i heard a...what do they say...a spine chilling scream
...is that the saying?
a spine chilling scream
'he's dead, my G_d he's dead'
the phrase echoed
inside the whole of me
like tennis balls bouncing between two parallel walls
i ran up
aware i would be at the edge
where the road ends and the gates of heaven stand
saw a young man
looked through the aperture of his existence
looked and singed his eyelashes
looked and could not see beyond now
you know those beautiful fluffy white clouds
the kind that feel like large teddy bears that want to hug you
she had landed her very own- she cherished him
knew who he was
felt lucky they shared a mutual love
i can't imagine the despair
flowed through her when she saw him like that
his doughy complexion screamed volumes
breaking the thunderous silence
he was a pale grey, blank, empty
a sight impossible to process
at odds with how one survives
the experience of this tragedy
she was lost in a dreamless mare
[most of the time
its outcome depends on the flip of a coin
if you don't know that you don't understand
his coin landed on its side
...all the kings men and all the kings horses...]
her 'beautiful huge fluffy white cloud'
had succumbed to the storm
heart in throat
she touched him
he was a frigid cold
for a moment she saw her own smokey breath
moving as if she was walking
through the thick grains of unbearable pain
she attempted to make sense of the senseless
despair had grabbed her by the throat
shook her around like so much thread and fabric
she thought he might of seen life as futile
society as a guise, as a failed paradigm
thought he had reached the last motel on the road to nowhere
and just...checked out
it's unlike any other pain
when it peaks
few if any survive it
the afflicted instinctively self medicate
but street drugs are mean
she could easily empathize
she too was him
honestly she was tired of living in her sadness
a life marinated in tears basted in blood
the experience of having seen her partner
lose his life to drugs and alcohol
affected her profoundly
experiencing his death
was like getting hit over the head with a sledgehammer
she'd never wash it off
it clung to her like a pariah
you can't wake up from reality
and you can't sleep through it
the tragedy had possessed her sensibilities
it was a malignant truth she could not ratify
singular in its nature
she'd been blindfolded and spun
a ballerina on a high wire across the span of time
spiralling down an infinite vortex
one plus one is seven
the ceiling isn't a celestial painting
how many fingers
a forty ounce of vodka
opioids a hundred times stronger than heroin
men in uniforms
less than two hours ago
he could think- speak
he had his very own persona
it could have been her
it could have be anyone
but it wasn't
it was- Him
what did occur to her
Copyright © Carol B. | Year Posted 2017
Stepping out of the car, my father and I
after a shattering night
the skies were a dismal gray
The end of the world had taken all the light away
And dawn had taken all hope, and then had sucked all the air away
Even tears had nowhere to land
Frozen thick in our throats like dry desert sand
If just one would escape, how could they stop? ...no shoulder, ...no dam
My Dad was in shock, as he stood by the gate,
a glaze in his eyes, ...... and a million years old
My feet froze in place, my knees shivered cold
but without hesitation, I grabbed hold of his hand
I took him inside, and with deliberate intrusion
I fed him some soup, and put him to bed
He was the child, and I the adult
Day after day, somehow by default
our roles were reversed, ...and I became strong
My childhood had ended,.....and his had begun
For "The Fault Line" Contest
sponsored by Anthony Slausen
Copyright © Carrie Richards | Year Posted 2015
A child with a crayon can color an imaginary world,
With dolls of mommies, daddies, boys and girls,
Full of horses, cowboys, cars and trains,
Can scratch them out and draw them all again,
Color me a rainbow with a pot of gold,
Color me a fairy with ribbons and bows,
Paint my face, a bright yellow sun,
In a green grassy field where a blue river runs,
With mountains and trees set in a colorful scene,
Monkey bars, teeter-totters, an old tire swing,
Color my face with a bright happy smile,
In a wonderful world, if only for awhile,
I can pretend my life is happy and gay,
Not worry about the mean stuff, just for the day,
Not worry about what I will eat, or where I will sleep,
Or the cockroaches and rats that make me creep,
Color me a family with brothers and sisters,
Color me a man to call Daddy, not Mister,
Color my mom in a bright yellow dress,
Stretched in a hammock under a tree with a nest,
In the yard of the house, we can call our own,
With neighbors on each side of our lovely home,
Color my dreams carefree and wild,
Color my life always as a child,
Color me a father, color me a Dad,
Color me the life that I never had.
Color me a garden with fruits of all kinds,
Apples, pears with grapes on the vine,
Color me a crayon that’s really a crayon,
Not this old sharpened pencil that I just found,
To draw my picture on this brown paper bag,
That was once filled with gin and Ole’ Granddad,
Now, Dream me a dream…Once upon a time,
I had a real father that I can call mine!
Copyright © Steven Miller | Year Posted 2006
They needed help
Walking alone in the dark.
A broken down car.
The child frightened,
But not understanding
That would soon
Come her way.
Her parents petrified
That their baby was gone,
Over forbidden images
That crowded their way
Past ice cream sundays
And birthday parties
And wedding days.
A doer of good deeds.
He looks into
the little girl's eyes.
The girl speaks,
"This is not my dad"
And the coward
who took her,
Believing he saved
From a long, cold walk,
Saved a child
From a long, cold death.
Copyright © Rachel Kovacs | Year Posted 2013
He's used to war, he fights real hard,
He's a soldier, he's battle scarred.
The enemy is weak, there is nothing to fear,
His compassion is gone, he has no tears.
He was taught well, was taught how to kill,
He's done it so much, it's lost it's thrill.
He no longer feels bad, when the enemy dies,
Tears don't come any more to his tired eyes.
In the beginning it was against his will,
But he soon broke down, and got used to kill.
Never thinking that his foe, was also just a man,
Like him with a family, doing the best he can.
He cannot have feelings, for anyone,
But then, for a moment, he thinks of his son.
He wants to go home, but it's not time yet,
So he goes back to a war, that he wants to forget.
Next day on the beach, on his tour of duty,
Lies a child's body, on the coast of Turkey.
He cannot believe what he sees with his own eyes,
A cute little boy, with no signs of life.
Lying face down, right there on the sand,
He picks him up, with his big strong hands.
And when he saw that there was no hope,
The soldier realized he could not cope.
He shuddered deeply...letting out a sigh,
And that's when...the soldier cried.
Now the whole world mourns that little boy,
Many children elsewhere, receive another toy.
Yes, people stand by, while these refugees die,
Some see the news and say, please...pass the pie.
John Derek Hamilton September 04,2015
Copyright © John Hamilton | Year Posted 2015
I'm sitting cross legged on the side of the road
while Dad holds my shoulders, in trying to console me,
but tears, uncontrolled, keep tumbling down.
Most stunning, right now, is the fear, I've not known
Never before, .....had I felt so alone.
Reality has settled, like darkness around me
A first-time encounter with death and it's toll
Though, how many times, I have played out the role?
It was always the same.....
Just a game to be played
The drama? Just kid's-stuff.....who knew what it meant?
Bang, Bang you're dead!...
Point a finger .... he's dead
A stab, rubber swords, ... at my eight year old heart ?
While slowly, with drama, we played out the parts
Our death scenes, .....pretending to take a last breath
Then, back on our knees, and up in a flash
ready again, to reverse all the rules......
Death wasn't real........and never this cruel
Tonight, driving home
a deer out of nowhere,
A thump, and a jar, a flash in the light
And in the dash of a moment, ....a crumpling crash
Make-believe shatters, in the path of our car
Dad reaching his hand, to check I'm alright
Then opens the door out into the night
Reluctantly I follow his somber silhouette
And met by a moment I'll never forget
The air bitter cold, has taken our breaths
I turn eyes away, but now it's too late
Glass lifeless eyes stare back in the lights
I'm strangled by silence, and the shattering sight
as still and cold, as real as if stones,
The deer's lifeless eyes, stare into the night
I feel such a change in the stars and the sky
I felt something die, in a child's heart tonight
For Trashed #2 Contest: Sponsor: Broken Wings
Copyright © Carrie Richards | Year Posted 2015
My grandfather on my father’s side, was a pecker-toothed sidle who raped his
daughter when she was just ten. He threw down vodka from an eternal well and took my father out to buy prostitutes when he was just fifteen... It was here that my father first learned the true value of a woman. Mercifully, a permanent steel brace got loose at the Pennsylvania steel mill where he worked and crushed Grandfather into a pool of blood and urine.
My father was a dried seed rattling in an empty gourd… he had grown up
hardened with leather-stiff roots exposed too long in the sun. My mother knew
that he wanted to rape me, so I kept guard with knives and ran away whenever I could. I went to bed fantasizing how to sneak into his bedroom and kill him with
the kitchen carving knife.
My older brother hadn’t adjusted well to the chaos either, so he put all his expectations and dreams into a matchbook and burned down three houses in the neighborhood. He secretly, robbed his friends of their valuable coin collections. He grew weary and confessed and was taken to a local Mental Hospital for evaluation. At fourteen, I needed a good stiff drink! I was transferred to two different foster care homes and grew up like a weed.
My mother Dolly was an auburn haired porcelain bisque, matt finished doll from a
discriminating collections of dolls... her father's dolls. She was not a witty woman
but silent, afraid and alone. She gave birth to three children who grew up like
wild dogs while Dolly made Betty Crocker weekends and otherwise TV dinners
until she grew tired... very tired.
One day the brothers were playing with Dolly tossing her back and forth…
like a ball, one to another... until we dropped her. Fragile, she shattered into pieces
on the gray cement patio. My father came out determined to put the pieces back
together but clumsily, he repeatedly stepped on Dolly crushing the refined
fragments into powdered dust.
Copyright © julie heckman | Year Posted 2011
"Am I a man
I am old and frail son;
His smiles and hugs
could not be bought
Copyright © James Peranteau | Year Posted 2012
He would enter the corral in the thick fog of mist,
up long before daylight would christen the air
The skies would be coral, and the sun glazed the crest
Dust clung to the heels of his old leather boots,
and gathered in shrouds around the hoofs of the mare.
Billowing were clouds, and a whirlwind of grief
that followed the storms of long hours awake
Endless were nights without the refuge of sleep
while he waited for sun to arrive and relieve
Caressing the flank of her sleek narrow, frame,
his favorite mare, Queenie, was the color of dawn
He would gather her reins, for a moment of calm
then, bury his face in her rusty brown mane
He'd watch as the light slipped over the hills,
smoothing the shadows, that haunted his world
Without ever knowing the worries we found
as we saw those same shadows, splay rapidly down,
drowning his eyes, with dark circles and frowns
Grief and the love of his horses, would ride,
together, off center....wherever, to hide,
and soften the hours, that waited for night
For the house was a shell, and the bedroom, upstairs,
became the forbidden, without her to share
The nights, ever long, were just waiting to tear
open the wounds that couldn't be shared
Up at the sunrise, and out until starlight
Where shadows grew stronger, and nights even longer
Burning the daylight, until light was in ashes,
then thrashing the midnight, with the darkness of mourning,
wading through dust-clouds, to see morning's light
Waiting for something to make it alright
Dedicated to my Dad
Copyright © Carrie Richards | Year Posted 2015
Angles of Mercy
Kevin L Fairbrother
There is not to many of us that can say that the owe their existence on this earth to a Native in a Foreign country, in my case I can say that without the help of the Fuzzy Wuzzy Angels of New Guinea, I would not be here to write this
My Father served with the Australian Imperial Forces in the Middle East, New Guinea and Borneo, a sapper in the engineers his service with the AIF overseas was over a period of 4 years.
The time my father served in New Guinea fighting against the invading Japanese has great consequences for me as I was conceived not long after his return to Australia and back home to Tasmania.
My father along with thousands of diggers who served in New Guinea, suffered not only from the Japanese forces but from internal diseases that were rife at the time, the mosquito spread Malaria and Gengy fever and the climate of New Guinea and poor sanitation spread Dysentery throughout the camps.
A big push by Japanese forces pushed the diggers back into the hills and forests and as the numbers of sick and wounded were growing at a very fast rate, the Generals decided that they had to find a way to get the sick and injured back to Port Moresby.
The only way down from the steep mountainess jungle was via an old supply trail used by the natives to sell their wares at Port Moresby, It became known as the Kokoda track and to this day many thousands of people trek this notorious track to relive the past and to familiar themselves with the torturous and dangerous trail of misery and death and to pay homage to the Fuzzy Wuzzy angels act of sheer strength and perseverance to carry and support the many sick and injured, the dead and dying to a place of safety at Port Moresby.
Even as the column of misery descended down the track the Aussie diggers were fighting the Japs in a rear guard action, this hard fought battle turned the tide for the Japs were beaten back and even though many diggers were killed and injured it was a turning point in the war against the Japanese invaders.
Thousands of diggers reached the safety of Port Moresby and so many owe their lives to the Fuzzy Wuzzy angles, many were shipped home, and others recovered from sickness to fight the Japanese in Borneo. My father was one of these men who helped beat back the Japanese army and have an influence in the Japanese surrender.
I salute the courage and tenacity of the Fuzzy Wuzzy angels and thank them for bringing my father to safety and eventually home. Like many diggers of World War 2 they kept their feelings and stories of war to themselves, my Father never said much about his service in the war and what little I know has been told by others.
I also salute the courage and fortitude of our diggers who kept Australia safe from invasion from the Japanese.
My Father, (rest his soul in peace) went on to have a productive working life, rearing 9 children, 6 were born after the war including me and 6 of us still survive today. The six of us born after my father returned from the war owe the native Fuzzy Wuzzy of New Guinea a big thanks for without their courage’s deed of mercy we would not be here.
ANGELS OF MERCY
Kevin L Fairbrother
Who were these men of such courage and fortitude?
Whose hair curled and matted reached for the sky
Well, muscled and full of resolve to complete the mission
To get the sick and injured Aussie Diggers home to safety
Never thinking about their own well-being or safety
The Fuzzy Wuzzy angles as they became known
Carried and supported the Diggers down the mountain
Never flinching nor feeling that they would fail the mission
Endless rain, a sea of mud, so steep hard to stand up
Raging rivers, swollen streams, impenetrable jungle
Constant darkness from the thick forest canopy
The Fuzzy Wuzzy persevered with strength and courage
On stretches, on their backs using their bodies as support
These angels carried an endless tide of sick and injured
Down the notorious Kokoda track of misery and death
Contemplating to never give up on their mission of mercy
With Japanese mortars and bullets befalling the column
As the Diggers fought a rear guard action to stem the Japs
The Fuzzy Wuzzy continued their mission down the mountain
For their job was to get as many Diggers as possible to safety
Eventually they reached the safety of Port Moresby
Largely due to the push by the Diggers to push back the Japs
The Fuzzy Wuzzy Angels were given a hero’s welcome
And to this day a revered and honored for their mission of mercy
Copyright © Kevin Fairbrother | Year Posted 2015
learning from the past
turning the dark into light
grasping a lesson from our Father
climbing levels of enlightenment
The Almighty presents us with lessons each and everyday
it is our job to acknowledge the lessons and grow from them
Although presented in different ways
we all go through the same lessons in life
I call it "climbing levels of spiritual enlightenment"
if you grasp the lesson presented and live by that lesson you will begin your climb
if you fail to live by that lesson you will tumble back down over and over
hence the lessons will be presented to you once again until you achieve them
The lessons are not always pleasant as the flesh cries out in pain
as I climb and fall throughout my life
the agony is soon replace with delight
a little pain to receive a blessing from our King
What appears to be a failure or a loss with no way out
is simply a hidden blessing , a gift from our King......
It's time to start climbing!!!
lets grow strong..........
Copyright © Rick Parise | Year Posted 2010
The water tower stands above the town and can be seen for miles around. It has a
ladder leading up to the base of the tank. This ladder has been climbed by countless
teenagers, for thrills and mischief and young kids answering a dare.
Over the years, many symbols and words have been painted on the tank. From
Highschool mascots, to hearts of love and proposals. Flowers and Holiday wishes
It had always been one mans job to keep the water tank painted and to cover up
any impromptu artwork. He always took his time about it though. Making sure that
each message stayed up at least two weeks before he would paint over it.
One day he received a phone call. On the line was a little boy. This little boy asked
the man to please not paint over his message he had written on the tank, as it was
The man explained to the boy that it was his job to keep the tank painted and
clean. But, that he would leave his message up there, untouched, for two weeks. The
little boy, with tears in his voice said "Thank you, I hope it will be long enough".
The next day, as the man was driving past the water tank, he looked up. He saw no
message or pictures of any kind on that tank. He shrugged and assumed that the boy
had just been to scared to make the climb all the way to the top.
Three weeks later, the mans phone rings again. It was that same little boy. Very
excited, he proclaimed "Mister, I just wanted to thank you for not painting over my
message...It really worked!"
Intrigued, the man went to the tank with his paint and supplies. He climbed to the
top, set down his paint and brush. He walked around that tank several times and still
did not see a message. But, as he bent to pick up the paint can, there it was.
Towards the bottom of the tank, in crayon with a young child scroll was written:
"Dear God, pleeze let my daddy come home frum war I miss him
Your frend Mike"
The years passed. Many drawings and words were painted over by one man and then
the other, as they took the job over. But never, the one small patch, with that heart
For the contest: Story Time
Hostess: Carol Brown
Copyright © Paula Swanson | Year Posted 2010
From the bottom of an abandoned gravel pit
behind my childhood home, seated,
leaning against its hardpacked sandy side,
he watched the July sun set,
the empty prescription bottle at his side.
Did he walk that day to his unnatural fate
slowly, shoulders rolling like a big cat,
alternating first one, then the other,
forward, head bent, one black errant
curl tumbling across his troubled forehead.
Did he hesitate or did he hurry
and did he think of me, just 12,
soon to be fatherless, before he
began his two weeks of decomposing
in the hot Texas sun until
the man on horseback found him
while looking for a lost calf.
I couldn't blame my mother
for the divorce she filed.
I had wanted him to leave, too,
and hadn't I prayed he would die
when he dragged her over the yard,
by a handful of her hair clasped
tightly in his fist,
because she had cut it without his permission.
Especially the next day when I found
the clump of auburn hair caught in the lush
purple blooms of the wisteria bush,
I wanted him to die.
He played his harmonica for me,
and I sang, "Daddy's Little Darling,
Don't you think I'm sweet?"
But I prayed my dad would die,
and though I asked God to ignore those
prayers of terror, I will never be able to
love enough wayward men to save my dad.
Copyright © Emerson Adkins | Year Posted 2012
Greet the little King,
who has been born in a cold manger
on the holiest of nights;
and by the glitter of a descending star,
He will spread peace in the land...
follow the shepherds and find that sight!
My gift to Him is my joyful song,
and with this clarinet I will usher in His coming...
walk side by side with the pretty angels and rejoice;
bring Him your gift, and surround Him with joy!
See the three Magi arriving on jewel-draped camels,
holding in their laps the gifts of His destiny.
A winter's night has always been completely bright,
every hill is hidden by darkness, but an heavenly light
appears across the frosty sky of Bethlehem, while divine
voices announce Emmanuel's glorious birth,
everyone wakes up and sees that star and follows it;
and where it stops, they find a baby without a crown.
Greet the Son of the Highest, the Wonderful Redeemer,
whom the Virgin Mary has borne in the humblest of places...
in the small town without a temple, or a palace for the Emperor,
where Mary and Joseph will train their child in Godly ways;
greet the little king, He will smile and invite you in,
and His smile will spread peace beyond the star-lit hill.
Copyright 2009 by Andrew Crisci
Copyright © Andrew Crisci | Year Posted 2009
You wanted someone strong; you wanted someone who wouldn’t crack. You thought you were making me tough by breaking me down. You told yourself it was the only way, because I wasn’t the boy you wanted.
I was a girl, your first born. I was delicate, young, and very impressionable. I grew numb to the pain I became accustom to.
You succeeded. You made me into someone the world couldn’t shatter, because you can’t break something that’s already in pieces.
Copyright © Tiani Rodriguez | Year Posted 2017
He loved you too, you know
Loved you like his very own
In away you were
You came into his life as my friend
Through the years you grew to be my brother in arms
Along the way you became the son he never had
He loved you as a friend
He loved you even more as a son
A son he never had
When things began to spiral out of control
You stayed when so many others ran away
You helped when I couldn’t
You meant a great deal to him
You never looked at him differently
Nor did you treat him differently
You stood by his side
When he fell, you stood by his side and mine
You were willing to help me fight his battle for him
You were there from the beginning
You were there until the bitter end
Always remember my friend, my brother
He loved you more than you’ll ever know
Dedicated to close Family friend. He loved my Daddy just as much as I did/do.
Copyright © Sabrina Niday Hansel | Year Posted 2013
It wasn't because he brought her flowers....
It wasn't because he wined and dined her....
She loved him because he spent hours on the computer
trying to track down the 1970 Brooks Robinson baseball card
for their oldest son's birthday
She loved him because he played with their kids,
even after a hard day at work...
baseball games in the big front yard,
cheering them on...
not getting angry when the youngest son
knocked a homer...
...straight through the living room window
Copyright © Carrie Richards | Year Posted 2015
I wander through this house
As silent as a mouse
Though it is my own I feel I've been away
I'm rather speechless, having not much to say
I see my brother working in the shed
Just passing the time as if he's seen red
I see my other brother smoking a cigarette
With no enthusiasm... has he too seen red?
I do my daily routine
Pace, contemplate and clean
Though something is not quite right
This summer day bears no light
I come into the living room
Usually lively... filled with joy
Now it's naked and abandoned
Like a toddlers chest of old toys
But wait... I see Mother on the couch
She's sad with wet crimson face
She doesn't even say hello
Has my coming here been a waste?
"Why are you crying Mother
Have I done something wrong?"
She just sobs and sobs
... a rather disquieting song
My father looks down at her
With a smile
But something about him
Seems quite vile
"I miss him... I miss him so much"
She cries so helplessly
"Who do you miss Mother?
I don't understand what you mean..."
My dad buts in with no consideration
Revealing horrible secrets in such wicked display
"Alright, alright... I confess... I killed him!
But quite you're crying about it, it's better off this way!"
It all comes to me
In such a sudden burst
I feel the intense hatred
So much it hurts
I'm not here... I don't exist... (at least not anymore)
I'm the stranger in the house!
But soon I'll get my revenge
I'll make Father feel as tiny as a mouse!
I know what you've done
I should've known all along
I will tell everyone
And correct this home gone wrong
I'll come to life again! I'l---
Blanket wet... I feel cold...
Why am I laying down? Was all that just a---
"Morning son! I've made you breakfast;
Scrambled eggs and french toast, your favorite!"
Could he really? ... no...
Just a dream...
NOTE: This entire dream actually happened to me. The only thing that was fiction was the part about my dad making me breakfast in the morning.
For Russel Sivey's Dream Contest
03 - 19 - 2013
Copyright © Timothy Hicks | Year Posted 2013
Hi Dad, I guess we all will see our time and all will pass
Sometimes I lie awake and cry, longing for another chance
So much I never said, so often I said too much
Once in a while i'll drive by where Grandma's house was
Stop and reminisce awhile
Wonder what Mom's childhood was like in that old farm house
Remember you saying how you loved the place
Talking about how you walked all those miles to see Mom
At night the sounds of crickets and the truck traffic miles away on 54
Fourth of July gathering on the back porch and in the yard, beer on tap
Burnt fingers holding sparklers at night, Grandma's cooking
Old Jack barking and howling, uncles throwing horse shoes
Kids playing baseball in the grass between Grandma's and Chick's place
Did we lose the Utopia we dreamed about, never recognizing it
What I'd give to take you for a ride again, through your old haunts
Caught up in the nostalgia of your childhood and mine.
Times were tougher, times were better, Paradise lost.
You measured riches in family, friends and neighbors
Somewhere, somehow the present generation lost that
Seems as I got older, you got wiser, couldn't see it as a child
Never said I love you, Dad often enough
Never said thank you, Dad for the lessons on life and living
Got to go now, i'll say a prayer for you and mom
Who knows, maybe we'll find that peace within us
That we had growing up and you were here.
Copyright © Vince Suzadail Jr. | Year Posted 2011
Pity her as she cried
On the floor, ragged, she lied
She's covered with odd bruises
And hell things on mind cruises
She was there left alone
Mourning for help at home.
Hungry and parched she was,
Hoping someone would pass
“Click! Click!”, the door knob sounds
At last someone’s around.
Who’s there? Who could that be?
At last! She will be free!
But it widened her eyes
Scared and again she cried
‘Twas a man who appeared
Went to her and she feared.
He touched her hair and said
“Hush! Hush! Just go to bed
Stay quite, don’t be a heck!”
And kissed her on the neck.
Poor girl, she just abide
To the man whom she feared
“Why is he doing this?
I’m his daughter, why’s this?”
In the bedroom they were;
Father started kissing her.
Poor lil girl can’t defy
If she speak up, she’ll die.
“Oh my Lord, please help me,
I can’t take it, save me.”
Said her mind as tears flowed
Grieving in pain; she moaned.
Then suddenly she smiled
From what she heard outside.
A sudden hope in her eyes gleamed
From something she perceived.
She heard her mother’s voice
"I'll be saved" she rejoiced
“A miracle for me
Lord replied to my plea.”
And the door opened
Mother saw what happened
Shocked and startled she was
Then screamed for help, at last!
Mother bellowed and slapped him
Outraged and said to him
“She is your daughter!
Why did you rape her?”
Then neighbors came
Naked -- poor girl was ashamed
Dazed and shaken they were
Staring at poor girl and her father.
Then two cops came along
Grabbed the father for his wrong
He panicked and dreaded
Denied all he acted
Livid and offended
Lil girl stood and stated
“Oh yes, that man raped me,
Not just once but many times.”
Then her father uttered
“My dish is my daughter.
I’m the one who made her,
So I should also taste her.”
Wretched from what she heard
She spoke not a single word
Woeful and quite, she sniveled
Suddenly collapsed and fell
At last poor girl’s now free
From nightmare and agony
Yes she has a father
But she’s his dish not his daughter.
Copyright © Flora Mae Gudez | Year Posted 2013
My mother, my grandmother before has always held a place in my heart.
My father, and my grandfather before has the same part.
I was young and very active with unwillingness to listen fully to what they had to say.
I had a problem, never could be solved without my parents and grandparents till today.
With patience they all come to my aid when I fall on my face.
With little dishonor I listen to them and what they had to say, I embrace.
Over the years I go to them with no doubt a feeling of no dismay.
Over the years I go to them and they help me solve problems that to me is O.K.
Now I am getting a bit more aware of what had happen to me when I was growing.
Now I remember how the ride was in my beginning: it was a trial of not knowing.
With the guided words of my parents and grandparents I survive through them all.
With it some being a problem that I remember I recall.
My mother and my grandmother always said to be patient and it will be easy to solve.
My father and my grandfather always knew that I would grow and evolve.
I could wonder everyday what if my parents and grandparents was not in my life.
I could just think that would be fatal like a stab with a knife.
With knowledge that they had past on to me of what they had experience.
With their proof of teachings they had past on to me is their self existence.
Over the years I grew with life so full of happiness that was because of my families love.
Over the years it showed me the path that led me to all the above.
Now cherish those words that help me through my troubles in my new family.
Now I listen to my parents healing words of wisdom and except them gladly.
Copyright © Reynaldo Mast | Year Posted 2013
Ana Cecilia Callejas
Rodrigo Perez Gavilan
The Bad King
“Lexer” was a lion who was the King of the entire animal kingdom, during his reign all the animals lived in complete harmony, they were all happy and graceful, and Lexer takes care of them and protects them. One day “Lexer” and his wife had an adorable baby lion that was named “Dylan” as he grew up Lexer teached him a lot of things since he was going to be the heir of the animal kingdom. Dylan also made a lot of friends but his best friend was Jim. Dylan and Jim spend almost all the days together, as the time passed Jim started to hang out with the Rhinos, which were the bad ones of the kingdom. Jim turned into a bad lion and started to incite Dylan to make bad things and he became also a bad lion. One day lexer got very sick and a few days later he passed away so Dylan became the king. All the animals were very sad because they loved Lexer he has been so far the best ruler of the animal kingdom. Time passed and Dylan forgot all the good things his father taught him and started to become a bad lion and a bad king. Influenced by Jim and the Rhinos that were friends with Jim Dylan started to do bad things. He put animals to fight between each other just for their amusement and had some of the animals as slaves just to be his servants, he also ordered other animals to kill so he can eat and have feasts, and this caused a lot of panic in the entire animal kingdom. Dylan mother tried to make him reconsider and change, to do all the good things his father taught him for him to be a good king but Dylan just became worse. All this caused that the animals lost his confidence towards the king and started to live just with the ones of their own kind and also began to fight with all the other animals to survive. This caused that the world became a bad place and since that moment the harmony did not existed anymore and the animals had to take care on their own.
Moral of the fable: if you are a good person and you have good values don’t let anyone to influence you and change the way you are.
Copyright © Ana Callejas | Year Posted 2012
He cries in grief at the funeral, he's just lost his best friend.
He passed away so quickly, but had been loyal to the end.
Observers remarked, he's not a real man, look how he cries.
But, what do you expect a man to do, when a loved one dies.
She's beautiful to the extreme, in countenance and form,
A real temptress, in every way, a star was born.
She makes an overture to him with a knowing smile,
He turns her down, says he's been happily married for a while.
She says listen here honey, a real man can't say no to me!
He says a real man understands the meaning of true loyalty.
He works hard every day, does his best to support his family,
After work some say hey, let's go drinking, have a real party!
He says no thanks, I should really be going back home,
I don't like to leave my wife and kids there all alone.
They said you're joking right, a real man does what he wants to.
He says that's not really the loving thing to do.
His neighbor says come on over, watch the game, in my man cave,
He says sorry, I promised the kids we would go out and play.
Neighbor retorts you're so boring, a real man has all the toys,
He says no, a real man grows up, leaves behind the traits of a boy.
On the highway going home, by mistake he cuts someone off,
The other driver is furious, yelling insults, and horrible stuff.
It continues for miles till they're both stuck at a red light,
The other driver get's out and tries to provoke him to fight,
Says get out of the car, chicken, a real man knows how to fight back
His mild manner turns away rage, self-control is his counter attack.
If your father never taught you, what a real man should know,
It gets so obvious as the years pass, it really starts to show.
All is not lost, just grow up, and assume your responsibility,
Then you will understand what it means to be truly happy.
John Derek Hamilton November 1,2015
Copyright © John Hamilton | Year Posted 2015
Waiting silently by the phone was all he had.
Grasping the bottle he drank greedily.
The waiting was all he had at the moment.
He roared,"arrrrrgh!"And the sound comforted him.
He dialed his son to wish him Happy Holiday.
The son had no father but he waited too.
Like a cast away he scanned the bottle searching for a note.
The two went back to the waiting and it helped.
It was something to do to kill time and it was honest.
The sea was deep and danger waited there too.
So all three gathered together in silence.
The father sent memories on the ferry to the son.
"Arrrrrgh," helped and it comforted the man.
He was in the navy so he loved the sea and the sea returned it.
The father watched and scanned the waves with hope.
And the gulls screaming words that only gulls understand.
What will become of me after the message is delivered?
Will I ever cross and grasping the bottle.
I loved you and The Sea.
Copyright © Patrick Cornwall | Year Posted 2011
Once I had a bicycle,
A loving present from my grandfather;
Since I was his favorite granddaughter,
He granted my wish at a snap of my finger .
Since he was so old,
A new bicycle he could hardly afford;
He took his bike when he was young,
Which I found it once at the back of our barn.
As far as I remember,
It was really so old and rugged;
But my grandpa was like Mr. Mac-Gyber,
Amazingly fixing all things all-over.
My granda was a well-known painter,
I thought he will repaint and use sandpapers;
When I surreptitiously sneaked into his hut,
He was there recycling all my milk cans.
When everything was done,
He gladly gave it to me with a big hug;
I hurriedly drove it at once,
Down the street and field with so much fun.
“My bike was real a unique one!” I thought.
So different from others in our neighborhood,
Its wailing siren was made up of a cow’s horn,
Tubes were made of dried bamboos and corn.
Other parts were still the same,
Like forks, hubs and chainwheel set,
The rest were made up of my milk cans,
They were pedal, brake and seatgear stem.
Handle bars were what I liked most,
Converted from the handle of his old plow;
So sturdy and so strong all I knew,
And I can drive it so long in full control.
However, when I travelled quite afar,
Parts were falling one at a time;
Until everything suddenly split apart,
Eventually it dropped and rolled me down.
All Rights Reserved
Date: Aug. 3, 2012
4th Place Winner (My Very First Winning Poem)
Contest: Any Poem of the Week Contest
Contest Judged: 8/4/12
Poet Sponsor: Secret
Copyright © Galeo DS | Year Posted 2012
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 | Year Posted 2012
The first time I saw my father I was a year and 8 months old. He had returned home for a short respite before shipping out to England to prepare for the invasion. It was the early spring of 1944. World War II was raging and my father was caught up in the effort to literally save the free world.
I sat on a sea blue linoleum floor with a red stripe border. I was in the hall of my mom's parent's house. The two very special grandparents I was fortunate to have thru to adulthood. I spent many of my early days there during the liberation of Europe. My mom worked full time to support the two of us.
In front of me was a door to the bathroom. The door behind me lead downstairs to a lower flat and then to the outside. On my left were doors to the two bedrooms and on my right archways to the living room and the kitchen. Two women, my mom and my aunt were sitting in the kitchen drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes. I heard one of them say, “why don't you lay down for a while, Chevy!” I'm not sure what his given name was. Carmen or Francisco depending on which of his brothers or sisters you asked. He didn't seem to care either way. He signed his name “Frank F. Grasso” and that is the way we buried him. Everyone called him Chevy, from his original nickname “The Little Shaver” and “Shavey”, his two older brothers had given him growing up.
I heard him walk up behind me and stop. I have no memory of were he came from. I turned my head to look over my shoulder and saw his two feet with laced brown shoes. Two leather spats that covered his ankles ended above my head, just below his knees. I had to bend my head back as far as I could to see what to me looked like a monstrous man, and I saw his face looking back and smiling down on me. He didn't say anything. He just turned and walked into a bedroom and stretched out on the bed. I could see his brown shoes and spats hanging off to one side.
The next time I remember seeing him was at his mothers wake. (His father passed years before I was born.) He was granted an early discharge when she became sick in 1945. He had made it past the assault on to Omaha Beach, the hedge rows in France, thru the battles in Belgium and Holland and all the way to Hitler's Bunker in Germany and Germany's surrender. He was an artillery spotter thru the campaign. He commanded an early radar system, a huge drop bed trailer truck with a giant radar antenna mounted on it. His unit straddled the front lines to give warning of enemy air attacks. He carried shrapnel in his leg from a hand grenade to his death and suffered a cracked vertebrate in his neck from an artillery blast. He was hospitalized and returned to action after each injury. He never received metals for either injury and I don't ever remember hearing him complain about that. Had his mother not taken ill he would have been on his way to the Pacific to fight the Japanese.
I remember standing in my grandmothers driveway. The wake was in the parlor of her home, which was the custom in those days. I was too young to view her. Just 3 years old. I was looking out into the street thinking about death when my father came out of the house. He walked down the driveway to where I was standing. I turned and looked up into his face. He looked down on me smiling and never said a word.
The memories are still vivid.
written September 22, 2016
Copyright © Francis J Grasso | Year Posted 2016
By Curtis Johnson
In May of ‘63, daddy’s demise came early when he was only 58, leaving mama widowed at 35 with eleven minor children. Essentially stair steppers, our ages ranged from 9 months to 16 years.
I would be proud to own something that my father once possessed.
There was the Social Security benefit of $89 per month from the Feds.
It appears there was a welfare check of $30 per month from the county.
I also recall that there was a one time cash benefit of $200 from the Masons.
I remember my dad owning a 22 rifle, which my mom still possessed in ‘71. However, beyond then, I do not know what mama eventually did with it. Essentially, beyond that rifle, daddy did not own anything to pass on
to the next generation. It appears that daddy’s hard work acquired
many benefits for him and his family, but very little in ownership.
Daddy was a company man. He drove a company car; we lived in a company house; and a company doctor handled our health care.
I am 66, and I have a friend who is 86. We were talking a week ago primarily about his recent move to a new community. He and his wife sold their home and is presently renting a much smaller property. They are freed from many cares relative to upkeep, and they were able to dispose of things they no longer needed.
However, one item that he mentioned stuck to my mind like glue. This treasure piece will be kept, because it is not only a material item, but is also connected to a long family tradition. My friend inherited the clock from his father, who inherited it from his father. When he passes on, his grandfather clock, originally owned by his grandfather in Sweden, will become the treasure piece of his son in the fourth generation. How grand is that!
I could not help but remember that ‘I did not inherit’ any kind of treasured traditional piece from my father. Of course, I do not underestimate the Christian heritage that he provided, and the valued lessons he taught. I also inherited his DNA and the memories.
O, back then, a grandfather clock would have been unthinkable. But I cannot deny that something tangible of my father’s memory would have been great. Any way, my friend’s grandfather clock inspires me as I look ahead to the next generation. I am just a little more motivated to be sure that I pass on something tangible to my children.
04262016 cj PS
Copyright © curtis johnson | Year Posted 2016
Lone Wolf” Written by John Moses Freeman
A lone wolf far from the pack of his concern, entertains by flute in hopes of an appearance from Great White Father. Many moon have passed and no sacred white buffalo have been seen or heard of by himself or any of the other members of the tribe. It is always a bad omen to go for so many moons without a sacred appearance of a single white buffalo. Separating himself from the rest of the tribe eliminates the possibility of any bad medicine of unsacred mistakes that might have possibly been made by any of the other braves. Fasting for days Lone Wolf rescinds the weaker part of his soul, giving over to the spirit world. That he might be worthy of the divine appearing presence of the Great White Father. Should the Great White Father decided to divinely grant this mortal His holy appearance from inside the spirit world. Lone Wolf's proof of worthiness is his abstaining from food until his unworthy fleshly senses have rescinded; into the lower depths of darkness of the soul and obliged Lone Wolf’s sacred sense, giving over to the authority of the spirit of his stronger essence.
The nature of the trees of the woods, the air, the water, the sun of day and the moon of night are the image of the lesser senses that must be respected, for they are given to the lesser man’s needs in the lesser world as shelter and food. But today Lone Wolf plays his flute for the purpose of entertaining a presence of the Great White Father of mother earth. He will fast and play until his inner essence becomes one with the essence of creation! By this divinely granted appearance he will receive spiritual council and rectify his tribe with good medicine and receive new direction correcting the bad omen. The white buffalo will appear in the herd again!
For and in Honor of Constance La France ~ A Rambling Poet
And Contest: Tell HIS Story
Copyright © john freeman | Year Posted 2011
I dreamt of my Father whom passed 3 years ago,
as I awoke , he was standing with his beige silk business slacks on
In truth, it may have been not a dream but his ghost telling me something ..
he was a fine looking man and this time with no illness,
~ yet I remember his sweater ~
over 15 years the last time I saw my Father , he called to tell me Grandma passed"
His beautiful Mother, and he wanted me present at her Funeral processions.
I was important to him and my Grandmother , as my children were too.
His heart was broken as we all are not exempt from pain in our lives..
So his presence was much different then the last visit alive.
~ yet I remember his sweater ~
he was here to tell me something
his face beautiful and luminance with a certain serenity
he appeared just before I awoke in full form
The beige pants, nice shoes, Italian, a white shirt underneath that sweater
I remember the sweater being of a fine make, cashmere and purple..
I never wanted my Fathers money when he passed , just a sweater , his scent
being refused to grieve with my siblings and blood , refused any little thing of his
~ yet I remember his sweater ~
I love you too Dad , Your youngest girl.
Copyright © Shanity Rain | Year Posted 2013