiss on the cheek.
How hard could it be to learn how to drive a car or a truck?
“Den, come with me. Let's take a short ride down the road.”
We both climb up into Dad's blue 1955 Chevy pickup.
He stops on the back road, gets out, comes around and says, “Scoot over. It's
I start the engine, push in the clutch, shift and we start out slowly.
I'm nervous, I speed up, clutch in, shift again.
Oh crap, I shifted into reverse, truck stopped abruptly and backfired.
Dad looks at me, “But you did it.“ He hugs me, a kiss on the cheek.
How hard could it be to go away to college?
I'm so glad she has a phone so I can call my mom and dad.
“Hi Den, how are things going? You've got a B average.
That's great. I knew you could do it. I love you, see you soon.”
“You met a girl? What's her name? Wow, see you soon. I love you”
“You want to marry her? Big step; in Holland? Okay, we love you.”
How hard could it be to have a family?
“Oh, it's a girl. Mireille, that's a nice name.” He hugs me, kiss on the cheek.
“Another girl, Michelle, that's a nice name too.” He hugs me, kiss on the cheek.
“You finally had a boy, Michael, good choice.” Hug and a kiss.
Birthdays, holidays, weekends, visits back and forth, phone calls.
He loves them all, unconditionally. Hugs and kisses all around.
How hard could it be as life goes on?
He watches them grow up, get married and have children.
He loves them all, unconditionally, hugs and kisses all around.
We take short trips and mom and Dad go with us now and then.
We go camping and mom and Dad visit us now and then.
Every time you left, hugs and kisses all around. Always, “See you soon.”
stammered, “Because, if Brian ran away, I saw him earlier today, downtown! And
he bought me an ice cream cone! And we talked and were even laughing at a joke
I’d just told! He was all dressed up and I asked him where he was going all
dressed up on a Saturday. He just laughed and said that, he was on an errand and
he was going back home. He said that he would see me later. Then I said that I
would come by to tell him about the trip. We said good bye and he walked away!
Papa’s face turned to stone as he starred in silence, and poor Thomas just stood in
that spot like a statute. My oldest sister or someone asked him what kind of
clothing Brian was wearing. He answered that Brian was wearing a grey suit, white
shirt and a burgundy bow tie! He described the outfit down to the shoes Brian
wore. With that said, Papa, wide-eyed called was rising out of his chair in slow
motion as he called out to Mama to come and hear this. Slowly, his tall frame stood
in silence. Those were the exact clothes that Brian was buried in. There is no way
Thomas could have known what kind of clothing Brian had been buried in because;
his parents weren’t at home when he returned from camp. He had returned much
earlier than was expected. He didn’t unpack his bags, being in a hurry to get to the
store downtown as they closed early on Saturdays. After, he would go and visit
Brian to share about the trip. Brian’s burial clothes were all new and made by the
local tailor! Thomas ran out of the house and my Father ran after him. The grieving
had begun all over again. We never did see our dog, Blackie again. The following
year we moved away. I am grateful for memories because even though my brother
Brian died long ago, I still remember his handsome face, even his voice, the way he
walked, his beautiful smile, and the many times he would carry me up on his
shoulders to safety in escaping from an abusive uncle.
Next time I see my brother Brian, we will be together again, this time forever.
Are you strong, young man? Can you help me keep this Farm going?
Do you fear hard work? Calluses on your fingers and hands “tough Love”
You will be a great man, you follow my directions , People watch You growing
You can have “ A Real Life “ something to Love; Love from GOD Above
Dad I appreciate Your taking me in; giving me, shelter through a Stormy Life
Yes I accept , the rules of Your House; I will be diligent in my chores
The day starts at 3:45 AM , milk the cows; out to pasture before 5 O’clock
Muck out the stable, feed the chickens, Slop the hogs, breakfast at six
Your tutor will be here from nine ‘til noon; Have a shower, he’ll be here soon
I( walk to the house, and what do I see; Brenda’s Eyes, Red like fire, a serene Blue
I hear the Pain : “She Screams” I feel the Violations She had to Endure
Brenda, What’s wrong, I have seen pains of fear, pains of life, pains of Death
Your face shows all, from the mountain top, to the deep Waterfalls Depths
You are my Older Sister; “I’m concerned : Is that blood on Your Dress??
To be Cont.
Please help me get a second chance to make up for my past wrongdoing
Send me the Holy Spirit to choose the right path
Provide me Your Seven Gifts of the Holy Spirit to help me better myself
Wisdom to have a deep understanding on what and how to change
Knowledge to know the reasons inside my sudden change
Counsel me to give advice in choosing to take on which direction to go to
Understanding to comprehend every situation
Fortitude to have strength to be courageous on making a stand
Piety, to be faithful and offer goodness to others
Fear of the Lord to maintain Holy Fear to God
Thank You for Your help in transforming me
I respectfully ask this in the name of Father Christ Jesus for sending me the 7 Gifts of the Holy Spirit.
(Change “I”, “me” or “myself” when praying for someone or a group.)
I dont know much about her
but I heard she wasnt that talkative
She didnt like being alive
She was numb to all the pain she had to go through
I heard she didnt like anything that was green
She ate roman noodles everynight for supper
She always wore flannels and bellbottoms
Sometimes i seen her wear dresses and fancy tops
But lately shes been wearing band shirts
She wears converse shoes and uses an army bag for school
I know that she dosent like to communicate through talking... only through her peoms
or sometimes even her songs.
I see her drawing and painting all the time
She draws famous people
She would like to be famous and not so unknown
When she tries to speak to anyone they always walk away and leave her alone
When she gets home she goes upstairs to play her bass guitar
She hates chocolate cake but loves chocolate
Her family left her behind because she cant forget her past
Sometimes when shes alone she contemplates the meaning behind her life
Her favorite color is gray because her life is black and white
Everything she says is false according to the world
She is not so innocent
I understand that she dreams about the perfect life
When she opens her eyes they are pitch black
She is someone that is fake
She acts nothing like she should
She is very grungy and unclean
She knows of no safety
and of no time
Her life is smashed into pieces by the giant sun
She will always be a ghost
She knows of no god
She crawls around in the world of death
She remains forgotten
When your with people you think you can trust
and you get a bit to drunk
and you thought you could trust him
after all your mom loved him
and you go to bed just afer 2
and mom went to bed just after 1
and he came in room just after 4
so you ask him for a pill...
He gets you the pill and you take it for your head
and then you lay back down
and then his hand snakes out
and then his lips meet yours
smell the beer
and his hand slides under your gown
and you just cant say no
and his touches, soft but rough
and he plays with your untuoched parts
and you try to turn but you cant
and you finnaly win and turn
and he silently walks away
and whispers to the dark room
are you drunk
are you drunk
are you drunk
and you wish you could say that you were
so you can turn, fall asleep, and forget
and you know in deep and dark thoughts...
your not drunk
your not drunk
your not drunk
There is a river nearby
A black green mystery of water
That standing at one end
One can hardly see the dim
Outline of trees on the other side.
The river is deep
And in the stillness
Of early morning
A mist comes
So thick and impervious
That you literally can't
See your hand
In front of your face.
We frequented the place
My father and I
On Sunday mornings
After the sun burned the mist away
I, as usual, hurrying up
To keep up with him.
Years later when I left home
My father shook my hand
A formality I was
And one that left me puzzled.
Awkwardly, we said goodbye
Then he walked away
His broad back
Into the caverns of Grand Central
Until he disappeared
In the noise and smoke of
When the train whistle blew
My heart jumped
I felt a thrill
My life had a purpose
Finally, I was on my own!
Events tell a story
I made mistakes
Stumbling from impossible dreams
To vague ideas
And found that loneliness
Was all intimidating
Painfully, I realized
All I had to offer life
Was my own confusion.
Not every life has a storybook ending
And mine was no different
I retuned home
After one year.
Restless one night
I stood on the river's edge
Listening to a solitary boat crossing the river
Plying its cargo up and down the coast
In the darkness a buoy gave up its warning
A deep clanging sound in the mist
Turning to see where the sound came from
I stood motionless
There was nothing but silence
And the soft lapping of waves on the shore
As it was since the beginning of time.
In the quiet
I remembered the early morning walks with my father
A familiar Sunday morning ritual
I now missed.
Overhead a moon shone
Casting a pale light on everyone and everything
And I stood still
Knowing that I had lost my way
Knowing that the river was calling from the night
Knowing that I was a solitary figure
Lost in America.
My father is now pitching the bottom of the ninth inning.
We need a few more tests to determine just how many outs he has left.
I had the opportunity this past weekend to visit him on the mound and ask him how
he was feeling.
“I still feel like I can get them out” he said, “I just wasn’t expecting Cancer to come
to the plate.”
My mother has caught all nine innings and she still remains the receiver of this
One of the seven fielders behind him had to leave the game early and awaits him in
the great beyond.
We all wait anxiously for the scouting report to help us determine just how to attack
this batter as he steps up to the plate.
We may be able to throw fast balls and get him out with an operation.
Or, if he has spread out too far, curve balls, chemotherapy and radiation may be the
Or, if he is too formidable, we may just need to intentionally walk him.
The test results will help us determine our plan of attack.
Regardless, however, my father has pitched a masterful game.
I tipped my hat to him as I returned back to Seattle while he confers with his
battery mate and waits for the test results.
All of his fans are now aware of the batter he faces and all have risen to their feet in
applause and gratitude for the way he has played the game.
I learned this game and much more from the old man.
I would consider myself a blessed man if I could manage to play it half as good as
One thing I know – he will face this batter, be it his last or not, just like all the
others; with a smart ass grin on his face and the assured confidence that it is he
who is the better man in this struggle.
Go get him, Dad.
Regardless of the outcome, it is already known that you have won the game.
We couldn’t be any prouder of how you played it.
I am glad you get the chance to hear the standing ovation – you deserve it.
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.
I see my daddy sometimes what we talk about is between him and I.
To be in his arms one more time you name it, I promise I wouldnt put up a fight...
It's been almost ten years and Im still grieving
I remember that phone call when they said he was no longer breathing
In my mind I was thinking everybody knows my daddy likes to play games that negro
As time started fading away reality hit me and I had to check my own pulse to see if my
heart was still beating...
Being in a state of shock my thoughts kept repeating, flashbacks of those nights when
I deserved a beating, you loved me so much I was never was mistreated...
Every night before I closed my eyes you always repeated those three special words
that young girl needs to hear, and even though your not physically here if I close
my eyes tightly not only does your face reappear, but I can softly hear you speak
to me in my ear.
My father gone these forty years,
my mother gone twenty, I remember...
the acrid smell of tobacco
on my mother’s rough fingers,
as she sat, silently,
in a predawn Texas coastal town,
my head in her lap, the short-wave
radio crackling with static.
She strained to hear the chatter of
shrimpers in the Gulf of Mexico,
yelling out to each other
in Cajun patois French,
Mexican Spanish, accented English;
she stroked my nine-year-old hair,
her middle-aged body aching,
hungry, worried, sleepless,
far from her roots, stranded
in this strange, dry,
totally foreign place.
Her imaginings of my father’s
struggles with the sea
and its weathers filled her mind,
and she knew, all the while, that
even if he were safe, earning money,
he (and she) would fail
and we would still suffer
the poverty of the hopeless
and desperate doomed
whose minor, occasional comforts
were only, onshore, the cold beers
and noisy camaraderie of the others
like him, like her,
Waiting silently by the phone was all he had.
Grasping the bottle he drank greedily.
The waiting was all he had at the moment.
He roared,"arrrrrgh!"And the sound comforted him.
He dialed his son to wish him Happy Holiday.
The son had no father but he waited too.
Like a cast away he scanned the bottle searching for a note.
The two went back to the waiting and it helped.
It was something to do to kill time and it was honest.
The sea was deep and danger waited there too.
So all three gathered together in silence.
The father sent memories on the ferry to the son.
"Arrrrrgh," helped and it comforted the man.
He was in the navy so he loved the sea and the sea returned it.
The father watched and scanned the waves with hope.
And the gulls screaming words that only gulls understand.
What will become of me after the message is delivered?
Will I ever cross and grasping the bottle.
I loved you and The Sea.
Waking I wander where did those happy days go.
My New Year resolution is to shed those unnecessary thoughts.
My Comforter will guide me and wants this for me.
Patiently He answers my unspoken prayer.
And childlike I stomp them where they lie.
They will tantalize me no more as I crush them.
And I play with those toys in the dirt where i was free.
Mother calls me to dinner and washes my hands and face.
Tomorrow I will clean up the mess I left.
I need to rid myself of the filth.
I wear my past like new clothes that are stiff.
They need to be washed and dried and softened.
The doctor will have me lie on her couch and prattle.
She will take me to the cleaners and steam the past.
Sitting at the top of the stairs and listening.
With my tears running famously and glistening.
I hear the television and you slowly drink your beer.
Mom waitresses while father and his greed cracks another year.
Tomorrow I will clean up the mess I left.
I need to rid myself of the filth.
I hear you sing the song as I sit on the doctors couch.
Crying and wonder if it is my fault and the rope is lowered.
The strangers hand reach for me and they hold me tight.
Bathe me with whispers not to tell every night.
Footprints to Follow
Father's bare feet left footprints in the sand
Young son followed, each step carefully planned
Tim wanted so much to be like his Dad
Always emulating, quite a sweet lad
So as you leave impressions on life's shore
Remember your path will not be ignored
Tread gently, leave prints that make your kids proud
Step far away from the perilous crowd
Stop at times, build sandcastles, pick up shells
Memories can't be erased by sea swells
Imprints on children's hearts last forever
Keep this in mind through every endeavor
A child may be following your footsteps
Always make your marks with loving precepts
When I read this poem, Carolyn, I picture my husband and son in those moments when they don't realize they're being watched. How my son looks at his dad is priceless. He hangs on his every word and wants to emulate his every action. My son is only four and I know one day in the near future, this will change (especially in those teenage years!), but I hope he follows in his dad's footsteps. My husband is a kind, loving and hardworking family man. Thank you for writing this beautiful poem. I have printed a copy of it for my husband to keep as a reminder of the tiny feet carefully stepping close behind his. As a parent, nothing is more important than our "impressions on life's shore". God bless you, Carolyn. Your golden heart shines through your words. Love and Blessings, Rhonda
A cat walked across the street
(After looking both ways).
It was a pretty Kitty.
There were trees across the street.
In the trees there were squirrels.
The squirrels raised families.
They ate acorns,
they made babies,
A cat stepped across the street.
(After looking one way).
It was a pretty stray Kitty.
Across the street there were farmlands.
In the farmlands lived humans.
The humans raised many different plants.
The humans fed these plants to many types of animals.
Then the animals gave the humans “gifts”.
Which the humans ate, drank, and made into money.
Then they had sex (like animals).
A cat ran across the street.
It was a pretty curious stray Kitty.
It was run over by a taxi.
Riding inside the taxi were a Father and Son.
The Father remained unconcerned.
The Son frowned, looked out the window, and wept.
“The poor Kitty,” he said staring down at his hands.
“Why Dad, why did the Kitty have to die?” he asked.
“Son, the Kitty didn’t die; it went to Kitty Heaven.”
He answered almost-smiling at his Son now watching
the traffic consume outside quickly, noiselessly.
A cat stumbled across the street.
(At midnight, eyes closed).
Just some Goddamed kitty cat.
The Kitty was crushed by a taxi and by an ambulance
and by a Greyhound bus and by a mini-van.
All tomorrow bound and running a day late.
Thump! Thump-thump! and all Kitty’s bones shattered,
as a car window shatters (into thousands of perfect cubes).
Kitty’s use-to-be head popped like a water balloon;
that some homeless child dropped on a hot sidewalk-
in New York City summertime.
Its lifeless body was vomited up against-
wheel well wheel well wheel well, eventually
spiraling into a drainage ditch off the highway.
Where it laid epileptically twitching.
Yellow eyes now open and looking forever
upward at the hazy stars of almost June
in the Twenty-first century, respectfully.
When my day is over
And I approach our home
My heart starts to get heavy
Knowing I will be alone
I have to take a deep breath
when I open up the door
With the memories of your smile
As you're running down the hall
you'd hold your arms up high
With your eyes shining so bright
reaching up on tip-toes
so I can hold you tight
I long to hear those questions
Come flooding from your lips
Like where do apples come from
Or why can't I have nits
When you're a little older
I show you what I write
So you'll know Daddy loves you
When you go to bed at night
Joined: June 20th, 2012, 12:34 pm
For you I’ll plant this tree
Upon the ground that you’ve walked
There to grow and shade and feed
The friends that you’ve made.
May this tree bear sweet fruit
Found only in this place
Where others will come to learn of you
And benefit from your grace.
For you I’ll tend this field
Filled with bounteous food
For which you labored many years
Through endless droughts
And lonely tears.
May this food feed the hungry
Enriching many lives
To give their best,
And to the many hopeless, rest.
For you I’ll repair this barn
Mending every nail, painting planks,
Cleaning tanks, and stacking each bail.
Here you toiled in the heat
With aching blisters
On your hands and feet.
May this barn shelter the homeless,
The lonely and oppressed
Where broken lives are mended
With loving kindness.
For you I’ll guard this house
Protecting every treasure
From the thieves of night
And the sun’s light.
The lessons that you taught me
Shine brighter than gold;
They neither rust nor fade
Nor tarnish when old.
May this treasure be spent
To cultivate minds
To burn brighter than the luster
That money finds.
For you I’ll tend this grave
Cleaning off your stone,
Trimming the grass
And plucking the weeds
That have grown.
How quiet it is here among so many trees
Like the leaves that have fallen
You’re honored among these.
May this grave beneath the soil
Remind us of our Lord
That death has been conquered,
And life to all has been restored.
For you I’ll shed these tears
And mourn you for my loss,
Yet, through the haze of disbelief
I see an empty cross.
May these tears be fruitful
And water with my love
The tree that I just planted
For my father, now above.
The light I see
In your eyes
only when I speak of her.
Our little one.
She would have had your eyes,
she would have had my hair
and my my mouth.
Our little girl would have been perfect.
But that horrible day in July,
I cried and I hated myself.
That horrific day in July when I lost her.
My world broke down.
Now when I speak of her.
Your eyes water up,
as do mine.
But one day we'll see her.
Our little girl,
is waiting for us.
And one day,
she'll finally say daddy.
Our little girl.
The sapling and the wood.. Steve Hudson
What would I tell my sons if my days were soon ending?
I would tell them:
Oh my dear precious sons
Our time on this earth is too short,
My eyes dim for a moment, only to brighten on larger frames,
With your heads on my chest, I embrace you, afraid of letting go,
Wanting to spare you from the world I left behind, with its terrors of the night,
Sometimes life will cut you down
You will feel like you can’t carry its burden
And hope may lose all definition
But find your heart in the face of doubt and uncertainty.
For you have a father who loves beyond measure
Here on earth, and in Heaven,
A father who will never stop fighting for you, believing for you
Pursue the one thing that makes you come alive
And be that to the world around you,
May Jesus Christ be the center and purpose of your very being.
For nothing on this earth will satisfy like the Bread of Life.
If you’re afraid, do it anyway,
And know that if its right, whatever happens because of it
Is worth the outcome.
Never lose the wonder of the first time,
Live with honor, valor and passion,
Be the men you want others to be
Walk in such a way, that they would not quickly try you,
Though such would quickly follow you to the end.
Know that I have done my best for you with what I had,
My hope is that it was enough.
A La Familia'
Out of much respect' for the family..
The innocent need their protection,
Loyalty with honor come from within the heart'
We have all chosen this life..,
Against the vile an unfamiliar strife,
All for the benefit of the family,
Within solace we can find order and peace'
Machavelli made his chose just as others follow suit'
Yet with the wicked they have no rest'
Too much time on their hands to even pass a test,
No where to even lay their heads ?
It was a bitter cold day'
Many having paying ample homage by which to bow the knee to pray'
With utter disastrous consquences in store lest I implore another opened door ?
Through the many years the family would grow'
I guess it's not what you know but what you are told ?
Yet still the crust of the bisquit is the apostrphe'
We made all our shady deals right their in the back !
Sal was working much too hard'
In effect this gave him a dramatic heart attack'
Yet clearer heads had prevailed still some found theirs in the sewer ?
Billy Joel was right even though he had suffered'
Overcome when faced by Elton John from an alcohol addiction,
Now was there something other that I was missing ?
Only two tone Jimmy was the latest thing'
Got the sell that everybody needs'
Many in effect just want to watch as you lie there and bleed ?
It’s only a ring
That is true;
Yet, this ring my
Upon his finger it
It was worn,
Though like a thorn.
A price was paid
For the right to bear
To fight the fight,
To conquer the night,
To prosper in life,
To comfort his wife.
I was young
When my father stood
Upon a stage and shook
The hand of an academic man.
Yet, like a thief,
Death placed this ring
Into my hand.
It’s only a ring
That is true;
Yet, this ring I knew too.
Eternal Father stepped down and gave His thrown to Eternal Son
We are on the New Testament with God the Son
Angel Gabriel told Mother Mary to name Him “Jesus”, when He was a Jew
He grew, started a Universal Church and was baptized by St. John the Baptist
Eternal Father, Yahweh gave Him a name of “Christ”
Apostle is a Priest
Eternal Son is the Apostle of Eternal Father
He is the Highest Priest of the Universal Church
Universal is Catholic or Roman Catholic Church
He didn’t need to be baptized
But He did anyway to for the righteous
He ordered 12 Apostles to preach His Gospel
Eternal Son is the Apostle of Eternal Father
Eternal Son is Father Christ
Father Christ is the Highest Priest of the Catholic or Roman Catholic Church
Should we not call Him “Father” for the righteous?
A long and narrow road. Trees stretched in the summer breeze.
The dirt and fallen leaves crescendoed under my footsteps.
As I walked down this road, my mind turned to the towering trees.
They were cool, and smooth to the touch.
I closed my eyes and breathed.
I could smell salt in the air, and I knew that ocean was near.
I emerged from the end of the road
There I found a great white house, perched at a sea-side cliff.
The salty winds had taken a toll on the old mansion, it’s paint chipped.
An old man came into view. He sat on an old log overlooking the sea.
He had a fiddle and bow in hand.
He contemplated, pondered, and thought, of the perfect note to end his song.
Then he heard me, and called me over.
He told me to sit, and be still, to open my mind to the notes he played.
Together we sat, on that sea cliff, as he played on that old fiddle of his.
Nothing seemed to matter, not the time, nor the weather.
Everything was peaceful, as we sat, listening to that old fiddle, of his.
Way aback upon the fog of the swamp and the itch of the tree
lay a beautiful lady that no one ever got to see.
She was a runaway of sorts but not by her will.
She ran to stay alive so that she would not be the next kill.
Now she sits in her little house with her grandfather trying to do what she can do
but she hasn't seen a soul since five years old and her grandfather had given up very
Her grandfather said it was an army that came through her town that carried off everyone
who spoke her tongue.
Out of the bed she was pulled and they began to run.
They had heard the stories that were put by her grandfather into her ear.
Stories of unspeakable things, ones that brought panic and fear.
Her grandfather lifted her in his arms and ran as fast as he could frantic to stay alive.
It wasn't until they were well into the woods he realized the others had been left behind.
For the first time she'd seen a grown man cry.
Then he hugged her closer and through the woods they began to fly.
Now they sit in their home waiting for any news.
The people in his town knew this house and she waited for any clues.
That hope had gone along with her grandfather's mind.
The house was so far back it seemed just to hard to find.
One day the beautiful lady saw something move and out of the house she ran.
It was a man.
He looked at her with an admiring face.
His eyes began to gaze.
The woman was beautiful but she never knew.
She had nothing to compare herself to.
The man was dressed in very unusual clothes.
She heard something ring and was shocked to see a cellular phone.
She wondered what had happen over the past fifteen years since she'd been here.
A phone with no cords. How queer?
He hung up the phone and she ran to him "What's going on with the Jews in Germany?"
"What is going on with the war?"
The man looked very concerned and knew not what to say for sure.
"Ma'am, That war has been over for many years. It's 2004."
Your imagination...they created...
Your thoughts into life...they translated....
You gave me life and sent me into this world...
They honored your wish and gave me birth.
They nurtured the seed that you sowed...
Treated me as a blessing and not a load...
The right path in life, to me they showed...
Love and affection on me they showered.
To make my happy, very hard they worked....
From fulfilling my wishes, they never shirked....
Education, food and a lovely family, to me they gave....
With a sweet smile, all my mistakes they forgave....
Their protective hand saved me from troubles....
With them around, I never stumbled....
With your creation they never fumbled....
Giving you no chance to grumble....
Hence dear god, I say to you....
For me ,my parents rank before you....
In total gratitude, let us together...
Say “Thank you” to my mother and father.
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.
Father of children… by: Steve Hudson
Helpless and frail you came to me,
In wonder and curiosity you gazed,
The beginning of a relationship forged in blood,
The created becoming creator, a gift from The Father to another,
I am afraid because I feel the weight of responsibility
Upon my shoulders.
Precious life entrusted to me, trusting me,
You wrapped your fingers around mine
Like you wrapped your heart around mine,
I see reflections of me in your gleaming eyes,
Like reflections of me in waters disturbed.
You have colored my life with the fragrance of joy,
Yes, stained the fabric of my very being with tears
And blood, spilt over a lifetime of failures and success.
Laughter you bring, character you exude,
Watching you grow, learning together, and sharing our lives
Has been an honor my dear ones.
At the end of every worship service Zechariah stood at the entrance of the church and shook hands
with his members. "Pastor Zechariah you really out did your self this time" said sister Naomi as she
shook hands with Zechariah. "Why think you Naomi it really warms my heart to hear you say that".
I'm going to warm more than your heart. Naomi said to herself as she exited The Voice of God
Ministries. When all of Zechariah's members were gone he and his daughters piled back into their
family car and drove to Neptune a seafood restaurant. Zechariah asked Mary the church's treasury
how much money did the church raise. "$400" answered Mary. "That's a little light" Zechariah
voice was filled with disappointment.
Written by Keith Edward Baucum aka Red Seven aka The Green Poet aka The Brown Philosopher
TODAY I TOOK A LOOK INTO MY BROKEN MIRROR
IT REFLECTED BACK THE IMPERFECT ME
THE OTHER SIDE OF THE PERFECT THAT THE IMPERFECTS DON’T WANT TO KNOW
CAN I AMEND THE BROKEN PIECES OF MY MIRROR?
I FORGOT TO PUT ON MY LIPSTICK ON MY WEEDING DAY, GOSH MY HUSBAND SAW THE IMPERFECT ME
THE CAPTAIN JUST TOLD THE CREW HE FORGOT TO BRING ALONG HIS COMPASS
THE IDEALIST STRIVE FOR PERFECTION FROM THE FATHER ABOVE BUT THE TRUE SON OF THE FATHER ONCE SAID “HE WHO WAS PERFECT WAS TO CAST THE FIRST STONE”
BECAUSE OF OUR STAINED SOULS, A UNIVERSAL DETERGENT WAS POURED ON EACH SOUL TO BRING PERFECTION DEFERRING THE LAWS OF AFFECTION
THE HEART OF MAN IS FULL OF CORRUPTION CONSTANTLY BLEEDING OUT CONTEMPT WITHOUT CLOTTING
BUT WE NEED TO FIGHT EAGERLY AGAINST EVERY UNCERTAINTIES WITHOUT HESITATING
NO MATTER HOW HARD WE FIGHT THESE UNCERTAINTIES EVERYONE WILL DIE TRYING
MY PERFECTION IS LIMITED BEFORE MY IMPERFECTION AND THAT MAKES ME PERFECTLY IMPERFECT SOUL
When I was a young boy of five years old, I became very ill. My parents took me to the Doctors shortly after Christmas. I was immediately rushed to the hospital and there I would stay for the next six months of my young life.
Even though I had five siblings, my father would visit me in the hospital every day. The nurses assumed I must be an only child based on how much time my father spent visiting me.
When it came time for my father to go home each night, we had a little ritual we would perform. My father would try to sneak me out of the hospital to take me home. I would climb out of bed, stand on top of my father’s feet and wrap my arms around his waist. My father would button up his long trench coat over top of me and start walking out of my hospital room with me holding on tight.
As soon as we reached the nurses’ station outside my room, one of the nurses would stop us and say I was not well enough to go home yet and we would return to my room where my father tucked me in for the night.
One night, for some reason, we made it past the nurses’ station all the way to the top of the stairwell exiting the hospital. My father unwrapped his trench coat and announced we had made it! We could go down the stairs, out of the hospital and home to my mother, brothers and sisters.
I remember standing at the top of the steps looking down the long stairwell to the door leading outside to freedom; away from the doctors, away from the needles, away from the medicines, away from lonely nights, away from fear, away.
We stood there for what seemed like an eternity. My father said it was up to me. Do we go home or stay there?
The image of that long stairwell has stayed with me ever since. Whenever I feel conflicted in my life; whenever I have a tough decision to make; whenever I am under stress; I see the image of that stairwell and the choices it represented to me.
On that night in 1963, I told my father we had better go back to my hospital room until I was well enough to go home. Most times in my life since then, I have made the practical, safe decision. But every once in a while – with the image of a frightened boy standing at the top of the stairwell in my mind – I have decided to take the chance and walk out that door. Luckily for me, my decisions seem to all work well for me.
But, that image still returns as those tough decisions seem to repeatedly present themselves. I am just glad I am still around to make the choice.
SEA TO SHINNING SEA,
...this is so intimate of time, as a first kiss of time is...so close of soul, so near, so dear of heart beat, so precious a rhyme that flows so intimately,
deep of time, down by the Crystal Seas...
...this is so intimate of dreams,
as the Crystal Sea so reveals of destinies galore,
destined as the night light of the moon-glows of starry eyes,
upon the waters,
...seeing tranquility upon the waves...
watching to the depth of a dream,
and a sun-rise
being so true...
for underneath and within this a moon-lit poem of starry night eyes, down by the Crystal Seas, a vessel sets sail upon the deep...into a kiss of dawn...
Sea to shinning Sea.
He walks with confidence he has protected his family. The successful banker has
done well for his family and his mind is set in stone that he is right eternally.
He does not care if others make the right journey.
He smiles and is satisfied that he rebuked the poor family away from his church. The
poor family with the smart mouth child, who eats too much candy and stole some
quarters. The child whose father rejected him and has no use for his illigetimate son.
The father sends his twenty-five dollars a week to quiet the child support monkey on
his back. The child cries himself to sleep to know his father has no use for him.
Somewhere a hand reaches to the wayward child, to comfort and love. Somewhere
there is love, but not at this disharmonious church!
Don't come to this church unless you have your tithes and clean clothes and know the
I have come to call the sinners!
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
The Curse on The First Love
I cannot marry you I must take another
The love I felt for you was really as a brother
The girl is astounded as his child grows within her
She know it’s a lie now how could she endure
The young girl curses as the village she leaves
The man left behind now for him she will grieve
He chose another under great family pressure
She cursed all and his like for taking this measure.
The century’s passed but the curse still endured
The first love of each man or woman incurred
The wrath of the Witch that cursed years ago
When her first love abandoned for wealth, or she thought so.
A young girl a descendant of that first Witch fell in love with a boy
But the father was not happy and said there would be no joy
The girl was not good enough for his beloved son
He would marry for money or he would marry no one
The girl was angry and hurt beyond her belief
She heard of the curse and to assuage her grief
She called down the wrath of the Witch on the mans first love
She got on her knees and prayed to above
The father of the boy fell under the curse
His first love disappeared and what was made worse
The Witch’s descendent he knew the story of
But the girl was his daughter and was born out of love.
The grief of the father, of the boy he would not let wed
Had struck home at the family right at the head
The girl from next door was gone, his first love no more
The daughter given birth too by his sweet paramour.
13/02/2012 Entry For The Twisted Minds Contest
In that far northern part was where I was born,
Over forty years ago my journey started in my home.
My Mom and Dad worked so hard to feed us eight kids,
If one can learn to love anyone in this world it was them.
My mom told me one day her mom was born on a wagon train,
Of how Great Grandma traveled over Donner Pass in winter,
Just two weeks after the Donner Party passed away.
Great Grandpa never got over it she would say.
Still, 16 children her mom would birth way back then,
It gave me enough aunts and uncles and cousins for life.
In fact it was almost enough to start our own small town,
Of course that's also another story left for the pondering.
My Dad's real father died when Dad was only 4 months old.
His name was Charles Epps and was kin to the Wilkinsons,
Dad has told me stories of the famous English iron masters,
And of how George Washington by marriage was my relative.
Isn't it funny how that fact now makes no difference to me?
Because I feel akin to all my brothers and sisters of earth.
We all started somewhere on this world and no matter where,
And I didn't have a damned thing to do with what George did.
So isn't that much more relative to the point we all make?
All I know is I watched my Mother and Father sacrifice for us,
That is all that truly matters and is all that truly counts.
To love all the billions is what flies my current mortality.
Famous or unknown we all end up just exactly the same,
Spirits with no mortal baggage holding us down for take-off.
Free at last to roam a universe forever untied from greed,
And beyond a place that once was called a human's paradise.
Copyright © 2014 Robert William Gruhn - All Rights Reserved
"A poem to me is the essence of any thought,
Being built from its foundation into tower scraping sky.
It can fly like no other bird to places never seen,
Even spaceships can only dream of taking its place."
© 2014 Robert William Gruhn
Spencer just turned 7 the other day.
My wife and I adopted Spencer after many years of trying to add to our family the
old fashioned way; then, after a few years of trying to add to our family the
newfangled, medically assisted way.
My three biological children from a previous marriage lived with us from the time
they were 12, 10 and 6. By the time we got around to going the adoption route the
two oldest were already in and out of college and the youngest was a senior in high
school. No empty nest for us, just a fast train to insanity.
I started my family, a story for another time, when I was just twenty-one. After
being the youngest father of most of their peers, I was now going to get to
experience being the oldest father this time around.
People say that as an older parent you are more patient and understanding – I am
not so sure that I agree; I just think fewer things bother you and you learn to
realize that rules are not so important. Many times, I think, as parents, we simply
enforce rules because we can.
Spencer loves to dip his foods. He dips his mandarin orange slices in ketchup. He
dips his French fries in caramel meant for apple slices. He dips his cheese in his
yogurt. Basically, whatever we serve him, if it’s a solid, of any kind, it gets dipped in
the soft, liquidy food that happens to be closest to him.
Years ago, I probably would have not only tried to convince him that this was
wrong, but I am pretty sure I would have forbidden him to do that. Now? What do
I care? If he likes it and he eats his broccoli, what do I care that he dips it in his
A few years ago, Spencer and I went on a father son excursion to buy him his first
gold fish. I asked Spencer what he was going to name his fish and, after thinking
about it for a while, he said, “I think I want to name him, Mmmgggghh.”
I immediately responded, almost as a reflex action, “Mmmggghh? That’s not a
name, that’s a sound.”
Spencer, in his wonderfully innocent way, asked, “Why can’t a name be a sound?”
He loved Mmmggghh and loves telling people the story about his first pet.
Now some of you may read this and think I am being too relaxed in my duties as a
father. You may think that I should be teaching my son the “correct” way to do
things – even as simple as how to eat and what not to mix or dip in what.
Me? Nah. Instead, I wish to thank Spencer for teaching me to question the norms.
Why can’t a name be a sound?
At almost every wedding you could count on my father telling the newly wed couple:
“You know, if you put a penny in a jar every time you make love during the first year of marriage and then removed a penny from the jar every time you make love thereafter …you will never empty the jar.”
One of my cousins didn’t quite understand the jest of the challenge and, for years, every time she saw my father she would say, “Uncle John, we’re still putting pennies in our jar.”
He tried to explain it to her a couple times before just giving up and responding, “That’s great, Becky.”
When my father passed away earlier this year, while helping my mother pack up some of his things from their room, I found an old glass jar with a few pennies in it under the night table on his side of the bed.
I chuckled, and, after showing it to his wife of fifty-nine years, my mother, I said, “Looks like you guys were just a few pennies short of emptying your jar.”
My mother shook her head and responded, “That old fool just kept putting his change in that jar and telling me; ‘We still got some work to do to empty this thing.’”
I dumped the few pennies into my hand and noticed two of them with wheat stems on the back, indicating they were old pennies. I handed them to my mom and told her to look at the date on them.
1952 – the year they were married.
A tear came to her eyes again, as had happened often over the past few weeks, and she just said again, “That old fool.”
I dumped the pennies back into the jar and placed it over on her side of the bed.
We continued packing up his stuff in silence.
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?
upstairs in my room
i put my ear to the floor
only to hear my parents screaming
the argument is about me
my mom yells "look at what your son has become!"
Heartless, unintelligent, fake...
my father replies back
"hes your son, hes your own pile of dirt!"
whenever my family is out together
we act happy like these fights never happen
but every night they do and i cant tell anyone
i have to act like someone else in order not to get introuble
What have i become?...hurt..dishonest..will this feeling dissapear?
I will drag you down and i will make you hurt..
I lift my head from the floor
still hearing the angry voices of my parents
i found an old needle, and i dug it into my skin
the next morning i go downstairs
with a cut off shirt on, and baseball shorts
My father grabs my arm
"what is this boy?"
i yank my hand away from him and i sit down on a chair
"its nothing sir"
my father repeats "are you cutting yourself?, why?"
i grab my bookbag and i disapear out the door
My father runs outside pulling me to the ground
"are you cutting yourself boy?!" he screams
i say "no sir i just scrapped my arm on my dresser"
My father grabs my face
"you better not cut yourself again" he replies
He hits my face, as i lay on the ground.
I didnt wake up until i felt something wet drip on my face
it was raining and dark outside
i run into the house and into the bathroom
looking into the mirror i see the bruise that was left on my face
My father wasnt home and my mother went to bed
"everything goes away in the end right, if i let him have it all, my moms pile of dirt?"
I sit upon my liars chair full of broken memories i cannot repair
I become someone else, but the old me is still right there
if i could start again a million miles away i would keep myself
i will find my way
One life story.......
Listen my children and you shall hear
thus quoth he into her ear
With her still months shy of a year.
The Cremation of Sam McGee
All etched in her mind before she was three.
Then came school
hip, swell and cool
hot days at the swimming pool
late one night a car collision
Moving vans, fights, cleaning ladies.
Weighing the merits of annihilation
Wisdom, kids grown
90% of it's just showing up.
Listen my children and you shall hear
Thus quoth he inside her ear
Year after year after precious year
The Cremation of Sam McGee
Epic narratives - inspiracy
His name is Joseph Ratzinger, the new pope Benedict XVI,
Installed as the two hundred sixty-fifth pope since foundation;
he’s a staunch defender of orthodox Catholic doctrine;
he’s German, an accomplished polyglot and theologian,
a good friend with sincerity and humility in every action.
He’s remembered too as someone who’s in opposition
to include Turkey as part of the so-called European Union,
his fear that this Muslim nation may dilute a certain culture
like Christianity in a particular continent vis-a-vis Turkey.
Born on April 16, 1927 in Markti am Inn, in Bavaria,
ordained in 1951 at the age of 24 in his own native town;
his theological studies punctuated with intelligence,
truly, a gift to the church and the whole society at large.
Cardinals from fifty-two countries who voted for him,
veered away from the traditional choice of an Italian successor,
for four hundred fifty-five years before a Polish pope,
Karol Wojtyla, known as Pope John Paul II elected in 1978.
He was fifty-eight years old when he became a pope,
while Cardinal Ratzinger was 78, the oldest pope chosen,
like Pope Clement XII in 1730, same age like his
showed strong leadership, competence and faithfulness.
Being a sovereign pontiff and Vicar of the Catholic Church,
he’s very articulate in a prolific academic achievement;
a man of culture, a voice of careful reservation,
indeed, an answer to the growing darkness of culture and corruption.
I love his maiden speech, his first words as the newly elected pope,
“the Lord will help us, and Mary, his most holy mother, will
be alongside us.”
tat gave me a strong impact as I carry with me that same hope
along with my desire to be faithful to the Lord in my ministry
a a priest, a humble worker in the Lord’s vineyard.
As the Church in this generation faces a number of issues
so complex and ethical that enable one to be open and faithful;
to the doctrine that heralds its openness to the changing times,
a huge task for his papacy, for his governance and pedagogy.
He’s the right pope for me and I vouch for his abilities,
his gifts and vision as the new pope in this century,
will continue to bring us into the splendor of God’s light,
between believers and nonbelievers alike, he’s our bridge;
who’ll listen to the cries of the mother church and obey God’s will.
Hail to our Pope Benedict XVI, first Germanic pope!
after nearly five hundred years since the pontiff was of the same background;
his pontificate is a celebration and affirmation of God’s love for us,
with his unwavering leadership - a continuation, a return to earlier traditions.
All brides are lovely on their wedding day.
But she glows with her upswept auburn hair,
and her blue eyes sparkling under her veil.
He steps back and takes a mental snapshot.
He never wants to forget this moment.
She looks one last time at her reflection,
and with a deep breath, calmly takes his hand.
He has happily awaited this day,
and he has dreaded this day since her birth.
This father is filled with mixed emotions.
He smiles at his daughter with teary eyes.
She kisses his cheek as the music starts.
"Procession of Joy" echoes in his ears.
All eyes are fixed on the beautiful bride,
but his eyes watch his future son-in-law.
He looks closely for the groom's reaction.
The nervous groom radiates with true love ~
a smile of joy as sweat beads from his brow,
and Dad smiles knowing his daughter chose well.
A father could want nothing more than this.
By Rhonda Johnson-Saunders
Tenth place in Narratives contest
By Rhonda Johnson-Saunders, February 22, 2012
for Narrative Poetry Contest (Catie Lindsey)
Why is everybody always picking on me?
Why does it seem like they enjoy making me cry?
These days they seem to always be shouting "Just shut up, Pee-Wee!"
If Daddy were here...
But he left without even saying goodbye.
My heart and soul seems to always be filled with so much sorrow
and my tears rush down from my eyes like an angry river,
But I just can't bare to live to see another tomorrow
If Daddy were here...
Just the thought of him leaving me behind makes me shiver.
Oh, God! Why were you so quick in taking my precious daddy away?
He didn't even have time to speak any final words to me,
So much I long to up and just run away
because this doesn't seem to much like home without Daddy.
If only Daddy were here to see how they're treating me now
I know it would make him madder than Hell!
This wouldn't be happening if Daddy were still around
since he's been gone it seems that they're determined in making my life a living
It has been just two days and my daddy has been long buried and forgotten
and no one seems to give a care about how I really feel,
Deep down inside I feel so mixed-up and just plain rotten!
this pain hurts much too real.
If only Daddy were here for me to talk to
sadly, he's no longer here because he's gone and left me behind forever,
Maybe God's the one that I need to be talking to
because my daddy's at home with Him up in Heaven.
looking out the kitchen window
onto the busy street,
and looked some more.
This was our weekend!
As the weeks drifted away,
the years did the same.
Our weekend was not to come.
Where have you gone?
You said you would be right back.
You left with her!
The bumblebee lady.
The bumblebee lady.
You left with her!
You said you would be right back.
This our weekend
but our weekend was not to come.
A TRIBUTE TO MY FATHER
Frank Rollin Gillihan
(US Navy 1941-1944)
April is the cruelest month,
Like the great poet said.
It was on a first of April
That I found my father dead.
His blood had flowed across the floor,
I saw as I entered the apartment door,
And it was then I knew for sure,
Sometimes a person just can take no more.
Not with a whimper but a bang.
April is the cruelest month,
The great poet said so.
That April still tears at my heart,
Though so many years ago.
He gave his life in the war,
He laid it down, there was no more.
And mom said when he was home at the door,
She knew he was not the same as before.
Twenty years after the guns were silent another shot rang out.
Feeling sad as I see
him leave. He took my
brother and sister. What
more can he take from me.
I have always tried to be
the best I could be. Sad, mad, are
words that remind me of him.
It seemed that he didn't care
but I guess it was meant to be.
It seemed too long but hey,
I'm over it. He left, ok!
Whatever he did was best
for him. He now has a new family.
Godfearing grandpa died over two decades ago,
he had an adventureous spirit bolder than any explorer of long ago;
and in his many voyages: from tumultuous Argentina
to Canada and America...he immensely missed
his faithful and beautiful blue-eyed wife Maria...
and when he dreamed of that face he once caressed,
tears flowed thinking of her with a man's desire,
which too often he bore throughout his dire...
and he could have found a companion, but he resisted that urge
by opening the Bible to remind him of his refuge.
That large barn, which echoed with the peasants' voices and songs,
was the labor of their callous hands storing hazelnuts, chestnuts, grapes
and grains to be sold in the town's market square...all that was his pride and joy;
and what made those long furrows with vines so bountful?
Their source was a river flowing through those well-kept farms,
nourishing them with its fresh waters that at times proved to be
very disastrous and fatal when its banks filled to capacity
when floods occurred making him sad, but seldom he lost hope...
as he glanced far, dreaming of sailing beyond the crimson horizon.
Godfearing grandpa was never stouthearted, he firmly believed in Divine Mercy.
Godfearing grandpa sailed from the Bay of Naples
on a ship cramped with thousands of desperate immigrants,
to seek fortune outside Italy after Mussolini seized power;
and he didn't curse his native soil for making him leave,
but kept on loving it with same ardor of his youth.
" I will return to my land and my barn as empty as a shell,
dreaming of stacking it with those crops ready to be gathered...
I will smell the ripe apples, the juicy grapes, the yellow pears,
the plump oranges with their strong scent in the crates made of oak!"
He solemny shouted to the reddest sky overlooking his rosy barn.
He was a silent man.
He stayed upstairs, typing unceasingly
and during dinner, mumbled accusingly
nothing ever finished
That evening he noticed,
saw his child sitting in the distance
alone, he crossed the field
He teased; they played,
among the blades of several hills,
a thousand times they rolled,
He laughed; they roared
Disney visions, collaborating
goose-bumps; torching recollections.
He taught; they practiced
hundreds, of air pockets among them
they flew like ravens
They went home, and thereafter
He was a silent man;
his child unspoken.
Imagine how sad December would seem
if Christmas didn't exist; only the chill
and wind would be felt through the frozen bones,
nobody would live in these northern, frigid zones.
What was the true purpose of Jesus's birth?
Some even would say that it never occurred,
and why would the Magi travel long days
and nights to pay homage to the humblest of Kings?
It was prophesied by Isaiah in the Old testament and the Wise Men believed him,
following with awe the biggest and brightest star that they had ever seen;
and didn't it seem strange that God would choose those simple shepherds
to be the first to hear that message sung by a thousands of angels?
Wouldn't you be happy when a child cries out and enters life?
Wouldn't you celebrate that event with overwhelming joy and grace?
The same way Jesus entered this world to suffer and die,
and if Christmas didn't exist, who would remember who He was?
Wouldn't that envious angel, whom God expelled from Heaven with haste,
laugh loudly, knowing that we don't worship Him in spirit and faith?
Fallen Angels are the eternal enemies of this Child, who atoned our sins
by paying with His precious blood...to vindicate the Devil's astute lies!
If Christmas didn't exist, some unbelievers would shout and rejoice,
happy to erase Christ's redemptive message from the earth's surface...
contradicting the Scriptures themselves and the Divinity behind it!
Didn't Herod the Great hate Jesus, fearing He would have become the new King?
Copyright 2009 by Andrew Crisci
In life I need Dad
to push me forward.
Soon I come back,
Just like a swing
Dad tenderly pushes
I feel free.
Then, I swing back,
Safely, in Dad's arms
He pushes a little harder
I fly higher
and touch the leaves.
Then, I am back,
Safely, in Dad's arms.
He pushes again,
It's hard to go
Yet, I know.
I can come back;
Safe again, in Dad's arms.
Guilt is the word
regret and deceit flood my heart
as I look at my daughter
and what could of been
Guilt is the feeling
At the window bottom she sits
waiting for me to come
it's not going to happen
as my mistress is home
What could have been?
Blonde hair, Blue eyes
So patiently she waits for her dad
the one who she adores
but does not know
How could I leave her?
Walking the dark cold streets
I see her face in my head
Them big glazed eyes
Brings a lump to my throat
What have I missed out on?
Into this woman she blossoms
making decisions of her own
leaving me behind
Why wasn't I there for her?
Guilt is the feeling
regret and deceit flood my heart
as she moves on without me
everytime I look at my daughter
Guilt is the feeling
All of us were there that day/
Yet not in the physical aspect,
It was a very spiritual notion/
Not some encounter from a heavenly omen,
Beneath the soil amidst a great gulf fix,
Some have become a bit transparent/
Perhaps a little cumbersome ?
While other's having claimed to experience all the fullness,
Little did they know that king's and queen's would all bow to thee,
Amidst the given turmoil of the unfortunate vast excursion !
Still in the garden that day they all fell asleep/
Yet still all of us were there,
When the roman solder's ripped off your beard !
Still some of us it's too hard to fathom it,
Some finding it to intense and a bit weird !
Having common passerby's spit in his face/
While still there were many angels in waiting to take vengeance on those,
Yet Jesus didn't choose that route of passage,
With no sense of remorse nor a common disgrace,
We were all their that day !
Even when beloved Mary your loving mother wept !
Fashioned with real tears for her son,
While they tore into his flesh !
Until there was nothing left but exposed bone,
When all the nails had mounted you to the rugged cross/
We all knew that this wasn't some tragic loss !
With words', "Father please forgive them for they know not what they do ?"
He said the prayer now the rest is up to you ?
We all had learned Lord what your beloved father really knew/
We were all there that day/
When after three days you suddenly rose from the grave !
Although still many had rejected you ?
The god of this world had blinded many eyes/
Does all of this come at some big surprise for it is written in the scriptures for our benefit ?
Lest they all should see and be healed,
For even Pilate had found no fault in thee,
Yet he gave into the crowds cry's and demands !
Having vicious fangs nor swollen teeth/
Which all gnash abruptly !
Having a fish dinner with Peter for breakfast/
The was fully after your grand exit,
We were all there that day/
Henceforth, even to this present moment in time,
Today, everything we pray for we can all visualize you being there,
For we were all their that day !
I wish I were a child again - I would
tell my mother how important things are,
Things like hot chocolate on a cold night,
mud pies in the sun, learning how to skate,
I wish I could wish - as a child should,
and blow out a candle on a cake, have a cookie jar
in the kitchen filled with good things" bright
curtains letting the sun in, a white fence, a gate.
I wish I were little again - and I would
tell my father to smoke a pipe, sit in a big chair
and hold me on his lap, tell me a story,
and throw me up in the air, play games with me.
I would go back - if only I could,
and wish I had a father and mother to care
about the important things - the glory
of childhood is
Being a Child.
Daddy told us not too,
while Mom sourly warned.
Though they scolded,
loud and clear,
we devilishly disobeyed.
Up on that roof top,
at least 30 feet from ground,
carelessly balancing on the shingles,
we were so young,
the nights lasted decades,
while the stars evaporated fear,
they smiled at our virgin eyes,
and when a gust of wind would catch our balance,
we'd lay under the ratty quilt grandma made.
The night sky was so full of life,
a serenity in a chaos of lights,
yet a fulfilling stillness,
the kind that cannot be broken
Until the day we got caught.
Daddy yelled while we ran threw the window,
preparing for the worst,
hearing Mom's fear in curses,
we both sat quietly,
reminiscing on that freedom,
that longing for serenity.
After taking in the fear-
we went up to our rooms,
and after one tapping on the wall between us,
we both met at the window once more.
I know it is not so
but I have the clear feeling
that at any moment
you will open the door
with your noisy key ring,
and I will hear distinctly
the off-key sound
of your slow and heavy steps
that no longer drag slowly
through my living room hall
which is now silent,
mute in its halftones.
I know it's not so
but you will put down your bag
stuffed with papers in confusion,
on the table set for two
even though we are four,
but two of us will be in the bedroom
and won't want to dine, but
we will steal from your plate,
and you'll get upset
but you don't know how to fight,
and the argument will end with the providential
increase in the volume of the television,
that now is full of silly programs
because nothing is fun anymore.
Life drags on,
empty in its own apathy.
You will talk about your day,
and you'll ask about ours,
and I'll be in a hurry,
going out to some rehearsal.
I'll shout that I can't right now,
that tomorrow I won't go out
and in the morning, making the strong, black coffee,
we'll talk about the script,
you'll give me some ideas
I'll love to slip into the context
althought now this actress
no longer cares how she performs
because the fantasy is gone,
the scene has no more magic
and just repeats itself alone
on the stages I no longer trod.
and I'll help you put on your socks
having you sit on the bed
while our cat snores
in a light ending sleep.
Yet, you'll play with me
in your special way
that makes any single day
seems like Christmas,
with your salad sauce
that no one any longer tastes.
The 25th hides its face
at midnight, Jesus is not born
and the miracle is not the same.
On Valentine's Day
you will buy two roses,
one of them you'll give to mom
and the other one is always mine
for I'll always be your little girl
who doesn't have a boyfriend anymore,
who has no joy, and
who counts the hours of the day
just to know the day has gone.
I know it's not so
but I'll see you at any moment
when I lay my eyes
on our garden,
missing your confident hands
pruning its dead branches
like now it is dead our house.
And like me,
our cat waits for you
every night at eight o'clock
under the doorjamb,
on the rug in the hall,
to say you are welcome,
to be happy you are home,
but our expectations fail,
for your arrival is delayed,
you won't arrive at all,
and there's no more future
for there's no more noise
of your key ring in the knob.
You live in another world
spiritual realm your heaven
a powerful entity in itself.
The watching of your loved ones
from the angels sky
sprinkling your wishes
of joy to them all.
Never missing anything
from the highest plane
where you can move on
to another journey.
The past, present and future
are all multi-dimensional
in the hall of records
where past judgments lie.
Spread your angel wings
fly down to me upon the earth
so I can feel you once more.
missing dog, Blackie. Besides the sound of our voices, the hymns playing softly in the
background, the noise made by the porcelain plates as Mama wiped and put them
away, the humming of the refrigerator’s motor, the house was quiet. No body knew
what had happened to Blackie. We were really concerned about the whereabouts
of the dog, even though Papa had assured us that he would return at some point.
Since the funeral, he had vanished. Even the old man who lived across the street
from us and who loved Blackie, had not seen him, nor had any of the other
neighbors. We had searched in all the usual places. He had never run away from
home before. As far as I remember, Blackie never did come back home.
As Papa sat in his usual chair, quietly playing with the food on his plate, the kitchen
door opened, and in walked Thomas, Brian’s best friend. They were the same age,
and were very close even though they did not attend the same school, or the same
church. The two had become friends since they met at a Junior Boys Scouts meeting
at the age of seven. Thomas lived some distance away but they maintained a
special friendship. Out of school, wherever Brian was, so Thomas would be. They’d
both turned fourteen last September. Throughout those years they still were active
members of the Boys Scout, and had risen together in rank. Thomas had been away
on the recent Scouting trip. They had traveled to a neighboring country for a Scouts’
Jamboree. Brian should have gone too but something to do with school exams came
up so he couldn’t go. Thomas had just returned from the Jamboree that Saturday
afternoon, the second week after Brian’s burial. Lena, Reggie and I got out of
our chairs and ran to greet him. It was like welcoming him and Brian home as the
two were always together. He picked Lena up as he greeted our parents. Mama
standing at the sink, turned around, took one look at him and walked briskly, almost
running out of the kitchen, with my other sister in tow.
Papa greeted Thomas, his voice almost inaudible. Thomas looked puzzled. I guess
he thought he had walked in during a family argument. He was about to turn back
and walk out because he felt a little intrusive, I guess. It was extremely quiet in the
room; very unusual when everyone was in Mama’s kitchen at the same time. And
away like she did, made him ask what was going on. That yielded no response. The
silence hung heavily in the kitchen. Finally, he asked, “Is Brian in his room?” He
looked at my oldest sister, Winnie who sat next to Papa. She didn’t respond.
Instead, she looked up at him with tears in her eyes. Thomas was as tall as Brian.
At 14years old, they were 6’ tall. Winnie bowed her head to hide her tears. She
looked down at her plate before her. Thomas turned halfway around and was about
to head towards the door leading towards Brian’s room, when Papa let out a deep,
long sigh and motioned to Thomas to come sit next to him. Winnie got up to give
Thomas her chair and Papa, with his voice low and cracked, told Thomas that his
best friend had passed away. The humming of the fridge seemed much louder
then. Looking back now, seeing Thomas’s face, I knew he wanted to laugh but he
stopped just short of that, and his countenance changed in an instant! A painful
grimace appeared on his face. His voice became shaky as he tried to mumble
something. He looked at each of us as if checking each face to see if someone
would soon break into laughter, at this absurd joke. After a while, he took a deep
breath, convinced now, that he was reading everyone’s face correctly. Brian’s Dad
wouldn’t joke about something like this. He thought to himself. Then all the reactions
he had seen as he entered the kitchen, finally registered, confirming that this was
not a joke. He nearly fell out of the chair, as it toppled over to the floor. He began
retreating slowly towards the kitchen door; his whole body still visibly shaking, he
said loudly, shaking his head in disagreement, that it wasn’t possible. “It is just not
possible!” He shouted. Yet, there was no response. Winnie was sobbing, tears
rolling down her face. He then asked if Brian had run away or something. Still the
room was as quiet as a tomb. Not a sound from anyone, only the constant humming
and the hymns being played on the local Christian radio station softly wafted across
the room. He then blurted out, “Because,” he
Side by side father and son
journeyed long in silence.
Isaac did not know his fate
was part of Abraham’s obedience.
The thought of offering up his son,
as a sacrifice to God
made Abraham’s heart tremble,
as along the path they trod.
On the third day of their journey,
Abraham saw a cloud of glory hovering
over the area of Mount Moriah.
Towards God there was no murmuring.
Abraham left two servants behind,
so they wouldn’t witness the scene.
When Isaac learned his fate,
fear must have gripped his mind serene.
But Isaac submitted to his God,
as his father had taught him to do.
Abraham lifted the knife to slay,
His son with no further ado.
His arm was suddenly stayed—
reprieve from God was won.
He heard the words from above,
“Do not slay your son.”
A substitute ram of sacrifice
God himself provided.
A ram tangled in a nearby thicket
became the sacrifice decided.
God renewed His covenant
with Abraham that day.
Abraham passed the test of faith;
was righteous in God’s way.
Copyright © Maureen LeFanue 2008-2011
His Dad had been fighting for years.
Never knowing when to take up arms,
But always needing to be prepared for war.
The pain would begin slowly,
Only then to accelerate into mass fury.
Small heart attacks had become frequent battles.
It may have been arrogant on his part,
But he believed if the big one hit,
His presence could be his Dads safe net.
He found himself spending more evenings at home.
And on the night it happened he was there,
Watching Dateline on the couch a mere ten feet away.
He yelled for Mom while grabbing the aspirin.
There was no use, it happened too fast.
His Dads body lay limp, and the war was done.
Watching his Dad pass will not haunt him.
For he knows his presence brought serenity,
He has far too many good memories to allow distress.
His Dad is now with Jesus.
The battles are no more,
Your child,your little boy,
came into this world with you by his side.
Why now should this be different ?
Your priorities have changed and he misses his daddy.
Your new life and family seem much more in important,
but our son understands you are not their.
It is unfair to him,
to not have his daddy.
Did you know?
He sits by the window waiting for you.
Do you see?
The tears he crys when you do not show.
You promised to me, you would stand by him,
where are you now?
When he gets older he will understand,
that his daddy has gone now.
And left him behind.
Joseph-----born in October 1994—to your Mother and her family.
When I collided with your Mother—in 1993—all she was-
absence for------was you!
All she would declare is---She needed a child to complete her-
A Son or Daughter ----that did not matter to her!
If this echo is all too familiar--- I assure you--- it is NOT!
You see --my dearest Joseph --you are THE MISSING -- FATHER’S SON.
You have only known one view of this great epic —But--- today—you
will hear of THE MISSING -- FATHER’S SON.
Forced by your Mother and her family to NEVER--- have communion
Given your Mother’s madden name at birth--- you lived in her-
Unable to communicate with the out-side world--- forced to never-
have communion ---with me--- MY ONLY SON!!
You see my dearest Joseph--- you are THE MISSING -- FATHER’S SON.
Only one BEING would know my PAIN--- without you-- MY ONLY
It would seem some evil force be-hide the whole perplexity.
You force by your mother and family---- into--- a fatherless child’s-- world
Me forced to live with-out----- my only Son—which cause YOU to be-
THE MISSING -- FATHER’S SON.
I am sure reality has been restrained from YOU-----your entire life.
Only one BEING would know my PAIN--- without you-- MY ONLY
But---- HE sent HIS-- only SON to the CROSS--- To die for you and me.
Beaten, bruised, tormented and Crucified----beyond recognition---for OUR SINS!!
ALL THANKS be to HIS Heavenly Father----because with-out HIM---
you would not have a Padre.
You see --my dearest Joseph --you are THE MISSING -- FATHER’S SON.
If some evil force is present—he would know that the HEAVENLY—
Father is your father ------after all.
Because HE -----and HE alone ----can only be a Father to the
I leave with you my final plea—you would KNOW HIM as your-
I was looking through a magazine when something caught my eye.
A picture of a girl, the words "attempted suicide."
The photograph was taken on the day she turned sixteen.
The story told of how the very next day she O.D'd.
Her face no longer innocent, determined to conceal
a pain so deep she made herself believe could not be healed.
She dressed in only black, and when her father asked her why
she said "I make myself ugly because that's how I feel inside.
Tangled in a web of sin, religion played its part
so she found her love in heroin and worshipping the dark.
The day she turned sixteen she sat up in her room alone
and vented all her anger through a suicidal poem.
The next night as she closed her eyes, the needle in her vein,
she closed the door behind her on a world of only pain.
Her mother in a storm of tears, her father broken down
when they find her in her bedroom, laying naked on the ground.
They blame themselves unbendingly, determined that they've failed.
The train they've tried so hard to steer has finally derailed.
They stand beside the bed as she's unconsciess in her sleep.
The doctor says she's fighting for a life she wants to keep.
Hope can be a crutch, but sometimes hopes not what it takes
when its not the leg that's broken, but inside when something breaks.
Nicotine stained hands
yellowed with age
cracked fingers shaking
inhaling his last breaths
drinking bottles of cheap wine
hardship his only crime.
Sunken eyes gone misty
remembering a different life
from long ago
now a distant memory
numbing every trace
of their loving faces
from his pain stricken mind.
Many harsh Winters lived
through every season
roaming on endless street
begging for money
for something to eat and drink.
The open spaces his shelter
with weathered sky overhead
stripped naked and bare to the soul
he trudged along on the endless road
going to nowhere.
Broken were his heart and dreams
sad memories still consumed him
following him like a shadow
through drunken binges
and smoke filled rooms
with other strangers
whose lives were also ruined.
As he laid his head down to rest
from his inner journey
of haunting thoughts
weary to the bone from exhaustion
he closed his eyes for the last time
using the stars as his pillow.
Long i left
this room of rhymes.
Where poetry is our pen.
line full of ink line-chess.
where lord, nobles and kinks
read of the rhymes we bring.
Where the table is set of writers zest.
The rebirth is the spring
of an offspring.
Better i don't swear and loss my hair.
Better i don't hide and stand half
Like Adam in Eden.
That i know is true
and i grow is a growth.
That i flow in my soul
makes me born anew.
Oh! weary soul put in a shoe.
Summer sink and sang
me once before i die.
lies are ever waiting.
Stories ever telling
Music ever sung.
A new one is born.
Poet are call to write.
News in the sky.
One sky to birth
For the rebirth is ours to write.
If i fail let my pen write me lie.
Killing, killing my limping lamp.
hurry staggered by a fairy wand.
pregnant still in moon light waves.
sparkling in sun-light waves.
Be quiet if thy lips ruined by teeth
is blue and shining.
Trimming to tales, the rebirth told.
O' morning grave shall bury youth.
Old pages, weak and dusty.
Can you keep my poetic lines?
If yes, how?
Do not serve this rhymes with
Do not fall as soaked sand slippery
Thou parting pages of time!
save my line running fast.
Throne of two i fear thy ageing parts.
A second time thy throne my notes
Sacred scroll ruled to a metal toll.
Instrument in the finding length.
fear filing while the great brains
summon the grace of thy keep.
Be still. old kiss.
Like the Greek of kings i beseech thee.
A third time thou make me small
fainted by thy storm.
Maybe those rats visited with
But teach us more dreams and
that Grey green believe.
I am through to mine, hungry page of
And for the the fourth time
I bow like a maiden to a serve.
These pages delivered to a sleep
spiting to a table.
Born to the dawn.
Finding these pages ancient of
be burned, aged scroll, I will read
thou no more,
ancient lines of dreams.
"Our dead mother must be crying her eyes out in heaven"
Elisabeth said to Mary as they got ready for church. "I wonder
what his congregation would think of him if they knew" replied Mary.
"Girls are the two of you ready yet? You don't have time to gossip".
"We're ready" said Mary. The Israel family piled into their family car.
As Zechariah drove to his church The Voice of God Ministries he quizzed
his daughters with Bible questions. "Elisabeth how many books are in the
Bible?" "There are 66 books in the Bible". "Very good Elisabeth. Mary how
who were the parents of John the Baptist?" "Zechariah and Elisabeth". "Very
good Mary". The voice of God Ministries is the biggest Evangelical church in
all of North Carolina. Every time Zechariah Love Israel approached his
church his heart fills up with pride. "We are the light of the world. We must
guide the people to God" said Zechariah as the Israel family got out of their
family car. "Let's get ready to welcome our members" grabbing Mary and
Elisabeth by the hand Zechariah and his daughters entered The Voice of God
Ministries. Zechariah was a preacher who was known for his over the top
sermons. With his knowledge of the Bible and his great speaking ability he
held his congregation in a trance. At the end of every worship service
Zechariah stood at the entrance of the church and shook hands with his
Written by Keith Edward Baucum aka The Brown Philosopher aka The Green
Poet aka Red Seven
Birthdays come but once a year
A day we celebrate, a day to cheer
We all know the day we're born and our age
For birthdays bring us joy or change of stage
The day I celebrated my fourty-ninth year
On the other side of the world fear
Horror for a young girl named Heather
Who was swimming in ocean waters from boat tethered
Swimming around the ocean deep
Working up an appetitate for something to eat
Was a great white shark fourteen feet, whopper
Jaws powerful enough to bite through copper
At home I thought I had turned fifty
I figured this year would be very nifty
My father who was in his nineties
Reminded me that I was only fourty-ninty
In a land way down yonder
A girl named Heather was pulled under
Great white figured she was good meat
Nice and tender a very tasty treat
A girl named Heather was saved
That very day lived to be one to praise
People who worked to keep her alive
She praised God who lives in hearts and on high
Sara lived many years
Saw her grandsons through tears
She was the strength and glue
Who saw her family's problems through
Just in recent years in a land down under
A fourteen foot great white shark did blunder
Caught in a fisherman's net
He'll probably live this mistake regret
No, the fisherman cuts the lines
Frees his catch and shark from bind
Now the shark he named Cindy
Follows him around even when windy
Follows him everywhere he goes
Let's him pet her on her nose
Rub her belly and dorsal fin
She even grunts and tries to grin
Which of these do you think is the most grateful
Heather who is now disable
The shark who was spared his life
Or Sara the mother, grandmother, and wife
(The story about Heather is true. The shark circled and bit her right leg. Then circled and
grabbed her left leg. The people on the boat were hitting the shark and try to pull her into
the boat and the shark took her whole left leg off. She was only attended by a nurse who
was on the boat and radioed a doctor on shore as to what to do. She was 20 hours away
from the nearest doctor. She was lifeflighted to a hospital in California where she had to
have multiple surgeries and now has an artificial leg. The story about the shark caught in
a fisherman's net was really not true. The grandmother here was a true story.)
Mama stood at the kitchen sink, quietly drying the dishes and putting them away. I
she was crying because every now and then she would wipe her eyes with the hem
apron. She hadn’t been eating much, lately. She looked so tired and drained. She
tall, beautiful woman. At 40 years old she looked as if she had just turned 30. She
was on a
leave of absence and had been keeping busy around the house, constantly
scrubbing and washing. In hindsight, now I know she was only trying to keep busy
wouldn’t think about her first born son. Mama had slept so much the week before. I
remember wondering, back then, asking myself, was she also sick? I was too afraid
out loud. I would lie next to her in her bed and watch her sleep. Her stirring
that she was fine-only sleeping. You see, my oldest sister, Winnie, after Brian died,
explained to me what dying was. So then I knew that dying was like sleeping, only
never wake up. I was not going to let my Mama die also. I would bring into her bed,
coloring books and pencils and would sit on that bed until she woke up. Sometimes,
fall asleep, then awake to find her sitting on the edge of the bed, saying her rosary
would join her. In some ways I was like Mama. We were both of quiet spirits but
strong and also an extrovert. She made friends easily. I on the other hand, was
stubborn and introverted. Later on as I got older, our personality would clash on
It was a Saturday afternoon in May. We were all sitting at the kitchen table. We,
eating all the sweets because Mama and Papa were distracted. There was still
plenty of food
left over from the week before. Mama’s many friends had really showered her with
They had cooked and cleaned and comforted her as much as they could. Mama and
very seldom ate any food, which seemed to last forever. My older siblings were lost
own thoughts and grief, my younger sister, Lena, my cousin Reggie and I ate
anything we liked. Being the youngest of the group, we did not fully understand
going on. We were talking amongst ourselves about our
War World II was raging over this
southern Italian town* spared by a miracle...
a deluge that suddenly occurred:
a night of blasting sounds, of rising flames
as American planes bombarded its buildings;
the Nazis fled to occupied Naples.
In the North, the Fascits were executed,
as the Dictator Mussolini himself was.
The farms could not be furrowed deep and neat,
fear hung over the farmers' shoulders;
and wheat couldn't grow abundantly to make bread,
and brazen women to a distant granary they went,
risking their lives to grind the wheat kernels;
they were no young men in town, or the older ones
who had gone to war for a concept so deceptive.
Many youngsters and soldiers were kidnapped by the Nazis,
to be taken to Germany as prisoners of war...who would have
challenged the Third Reich, or disobeyed?
Old women with handkerchiefs on their heads, weeping loudly
and mourning the tranquil town it once was...so lovely and happy,
and their cry was too bitter and inconsolable to be hushed;
now, even bread was taken away from them,
damning the cruel Duce, who had betrayed them for vanity...
why did he bring prosperity to Africa, not to Italy?
Why was his ego so manipulated by Hitler's cleverness...
that he could have conquered peoples and lands?
Ruins and dead kindred...a scenery of dread and abomination,
and the lively memory of begonias on their sunny balconies
brought a sweet nostalgia in an hour of horror and death;
and gathered among the crumbled walls, their rosaries
recited with graceful whispers, gave them
the strength and the courage to desperately grieve:
"Peace, o beloved peace, have you overlooked
the kindness of such humble and honorable spirits?
Darkness brought the silence they had sought under the glittering skies,
to hide the ugliness of the war in their gloomy shadows,
never to reveal the devastation of their town;
and with the new sun rising, hope would have been
renewed in the sunrise's lasting glow.
They would have seen those wheat golden kernels
bend under their heavy weight and bow....
and heard themselves saying," Mercy, o mercy
of our righteous God, let prosperity abound...
as the misty rain slowly comes down!"
Southern Italian Town: Baiano
Copyright 2009 by Andrew Crisci
Between the two doors,
one that leads you in and the other moves you out,
stands this man, shouting at this little girl,
the voice like an autocrat,
and the words come out as easily without a second thought.
The anger of some previous tension, all out on this poor soul whose
smile has turned into a frown, and the colors of the day get dark.
Inside that heart that was away from stress, now someone's anger
rests into hers. Hatred that was on the back burner until now,
is coming to a boiling point, she wants to revert back,
want to say that anger does not solve
problems, things can be taught without that.
No more can she stand this authoritative dominance.
She stands there looking into his red eyes and opens her
mouth finally, word after keep coming out and she goes on without listening,
without anybody understanding, bangs the door and goes out. She had said it all,
the frustration of being the youngest and the forbearance of domination.
Never had the courage come up before, but after waking up
it was unbelievable that it never happened.
I made something beautiful
come out of the ground
painted vibrations and made
imagined shapes and colors
that delight the eyes
and planted them in a garden
and surrounded them with various skies
Spoke as God painted
creation on the scroll
words that were silent
and beautiful to behold
words not said but sung
describing to the unseeing
what God has done
Glorifying is the meaning
of plants posing and voices singing
of forces molding and chemicals
bringing into being
other things with feelings
Everybody was horrified of Paul's scruffy looks
with dirt and mud smeared all over his wrinkled face,
and his long nose with dark spots on its tip;
and a grave digger matched that image,
but he was the nicest person on planet earth:
hard-working, estimable, amicable and honest.
After the day's work was done, Paul stared
at the empty lots and whispered to himself,
" Soon I'll be in one of them...I feel it coming! "
One unlucky afternoon he was standing
on the edge of a newly dug-up grave and accidently
slipped and fell into the twenty-feet excavation;
no screams for help were heard...he was dead!
That same afternoon, there was a burial
and as the corpse's coffin was lowered into the grave,
Father Michael spotted a body lying on the bottom of it,
and it resembled that of Paul....suddenly police
were notified and minutes later a fire truck arrived
to the dreary scene. Then two young firefighters
lowered themselves into the pitch-dark grave by holding
onto sturdy ropes, and without much effort,
they pulled his bruised and broken body:
he was pronounced dead at two-thirty.
Paul had a near-death experience, one of the most
incredible ones: he visited heaven, the place of bliss!
And as he climbed the gold stairway, he heard many voices
of those he knew in the previous life...they chanted glorifying God,
who was seated on an ivory throne surrounded by Archangels,
Saints and the Prophets whom he remembered from his Bible readings.
Paul had a near-death experience,
one of the most incredible ones...
he visited Heaven: the place of bliss!
And as he climbed the gold stairway,
he heard many familiar voices he had
known in the previous life...they happily
chanted glorifying God, who was seated
on an ivory throne surrounded by Archangels,
Saints and Prophets whom he remembered
from his Bible readings. He tried to look at
God's face, but he was blinded by an intense light...
more brilliant than the sun itself, then Jesus
approached with his out-stretched arms.
Paul smiled and was elated to have found salvation,
but Jesus kindly said to him, " Paul, your time
hasn't come yet, return to Earth and tell them! "
And briefly pausing He continued, " When that time
comes, your honorable name will be written
in the Book of Life, and angels will carry your new body
on their swift wings and you will enter Paradise! "
Paul's face was expressive of disappointment
and bitterness and weeping replied, " The people
of Earth deride a grave digger so groggy and grubby,
and they mock him with their delirious laughs;
I would rather be dead than return to them! "
" Go and show them your mercy! " Jesus commanded him.
Paul had only minutes before he would be buried,
so he rushed back and surprisingly saw a large crowd
attending his service as Father Michael, the Chapel's priest,
performed the last rites by splashing Holy Water
in and around the shadowy grave. They heard a knock
coming from inside of the coffin...Paul's voice became louder,
" I am alive, not dead...let me out! " Everyone was horrified
and shocked, but Father Michael ordered the mortician to open
the casket and let Paul out. Jubilation filled the chilly air,
and streaks of light filtered through the murky clouds...their shouts
were heard as far as the outskirts of town: Paul was alive!"
I sat with Paul the day after under the shade of a fragrant pine,
and he told me about his visit to Heaven with tremendous joy
and fervent faith. He admitted that he was wrong not to have
shown them his compassion and with the sincerest smile
he proclaimed, " My anger and grudge have vanished;
I have forgiven them...I am so glad to have returned! "
Entered in the ramblig Poet's contest,
" In Search Of The Human Mind"
Assignment: A Near-Death Experience
Hold onto this moment, for it will never come again
As I dream of what would be, a beautiful peace within
Tell myself all is not lost, the fear wells in side vacant and without cause
Let it be, the tears fall like rain, but even the wish is unreal
All I want and nothing is at reach.
Can I change my world, is that a possible feat
Has destiny ruined my future, can a weak soul find relief?
Change to what I’d wish to be or live miserable alike
Finding one’s own way, harder than it seems
Answers too many question, I need to know them all
Posing apprehensions’ that refrain me from making the call
What, Where and When the affirmable relative questions
Answers come now and then, from different allied directions
To figure it out alone a quest and venture at hand
Truly a master of life could assist, and set my mind at ease
But the master I do remember lives no longer
As fate would have it played
Father of mine I need you, for now and the rest of my days.
I’ve written theses words as faint heart fails to reconcile my being
My strength my character my living all resides in your teachings
And now there is no master, to council my ways of thinking
Left I am a disaster, without you I am fleeting !
The little child was born into a home of violence and abuse.
Sadness was the closest thing to love and that was no excuse.
A little child screaming as his mother gets slapped and tossed all around,
While his worthless father struts thinking he is something he is quite profound.
The little children with ragged clothes and snotty noses just stood there in tears,
What an impression this father has made for them through the years.
We live in a monkey see monkey do get messed up society,
Most of the children grew up watching their parents fighting never knowing
Alcohol or drugs, seemed to dominate most of the poor.
The thing they didn’t realize this was only a temporary escape door.
The pain that was eased only led to more grief.
Till violence took over in the name of relief.
The daddy was loaded up paying the bills, food, utilities and rent,
While momma stayed home pregnant and got fussed at for the money she
They had sunk so low they were ashamed to attend any church,
Afraid that the pastor might point them out as he stood on his perch.
What is the answer if any to this little tale of mine,
How can we make it stop, can we ever draw a line.
I do know that hate begets hate so could love be the key?
Has anyone ever tried it long enough to truly find the answer of this I would
love to see.
All of my life I have heard do unto others as you would have them do unto you,
Such a simple answer could this be all we need to do?
Think About It!!!
Her eye's are pretty with innocent inside
Her face is precious with curious trying to hide
Her body state's that i am a grown woman
The tight clothes and plenty of makeup keep
the grown men coming
Her every move and every step is just to dog on sexy
That man's eye's missed her face because her body
is screaming caress me
Before he realize this is , he's inside
Her body feels everything that her curious face was
trying to hide
Those pretty eye's are no longer innocent
Guilt has came and made all her presents pastense
Now that body that stated to be a grown woman with
those eye's that was pretty innocent ; no longer can
hide her precious face with curious
That man never saw her face until after he planted that
seed and then realized that this is serious
Because her body was screaming caress me
His eye's missed her face but , saw her every move and
every step that he couldn't resist because she was just
to dog on sexy
Who cried , when her body lied
But , realized now she have to be a woman and this big
If it wasn't for the tight clothes and plenty of make-up
he would have saw that those pretty eye's with innocent
meant that she was daddy's little girl
There is a wee tall tale,
that me father told us three.
He'd heard it from his father before him.
It was part of his family tree.
He told of how he'd left Ireland,
and sailed the ocean blue,
to land in another country,
that to him was all new.
He told of why he'd gone there,
of the nasty deed he'd done,
and how he'd had to sail away,
and keep right on the run.
He told of how his mother,
cried when he sailed.
She wiped her tears on her apron,
and gave way to a sad, sad wail.
She knew she'd nary again see him.
This child she loved so well,
for he was now a fugitive.
His soul he'd had to sell.
So as the tears were falling,
she bid him fond farewell.
She kissed his cheek so softly,
and told him, her love with him would dwell.
And as the ship left harbor,
with this young Irish lad,
a mother's heart was broken,
with the pain of one who's sad.
I miss me mother dearly now,
for all these may a year,
but I'm glad to have you sons,
to be with me right here.
And the moral of this story:
If you must ever roam,
Take your mother's address,
so you can keep in touch with home.
How great it is to see a smile of grace,
upon your face,
our daughters you do embrace.
Your smile goes so many miles,
I treasure it in all my memory files.
No words you need to say, that smile so sweet,
that smile so long ago, that swept me off my feet,
how neat it is now, a smile for our daughters so sweet....
This Poem is dedicated to Rick Salmen and
his beautiful daughters Kalyn, Ashley, and Harley
God Made Man
Man Made Gods
Yes My Lord
Thou Only Made
Adam and Eve
See, how many,
he has made of Thee
Thou banished and
Threw him out of Eden
he became a Heathen,
Thou scattered him,
Drove him in
Changing his colors,
even his speech
further out of reach
So scared was he,
that he made a God
Every direction he went
he made a God
In Every Language
he made a God
He made a God of Gold
He made a God of Silver
He made a God of wood
He made a God on Paper
He drew thee on the walls
He carved thee on the rocks
Made mountains of Gods
Made rivers into Gods
No matter his
color or creed ,
He made a God
He made a God
He made a God
So where is
He at fault,
O My Lord,
Thou Only Made
Adam and Eve
See, how many, he
Has made of Thee
I lived my youth without many friends,
yearning for a departed father so selfless,
renouncing his children for another woman over-sea,
while my mom resigned to her fate;
lamenting and denouncing his terrible mistake:
and she worked hard and prepared delicious meals,
even her outlook on life was fantastic,
but something was missing from that lovely face...
Mother, oh wonderful mother, I sympathized
with your pain and wish it would have disappeared,
so you would have enjoyed, once again, life in its splendor;
mother, oh wonderful mother, even love dies
when one is deceived by a false affection,
and father broke his promise and faced retribution...
Mom loved dad from the day she married him,
and remained faithful 'till she died whispering his name;
I stood by her bed-side and couldn't console her sadness,
or fill that space with my insignificant presence:
by that remote glance, I could see her retracing, with joyous eyes,
her happy past with daddy delighting her with his funny words
while strolling down the quietest road scented by daisies,
as blue-jays flew over their delirious heads...
Mother,oh wonderful mother, you gave me the enduring will
to withstand any storm: to survive and cope in this hell,
while living honestly and godly among thieves and sinners;
to despise prejudice with its ugly ways and be cautious
not to give in their demands when luck could have ran out on me!
I live with little, and though I desire finer things,
nothing stains my clean hand and be judged by man,
because life complements me with the trust of any friend...
Copyright 2008 by Andrew Crisci
I stand alone from everyone.
In the dark morning shadow, cast down by a tree.
It's long branches lingering above,
reaching out to touch me.
I wait for a ride, with my hands down by my side.
The breeze comes, singing in the tree.
Sweeping its way towards me.
Yes very infuriatingly cold.
It crawls up my skin and sends...
My flesh freezing to the slightest touch.
Unable to move much.
I feel bitter, for I hate the cold.
It makes me feel old.
For I am forced to remember, the old life I once lived.
The things I had to give.
The words left unsaid.
The long ago snowy starry nights, full of porch and street lights.
Yes I remember very clearly, those dreadful long and lonely nights.
I had my sister to keep me company, but no father.
For he would always be mad.
Mad at me, mad at to whom or what I might turn out to be.
I hated him and with him, I hated the cold.
The cold, that now sinks deep within my flesh and into my soal.
Dedicated to my Bastered father
when the call came
I was tieing my shoes
it was raining and i was heading out for coffee
i felt the phone ring through
the line, the phone
he was 88 years old
the man of my dreams
he taught me about farm animals
and righty tighty, lefty loosey
he let me sit on his lap while he backed the car out of the garage
and showed me the fine points of a good, homegrown tomato
once when i was seven years old
he came home from a road trip with a red cowboy hat and bandana
with my name on it
and he brought me a beaded belt with "San Francisco" on it
he taught me how to make a mean Manhattan
and how to clean a sink trap
he was a good man and a great father
that dad of mine
Fallen heroes of the past,
present and future…
Let us not ever forget, those that
have given there lives for our
freedom and been there,
whenever they were needed…
Freedom does not come cheap,
and those who have given, there
lives for us while protecting our
freedom shall always be remembered…
We shall not forget, our fallen heroes!
By Sandra L. Hoban
This poem I write to my oldest son.
In hopes maybe he’ll forgive the things that I’ve done.
The heaviest load I placed on you.
Not once did I ask, my words were just do.
Boy you do this, boy you do that.
Did I ever say thank you, or give you a pat?
Son I’m sorry I know I was rough.
Like the song “ A boy named Sue “ I figured you’d need to be tough.
I thank God for age and the wisdom it brings.
And son I thank God for you, is why I’m writing these things.
I’m glad we finally quit bumping heads and decided to get along.
And I thank God for the wisdom to show me I was wrong.
Son you know I love you, and you’re always on my mind.
Thank you for loving me back, you are a precious find.
There is no turning back the pages for the things which we have done.
But it honors me to know you are my oldest son.
Love You Chris, Papa
Within these confines of what is called my mind
There dwells a creature, who’s been there for all time
I keep him under lock and key
For any escape would destroy me
He was out at one time
With no remorse, no regret
He ruled my life, I’ll never forget
He walked a path that few understand
And every sin he held in his hand
Those days are gone but not forgot
Of pain, suffering and the wrath he brought
“One day at a time” is what I do
To keep the door locked for me and you
With love in your heart and wings on your back
You keep me afloat I’ll never go back
The key to the door
My Father now has
And through Him he’ll never pass
My Father knows what’s best for me
I worship, honor, and respect thee
And when it’s time for me to go
All my love to you I bestow
He is in a spot I have never seen him before
A position I cannot fathom
His hand folded on his chest
Wishing for one last breath
His care left us with everything
But what we didn’t know was that he was
It never called for rain but it did that day
He never was all there anymore
And the song started playing
The guns went off
And my respect left for this man
Through battles he helped us all
Through it all we kept us alive
And he passed us by with a fair well
And a departure
And we was something to everything
We was everything to us
Swift on his feet
The magical dance
snapping to a certain beat
A player of the art
Ballerina with a heart
Boogie-Woogie one step time
Every ballad that is played for him
is returned in his sensitive movements
upon the ballet floor underneath so
His only audience
A statue of his Father
Who served during the Gulf War
But tragically killed in the line of duty
Decorated with a Purple Heart
Honored on this statuesque
The Dancer is celebrating
For his Hero
A Soldier proud
and a Father missed
The Swan on his Lake
Every nuance without mistake
The sun as his Stage Light
And the music from Nature's Lips who sing
Handsome light as a Feather
Braved 35 years of personal weather
I COULD GO ON AND ON,DEAREST DAD
THIS IS FOR YOU AND THE VICTORIES
THAT WE HAVE HAD
YOU ARE NO LONGER HERE
TO WATCH MY PERFORMANCE
AND YOUR 8 YR OLD GRANDSON SO DEAR
I HONOR YOU IN DANCE
I LOVE YOU WITH A SMILE
AS MY SONG STILL PLAYS ON
YOUR ONLY SON WOULD LIKE
TO REMEMBER WITH YOU
FOR ONE MORE WHILE
UNTIL THE RECORD PLAYER
PLAYS OUR SUITE NO MORE
The third of June is my father’s birthday,
it’s like a red-letter day for me to remember;
Though he’s gone now into the silent land,
his memories still linger in my heart and mind.
I was still a child with abiding interest and recount;
but with God’s sense of presence in me – I listened
especially in movements where the Spirit led me,
a moment to remember, a covenant to maintain.
Like an oasis in the desert elsewhere in the world,
God’s truth and consolation enabled me to stay;
that’s to hang on to his love and compassion
especially in moments when I felt so down.
My father’s untimely death made me reflect so far,
I was always in tears like an inward experience;
a source of affliction, a regimen of confusion
while seeing other children with parents around them.
I used to say that someday I would meet him
especially in my dreams and future plans to attain;
as his son who strove hard to make sense in his calling
with commitment and willingness to make a difference.
He’s someone who’d carry and bring me to my bed
at night whenever I fell asleep at our living room;
at my early age he’s a loving father – I missed him,
he’s a humble man, so simple in his own lifestyle.
However, when he fell ill and had to go somewhere,
he had to be confined for some tests and medications;
his sad face left me a mark that I’d certainly miss him.
It’s a time of parting and most of us were saddened.
But his absence meant something else that we reckoned
because he’s a loving father, so gentle to everyone.
Just the right time when he’s about to come home,
he’d a stroke that made him impossible to recover;
a grim final chapter that marked the end with pain.
Oh my dear father! You gave each of your children
a legacy to live, a covenant to make in shared experience
that as your children we tried to cope with sufferings
to enable us to move ahead and be successful then.
As I recall this important day of your birthday,
I still remember you especially in my prayers;
the vision that you gave me to be shared with my siblings
was enough to keep me going and embrace the challenge
to bring those gifts of love and sharing to my family members.
Where there is strength
you will find unity.
Let there be no more division.
May the grandfather spirits
place forgiveness in your hearts, and soften them
while pride moves out of the way.
May the blood you share become strong
and never again be poisoned by
un forgiveness and hate.
Can't you hear the songs
the warrior spirits are singing
about lost battles, broken families
and battle scars?
May their cries ring in your ears
some warriors never come home
from their battles.
May the rains come down
on both of you and
wash away the war paint,
so you may recognize each other.
May the skies above thunder
as grandfather spirits dance
a dance of remembrance.
May your paths cross again
and the winds join together
what has long been separated.
May spirits of wisdom guide
both of you toward your destiny.
And may father time heal
The Strength of A Man
… is in His Eyes and Arms
And in His Harvest hands
… to Hope, Heal, or Harm
… Look into His Eyes and See The Storm
Will You Be Safe… in Sinew-Arms?
He Can Use His Hands to Help His Girl
But He’s Used This Strength to Harm The World…
The Power of A Man
Is in His Legs and Loins
In His Tongue to Command
And The Seed in His Groin
Every Woman On Earth, Has Felt Man’s Pulse
Or Pleasure – Pain…One Way or Another - Push!... Push!
Do What He Says, to Pull The Pressure
… He’s Pouring Passion, into His Pasture
The Force of A Man
Shows in His Face
The Way, He Walks or Stands
In The Human Race
He’s A Walking, Breathing, Forest-Fire
He’ll Burn You Up… with His Desire
See, The Way His Veins-Pop… Stands Out…
If A Tree is Torn Down… Better ‘T I M B E R’ Shout !...
But The Might of A Man
Is in His Heart to Love;
And Mind, to Understand
The Higher Chamber Above…
With Spirit, Flesh, Blood, Bone
Might, Power, Force, Strength
… and A Woman, to Help Man Put On…
Some Breadth, Height, Depth and Width…
The Marvelous Might Of A Man
I'm thinking after talking
to a dear friend about the death,
call it a passing, of his father,
about channels of communication,
of sorrow and too, channels of joy.
All the messages lining the county,
the state, a nation, even globe
like a satin-sheen of supple cloth
inside of the casket and the cradle
All the "comings-and-goings"
as it might be said, of the family
"Did you hear that so-and-so passed"
or "I heard that they finally were
able to conceive and bear a child"
And times past, there were ponies and
postcards, and copper keys clicking,
and Alexander's operators plugging
us into our loved family and friends
And now, wirelessly, we blog
and update our homepage with
photos and tears of joy and sorrow
click here for an update,
click here to touch me now.
Still, your voice comes through
all the Dolbied hardware
attached to my head and I can
feel the emotion in your heart but,
virtual hugs are not yet, like real
© Goode Guy 2012-02-27
Father Byrd crossed those worn and weathered mounts
into the wild untamed unclaimed Mississippi River valley, settled down
and farmed land in a place that came to be called West Tennessee
sent grandsons off to Franklin to die for the Confederacy, sat and wept
and said not a word until he died of a broken heart, let his sons and
their grandsons and their sons and their sons farm his acres
‘til TVA took half of it, and the mechanized farmers across the Mississippi made
the rest useless, and the next generation went off to college and got Yankee
his last son sat dying of Alzheimer’s in a Lay-Z-Boy in front of a TV screen, and
his brother drove the last stake of barbed wire fencing into the ground,
rolled over and died of a heart attack in the timeless pasture.
He was eighty-six. I’m seventeen and here I sit
using my hands not for plowing, not for splitting logs,
not for shooting deer, not for fencing,
but for writing the history of those who came before
and made this life possible.
The passage was dark and damp
over a month locked inside a cell under the sea somewhere
but when Father Jones planted his feet back on solid ground
and saw the Statue of Liberty rising like a green mountain into the gray sky
he knew he had found his country. The free life was not always so easy,
and he had to work for his milk & honey. After he took
a bayonet through the lung in Germany, he settled down to turn cogs
in a Pittsburg factory, but knew it was all worth it when he laid eyes on
Mother Jones. Their sons became salesmen, and the youngest
married a Dutch girl, who adopted my father, who met my mother
studying at Vanderbilt, the Harvard of the south.
Dying on that blood-dripping cross,
Jesus felt sympathy for the wailing and weeping women,
and turning to the good thief:
He promised a place for him in Paradise...
and feeling forsaken He called out to His Father again.
Suddenly lightning stroke,
and thunder caused havoc!
A great earthquake shook the foundations of the Temple,
darkness descended as if it were night and made the Pharisees tremble!
He not only forgave one....but all,
and expiring, he gave up His breath;
and yet some did not believe He would have risen up!
He lay there for two days, and on the third day He rose:
the tomb's stone swiftly rolled away...
as the Roman soldiers were blinded by a radiant light;
yes, they did see the Christ who had died,
a Christ crowned King: claiming His power and glory!
He not only forgave one...but all by showing them a love so unsullied;
how could they have been so skeptical about a resurrection that really occurred?
Copyright (C) 2010 by Andrew Crisci
My baby girl called,
to see how I was,
her usual routine,
I immediately knew,
something was wrong,
her voice was different,
absent that merry little song.
She wanted to know,
why do some dads change,
why can't they stay daddies,
and always be the same?
He never calls me,
anymore just to talk,
although he lives,
only a short distance to walk.
He is too wrapped up,
in making a dime,
he's really self centerd,
but to his children, he's blind.
Nothing I could say,
would make the hurt go away,
I told my daughter,
God opens eyes,
as He touches the heart,
and sometimes He allows us time,
to make a new start.
The dearness of our children,
can't be replaced,
but you must forgive him,
never say hate.
Time is the keeper,
of every mans soul,
one day he will remember,
one day when he is old.
An oopsie in the shower
between him and her,
left the little stick
with a new little wonder.
A baby on the way
is a scary, scary thing,
a new dad he will become,
to a bouncing Amick baby.
A new life for them
with mine, yours, and now ours,
two kids and a dog
and their new little daughter.
Tatum Michelle Amick
is a lucky little girl,
for she has my best friend
as the best daddy in the world.
Coming home to chaos,
her siblings and a dog,
growing up will be fun
with daddy by her side.
With lots of support around him
and freely flowing love,
Jeremy is a lucky man
to have three kids and a dog.
But the strength to make it through,
every single day,
will come from another,
For, I’m sure, Tara knows the way.
Although my heart is saddened
because my best friend he is no more,
His heart has finally found
his wonderful significant other.
For Tara has stolen his heart
and her kids have declared him theirs,
Tatum now joins the circle,
Of a very lucky man.
Jeremy Wayne Amick,
Who I’ve known since 6th grade,
Congratulations are in order,
To my very best friend.
This is for Tara,
Whom I’ve never even met,
Take good care of Jeremy,
‘Cause he’s a man that need lots of help!
Got to go to work in the morning
But baby I ain't got no job
I have so many places to be
But darling I ain't got a car
But Meals-On-Wheels don't come on this end of the ghetto
Plus they say I'm too young
But man, if thangs don't hurry up and change
I ain't gonna live long enough to get old
I bought a .38 to protect my house
Now I need that same gun to keep me from getting kicked out
My babies are in the dark crying
My ol' lady praying and cussin
Saying that if it wasn't for my good midnight lovin'
I wouldn't be nothing
The only thing harder than being hard
Is being smarter than the smart
Thats what I thought when I stuck up the West- Side's main
And I wasn't going to have a second thought of squeezing the trigger
Until that fella fell, kicked, yelled, and screamed out loud
My whole entire name that was the same as his
See, this cat was the the man that Mama said was my daddy
Who cut out on her right before she had me
Until this day I hadn't even seen
Not since the age of three back on Christmas Day of 1983
We turned the corner together
no longer able to see the winding question
of the river
the palm trees dipping their heads
at our departure
back into the scrubby piney woods
where we belonged
No longer privy to the melancholy
marvel of the living river
no longer able to peel the mist
from off the sunken shrimp boat
across the creek
where I took my target practice
with my Zebco and a 2407 paw paw lure
where I caught 10 bass in a row
on a rainy day last summer
with my Daddy
running in and out of the porch
to check our lines
The bass popping at the raindrops
thinking they were dragonflies
touching the surface
with the summer shower.
I looked at Daddy,
lying in the back seat of the old
worn out and weak from chemo,
and I said Goodbye to them both,
to Daddy and the River
Dad, did you think I had forgotten you,
Well Dad, I wouldn't want you to be blue,
Do you think just because you've been gone so long,
That I don't still feel those arms so strong?
I loved you Dad-you were my idol,
I remember you putting on the horses' bridles,
I remember the love you had for your farm,
I remember how, for you, it held such charm.
You loved your horses, the cows and pigs,
You loved that old sow that got so big,
You loved driving that big truck for all those years,
But you were gone so much-Mom shed many tears.
You worked many trades, my dear, dear Dad,
The depression years made many people sad,
But you always worked to feed those you loved,
God blessed you Dad, from His throne up above.
You smoked before we knew smoking was bad,
And because you started smoking as just a lad,
Lung cancer got you before you were old,
Death took you early,my Daddy of GOLD!
Yes, I loved you Dad,and I still do,
But with thoughts of your love and humor I'm never blue,
Another poem I'll write for you--later Dad.
From sun up to sun down, they worked all day,
but down in that hole they always slaved,
light from a lantern, is all they had,
and quitting time really made them glad.
Coal dust covered them from head to toe,
and year after year it hurt them so.
No other jobs could be found back then,
Sons, and fathers, enemy, and friend.
Safety standards were not the best back then,
time was the enemy of the coal miner men.
Cave-in's were common in that cold wet tomb,
where they spent their days, surrounded by gloom.
Times have changed, things are better today,
but still they are in danger, no matter how safe.
Shuttered the stifling air
Confining her innocence
Clinging to a teddy bear
Ruffled the blanket of lies
Concealing her trembling
The lids to her cries
Echoed the corners of the room
Beneath the glowing ceiling
Of a neon moon
Creaked the rays of flight
Jesus, she whispered
Lowering her weary head
Do you know why my father
Comes to my bed
Open my eyes Lord let me keep living
For I know that you kept me here for a reason
A chosen one, something my father once said
Honorable while my mother is in this bed
Keep me in your hands Lord
Put your breath in me
Fill me with your life Lord
Safe as I can be
Growing and Growing Lord
So my mother and father can see
That you have answered there plea
Let me keep living Lord
In your walk I will be
Let me keep living Lord
To show the world
What I will come to be...
Dedicated to Josh and Nilsa
Lord, let me be a child again,
Just far enough back where I knew no sin.
Then Lord close off all roads that lead me wrong,
Let me feel your presence and know I belong.
The mistakes I’ve made just won’t let go,
That’s why I’ve turned to you don’t you know.
You’ve always been there in my times of despair,
No matter how low I get, I know you’ll always care.
I have no strength, it is You who are strong,
You are my light, the words to my song.
When I am lost you are my beacon that brings me back,
When I am weak You are the strength that I lack.
Teach me Your ways so that I might delight,
And make You happy this very night.
Show me what I need to do,
So that I may be a beacon that shines for you.
You give me strength when I am weak,
You’re all I need, You’re all I seek.
You are that lost feeling inside of me,
When You’re not there is when I feel lost you see.
It’s up to me to hold on tight,
And claim Your love that feels so right.
What is your gift, did you know that each of us have one?
They are things we do that delight the Father and the Son.
Some may paint, while others may write.
Some may cook, others may have the gift of kindness, that guide us in our flight.
Some may just be a good father or mother that too is a gift of might.
Some may use their hands while some use their voice to our Saviors delight.
The gift is there, to some it comes with ease while others must search and seek.
The gift is there whether your character be bold or should it be meek.
The thing you do best, is the gift God bestowed on you.
It pleases Him more when you praise Him for this gift, this thing you do.
We are children, God’s children, and it pleases Him when His children do well.
Just like us when our children excel, we are proud and often our chest will
So don’t let this world try to put you under.
Remember God created you, and have you ever known God to make a blunder?
Not a day goes by , my thoughts are not with you,
thinking maybe, someone will have the guts, and
courage to say, "OK, I was wrong."
Daily our troops are killed, and wounded so bad,
trying to start their life over, but it will never be what they had.
Is this a war for peace, or a war for oil, all I know for sure,
our tempers are ready to boil.
Our leaders are backing up, when it comes to our troops,
but they don't have a problem sleeping, for what they do.
How many now have been killed in this war,
How many now will never walk,
How many now can't see their children,
How many now have been abandoned,
How many now have been burned,
How many now can't hold their wife,
How many now can't get help,
I think our country has done enough,
If they can't handle their problem,
well that's just tough.
Our troops, our money, our sacrifice,
something here is not right.
Their land, their oil, and they keep it all.
Somebody better open their eyes, and
then maybe explain to a mother, why her child had to die.
Fear is all that I sense and feel it is near. Why must I anguish over my pain with
nothing solid to gain. Once again I check my hat, ruffle my clothes and feed the
cat. I stare at the wall and can't remember if I ever felt this small. The phone
rings with a jar and I almost fall of my chair, and then I run a hand across my
hair. I pickup the phone and with a groan and with anticipation I spit out the
words is it a boy or a girl and with a smile I close my eyes and twirl.
It will just be another normal day I thought as I closed my eyes.
I realized I was oh so wrong as I abruptly awoke to my Grams piercing cries.
Could her Problem Change My day too?
Wow! Let's just say I didnt have a clue.
Eager to find out what was wrong I stumbled out of bed.
So many horrible scenarios ran through my frantic head.
I hoped my Gram wasn't in any severe pain. All of my emotions were becoming
too hard to restrain.
I finally reached my Gram then remembered a loud boom.
She just looked at me and pointed into my dads room.
I now knew my Grandmother was okay,
but what about my dad?
From this point on my day got really bad.
I walked into his room finding something I never wanted to see.
I remember thinking "How can this be?".
I found out my father was no longer willingly alive.
The coroner said he shot himself somewhere around five.
Finally that big day is here,
you know, the one most fathers fear.
Walking down the isle, is all he has to do,
I have been busy for six months, if he only knew
Flowers, cake, the dress, and tuxs,
not to mention, invitations, and such.
Bridesmaids , how many, and what do they wear,
daughter in a tizzy, she hates her hair.
Plates of pink, and white, crystal glasses with bows,
now she is complaining, the shoes cramp her toes.
Candles that float, staggered in the pool,
finally I found that stash of brew.
One little nip, ahh, what could it hurt,
I sure hope that release on the balloons will work.
Little bows, big bows, and all in between,
so many were made, and put on everything.
Chairs on the lawn, placed just right,
now she tells me, they don't look right.
Tuff, this is it, let's get this on the road,
your mother has had it, I'm just about to fold.
This is your day, the most special of all,
hold on to your mother, I think I drank it all.
As I walked through the park in the late sun's light,
Watching the people jog by and a bird's lazy flight.
An old man sat on a bench up ahead
With the sun's rosy glow glistening on his head.
He seemed so forlorn just sitting there,
The breeze gently ruffling his white, thin hair.
His hands were clasped around his trembling, knurled fingers
And as I came closer I decided to linger.
"Excuse me," I said with a smile,
"Do you mind if I sit here for awhile?"
His head came up as the old gentleman slowly stood
And he said, "I'd be honored if you would."
As we sat we talked of several things
Of things in the past and what the future may bring.
He spoke of the people who had walked by
Never looking at him or saying hi.
He was old, he said, and passed his prime.
He understood - no one now had the time.
People today have so much to do
Spending time with the old ones is not what they choose.
He had a son, he said with a sigh.
Who he feared was letting life pass him by.
His boy thought only of making money
And he seldom saw nature's beauty or things that were funny.
He was always in such a hurry dashing to and fro
That he would never have a chance for his soul to grow.
My eyes strayed from the man's wise face
And saw someone walking towards us at a very fast pace.
As he got closer he suddenly yelled,
"Hey, Dad, let's go, I've got a date.
We have to hurry, I don't wanna be late."
The old man looked at me with sadness in his eyes
As he rose and graciously told me good-bye.
He shuffled away, such a lonely old soul
Whose life's ups and downs had taken their toll.
"Wait!" I said, heading his way
There's something I'd like to say.
Thank you, kind sir, for talking to me.
You've been very enjoyable company.
Then quickly I leaned and kissed his cheek
On that face that once again had become old and bleak.
Now it lit up with eyes much brighter
As he walked towards his son with his step a little sprightlier.
But the son stood impatiently as his dad came his way.
Not realizing his greatest treasure was fading away.
I often wonder, why some dad's, think nineteen years is grown, and
for some of them, not much love for their children is shown...
They pay support only because they are made to, and gripe about
These are the dads that never call, because they cannot find the time...
What a shame, how do they sleep, knowing good and well, that when
his kids are older, the true stories, they will tell...
Time has a way, to pay us back, for every good deed we do...
and if they are bad, well, there is payment for those too...
The payment that I speak of, is called the senior years...
If they are forsaken, when the're young, then yours will be
loneliness and tears.
A dad can't put a time, on his role as a dad...
But must be willing, to always be a dad, and take the good with
I feel so sorry for the children, that want their daddies near...
And nothing but excuses, do they ever hear...
The time will come, children will be grown, and the stories
they will tell...
Some may be good, some may be bad, about the man they call dad...