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Details | Prose Poem | |

Wafting Winds

erased for publishing

Details | Prose Poem | |

Simple Words For Simple People

If I had a pretentious brain which acts faster than my heart Maybe then,I would abhore this soul which spreads freely through each verse Maybe then I would impress you with my intellectual grammar and sophisticated words I would scrutunize each and every coma dot and exclamationmark believing I know best But I would never let that happen I'd rather stay at bay Writing firstly with my mind and not my heart leads only to an asylium within the being of myself Poetry is my voice,my shadow The sacred shrine of great escape Each stored emotion processed within a yesterday Poetry is the inner of my existence breathing softly,bleeding deeply exploding in death,love passion and romance In every verse a whisper a thought that I would scribe of a silent cry expressed Maybe in a tomorrow you might pass by me Tread your footstep on my ink and spit saliva in my face But maybe in a today a broken -hearted fool stops by to find comfort in my world Maybe a prisoner,a tramp an insane soul or outcast would pick these scattered scribbles and gather them as whole Maybe through each criss-crossed puzzle finds a narrow passage which leads his faith to home Maybe a little child whose blissful giggles depends on little words would turn the dusty pages of silly rhymes I penned Rhymes which know the moons stars,faries,and the magic land Rhymes which know each fantasy and how to be a friend And maybe He would smile Maybe He would laugh Maybe He would dream Maybe He would grow up to write the most eloquent sonnet there has ever been Or maybe He would grow up to write simple words just like me about daises or dandelions and expressions to be free

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Super Soupers

It was a rainy day so I flipped through a stack of comics
My Amazing Poet series
Finally I picked the fabulous Five
I liked the picture on the front
Yanny the Zen Master with long black hair
Becca the Creative and Beautiful with her mythical pen
One of my favorites sultry Eileen known as the Emotionator
Anne the Philosopher was right there beside Eileen with her magical smile
Then to round out this team was Vicky Victorious calling from the wilderness 
In this edition they were battling the Poet Destroyer and Joker Jack
who had kidnapped Newbie Timothy Hicks
As I read their words I was in awe of my Heros
They made me cry
They brought me to new worlds
Filled with adventures
Sexy had new meaning
Tears became diamonds
Winds swirled inside my head
All the emotions of the rainbow
I longed to write with such clarity and strength
I tried to flex my poetic Muscles
Worked out every day
Then on the back of the comic
A scrawny poet sat on a beach
Beside the girl of his dreams
He is writing for her when along comes a muscular poet
The big poet kicks metaphorical sand in his face
The the scrawny poets girl is whisked away
Underneath it says
Are you tired of having Metaphorical sand kicked in your face?
Are other Poets getting the girl?
All that can change
Join the Andrea Dietrich School of Creative Poetry
She will have you writing like The Fabulous Five
You will never be afraid to flex those poetic muscles again
So I cut out the back page and sent my five dollars
The address is PO Box 88888 Inspiration California 
Now all I can do is wait
What will the future Hold?


Note there are many Poets here who would appear in my vast Amazing poet series.
Poet Destroyer and Joker Jack are not Evil nemeses they were chosen for the roll
because of their names( also I love their work.) I hope you enjoyed my little tale.
Some of the younger poets may not be familiar with the Charles Atlas ads that used
to be on the back of comics, the rest of you I am sure will get the joke.


Details | Prose Poem | |

A Getaway To Ancient Venice

I can still recall the look upon His face Each thought still makes me go to that enchanting place The vernal air was floral sweet and honey breezed We roamed along Venice's zigzagged lanes and cobbled streets On our secret rendezvous,We hugged affectionately under pastel gothic galleries Greeted by the aromatic smell of freshly brewed roast coffee beans Strolling along the pigeon-filled piazza San Marco We wandered hand in hand,in the serenissima ancient floating land Street musicians played their flutes.as We sat on a roof-top wooden terrace We glanced at merchants sell hand-blown murano glass by the picturesque Doge's palace We ate a snack , then walked away towards the old opera house which now has risen from its ashes. We sauntered forward through little alleys from where He bought me ,a gold painted venetian mask To my surprise ,He had another gift,a wrapped up scarlet sheer laced basque I peered at him through my dark lashes,He raised his left brow and flashed a smile Expressed his charm in playful ways,in a flirtatious endearing style. Boarded at last on a black gondola,cruised the lagoon and the canals A few light kisses,a few soft brushes,waiting the bell's toll whilst in his arms There we lay in waiting beneath the bridge of sighs We sealed our kiss and promised lips,to the harmonic sound of chimes He leaned on me,I welcomed Him,our spirits been entwined Above,the sky has changed its colour,I watched the sun set in his eyes All I am,I gave to him,my enduring heart- His sacred shrine All that He is He gave to me in once upon a time
Not for the contest,but thanks for the 'Lovemaking in an ancient place contest,inspiration'. This post is inspired by Ancient Venice and the tale of 'The Bridge Of Sighs' The tale goes-If you kiss your loved one with the bell's toll of St,Mark's Basilica, at sunset,beneath the bridge of sighs,the couple seals their love forever. There is another tale to it,a sad one,but preferred to share the happy one : )

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warning sorry a bit sexual

It is a sun splashed day; the air is silent with the sound of waves 
from an ocean moving to the rhythm of crying gulls. 
The sand underneath my feet is warm and soothing. 
The crashing waters from a wind sculpted waterfall swims 
into the arms of its mother sea.

It is a private beach at a spot in the world 
were the Caribbean Sea and The Atlantic Ocean hug. 
It is a strange sensation of hot then cold, that tease the senses.

The young woman with me is my lover of four years.
 The golden rays of light from the bright morning star 
lives in the flow of her platinum blond hair. 
In her eyes I can see the bright clear blue ocean, warm, 
but with a piercing love glare that sends shivers up my spine.

We are young, in love and safe 
inside a perfect glossy postcard background.
 Her red lips and light drenched skin glows 
with the beauty of this perfect Jamaican day.

Without a thought I grab the back of her head, 
jerking my lover's whole body towards me 
locking her in the strength of my grasp 
inviting her to quench my desire.

I bite her lips before engaging in a deep passionate kiss 
and remove a barely there bikini from her statuesque figure.

She embraces me as I lift her in my arms 
naked for all the Gods to observe.
 I set her down under the refreshing flow of the rushing waterfall. 
She attempts to pull at me, but I deny her.

I hold back both her arms and use my mouth 
to suckle her all the time absorbing the beating waters 
that kneads my flesh, like so much dough.

Suddenly I set my angel free. She pounces on me, 
like a lioness in heat famished for the taste of flesh.

The world disappears and I find myself willingly trapped in a void. 
Nature's voice conducts an orchestra of emotion. 
We writhe in the ecstasy of touch. 
With the strokes of a divinity fingers paint a portrait of rapture. 
We dance now to the precise notes 
of an escape into the arms of serenity.

In one fluid movement, our bodies become one.
There is no end to the divine flavors we share. 
Cooling waters flame our sins. 
We explode like a building 
imploding gracefully to the roar of infinite sound.

Until eventually we pass out naked 
locked in each others arms. 
We find ourselves lying on the warmth 
of the fine white sand beach when we awaken, 
tattooed in the telling shades of a Jamaican suntan.

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The Old Victorian

My great, great Aunt had a lovely old home, with many a wonderful story, hidden within its walls. A Victorian, architectural designers dream; vaulted ceilings, full of ghosts; where spirit voices sang of its splendor. What I remember most, were the sparkly door knobs; prisms reflecting the sunlight; beautiful rainbow colors, adorning her sitting room walls. The animated colors of her crystalline chandelier wove dancing shadows into the fabric. As a small child, I reveled in that light-play; how I loved her magical home.

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The Story of the Grand Piano

She was a grand piano: grand in structure, grand in beauty, grand in quality 
of sound. She had captured the heart of every pianist who had come to play in 
the great hall. Once they touched her keys…they fell in love with the 
celestial sounds that resonated from her core.

He was a grand musician, adept at playing several instruments. Music was 
what made him come to life…his passion seen in the swaying of his body as he 
became enraptured in the sounds. He came looking for her, having heard of 
her perfection, and once he touched her, he was captivated. 

Night after night the hall was packed with music lovers who came to hear him 
play, but they also came to feast their eyes for when he sat there at the 
piano…it was almost as if he were in the throes of passion. She made him 
pour and release his inner soul in notes that vibrated and pulsated within 
every listener’s heart. Passion redefined.

His fame spread.  He spent hours every day…sitting there on the stage, 
caressing her keys, making her do his bidding…moving her to a forte 
crescendo…and then another, soothing her with pianissimo after the 
storm of passion was spent. 

When did it happen? When had the restlessness taken hold? He couldn’t 
remember a specific moment, but at night…after the concerts were over, and 
he was there in his room, he would dream of traveling again, and he’d think of 
the Stradivarius he had seen for sale in the most renowned music store in 
Europe, a store right beside the grand hall. She was a beauty…sleek, 
streamlined, shapely, and after he had touched and fondled her, heard the 
noise he could bring to life with his flexible fingers, he knew…the time had 
come to say goodbye.

All his savings and more went into purchasing that Stradivarius that fit 
snuggly under his chin. He could travel with her. She was…lightweight, easy to 
carry. She was not stationary.....heavy. 

It was the last concert, and he gave that piano his all. The audience sensed a 
difference in the man. The room was electrified with the notes of a passion in 
bursting from the fusion of man and instrument. The piano had never sounded 
so angelic, sweet, replete with every nuance of a lover’s dream. Something 
seemed to be tugging at the pianist's heart for before he took his bow, they 
saw his eyes wet with tears. 

Years passed, his fame grew. He was now known as the master violinist....the 
shining star among his contemporaries...one of a kind. He was happy and 
famous. He was traveling….light. His Stradivarius was his to finger and play 
with every night, a perfect mistress, a perfect muse, yet why…why did he find 
himself back in the hall after all this time? He stood there aghast, for all he 
could see on the stage was the old janitor, sweeping the floor. “Where is she?” 
he demanded. 

The janitor squinted at him, trying to remember, and then he gave a sad 
smile. “Why…didn’t you hear? It was in all the papers. After you left, 
something went terribly wrong with that grand piano.  All the notes kept 
coming out wrong. It didn’t matter who sat down to play, and to tell you the 
truth, some of those pianists were even better than you, or so I heard said. 
Nothing sounded right. They brought professional tuners. Everything seemed 
alright, but…the music, the music lacked….life. She couldn’t get fixed and so, 
in the end….she was sold for scrap pieces to a carpenter who hacked her into
pieces to use for firewood.”

The musician stood there, tears streaming down his face. She had been 
heavy, her maintenance difficult, her stationary heart, unmovable. He had 
longed to travel light…to relish minimum maintenance demands, to travel far 
and wide, like a feather on the breeze…airy and light…oh, so light, but could 
someone be found who could explain to him the extreme leaded heaviness in 
his heart that rooted him, immovable, to the spot where once a beautiful 
grand piano had stood.

Eileen Manassian

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Tribute to Susan Boulet Art

Susan Boulet was an artist 1941-1997
Her paintings are famous for their layered effects which she started later on in her artistic career. She loved fantasy which is easily seen in her paintings. This is my fantasy poem as I look at this beautiful picture painted by Susan Boulet.

The old man sits quietly on the hillside, knowing his days as one
Spirit would soon be coming to an end. He stares blankly at the heavens where the pale blue sky is the backsplash for Cumulus clouds now filling in, the horizon. He chants his prayer over and over again calling his brothers to come receive his spirit and be one with him for all eternity. Brother bear, cloak me with the warmth of your coat that we may walk through each winter and never be cold again. We will stand together as one, never again will we know fear. Brother wolf fill my heart with your loyal spirit that we may rise to heights of a love greater than any human could possibly achieve. His prayer seems to rise more intensely as he continues. Mighty cat, share with me your speed that we may be faster than the wind, jumping through the clouds as one. Wise and good owl, become one with us that we shall have wings to fly as eagles and wisdom to find eternal peace. Now the old man whispers, together we shall hold the secrets of the universe in our hands. Soon his chin drops down on his chest as a smile crosses his face, and the old frail body crumbles to the hard rocky ground. Then the cry of a wolf, the hoot of an owl and simultaneously the roars of a sabre-toothed and bear echo through the valley. As darkness fills the sky and the moon is high, the silhouette of a young warrior stands proudly on the bluff.


Written by Brenda Meier-Hans 
10.26.2014
For Debbie Guzzi’s Contest:
Free Verse, Prose Poetry, Haibun

Details | Prose Poem | |

A Love Letter to My Friends of India

When I think of India, I think of dark eyed beauties, their foreheads painted with decorative red dots, and I see them moving deliciously in beautiful bright costumes as bangles dangle from their slender wrists. When I think of India, I think of a culture steeped in history and tradition: folkloric music, myths, and dance, and the influence of the Hindu religion. I visualize the rich and poor alike bathing themselves in a river called Ganges. I see an olden time when mighty elephants, colorfully decorated, carried men atop their backs on elegant elephant seats, and I recall pictures in my geography studies of the white sacred cows freely roaming the narrow streets of Delhi. I recall a novel I read: Rudyard Kipling’s engrossing tale of a jungle boy and also other novels depicting a clash of cultures as the British imposed their rules on Indian society. I think of current movies showing the seedy side of India such as one named Slumdog Millionaire and a movie to contrast it, the romantic Bollywood delight named JabTak Hai Jaan. Furthermore, I recall the grace and good nature of the Indian people depicted in a film called The Best Ever Exotic Marigold Hotel. When I think of India, I think of the Taj Mahal, Kama Sutra, and curry, and also I recall horrible stories of Bride burnings now banned and by contrast, the good works of Mother Teresa, who labored there among the poor, and I think of the man who is probably the most recognized by Americans as a good and strong example of leadership: Mahatma Ghandi. All these things are the sum of what I have learned about India in my lifetime. But what do I really know of India? What I have learned recently relates to poets I have come to know at this website and who have shown me through their poetry and their communication with me, a more personal side of the Indian people that I never used to know. Through the poetry of Ravindra I have learned the love of an Indian for his heritage and how he emulates his father‘s work through beautiful translations. From poets like BL and Jag, I’ve learned more about the deep and philosophical nature of the Indian poet! Through great friendships with people like Kashinath, Yesha and Yasmin, and Guatami I have come to learn about the actual personalities of dear Indian people whose life experiences, struggles and desires are not so different from my own, and also I am able to enjoy their eloquent words as they describe their own emotions, passions, and love of nature through their poetry. Perhaps their culture adds a flavoring to their words and phrases that is a bit different from my own, but in the end, we are all alike beneath the skin. Whether from India or any other country, we are, all of us, becoming a part of a global community in which our differing backgrounds can be accepted and even better - celebrated! Thank you I say to all my poet friends whose words enrich my life, but in particular, today I thank my friends from India, for helping me to really see how beautiful you are and to understand your country better through knowing YOU.

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Gentle Spirit

You came when I needed an etheric friend,
though I never knew you in life.

An angelic guardian I see in dreams.
You died just before I was born yet,
it feels like we've spent a lifetime together.

Protectorate, eternal spirit, arriving when needed;
an infinite connection.

Cartoonist that you are;
in childhood, I knew you as a giant panda bear,
my invisible playmate after grandma died.

You understood just what my
child-mind needed to heal.

Others only labeled me a,
“weird child”. 
You inspired me and gave me hope.

To you I attribute my imagination and creativity;
from you I inherited my love of the arts.

Now, astral visits give birth to fresh ideas.
Being an adult should never be boring, 
grownup or set stagnant.

If “faith is believing”, then I am rich.
I believe in spirit and soul.

Yes, you came when I needed a friend
and now I believe I can truly be me;
without the condemnation and judgments of others.

You came and you gave me…
back to me.

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Wag

One day a scruffy looking dog turned up on the doorstep,
an independent sort of lad. Now to who do you belong?
wondered the boy calling for his dad. "Look Dad can we keep him" 
"Well while we look for his owners. He must belong to someone"  

Time went on and they called him Wag as his tail never stopped.
He always stayed near to young Tim somehow knowing he was ill.
Saved his life too a few times until the day came when
Tim fell into a coma his young body ravished by the cancer.

After the funeral Wag went to the man and laid his head on his knee,
Then the man realised that Wag's time here was done and he was saying goodbye.
The last he saw of him he was trotting north, purpose in every stride.
He thought to himself in nine years he never seemed to age. 

So he did some research and the stories of Wag were astonishing,
where ever a child was mortally ill Wag would turn up bringing Joy.
These story spanned over sixty years yet Wag looked around three.
What ever you are he thought thank you for making Tim's life easier.

As for Wag, well he travelled on until he got to Mary's home.
There he stayed for twelve years bringing her cheer each day.
Yet when ever a picture was taken, he would not be in it.
To this day none know why but all love him and all call him Wag.

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farewell my friend farewell

I watch the sun set
      in a distant sky.
Fading
like a bright light
      on our Poetic Horizon.
I raise a glass to you Chan
      "Farewell my friend
farewell".


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It's all about me

Not a single stone 
Remained unmoved 
On the world of illusion,
To treat my bipolar condition:
What you focus on is what you get!

Myriad symbols sent from above
To stop the madness, but
Once the cortex chemically oriented,
Higher reality cannot be interpreted:
What you focus on is what you get!

Sister, in the exile of duality
We're all split within and without
The man in white, glues the label on:
Depression, bipolar or schizophrenia,
What you focus on is what you get!

Regardless of the diagnosis, there's is choice
Either you accept the tag or 
The Truth: Oneness driven from beyond
With inescapable perfection:
What you focus on is what you get!

Crying for help from "out there" is 
The sure sign, we're forgotten or
Never knew:
Discord is the harmony of the Universe:
What you focus on is what you get!



Competition by Catie Lindsey
9/11/14
Bipolar experience
Say something nice about me 

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Santa's Special Delivery: a collab

Brutal was the biting wind,
sweeping brown locks of a tiny urchin 
side to side, often hiding her eyes.
 
Oversized slippers she had donned
were lost in deep snow drifts.
She plodded forth barefoot, risking frostbite.
 
Little daylight remained to guide her;
a dangerous holiday trek she undertook.
Villagers in passing carriages didn't notice her.
 
With snow falling fast and accumulations growing deep,
she didn't realize she'd left the main road.
If only she could find her grandfather's cottage!
 
For Christmas Eve it was,
but in her heart there was no joy.
Her cruel stepmother’s house she left in search of love.
 
As darkness fell, the biting cold increased.
Her weary legs she dragged; with teary eyes she searched
in vain, for only shadows could she see.
 
A green-clad elf with lantern lit was homeward bound
deep in the woods, when all at once he spied this forlorn girl,
sprawled on the snow deprived of strength and shivering.
 
He shone the light on her white face; eyelids moved and flickered.
He read her thoughts and understood; he knew just how to help her. 
No time was lost; his crystal flute he blew to call his trusted friends. 
 
An entire family of elves pulled the shivering child,
placing her gently on a sled,
fully decked out in Christmas flare.
 
The elves had been on their way to Santa;
Yuletide deliveries had to be made, 
but the wee girl's plight took priority.
 
Once she was aboard the sled,  
reindeer arrived on cue,
ushering the crew to the North Pole.
 
The little girl came to quickly,
nestled in Santa's arms.  
With pleasure he brought her to her grandfather's cottage.
 
Grandfather sat alone by his roaring fire
when a knock came to the door.
He went to see who it could be so late into the night.
 
There on the doorstep his young granddaughter stood with shining eyes,
a dream come true for those who never give up hope.
He picked her up in welcome arms, a warm embrace of love.
 
The clock struck twelve. They heard the sound of jingling bells
as Santa waved goodbye and off he sped across the sky.
Christmas had arrived, and his first gift had been delivered! 

 
[Inspired by the first paragraph of The Little Match Girl by H.C. Andersen]

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
This is a co-write
Contest: A Christmas Tale
Sponsor: Debbie Guzzi


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Her Prerogative

They had fought.  He left without a word while she was sleeping. She threw on the gown she had worn for him the night before,  pushed off the china vase and blooms he had given her. She listened to it crash to the floor and sat on the window sill  where the bouquet and container had been.  She was alone but at least she was the only flower.

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Lady Kathleen

She pours the brewed, hot cup of tea, as we relax here in the shade
Honeysuckle vines encircle the posts, of the old screened porch
Webs of daddy long-legs, glisten in the afternoon light, and I listen, intensely
while she nonchalantly chatters, telling me stories,..as if they were ordinary tales
                                 
True life adventures, that I can't imagine, but yes......they are real

She crossed an ocean, saw war, in action,
A life of adventure, of hardship, of courage, of fear
Yet, nothing revealed, to hint of the years
that have weathered her crinkles nor dampened her cheer

Inside the house, the counter is a clutter, piled high with dishes
The old floor is sticky, and dog hair floats in prisms of light
One old hound sleeps in the middle of the worn kitchen rug.
Another lame Labrador laps water from a pie tin,
     dripping water from his sloppy face across the peeling checkered floor.

Throughout the house, a lingering musky smell of well loved pets,
       and a stale, smoky odor of burnt toast from her attempt at breakfast.
Servants, cooks, gardeners, part of a long ago past.
The house is filled with dust covered, belongings
History fills each corner to mingle, along with the dust motes that linger in air
  
 Junk mail, newspapers, dog treats, documents and clippings
 prized antiques and artifacts, ......just facts of life, from how she sees them

On every shelf, and on the walls, are sepia-hued photographs
Famous faces I have seen, on the news, and on the screen

A handsome young man, and she was his bride
A commander when the world took sides
She followed him to the ends of the earth.  
And soon will gladly follow him to the grave

I sit here now,...with this woman of many lives.
Like one of the flowers on her porch, she wears a tattered, splattered dress.
Today, she is a homespun, country widow.
An extraordinary woman, this grand Duchess,
          yet now who bears traits of Ma Kettle
She brought class, dignity, and a wealth of knowledge
       to our small country neighborhood,....... to my life.
Here we are, together, so far from the world she once knew.
We sit in the shade of her covered porch
A long haired, grey cat jumps into her lap.
Under the veil of a summer day
I pour her another cup of tea, and a little more for myself.
    Tea is served, flavored with lemon....I have much more to drink in.....to savor.


________________________________________________________
A True Character....dear /Friend/and Neighbor (Kathleen Maitland) now deceased
Whose husband was an aviation pioneer
The most amazing couple I have ever known
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lester_J._Maitland
Revised 10/21/14   For Guatami's Contest: Sketch a Character

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Portrait of a Public Servant

It is 3:00 a.m. on an icy cold winter morning. A piercing alarm shatters the silence at the station, and he is sped away on a flashing red vehicle, horns blaring, to respond to the emergency. At the scene all three floors of the tenement are engulfed in flames which are spreading to adjoining buildings on either side. With selfless dedication and tremendous courage, he rushes into that awesome inferno. He is a professional firefighter in the city's Fire Department. But so many people never think of these virtues which carry him through his work. Dedication… As a public servant hired by the city, he is needed by every man, woman, and child therein. This requires selfless dedication, for his purpose to save the lives and property involved in a fire emergency comes above all else. It may mean leaving Thanksgiving dinner at home with the family to respond to a three-alarm fire. It sometimes requires working on important holidays, so that the entire city is protected each minute of every day. It demands hours of study, drills, attending classes, constantly upgrading techniques and solving the new problems in firefighting. It involves endless paperwork and reports. It means being on call at all times to come to the aid of others in trouble. This is dedication. Courage… A lighted match held close can often produce fear in the average individual. What a tremendous amount of courage it takes to run into a burning structure with flames licking at him from all directions… to enter the interior which is charged with dense smoke, where visibility is zero and requires him to crawl on his hands and knees, close to the floor where it is less thick, in order to see anything at all. But he forgets the risks. Most important is to rescue the trapped children, the elderly grandfather, or anyone possibly hiding under a bed, or squeezing behind a stove or refrigerator as they so often do in panic; or those screaming at a window, in which case he must scale the outside of the building on a ladder and attempt to bring them down to safety. This is courage. I admire and respect him for these traits. They are part of him as a firefighter fulfilling those duties which are so often taken for granted. However, I do not take them for granted. His virtues never leave my mind. He is my husband. © Sandra M. Haight 2014 All Rights Reserved ~8th Place~ Contest: Sketch a Character Sponsor: Gautami Phookan in honor of my husband a firefighter for 27 years who retired as Assistant Chief

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Life's Lesson For You

This is GOD'S GIFT to YOU

Tell yourself upon waking everyday god is merciful and kind

He will not put anything on me today I can't handle

Live one day at a time yesterday is gone and tomorrow hasn't come it is today

I am worthy

I will I will make it thru just today

The sun will come out tomorrow if you believe god brings you to it he will bring you thru it

Now with this being said I must tell you a true story I have brain cancer and it is in my memory I have had brain surgery and a year of chemo but I have a lot of problems with health and mental and well I am a village idiot most of the time but I live in a town where the closed a mental hospital so I feel right at home now.
  So you are not alone most nights I lie awake and this computer is my only friend
my daughter saved my life not once but twice I mixed chemicals in the bath tub while trying to clean it. The other time I had a diabetes things where I passed out.
 

Always trust in god I know it gets hard sometimes and you want to give up but
he is in control. 

I still have brain cancer but he said believe in what I say it will be ok.
I have given him total control and he has me 9yrs more but they are not a bed of roses either so you have to expect a thorn or two along the way.


Details | Prose Poem | |

The Reality Of Magic

Magic is everywhere, but stage magicians, have no clue, as to what it really is. Magic built our universe. That something so complex, as the universe, could be born of a few elements of pure…magic. That, intelligent organisms can grow, from carbon and evolve; that’s magic. A flower, bush or a tree, unfolding from a seed; that’s magic. Real magic; the nature of everything. An atom, cell, molecule of DNA…magic. The Visica Pisces in the seed of life, gives birth to the flower of life. Metatron’s cube is geometrical magic. That, all that exists, is composed of numbers; real magic. Ideas are born of, dream magic. Whole civilizations, are birthed into existence by… dream magic. Magical wonders, reflected in young eyes; stir the emotions and captivate the senses. Scientists…magicians…they’ve no idea, of how real magic works. The magic that creates all life, is beyond known physics; metaphysics and its comprehension’ lie in hidden realms, where human ego, blocks science from going. The real magicians; those who dare to cross the line, ego has drawn, are persecuted and maligned by colleagues. As magical history unfolds, wisdom is revealed. The same science that says: “humans use only one third of their brain capacity”; all too swiftly, negate the other two thirds. Society, self-limiting; minimizes its own knowledge; its own magical existence. Doubt is a game, played by fools; while belief, is the magical wonderland, of materializations; yet to manifest. What exists. in the imaginations magic hat…exists. Just wave the wand of belief and produce. Skeptitis, is an overwhelming malady. Its swollen tendrils, have kept the world in, stagnation; far too long. Belief is the only cure; the magic of faith, does move mountains.

Details | Prose Poem | |

For Mama and Kayla- Falling into His Arms

I have several poems up about my Mama, Angel Manassian. Mama died on March 19, 2000 at the age of 74. She battled with MS for most of her life. She had me at 41...a surprise!

Turns out, Mama had MS even before she and dad got married, and she didn't know it. My childhood in Iran was the best. We lived in a big compound and had lots of fruit trees, a pool, and wonderful weather to enjoy it all. In winter it snowed. My brothers would jump down from the roof of the house into the snow. In summer, we'd swim all day. Mama taught language at the school Dad was principal of. Ignorance IS bliss. I didn't know Mama was sick. She burned herself once. Really badly. Needed skin grafts....I still didn't know. We moved to Lebanon. 

During my early teen years, I had to come to grips with the fact that Mama was sick....Mama would fall, Mama would get stitches...Mama would burn her face. It scared me. It scared me because I saw Mama getting worse....She'd need help walking, then there was the walker, then there was the wheelchair. Oh...I can't go too much into this...the bruises, the choking fits, the catheters, the slurred speech, the crooked smiles....It broke me. Through it all, Mama tried to give us a semblance of normalcy. She'd smile after every fall...She'd smile to hide the pain; I'd cry to relieve the pain.

My Mama was a brave, caring, kind woman. She was well loved by her students, and she instilled in me a love for words, for singing, and a belief in my abilities. I watched a video on youtube today that reminded me of her and made me cry...again...for the woman who is no longer with me.  This video is so powerful.....It's about a young girl's battle with MS. She is an accomplished runner, but after every race...something incredible happens.

This one is for my Mama and in honor of Kayla.  Watch if you have a spare minute..... Mama finished her race. She had a firm belief in the goodness of God and in the saving power of Jesus. She was an ideal pastor's wife and a fervent prayer warrior. She could say with Paul, " I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race, I have kept the faith. 8 Now there is in store for me the crown of righteousness, which the Lord, the righteous Judge, will award to me on that day—and not only to me, but also to all who have longed for his appearing."
(2 Timothy 4: 7 & 8) I believe with all my heart that one day my Mama will be whole...body and spirit. You make of that what you want, but I believe she will be awarded eternal life one day. 

Here is the story of Kayla:

http://fbshare.sfglobe.com/2014/11/24/coach-catches-teenage-runner-with-multiple-sclerosis-during-every-race/?src=share_fb_new_20016 

It had me in tears....I hope she finds the inner strength to keep running for as long as she can....Bless God for people in whose arms we can fall....



Details | Prose Poem | |

Child of the Elements

I am a rock; earth, air, fire and water;
a child of the elements.
I grow and erode; 
my greatest strength is stillness; 
my voice, the silence.

I am a tree, a child of the elements.  
I grow and decay; 
shedding leaves and bark.
My voice is a whisper; 
my strength is the stillness; 
though I bow to the winds.  
Immobile am I; a conundrum of nature.

I am a mountain; a child of the elements.  
I grow and erode, by layers.  
my strength is the stillness;  
My purpose is a home for rock, tree and beast.  

I am a human, a child of the elements.
I grow and decay like everything else.
My voice is a gift; 
my strength is the still silence, 
where I rarely go.
Haphazardly, I run amok; 
relying too much on things I create, 
instead of my silent strength.

My greed crushes the rocks; 
destroys the trees;.  
My ego dynamites the mountains; 
poisons the water and air.
Because of me, the earth and her children, suffer.  
Wallowing in my greed and ignorance; 
my siblings of the elements, are dispensable.

I am a human, a child of the elements.  
I destroy because I ignore,
the still silence; my strength.

Details | Prose Poem | |

Dr Death

He just stood there, Dr. Death, His black shroud from gray bones hanging; Siphoning water from the well Into a Grecian vial. It’s backwards flow; Pouring, endlessly pouring, A backwards faucet. Coolly, calmly, I sit and watch, His head turns toward me; A deadly blank stare Piercing into my very soul Come, he motions, A bony white gray finger, Summoning, calling me… No, I won’t go! A gentle breeze comes; I have no fear as I watch and feel The cool, wafting, breeze; I am calm. He’s coming towards me now, Long strides, gliding nearer… Nearer… I have no fear. I am calm. He motions for me again and again; No! I won’t come to you, Specter. Closer, closer, gliding still closer to me. No fear; Watching he stops; Bony long fingers touch my arm and I chill. Don’t take me now, Dr. Death!

Details | Prose Poem | |

The Pedicure Virgin

I don't know what came over me that day - an instant of weakness after years of resistance, I suppose.

My beaming spouse leads me, a dog on a short leash, into the forbidden citadel, the sanctum sanctorum of feminine fastidiousness, the dreaded nail salon.

As we pass through the portal, we enter another dimension, one not of Man. 

One of Woman.

Overwhelmed by estrogen, like Superman in the presence of Kryptonite,  my strength saps. 

The harpies in the salon immediately sense fresh meat, hailing my wife like Caesar in a Roman triumph, gleeful in the knowledge of the barbaric sacrifice to follow. Lightheaded, my eyes dart around, a trapped beast seeking escape.

I'm screwed.

The sacrificial altar is prepared. The torture device is like a dentist's chair, but with a tub for the feet, presumably where they will drain out my blood. Resigned to my fate, I mount the gallows.

Glancing around, it seems that all the employees are Southeast Asians. Mostly young. Reputedly, they own this territory, like Indians in convenience stores or Italian greengrocers. My personal tormentor is the proprietor, a slim pretty Vietnamese woman perhaps in her mid 50's, with cold eyes and a professional smile.

I immediately sense  that I am dealing with She Who Must Be Obeyed. I am commanded in that bossy Asian way to put my feet in the tub, as she turns on the water. Apparently, like some feminine droit du seigneur, Dragon Lady reserves the right to draw first blood from pedicure virgins. My primae noctis, so to speak.

As she sits below me and leans forward to grab my feet, I get a good look at her  well-formed cleavage. Maybe this won't be so bad,after all...

As my feet soak, I close my eyes and sink into a Felliniesque fantasy, surrounded by Asian houris garbed in short white Grecian gowns, catering to my manly whims.

I'm getting a semi...

Dragon Lady brings me back to reality, placing my left foot on her toweled workspace. 

Whoa!
There's another guy here... 
and that SOB is getting a manicure from one of my girlfriends!

An older lady enters the shop. She has an experienced and well-traveled look. Obviously a repeat offender, she immediately begins apologizing to Dragon Lady for her tardiness, meanwhile sizing me up like a slab of man-meat. Dragon Lady gives her a proper scolding, then the horny old biddy tweaks my big toe and flashes me a knowing smile. I wonder if she is packing heat in that big purse...

Suddenly, I become William Holden in Sunset Boulevard. As I make a break for freedom, I am plugged in the back by the scorned Gloria Swanson lookalike.

Then, a cold look from Dragon Lady and my spouse re-establishes territory and Gloria backs off.

Dragon Lady looks pleased as she draws out what appear to be farrier's tools for shoeing horses, presumably to work on my virgin toenails, which I admit are heading toward Fu Manchu territory. A pair of evil-looking wire cutters makes short work of my talons, then she pulls out a chisel and begins removing layers of yellowed nail until they are smooth and white. 

Nice. I can take this. 

Then she removes the cuticles and pushes back the skin.

Holy crap! I think she just popped my cherry! I see blood on my big toenail. I take it like a man. A bead of sweat runs down my brow.

She finishes the flaying job, puts the foot back into the soothing bath and begins carving up the other one.

"And women pay for this?", I think.

"You like massage?", she asks.

"Massage?" I glance at my spouse nervously, wondering if she intuits the direction of my thoughts. 

She points to the control panel on the chair. 

Oh!

"Why, yes. Yes I would!", I reply.

Anything to take my mind off my pending amputation.

"All the way?"

I suppress my licentious thoughts.

"Warp seven, Mr. Sulu."

"What?"

"To infinity, and beyond!"

She got that one, and turns on the machine. Robocop immediately digs deeply into my neck  and spine with his titanium-steel fingers, plowing my vertebral column like a John Deere cultivator. My central nervous system releases a  flood of endorphins. The cocktail of pain and pleasure is a masochist's wet dream.

The surgery going on downstairs dissolves into the background...

Dragon Lady puts the second foot back in the tub and removes the first. She pulls out a big cheese grater and goes to work on the bottom of my foot. I don't have thick calluses, but she produces a pretty respectable pile of Parmigiano. Makes short shrift on foot two. My smooth feet now look like a baby's. 

Not too bad, not too bad. 

My spouse shoots me the old Told You So look and smiles.

Dragon Lady now pulls out the pumice for the final polish. As she goes to work on my foot, nerve endings now exposed after many years return me to infancy.

It tickles! Oh Momma, does it tickle! 

I'm giggling like a young girl. I can't stop, and I really don't want to either. The entire salon joins in my giggle fest. 

Dragon Lady doesn't let up for a second. She is giggling too, and for the first time I see the young, innocent Vietnamese girl buried deep inside. 

Then I see the napalm and burnt village.

And all the rest of it...

I see and she sees. We each have seen... too much.

She smiles sadly. As do I.

My next appointment is in a month

I'll be there.

September 11, 2014

Details | Prose Poem | |

6 String Deliverance

Dr. Jack Daniels and his whiskey therapy
burns in unison with the lava-like tears
exuding from my soul. Before it hardens
and remold what was, I get a hold of my
drinking buddies, the same glass who always
listen, and the six string who's always talking
in a Wah Effect.
The white porch bares testament of these pains.
Chords from picking those strings releases
magma tears... To you they appear as blood,
to me, they are trophies.
After the bleeding those wounds begin to scab.
Clearing the distortion chords begun to change,
Now it's time to play a happy song...

Details | Prose Poem | |

Father's Day

Father’s day…
That old familiar ache in my heart returns along with a lump in my throat. 
I become distant  as that day grows closer, not taking in much of anything
 anyone has to say … my only thoughts of you.

I find the sweater I gave  you on Father’s Day,  12 years ago; when you sat
on the porch in the blistering heat, wearing it, and a toque, shaking because 
you were cold.

I put the sweater on and feel you close to me, and go for my morning walk
along a no exit gravel road in the early morning, wanting to be alone with you
and my random thoughts, knowing, more than likely, there won’t be a
single car pass me.

On the Road again by, Willie Nelson, runs through my mind; the song you requested 
be played at your celebration of life; the song that defined you…a free spirit
who finally found what you had been looking for, when ill health
forced you to stop roaming, and for 23 years after your heart attack, 
you became the father I had so longed for. 

I see you now, sitting on the kitchen floor playing with your grandchildren, 
completely content, your contagious laughter making me laugh,
your sparkling eyes, looking into mine, speaking volumes without saying a word. 

I think of the days proceeding your passing, and you in your feeble voice, 
singing  to mom, those lyrics from ‘Last Fairwell’,  by Roger Whittaker," ‘for you are beautiful, and I have loved you dearly, more dearly than the spoken words can tell".

And  as the sun  rises over the hill, I  swallow the lump in my throat, 
and continue on down the road.


In loving memory of my dear father,
 Harold George, October 25 1927 - August 11,2003