The first thing that I recall knowing
As a sturdy and young olive tree
Extremely well rooted and growing
Was the sweltering sunlight on me
For two centuries I took deep root
To prepare for my ultimate fate
So when I could no longer bear fruit
There was then but a decade to wait
I was cut—left to dry for ten years
So that seasoned I’d perfectly be
For what the carpenter engineers
For admirers my beauty to see
Finally, the time came to carve me
Into the stout piece that would bear
The One who came down from His glory
I’d become a rough-hewn olive chair
Into the great city I traveled
The same city once fated for doom
Through alleys, then up a steep stairway
I was put in a small upper room
Beside the simple wooden table
I was placed in center position
Where the King who was born in a stable
Sat prepared to accomplish His mission
He prayed and broke bread with His brothers
As a symbol of what He would do
He blessed it then passed to the others
As His body; ’twas "broken for you"
Then to signify His precious blood
The red wine from the cup He did sip
So that it could cleanse as a flood
As from nail wounds it later would drip
To this day, I still can remember
How it felt when Christ Jesus did rest
I sensed that His love was so tender
Even when He was put to the test
He said, “Father, Father, forgive them”
As He faced His long prophesied death
The love for all things He had poured out
As He uttered His very last breath
Today, the risen Lord I remember
Whose story has long since been told
As I sit in the same dusty chamber
And recall that Last Supper of old
* Placed 1st in Deborah Guzzi's contest, "The Chairs Tale"
The hush of death lives in its locks
with secrets stacked like shaky blocks,
Behind peeled paint, inside cold walls,
Hear them plead, heed their gagged calls
for time slowly crept on ward clocks.
The insanity of small shocks,
Chains and bars breaking sad flocks,
Old plaster spills tales though now falls
the hush of death.
Late at night Margaret yet walks,
Her soul rests but her sorrow talks,
Some stains remain, forever crawl
or drape a floor, a ghostly shawl
in the asylum where she mocks
the hush of death.
About this poem
The Athens Lunatic Asylum was a mental hospital built in Athens, Ohio in 1874 and did not close its doors until 1993. Patients carved, “I was never crazy” into the woodwork. Women were held there for Menstrual distress. The institution performed lobotomies, electric shock therapy and hydrotherapy- all inhumane treatments. In December 1, 1978, Margaret Shilling disappeared from her ward. Her remains were found on January 12, 1979 in an area of the asylum which was no longer being used. Her naked body left a permanent stain which can still be seen today, a result of her body decomposing in sunlight. This is a true story. For more info http://www.ohioexploration.com/athensridges.htm for pictures of Margaret and the stain please click on the about this poem link.
is not the sound:
of a banging gavel,
as the result of a man's decision.
It is found in the laughter of orphans,
or in the quiet tears of a widow's distress.
Justice, does not announce its presence noisily,
nor does it appeal to mere reason or fleeting thought.
It is in the silence of a still moment that it rushes in.
A flood of rescue, a team of unsung heroes, without banners.
In the simple embrace of a father to the orphaned, or mother to the widow.
There it is found in the least likely of places, the free offering of smiles.
An undeserved torrent of kindness that drowns out history's pain,
giving a new and beautiful fragrance to the debris left by injustice.
Tears lose their sting, they become source of life watering souls,
satisfaction is no longer measured by simple shelters, or full
bellies, and clothed bodies; this is not true contentment.
Joy ignited by the embers of love, fueling life.
Purpose, not dependent on fiscal wealth,
a life becomes a raging wildfire,
made visibly tangible,
At the day of tribulations'
Reckless deeds' and end
And is relative to me
The Lord is He
The maker of mammon
Hath made his bound
The trove and treasure
Of the unholy
Which the un-holy of thee
Shall never resist
On the morning of April 19, 1995,
Terror was heard through the Oklahoma sky.
At 9:02 A.M. the explosion did occur,
And the blue common day turned into a blur.
A memorial was built to mark the state’s loss,
Memorializing the one’s who paid terror’s cost.
A monument of seats stands brightening the night,
In nine rows of chairs illuminated by lights.
Brokenhearted and lonely we seem to be,
Silent and lonely but forever empty.
Built with emotion for who we symbolize,
In our bronze grain lies the pain of lost lives.
Born from molted bronze, given life through death,
We stand here for those who took their last breath.
But from where we stand, we stand with glee,
For in our sights lives the Survivor Tree.
Married together in this sacred place,
Imparting to those mercy and grace.
When families come here to see and reflect
Our memories live on as our loved ones connect.
Names of young and old we proudly bear;
In nine rows of 168 empty chairs.
Inspired by Deborah Guzzi’s
—The Chairs Tale Contest—
You can take a virtual tour at
The forest might not be mine,
But in my dreams i still cross that line.
my memories cant be forgotten
as i picture animals getting rotten.
I still want to hunt with pain,
but not to dream with any blood stain.
No to hunting,taking all animals as a pet
I hold them with care without a bullet,
though I have a meal without flesh
is like drinking water which is not fresh.
my career is no longer to kill,
But to watch the forest from a hill
My last words as I hunt no more
As I enjoy nature by the shore.
It remembers time that has flown by.
Its' sister, though smaller, holds equal character.
Their neighbor has seen many more years and people.
They hold a common bond upon the land which they share together.
But they are in danger, the homes are old and in need of partial repair.
Their neighbor, a mound, must protect its' ancient contents.
They have hope though, many are working to preserve and protect the three friends.
They will soon be able to tell their stories to a younger generation.
(For Nila Chaddock and other Cockayne house workers)
I’ve been engulfed by the darkness
That plagues so many of my brothers.
My eyes may be open,
But the void is all that appears.
I see nothing, Know nothing, Learn nothing.
Forced to lay in wait
For prying fingers to liberate me
From my upturned prison.
Oh, how I yearn,
For the light of day
To dance before my presidential eyes,
Allowing me, to once again,
Experience a broad mixture of colors
Living in unity.
A scenario that is no longer the fantasy
Of an incompetent individual
Looking to influence a closed society,
But a way of life
For present day.
As I reflect on my days of flesh,
Still no-one comes to my assistance,
This makes me wonder
If the world I speak of
Still continues to exist,
Or if I’m doomed to spend eternity alone
Within the bleak darkness,
Dreaming once again
Of a world that no longer requires my influence…
Stained glass windows
Paint her world-
In shades of
Lavender and rose-
As she sits alone
Atop of old point road-
In a place where
Bygone phantoms blow-
No one comes to visit
With her anymore-
From the pines-
She reminisces with
Of better times-
Before the cross
I have dreams to flashes n from time
to time I decide to put them down n
people to read I'm plain n simple no
big word nor complex easy to read
,wht I try to say n explain sometimes
is hard so I give up n go months
without writing, I do this to relax,
from the 4 books n many mini storys i
keep coming up with,like I say, I live
in a dream where people pay for me
to tell n they get amazed when I tell
them, thts not a dream thts how my
life has been n how I lived it n have
not gone insane, well not yet !."oh