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"
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…
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,
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.
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
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)
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
I found Love
As you put your arms around me and tell me not to let.
I can't break free cause I want this,
Tired of feeling lonely
tired of waiting until i fall under the
ground.No matter what
anyone says as long as I say it fine
everything and everyone
has no word.I found love, this isn't like before
this is where my
wounds that I've licked and cover only to
have them opened again.
I will always fear,i will hide this emotion until i
know I'm going to fall
but for now i have this love this love that no one gave me
can you see me dancing in the rain of the moonlight and
your arms around me
saying that you love me I do.I'll leave in fear of being hurt
but i will pass this life and the next with the wills of my
past life and the future of the next.
Just look at me,
I am so old,
my paint if peeling,
from being so cold.
If I could talk,
you would know my pain,
and know I am royalty,
with a very special name.
Once I lived,
in a castle on a hill,
until those thieves,
came to steal.
You guessed it right,
they grabbed me up,
and out the door,
along with other stuff.
Then I was sold,
to a circus in town,
and rocked, and rocked,
all the famous clowns.
A nice lady saw me,
and offered some cash,
bought me new clothes,
with a bright red sash.
When she passed,
I was sold again,
then across the ocean,
to a brand new land.
Now here I sit,
in my brand new home,
again, the center of attention,
it has been so long.
I am an English man.
I used to think.
That I ruled the world.
And could take my drink.
When all would bow and salute.
The English man a Sir or Duke.
Now I found my place.
In the human race.
We are all the same and grace.
Used to think that everything.
From England came.
Football, oranges and sugar cane.
Used to think that I was best of all.
Now I know, that is not so, at all.
I am as good or bad as the other Lad.
Some fools still make war.
I say no more.
Briton no longer Rules the Waves.
Nor does the sword stay in our hands.
It has been cast away.
the flag that flies above our head
was put there by the people who are dead
you know, the veterans of the usa
the ones YOU seem to forget about everyday
they went to war for years at a time
and they barely even got a dime
come on people, you are here because of them
this is not pretend
your lives are free
even since you were three
these men were brave
and it was freedom that they crave
as the men and women enter the battlefield
with the guns they weild
all they could think about was their life
their hearts beat as they grip their knife
all they heard were bullets fly
would this be their last goodbye?
will i never see them again?
the love, family and friends
could this be the end?
as the brave soldiers marched along
they sang this song....
"left,left, left right left....left...left left right left....we fight for freedom, lets defend this
flag that flies above our heads....red, white, and blue...these colors are
TRUE!!!!..... lord grip our
hearts and give us strength to win this fight for freedom and save this wonderful
the sounds of 100,000 men and women
with different thoughts within
medics stand by
waiting for the next to die
and we sit at home
some as still as a gnome
people listen to the news
and some people sit and play depressing blues
another man dies
another bullet flies
bombs left and right
oh please STOP this might!!!
loved ones falling on the feild
with a picture of their loved ones in their hand they weild
another one digs a grave
for the ones who were brave
Eyes so bright with a light that shines,
You brought this to me.
Lost time the two that be!
Eyes of light with the look of love in sight!
Eyes that glare with a gleam that shows,
You revealed this to me.
Things to know the two that be!
Eyes that dream with the look of love or so it seemed,
Eyes with tears a promised pain,
You gave this to me.
A list that I retain the two that be!
You are the eyes that clear the look of loves hidden fears.
Eyes with mystery shine in you,
You lay this before me.
So much I do the two that be!
Eyes with dignity the look of love in all of its reality!
Eyes with deepness a reflection of you,
You presented this to me.
A lie in my truth the two that be!
Eyes with achievement the look of love in all of its completeness!
Eyes of you in a vision of me,
Forever you and me until I die the two that be,
For you’re the eyes that already knew the look of love with its promise renewed!
© COPYRIGHT: 1997 ANN RICH
On a cold, wintry Christmas night
bright light on a manger shone
to fall softly upon a mother mild
cradling her little baby child.
Three wise men followed the stars
to thy beckoning door, Bethlehem,
bringing frankincense and myrrhs
to pay homage to the king.
Thy name is music to mankind's ears
proclaiming forth freedom and hope,
sweet like a chorus by heaven's choir
vanishing darkness and fear.
Yet, two thousand years thereafter,
what became of thee, Bethlehem?
now enclosed within high fences,
inside your captive people keeping.
On those cruel barriers are graffiti
imploring "Make love, not walls";
as I weep for thee, O Bethlehem,
where has thy promise gone?
Bethlehem is a Palestinian-populated city in the West Bank, administered by
the Palestinian Authority. It is now mostly inhabited by Arab Muslims and many
Arab Christians have left the city and immigrated abroad due to the harsh living
conditions. The city is surrounded by high concrete walls and no one gets in or
out without clearance from the Israeli Army guarding its checkpoint.
Upon my face of earthenware
So many feet have laid bare
Maiolica wearing thin-
My colours now growing dim
Revealing my kaolin
They grazed their sheep upon my grass
So many centuries in the past
In feudal times,a monastery of hope
'Til King Henry divorced the Pope
In later times upon my hill
They set a smock windmill
As Victoria came on her throne
A brewery made this site its own
Later in more social times, a public bath
In which poor folk cleansed at my hearth
The 'sixties brought a different call
Under an impersonal shopping mall
Change continues on,so persistent
But my soil stays,omniscient