I am the child,
that emerges from the womb,
and merges with the light!
I am a speck of dust,
on an endless horizon,
that sinks with the sunset!
I am the quiet calm,
and yet, the broken glass,
that shatters in my scone!
I am the juggernaut,
remiss of restraint,
that rattles and chafes my bones!
I am a beacon,
I am the swelling tide,
I am the safe harbor at night!
I am the ghost,
of the past and present,
I am the whispered delight!
I am the vision,
I am the lustrous illusion,
that binds or blinds my sight!
I am all these things,
encompassed in a closet,
surrounded by whitewashed walls!
I am all of you,
I am the stained stitch,
we are all one, weaving a wide web!
From the time I was a toddler
I saw you as my protector
You held me, feed me
And I even saw you as my corrector
Anything you told me to do
I did it just to please your way of being
The problem is that you were totally unaware
Of all the patterns my spiritual self was seeing
I knew what was at work in our home
Division, derision, hatred, and the splintering of souls
Ensuring servitude to the system of reciprocity
Guaranteed that our relationships would never be whole
My other sister was never safe
I knew that and kept her at a safe distance
When she took my hoisery and my paycheck
I knew it was futile to form any kind of resistance
I yielded to the bully in our home
I played the game and hoped hearts would change
But as time and distance has proven
Nothing is healed and restored, simply rearranged
This is what I have come to accept about home
And the family that brings you to the point of choice
It is not our job to gift the abuser with peace
But stand firm in TRUTH, and with a balanced voice
....silence fear
Written by Trudy Schrader on 10-06-2026
Upon my father's demise,
Something inside of me died.
It took years to realize,
As that something was in disguise.
It fought hard to remain on the inside,
But it was mine, not his, to decide;
To decide that it would no longer hide.
A younger sister exposed it; not I.
In 1963, it shut down inside of me.
In 2003, my sister's comment set me free.
In 1963, when he passed away in May,
There was nothing of him I had to say.
Until 2003, subconsciously, it stayed that way.
But at a family reunion, it was forced to exit,
Revealing another view. And I was introduced
By a younger sister to a father I never knew.
We lived on an orchard,
apples in autumn,
cherries in summer.
Though it wasn’t ours,
we cared for the trees.
We helped prune as we grew older.
Dad was able to keep a cow.
Her name was Carnation
and she was ours.
Dad milked her by hand,
early each morning before work
and again in the afternoon.
Afternoons we could go too.
First we helped herd her
to the barn.
Our reward was warm milk
Dad squirted straight from her teats
into our mouths.
He missed sometimes.
We would laugh so hard,
milk all over our faces.
I think he missed
on purpose,
just to make us laugh.
People have called them “dreadlocks.”
I love my husband’s hair of locks, a gift of Nubian treasure.
No dread possesses these,
nor smell of sweating- foul
but aging locks like Samson’s strength,
caressing his narrow buttocks
as glorious raiment rests there.
I touch my fingers to his mane,
in essence rare to feel
with spirit of softness, strong.
No hair dress can compare
to his inherited adornment.
Nothing of dread possesses these locks.
Pressing my lips to sweetness as summer raindrops,
curled in natural spectrum delight,
growing, growing, growing grey, graced,
oiled with generational radiance.
How much I love his countenance,
the moor of blackness to see.
A richness of culture,
Favored daily by The Creator.
Peace! Protection! Provision! My Passions.
Resting on each precisely, numbered lock.
No dread possesses these.
She noticed her son flinched at her touch
Mommy, why does Daddy yell so much?
Your father works hard for us, and his days are long
But he yells all the time – what did I do wrong?
We need to try hard not to make him mad today
Okay, Mommy, I'll try really, really hard, and I’ll pray
Hickory dickery doc, the arms move on the clock, you count the minutes until it's 12, the tears in your eyes begin to well. You write the letters in your books, to mom, to dad, anyone who would be glad, you count the seconds until its 12, until i get to move out of this hell, you tie the rope, you grab the chair, but you just stand there, the rope around your neck but not kicking the chair. You wait, wait until it's 12 and it finally comes, but you're scared, you cry until your eyes are dry, scared to die. So you untie the rope, get off the chair, your neck feels bare. You look at the clock and think in your mind "what would happen if i did it blind".
She stays up way past midnight,
just checking on your breathing.
She keeps your terrible drawings
taped up like priceless art.
She lets you spill your mess,
your worries, your endless questions,
and somehow makes room for all of it in her small, tired heart.
She’s the one who holds you
when the world feels far too big,
the one who roots for you when nobody else shows up.
Even when you walk away to build a life of your own,
she’s still standing in the driveway, waving until you’re out of sight.
Campfire.
Banjo Jamboree.
Talking about the books we’ve been reading.
The seven-year-old says clearly,
“Let’s not talk about murder mysteries.
The campfire is in front of us and the
beautiful stars are above us.”
She’s right.
After being born,
After learning the word,
And learning to understand.
First there was my mother,
Then my dad,
Then my brothers and sisters.
Each one
Had a say,
As they listened,
As they spoke,
And helped shape my day.
I remember the four brothers.
I remember the five sisters.
Each alive in memory,
And each remembered in death.
Then there was me,
Number nine,
And a sister,
Number ten.
Now one question
Rests within my heart:
The voices have grown quiet,
The years have passed on by,
Yet their names still live within me.
And as I walk the path remaining,
One question follows still:
Will we meet again,
Beyond the reach of time?
I experience reality from my own Perspective.
If I had not existed to experience reality from my perspective I would not have experienced it at all.
Who can see if not me?
Who am I if not me?
can we be who we chose to be
Or are we known as who we thought we have been?
who am I if not me?
can I be who I want to be?
am I free or am I me?
Who am I if not I am me?
I am who I experience myself to be?
my experience is dependent on my own perception of reality from my own Perspective.
We dance singing songs of Love.
sinister dreams of wild death.
I saw him preaching the Gospel after the Rapture.
Harvey Levin preached the good news in my dreams.
very strange that I woke up made a video talking about it.
Harvey Levin a tribulation Saint wild dream.
Praise Jesus forever.
Thank you Jesus forever.
You are my sanctuary in
human form-
an unwavering solace when
the world feels discordant
and too loud.
You possess a rare
luminosity, the kind of
empathy that doesn't just
sympathize,
but bears witness. You
metabolize my uncertainties
into courage, and transmute my
ordinary moments into something
incandescent.
In you I've found a steadfast
reciprocity :
a benevolent constancy
that asks for nothing, and
gives everything.
You are the gentle
interlocutor of my unspoken
thoughts,
the celebrant of my small,
improbable triumphs,
the quiet architect who
helped me rebuild when I
came undone.
With you, vulnerability isn't
a risk- it's a homecoming.
Your presence is a benediction.
Your loyalty, a masterpiece of
grace.
Thank you for being the
kind of friend who makes
my life feel more luminous,
more tenable, more beautiful.
I am profoundly grateful our
paths converged.
Strike a match light a fire eliminate the dark
Have a dance sing a song give your life some spark
Share a laugh have some fun life will be a lark
Join with friends join with family gather somewhere in a park
Walk the street, to the beat that's in your head
Grab a partner, swing her round to the music that's been fed
Have much fun have much joy, tonight it's later into bed
Off to sleep. dreaming romantic words that have been said
Now betrothed both determined to do it all in style
The day has now come walk together down the aisle
Honeymoon a riverboat let's go sailing down the Nile
Now you're planning for a family there'll be children in a while
Now it's time to reminisce how quickly years go by
Suddenly there are grand children for whom you sing a lullaby
Playing games all together whilst still feeling rather spry
Another life is nearing, we can't deny no matter how hard we try
Make the most of every instance make the most of every day
Deliver and receive all the love that comes your way
Let peace love and harmony surround the world without delay
A better future for ours and others families, let us hope and pray
Synnøve
Life is a journey
with many possibilities along the way
– each chapter brings unexpected turns,
ups and downs at every step.
*Carpe diem* is a Latin phrase
meaning "seize the day"
– a quote you often used.
The day your heart ceased to beat in rhythm
with nature’s own pulse.
A sigh that became your last.
"Do not stand at my grave and weep"
I cannot...
it is a sorrow
that no tears can lighten.
Dewdrops of silence speak a language of their own
– Rest in Peace
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