The 18th of December was her last day;
she neither knew the date nor cared to.
Gathered at the hospital, keeping vigil,
we couldn't overcome her fright, or ours.
The pain, too great to be driven away,
was only "managed" with IV drips,
needles stuck in bruised appendages --
bony things -- arms and legs, hands and feet.
Above the medicines and washes, we sniffed
her scent, which, more than her yet familiar
face, to us identified our mother --
a smell we never would mistake
for any other. It went quickly
as her body cooled. The rouged and pickled
carcass they displayed was more a statue
than a person. We planned to bury her
with homely tokens, like an ancient mummy:
a family photo, a brooch she liked,
a pink hairbrush, and the brass bell she rang
to call her keeper during her last years.
But, when the time came, I could not bear
to have her leave so finally;
I took the bell from her metal box.
And, now, I ring it -- not to bring a keeper,
but to recall my mother on her birthday,
and on many dark days when I need her.
Copyright © Leo Larry Amadore
My heart was in such pain
I felt like I was going to go insane
I just don't know what to do
And my eyes full of tears that distort my view
I fell to my knees and felt the urge
My muscle tighten and pin needles struck me like a surge
My body was warm and with feelings so confused
My mind felt sadness had fused
I could not conquer my fears
I just sat down and fell into tears
When some close to you passes on
It felt like a warmth has gone
So I raised my hand towards a box that was empty with no tissue
I first was embarrass and had a little bit of issue
All my friends hugged me and said sorry for your loss
So now I cry in my bed and toss
April 14, 2013
Copyright © Reynaldo Mast
She wrote a letter
Which I happily read
Summer baked on
Autumn arrived with a chill in the air
Winter followed with snow
Then the call came
Aunt Stella had passed away
Two months shy of her eighty-seventh birthday
Could I travel to Chicago for the funeral?
My cousin’s voice
Time was short
I would have to leave tomorrow.
The wind brought tears to my eyes
And I remembered why
Chicago was called the windy city.
The funeral was surreal
My cousin and I were lost in the room
Our voices echoed in the chamber
We were the only attendees
Where was the rest of the family
The funeral director nodded
More than we did.
Before the sad procession to the cemetery
We walked to her house
In no particular hurry
Talked old times
There, nestled under trees
We peered through
Rain stained windows
Looked inside an empty house
Sunlight streaming through a den door facing a back garden
We left quietly.
At the cemetery there was a delay
I began reading headstones
Nearby were three
Aligned in a row
Each with the same last name
Following its own order of death
I made out a father, an uncle
And a young boy
Standing over his grave
I caught a glimpse of something faded red and metallic
Chipping the frozen ground
A toy truck
How long had it been there
I could only guess.
As the Priest mumbled
Half forgotten Catholic prayers
I bent down and carefully
Pressed the toy
Back into the cold
As it was
Meant to be
Years and years ago.
When the service ended
We looked at each other
My cousin and I
Thoughts and deeds
Of long ago
Brought back memories
I called out to him
Look after yourself.
He smiled and turned
You visit. Stay in touch.
The Priest remained
Where he was
The cold winter sun
Reflecting his bright colored vestments.
Copyright © Edmund Siejka
A cousin called the other day saying "Another cousin has passed away".
Well my husband said "How old was she.""
A stalwart woman who had served family and community well. Producing one child that
became a missionary serving in a foreign land..
While talking the cousin asked "Did you know ______"?
My husband answered, "Well, I don't think that I knew them".
The cousin proceeded to tale this story.
"The man had been down with cancer for a while and passed recently..The funeral had been
conducted and the hearse had gone on to the cemetary..The family car with the family was
not to far behind..But when it pulled up, the wife of the deceased did not get out and the
funeral home staff was gathering around..The funeral home director decided to go see what
was going on ...."
The cousin said, " That this funeral home director told him". "That he had been in this
business for thirty-five years and faced something that he had never had happen to him or
any other funeral home director that he knew."
The funeral home director said, "When I got to the family car, I found the wife of the
deceased had passed from a massive corornary."
She had said, "I don't know how I will live without him." She didn't have to learn. God called
The roosters crow, the crows craw and are answered by the gobble of the turkey across the
Copyright © Sara Kendrick
FROM OUT OF THIS EARTH, IN EVERY GENERATION
MUST ARISE A MIGHTY PROPHET...
SO DON'T YOU HAVE NO FEAR, YOU HAVE DONE YOUR SHARE, YOU ARE THE HONOURABLE
YOU BROUGHT US OUT FROM IGNORANCE,
AND FOR THIS WE WILL THANK YOU HONESTLY.
ALTHOUGH WE KNOW THAT IT WAS WRITTEN IN THE BIBLE THAT MANY WOULD BE
CALLED,BUT ONLY FEW OF THEM WOULD BE CHOOSEN.
ROBERT NESTA MARLEY, HE LIVED HIS LIFE FOR WE.
AND NOW WE HAVE GROWN, WE ARE THE SEEDS HE HAS SHOW, TILLED BY HIS IMPERIAL
OH BROTHER BOB YOU WERE ONE.
YOU WORKED FROM DAWN TILL DAWN.
NOW IN THE PHYSICAL YOU HAVWE GONE, BUT IN THE SPIRIT YOU WILL CARRY ON,
THE WORKS OF MARCUS GARVEY.(CHORUS)
NOW BOB ARISE,
OPEN THY EYES.
BECAUSE WE WANT YOU TO KNOW, I 'n' I HAVE DISCOVERED YOUR FOE,
TRAMPLED BENEATH THY FEET.
SO IF YOUR TRODDING IN A STREET,
OR IN A HIGH MOUNTAIN.
DON'T YOU HAVE NO SHAME,
REGGAE MUSIC HAS BROUGHT YOU FAME,
YOU ARE THE HONOURABLE NATTY DREAD.
(C)1982, 1996, 2006 ALBERT WILLIAMS
Copyright © Albert Williams
She was going to visit her old auntie at 91 years
The sweet old aunt lived in her own home
in the town of Ostrow Lobelski in Poland
On the floor she found her body lifeless and cold
Her heart did not beat, and she was not breathing
Medical and police were called
The old auntie Janina Kolkiewicz was declared dead
After she had been in cold storage at a mortuary for 11 hours
she ensured that the employees got themselves a real shock
Body bags began to move - she was not dead
The niece says that when they came home
Janina asked for a hot cup of tea
she felt cold all the way into her body and soul
- This is a true story !!! -
A-L Andresen :)
Copyright © All Rights Reserved
Copyright © Anne Lise Andresen
There was no casket to be set into the earth.
Only memories were to be burried washed clean
by the bottles embrace.
Strangers do we part a vist to a familar cold place
by the oceans shore.
Words spoken never hurt when you understand
The dark inwhich I only know.
A dark river flowing unto the sea.
Its broken current flow's with no true direction.
As children we start fresh only to loose the spark.
Dancing under a shroud of tenderness apon lifes
Bitter souls reflect anger lost only tears of regret.
Me i just cast demons down in some twisted hope
I just might forget.
Sometimes you gotta realize when you crash through that glass
celling you only got to look forward to the floor.
The bottle now empty I cast into the dark waters
Along with a memory I'll pretend to erase.
Distanse is only a thought away.
The road echos my lifes song.
Underground burried so deadly the truth
just as sweet as the lie.
Barbwire and daydreams plague my soul.
Like the bottle that sit's within the depths
of a water cast tomb.
I know strangers as friends.
Night as backdrop.
Farewell seems fitting as hello.
When the river has run dry
To whom will go?
Read more: http://hellopoetry.com/poem/the-death-of-a-friend/#ixzz0suxHEd00
Copyright © John Patrick Robbins AKA Gonzo
They ran laughing
Into the night.
Hand in hand.
Heart in heart.
Twenty-One, and Nineteen.
Forging new pathways,
Laughing at the wind.
It took only
For the driver
To mow them down.
It took only
For love realized
to be lost.
But years before
He stood next to his father
Who said the choice is yours.
And the proud young man
Checked the box
And signed his name
That the heart
He gave the girl
Would not be
His to give.
Of holding breaths
And the heart
Began to beat
Copyright © Rachel Kovacs
Bart Coleman is my name.
Five Card Stud is my game.
I had ridden into Rotgut two days before.
It is a small dusty rundown nowhere town.
I spent most of my time there in Salty Sam’s Saloon.
I had taken the local yokels for a tidy little sum.
Then, to my shock and chagrin,
Zack Waverly walked into Salty Sam’s.
I had taken most of his dough down in Abilene
three months or so before I wandered into Rotgut.
Zack spotted me, called me a dirty rat,
drew his fancy Colt pistol and shot me in my chest.
I didn’t even have time to draw a breath
and I was stone cold dead before my body
hit the the creaky wooden saloon floor.
The sheriff had a couple of drunken prisoners
bury my body in a shallow grave up on Boothill.
In a flim flam flash my eternal soul was in the pit of Hell.
I would have cried, but a soul cannot shed tears,
when I was informed by that old serpent Beelzebub himself
that there is absolutely no gambling allowed in Hades.
Now I truly understand why the netherworld is called Hell.
Copyright © Jerry Stevenson
My beloved wife
It was the crows calling that gave the final warning on this mid October morning.
Just as the mist began falling upon the hills in a strange manner that was almost unnerving.
This morn shall be my final calling as my soul begins souring high above the clouds on this mid October morning.
Signalled by the single rose placed upon my coffin.
Not a healthy rose but one that's wilting, It's red petals fading and it's leaves browning.
It was placed upon my coffin by a loan woman who stands morning on this bitter October morning.
She turns towards home and begins walking, towards my old manor house that now stands rotting.
She passes the spot in the garden where she hid the knife the other morning, just before the police came calling.
Alerted by the chamber maid screaming upon discovering by body laying bleeding.
Murder was the diagnosis, probably by a burglar was the prognosis.
The window was broken and my jewellery was stolen.
They didn't bother to ask about the missing kitchen knife, it was all falling into place for my dearly beloved wife.
As she approached she questions what she saw, large boards placed upon the entrance door.
Upon the door a sign held by a single rusty nail, it read this property is now for sale.
Due to deceased occupants an auction will now take place, in gods grace she calls out from behind her veil of lace.
This can't be true, I felt the morning dew seep through into my newly bought shoe, she pauses for breath as she begins to think things through.
Now the truth begins dawning that it was her soul and not her body that left the hill this morning.
We are now two souls exploring, one up and one down on this bitter October morning.
Copyright © Damien Biggs
In memory of Bob
A true story.
It was in spring of two thousand when I first saw Bob. I’d just started working at Perth Dental hospital, and in fact it was my first day there. I walked up to the front door of this building, but it wasn’t yet opened. So I turned around and went to sit in the bus shelter which was just outside the building. As I went to sit down I noted a dark skinned gentleman sitting there with a happy, benign look on his face. He was about five feet eight give or take a little, and he was rather a thickset man who looked like he’d done his fair share of hard work in his sixty years or more.
There was something about this Gentleman that I could not quite put my finger on. He had a certain charisma about him; not the phony kind of charisma that one seen in the car salesman or the philanderer who messes with women’s heads, no, Bob had a kind of friendly smile for everyone that he met, and he seemed to draw people into him with his love, and gigantic heart. I knew as soon as I met him that Bob was most definitely for me.
As Bob looked at me and smiled, the whole world seemed to open up. He said “Ow ya going mate” in a loud ebullient manner, then we started to chat. Bob was like myself, a thinker, and straight away we started philosophizing about this, that, and the other, and it was like we had known each other forever. Then all of a sudden I found Bob talking about death, and the difference in the way the Maori people faced death, compared to the rather the silly way us white folk look at the subject with great fear in our hearts. Now this had always interested me, and somehow it just seemed natural to talk to this Maori gentlemen on this subject, and we spoke about it till the doors opened and it was time to work.
I don’t think anything happens just by chance, and I definitely have this feeling that Bob and I were meant to meet, and I really think this was a major destiny thing. I have found during the course of my life, that as I am aging, I can feel something pushing me into a certain direction, and I always felt that Bob was part of all this; and I had much to learn from him. Although I have never believed in organized religion, and never followed one I have always felt deeply spiritual, and I have met many people who I learned from, and Bob was most definitely one of them with all his great wisdom and patience. As I came to know Bob, we had many dialogues together, on many subjects. Bob used to love music and could always have time to plonk away on his guitar. He used to come round to my place and we would play songs together, though both he and I were no Eric Clapton’s, I would bang around on my guitar and play the harp, while we would both take out turns at singing. We’d have a smoke or a beer or two, and we’d play songs all day long, ahhh, I remember those days well, the memories are so strong.
Bob was one hell of a man, I could tell that he had been a wild one in his youth,
But when I knew him in his sixties he was an icon of wisdom and virtue; he had a kind word for everyone, and gave all his time to anybody who needed him, always.
He used to hear me waffling on like an idiot, trying to make him like me [as I always did] but never once did he tell me how foolish I was, he would just smile knowingly at me. He used to stand there at the window for hours, just drinking in the trees, or the clouds in the sky, and yet he was so aware, I used to try to sneak up on him; it couldn’t be done. His awareness was incredible.
Then one day Bob fell ill with terminal cancer, and he knew that he had very little time left on this Earth. He lay there sick for days in intolerable pain, but you never heard one complaint from him, even when he only had days to live, he was still worrying about the welfare of others. When the day finally come for Bob to leave his shell; he was lying there in deep sleep, when all of a sudden he woke up, with a smile on his face. His children asked him ‘Dad, do you want some pain killers” Bob laughed, compassion written all over his face, and he said to them ‘Not one of you has a clue, have you’ and he died with a big smile on his face.
His daughter got in touch with me, and told me about his death, and also told me that his last wish was to have me watch his soul leave his body. I felt very honored about this and went and sat with his body [as Maoris do]. I got the most peaceful feeling come to me [which I presume was his spirit leaving his body] as I watched his silent body, a Mari war stick and a beautiful rose lay across his chest. I still see it, and I feel blessed by it. He was my Maori warrior, and I adored the man.
Copyright © Peter Duggan
As you grow, happy moments shrink,
At some day, skin aches when you smile,
These are just ordinary lines, or
Maybe just exaggerated tales,
‘D thought so but no fraction of idea,
It could be real, as real as you dwell in it,
Just like another story,
How a freckled face glance down,
Why arched brows are falling down,
The crow lines of eyes say it,
When it aches to smile,
Wearing it which was disowned years back
Don’t spell or stare or nod,
May face lays as in absence of suspicion
Knot of rope around my neck,
What changed or happened,
Somebody sprinkled dust on freshly painted canvas,
That Blush of youth _with self-indulged soul,
Beauty reflected in the eyes wide open,
Then agonizing hand interfered,
So made me wore this,
The face you don’t look at.
I have told enough, misery loses its grief,
If explained to satisfy that deaf ear,
Let it prevail, the dust,
Let me blacken myself in the stained canvas,
For that is what meant, and so,
Let this veiled face pray, in the shadow,
For the last breath, not for shrine,
Lived in mundanely and so did suffer,
Shall die in that ordinariness too,
If life asked you about my tiredness,
Don’t blame a name but a cure,
Which is desperately awaited, let her know.
Copyright © HINA NASIR
Marla was a friend of mine
I knew from working at UTMB
Over 10 years we worked together
In the department of pathology
Though we actually worked
In two different locations there
We still became pretty good friends
Leaving me memories of times we shared
Besides her friendship with me
To all, Marla was very helpful
She knew her job exceptionally well
And was always professional
Our department felt confident
As we knew Marla was the one
To work in an accurate manner
And get any task completely done
Marla attended a few SSP luncheons
We would both go there to meet
She came as my guest a few times
And we would save each other a seat
I’ll carry the memories of Marla
With me throughout my living years
I know that when it’s my time to go
She’ll be saving a good seat for me up there
Florence McMillian (Flo)
Copyright © Florence McMillian
My ancestors came here long ago
Tough and strong not weak
But somewhere down along the line
Something went terribly wrong
And now I have to sit here and deal with my legacy
Of not what I thought it would be
Not where I choose to be right now
The legacy that’s me.
I can’t escape the past
The memories seem to last
Of the horrors of what has come before
The graveyard is the place
I can see it on my face
My family’s legacy of suicide
is haunting me.
My generational legacy
Is it going to kill me
Or will it just let sleeping dogs lie
And allow me to exist
Will it allow me to just to see
The me that I am meant to be
To live beyond my years
To grow beyond the tears
To handle all my fears
To defy what could have been
(November 13, 2010 Wausau, Wisconsin)
(c) Copyright 2010 by Christine A Kysely, All Rights Reserved
Copyright © christine a kysely
I still remembered that night
the snow was heavy and unusually white.
We gathered around the fireplace,
Momma was sharing her Christmas grace.
Daddy went home and brought us presents
Momma stopped her story and away she went
out into the snowy streets
buying us winter treats.
It has passed dinner and she’s not home.
Our stomach started to ache and roam.
Daddy began to worry,
and away he went in a hurry.
Me and Anna were still inside
looking through the window with eyes opened wide.
Then Anna started to cry,
I was still wondering why
until I saw a shadow in the foggy snow.
Anna squeezed my hand and wouldn’t let go.
A squeak, a squeal -
a spinning wheel
down the hill
that’d thrill and kill.
It came clashing and crashing
through the glaciers it went bashing
through our door it was breaking,
left us all shaking and quaking.
We did not restrain
the shrieks and tears weren’t feigned.
Next morning the neighbors came
and told us that momma and daddy weren’t the same.
I followed them and what I saw
with only a glance made me drop my jaws.
There, two coffins neatly laid
“Uncertain causes” was clearly sprayed.
I laughed and thought I just got played
but grief suddenly fell when the priest prayed.
Nobody helped when I fell limp on the floor
as they carried my parent’s bodies through the shattered door.
From that day on there wasn’t winter anymore.
Snow were redder than red – the color of gore.
Their tombstones were always cold solid steel
and if you came close you’d feel:
A squeak, a squeal -
a spinning wheel
down the hill
that’d thrill and kill.
Copyright © Celine Tran
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.
Copyright © Patrick Cornwall
Inspired by the untimely deaths of young people I knew. RIP
In a dream, tonight would be my last
and I demanded to talk to God.
Of all the things I've gotten past,
to go now seemed so odd.
"You've taken all my friends you see
and now you want me, too?
Unlike one who pretends to be
I've always honored you."
Those sinners who outlive me still,
all I have to ask is how?
It mad me question His very will.
Why take a good man now?
But God just sat and let me rave
on and on about my worth
and why I didn't need a grave,
but rather eternity here on earth.
Pride let my voice be rather loud.
He never said a word.
I told of deeds that made me proud
and good things that I'd heard.
And when I tired He simply said,
"No doubt your life's been good.
But many younger are now dead
and their legacy simply would
be the song that is never sung,
no children call them dad.
for they came to me so very young
and left the world confused and sad.
Yet now your time has come as well
and selfish thoughts are all I hear?
Your life was full and I can tell
it's really death you fear.
Just remember that you have no choice,
for you all will one day die.
Be strong and with a humble voice
tell loved ones they can cry."
And in that moment I knew a peace,
and I felt a tear well up inside.
That most feared was now the least
as my selfish motives died.
Copyright © James Nichols
The lady walks away
With thoughts clogged of grey
She couldn't stand there any longer
Watching him go underground
It was dead scilent, not a sound
His motionless body on his death bed
She cried tears of death and sorrow
Knowing for him, there is no tommorow
Her love thrown away like nothing
No one knew who she was
Because she had only met him the other day
when they fell in love at first sight
The bullet that once saved her
Killed her first love, in a shock and a blur
He bled out and died in her arms
Why didn't things work out that day?
Why did things end up that way?
She walked away, a lady dressed in black
Copyright © Kajika Fowling
His walk into town would prove fateful that day,
As his mind wandered idly while finding his way.
His footsteps were brisk like fall chill in the air,
Past Wellington Gate, south of Denby town square.
He paused for a time as the hearse passed him by.
Its dark, somber outline contrasting the sky.
Stood still as it turned in through Wellington Gate,
Down this last dusty byway of sorrow and fate.
A pair of dark geldings, black plumes on their heads.
Seemed subdued in their manner while carrying the dead.
Their hooves beat dull thuds on the cold, hardened sod:
Alerting the devil, but more hopefully, God.
The box in the hearse lay there stark and austere.
Poor souls final journey, last trek anywhere.
The small group of mourners now somber and mute
Trailed after the hearse in reluctant pursuit.
His thoughts then turned back to concerns of the day.
The errands in Denby that had brought him this way.
His footsteps trudged on toward the town just ahead.
On past this bleak place with its fields of the dead.
And the day passed by quickly as he made all his rounds,
Attending to business before leaving the town.
Then an overdue visit to a friend from the past,
Would leave his mind reeling, in tumult, aghast!
For Nell Reed had returned from her home far away.
Nell Reed had come back, never more would she stray.
The scene he had witnessed at Wellington Gate,
The pine box, the mourners, lamented Nell's fate.
Then a blow to his middle - sharp twist like a knife.
Twice now he'd lost Nellie the love of his life.
Nellie, oh Nellie sweet child of his youth.
How could he accept this - admit to its truth?
She now lay in her coffin - pale, cold, not a sigh.
No words would she speak, not one single goodbye.
No explanation of the times in their past:
Of unanswered questions, he could now never ask.
He then found himself back at Wellington Gate.
Fall shadows had lengthened and the day had grown late.
Dead leaves of November swirled under his step,
Invited him follow to where Nellie now slept.
The despair that he felt huddled there by her grave,
Made him seem as a man now most surely depraved.
Harsh pleas for the answers to questions long asked,
From someone once cherished, now part of the past.
Where had she gone while he fought in that war?
Why did she leave, did she love him no more?
Upon his return, mind and body all scarred,
To face life without her - so sad and so hard?
He cried out in frustration, old sorrow and pain,
As he knelt by her grave there on Evermore Lane.
And the day turned toward evening, but he did not see,
Trapped there in his memories with no place to flee.
Then he sensed someone else, just behind, but nearby.
A young man with Nell's look, most especially her eyes.
In his hand was a letter, tinged yellow with time-
Nell's neat, tiny script penned on each faded line.
"She told me about you and what you once shared,
And asked me to find you, to tell you she cared.
She wished you to have this," his voice held a plea.
"Her last thoughts on this earth were of you and of me."
"The letter was written a long time ago,
When I was a child, before I came to know.
The man I called father, in the days of my youth,
Was only her husband; a well hidden truth."
"He raised me and fed me and treated me well,
But he never did love me and I always could tell.
This letter from mother should bring you at last,
Answers to questions that have troubled your past."
And the son placed the letter in his fathers cold hand,
Waited a moment - made a half-hearted stand.
But he turned then and left - back through Wellington Gate:
To the place he had come from and his own earthly fate.
And his father by the morning, lay frozen and dead,
On Nellie's cold grave with the message unread.
He never did view those last words meant for him,
It grew too dark to see as the cold night set in.
He succumbed to that cold and to Nellie's mute call.
And died where she lay on the last day of fall.
And the years passed on by, like the years always will.
They now lie there together, both silent: both still.
And all who'd remember lie near them as well,
No one now survives for this sad tale to tell.
Yet the legend goes on of this man and of fate.
It's still whispered while passing by - Wellington Gate.
Copyright © Diane Lefebvre
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
Copyright © Shayla Dendinger
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.”
Copyright © DENNIS DE ROSE
It was another beautiful morning in the city , Workers looking radiant as always
People strolling , Cars horning as pedestrians throttled along the Zebra crossing
The subway was crowded with the smell of early morning rush and sweat
Little did they know that there was a shadow lurking behind the bright sun
The announcer’s voice towered over sound of luggage’s being dragged
Flight attendants smartly dressed hurried towards the boarding gates
Passengers sat patiently at the lounge, awaiting the call of the day
How could they have known that today will change their very lives
Nineteen bearded men dressed in polo shirts scattered amidst the crowd
Each missing the silky feel of their long white robes and heavily woven turban
As they try to fit in with their newly bought Jeans and Sky blue snickers
They knew what was about to happen, their lives was fading as the clock ticked
People going about their work and children being dragged to school
It was the ninth hour of the Mane , The plane heading for a wrong land
Passengers struggled for their lives, calling their loved ones for the last time
They saw the rage lurking in their eyes, the clothing couldn’t hide the evil
A Woman standing in the office, talking to her fiancé on the phone
As she stared out the spotless white glass, she saw it heading her way
She couldn’t mutter a word as her fiancé called out on the other end
Not a step could she take as the wall crashed on her, it was clearly too late
Buildings tumbling down the great heights, fire flying through the sky
Bodies rolling through the sky like the brutal fall of strong rain in spring
Oh what a sorry sight for a blind man, oh what a poison for the soul
Some watched with great tears, they could do nothing to save a life
Deadly cry of babies filled everywhere, smell of blood saturating the air
Heads missing the body buried under the crumbs of the fallen bricks
Some puffing out the last breath in them, hanging on for the very last time
Thunders of sadness roared everywhere, Mourning voices everywhere
So many lives were lost along with Nineteen men who thought it as fate
Not a year passes that we do not weep, for the lost souls of this day
The brave hearts that left us , even at the face of death some struggled
They linger forever in our hearts, as their thoughts dwell within us.
Copyright © Adekemi Adeniyan
The dog is fretting over her bone endlessly. The time seemed to stand still and the house was a farrago of dirty clothes and missed placed items. I am wishing I could blink and the mess would disappear.
Painting supplies collect on the table dried from lack of use. No energy to be creative today. Another death in the our family....March first can't forget that day and that call.
Death is closing in on my life....Each year we have a deposit in the heavenly account. Yet life continues until there are no more setting suns nor sunrises. The aged have to make way for the young.
I saw the butercups bloom today purest yellow! Purple crocus and maroon violets have broken through the terra firma of the cold winter. The sun has been bright today; I saw a rainbow cloud reminding me of God's love and promises of protection.
Copyright © Doris Culverhouse
He was slothful in the race
Yet entered in by wondrous grace.
His works of earthly gain, no more remain.
The world’s pursuits there now distained.
Forlorn of blessings lost to greed,
Mistaken goals and careless deeds.
While words of praise from men he sought,
Such idle words have come to naught.
Another entered into rest,
His works of love far greater blest.
While poorer was his life on earth,
At Heaven’s gate, unfathomed worth.
For small the pain in life he bore,
His sacrifices gained far more.
His faithful love and service too
Bore gold and gems of vibrant hues.
And then, all stood toward Heaven’s gate
Where throngs of anxious saints await.
An elder mother made her way
Past countless lives her life had graced.
A chorus rose of cheers and laughter
Extended arms, were panting after
That one great, logged-for-embrace;
Where every trace of loss met grace.
Beyond description or imagination
There came new heights of jubilation.
I turned to see the Savior leap,
To greet this one, now at His feet.
He knelt, and raised her up with grace,
Embraced, then gently kissed her face.
On cue, all heaven roared in praise
For they knew how this mother prayed.
Then Jesus cried aloud triumphant,
As with the voice of a thousand trumpets:
“Bring forth the crown of righteousness,
Well done, dear one, receive your rest!”
For such God waits and longs to bless,
For these are heaven’s highest guests.
Copyright © Tom Valles
When the light of the sun begins to fall
Echoes of thoughts begin to ball
Drifting into a sleepless state
Possibilities grow, at a relentless rate
I open my mind, in a wonderland of no validity
Emphasized by a walk, through a mirror of fluidity
Children's laughter in a sadistic tone
This dream is a nightmare, far from home
The path I am walking........leads to a house
Beyond the door, I wish for my friend, my lover and spouse
As the door creaks open a figure is revealed
I brace myself, my numbness is my shield
A wrinkled hand reaches out from the black
It grabs my wrist, leaving no time to fight back
As I'm dragged into the darkness, the figure becomes clear
The face of my victim, my deepest fear
Copyright © Nathan Kelly
Last night awakened with thoughts of him
How long has it has been, only
First one I ever saw laid out
I sixteen, he nineteen, Viet Nam
Purple complexion seeping through under glass
I gaze on doll-like hair
His uniform perfect, tie straight
Blouse olive, at attention
No one else at the funeral home
Me and a girl friend too early for death
Dead before he hit the ground
Cut down by ground-fire first jump no longer
So many years now, forty-two,
awakened with thoughts of him,
Still see his body rigid attention
rumor wire for arm, died before his time
Didn’t know him well, would he
still be here if not
Would we have smoked and talked about
women if he would be
And what of Thua Thien, what now
monument, blood of airborne boys?
Golf course …
Copyright © jeff eklund
Like me, Jimmy had a passion
For writing poetry too
So I thought I’d write a special one
To share with all of you
For my cousin Jimmy Peoples
I have a lot of fond memories
From when we grew up together
With such loving families
After our Grand-daddy Gray
I was supposed to be named Lawrence
But since I was born a girl
I was given the name of Florence
Jimmy was born two months after me
And Lawrence was his middle name
Our childhood days were filled with joy
And happy memories will always remain
As we grew older through these 51 years
And the adult life kept us mostly apart
All of the fun, laughter and adventures
Feels just like yesterday in my heart
I developed a cousin family reunion
To keep all of our cousins in touch
To get together with all the families
To me, it really means so much
I trust in the Good Lord
As only He knows just when
It is the time for one of us
To come and join with Him
Though Jimmy is going home
With the Lord before we do
I’ll cherish all the precious memories
Until I reach Heaven too
Florence McMillian (Flo)
Copyright © Florence McMillian
My great, great, Uncle who fought in the
Spanish-American War, although this was
long before my time I was proud, my hero…
As told to me, he was in the Battle
of Manila, he lost his life on March 30, 1899
in this Battle…
Sending all the bodies of the heroes who
fell on the Manila battlefield were brought
to their respective homes…
The boy who gave his life for his
country in the Spanish and Philippine
Wars, arrived in Osceola Monday
at 10:45 a.m. for burial near his
War is a terrible thing, but freedom
Is not free and it is a must!
By Sandra Lea Hoban
Copyright © Sandra Hoban
It was a funeral of dead flowers.
A silent and solemn ritual it was,
The wordlessness was not meant to strike
A figurative note. Make no mistake!
It was not the day of efflorescence.
The end was inevitable and justifiable,
Leaving no occasion for sighs and complaints.
It was a funeral of dead flowers.
On my little alcove shade lay
Heaps of those once-upon-a-time-fresh flowers,
Jasmine, tuberoses, and the third one without a name.
They had promised me fragrance that would fill up
The fissures of my soul. I thought the fragrance
Belonged to them and was not like some fiscal takeover.
But the white had turned yellow and the yellow was brown,
I couldn’t resist that; I was powerless.
Instead, I joined the requiem but found
No words of condolence to satisfy their sorrow
Or match up to it. It was hopeless, but then
They never belonged to me, and neither to my dead father,
And the dead goddess I had placed them before.
We hadn’t signed up that humble pact,
They weren’t a part of that surreal bond
That the three of us shared; my father, my goddess, and me.
But I’ve heard madmen saying
That the dead share a secret that eludes the living.
I tried to poke the flowers into life,
But they wouldn’t just let it be.
They were motionless and fragile like voices
Muffled in a dark, decomposed alley,
Or dreams ruffled in distant sunless patches,
Or visions that could never really define the quest.
They continued to look back at me
With eyes moonstruck. I turned away my gaze.
There was a tinge of pain like a slight but subtle singe,
And then there was peace.
Copyright © Pragna Paramita Mondal
All the big men, the prominent
of community with dark-blue suits,
a few outta town, and an overall or two
gazed at the sky, and gazed at the grass,
and they all passed Grandma around
which sounds loose but it t'aint.
Grandma after all, is worth sharing praise
and they all took their turn with Grandma
and told of what they love of her.
Several agreed about her chicken
and scratch cake as airy
as the breeze under today
And the little wiry man said
how Grandma came for two months
to take care of his kids - his babies
when his wife had "up 'n' fell down"
the steps and broke her leg
Welling up, he recounted how
she swayed on her legs as she cooked,
and this was what came to most of our minds,
we saw her legs and heard the violin playing
of the man who brought it along,
Grandma, sang softly, or right out loud
as she walked through the day
A secular, or maybe a gospel tune,
and often, some bawdy blues tune
that'd make 'em all smile a while
All of 'em, the salesmen, and uncles,
the school teacher and the paperboy,
the women from her sewing circle,
they'd all come to her for help
or advice, or as often, just a bite.
The kids came running from
fields and woods and creeks
ravenous for a hug and some eats
from her feasting kitchen banquet of
pies 'n' pudding or baked something else
The minister looked at the big men
and said a few passages they all knew
by heart anyway, and they all agreed
as how they'd miss her warm smile
and some knew they'd lost something else.
© Goode Guy 2012-08-22
for Sue 2012-08-23
Copyright © Goode Guy