Child's Play
Run, skip, play
Leap, jump, fly
Live, love, laugh
Wish, hope, dream
Child's play
Monday, June 16, 2008
Saturday, June 14, 2008
Photography by: L. Reynolds - Pfotogenic.blogspot.com “When I consider thy heavens, the work of thy fingers, the moon and the stars, which thou hast ordained:”
Jehovah Shammah
Still waters underneath the streaked crimson sky
Stained as if the sun wept because it had to leave
The moon will soon take its place
A black quilt of stars will be the earth’s cover
The ripples a reminder of your voice trembling upon the waters
The water mirrors the splendor of the heavens
The wind whispers softly echoing the accounts
The leaves whistling your praise
The mountains stand watch over the valley lows
The earth’s floor groans underneath the stillness
Man and nature in your presence—waiting
Jehovah Shammah
Still waters underneath the streaked crimson sky
Stained as if the sun wept because it had to leave
The moon will soon take its place
A black quilt of stars will be the earth’s cover
The ripples a reminder of your voice trembling upon the waters
The water mirrors the splendor of the heavens
The wind whispers softly echoing the accounts
The leaves whistling your praise
The mountains stand watch over the valley lows
The earth’s floor groans underneath the stillness
Man and nature in your presence—waiting
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
Mara
A time is coming when men will weep openly in the streets. Houses will no longer be able to shelter from the storms. The earth’s floor is shaking—the ground is no longer stable--swallowed the house of Korah whole. Once the moon refused to shine on an earth absent of grace--brackish waters troubled all around, like those of Mara. Come make the bitter waters sweet!
A time is coming when men will weep openly in the streets. Houses will no longer be able to shelter from the storms. The earth’s floor is shaking—the ground is no longer stable--swallowed the house of Korah whole. Once the moon refused to shine on an earth absent of grace--brackish waters troubled all around, like those of Mara. Come make the bitter waters sweet!
Body, Soul & Spirit
Run Freely
Against the Wind
Rise
Leap Up
Ungravitated
Rise
Laugh Loudly
Smile Within
Rise
Weep Bitterly
On your Knees
Rise
Repent Openly
Plead for Mercy
Rise
Listen Quietly
Ever Learning
Rise
Live Fearlessly
No Regrets
Rise
Love Genuinely
A Pure Heart
Rise
Fly Away
In the Morning
Rise
Die Gently
Breathe Sweetly
Rise
Sunday, June 8, 2008
Slave Pens—The Houses that Hatred Built
I tried to brace myself as I entered into the wooden oversized coffin that held at any given time seventy-five devalued souls. But I couldn’t prevent the tears; I couldn’t deny the voices that still screamed from those walls. Whose feet had touched those cold floors, whose sweat and tears had stained those benches? I sat there and I wept--I wept for their souls long since gone. I wept for myself for sometimes I’m not mindful. I mourned those who had been stripped from their country to die daily in a strange land only to have no final resting place, no sacred burial ground.
Haunted, their ghosts still roam. I heard the cries of mothers for their children. I saw men crowded laying on the beams above and across from them the name of the demonic soul who had enslaved them there, Anderson. I wanted to hate him! And I wanted to hate my white brother whom I love. Somehow sitting in that house that was built from hatred love still reigned in mine. I believe it came from the strength of those souls who left their broken hearts on the floor of this slave pen.
I tried to brace myself as I entered into the wooden oversized coffin that held at any given time seventy-five devalued souls. But I couldn’t prevent the tears; I couldn’t deny the voices that still screamed from those walls. Whose feet had touched those cold floors, whose sweat and tears had stained those benches? I sat there and I wept--I wept for their souls long since gone. I wept for myself for sometimes I’m not mindful. I mourned those who had been stripped from their country to die daily in a strange land only to have no final resting place, no sacred burial ground.
Haunted, their ghosts still roam. I heard the cries of mothers for their children. I saw men crowded laying on the beams above and across from them the name of the demonic soul who had enslaved them there, Anderson. I wanted to hate him! And I wanted to hate my white brother whom I love. Somehow sitting in that house that was built from hatred love still reigned in mine. I believe it came from the strength of those souls who left their broken hearts on the floor of this slave pen.
Saturday, June 7, 2008
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African Beauty QueenBeautiful, but there’s more to see—a hidden treasure
Apart of me I hope to be
You’re a mystery—not fully uncovered
Even though you stand naked for all to admire
Even though you stand naked for all to admire
Your breast so full—nurturer of the nations
Bold, proud and glorious
Bold, proud and glorious
You know who you are—where you belong
Still I stumble—praying not to fall
Fall prey to what others say I should be
Still I stumble—praying not to fall
Fall prey to what others say I should be
Reaching for who you are
Run, I hear you say in my ear
Run, I hear you say in my ear
Run like the antelope,
Stand proud like the giraffe,
Stand proud like the giraffe,
Run wild like the zebra
Prance like the lioness
Run until you own the horizon
Prance like the lioness
Run until you own the horizon
Wednesday, June 4, 2008
Reflections & ShadowsSometimes the image is distorted. But the looking glass doesn't lie. Although the story it tells--a half truth-- is missing the inner theme the books covering is all that it can reflect. You would have to read between the lines and explore beyond the type and cover in order to know what took place before and after.
The shadows come to protect--some say hide--but when you need one it can be kind. A protective shield from whoever is trying to figure out why page 42 has been highlighted. What transpired is only for those who shared that moment in time. It’s like asking someone about their most private thoughts, the ones they can't wait to go to sleep at night to re-visit alone. The chapters in which they can make fiction reality and reality fiction.
You would have to look in the mirror and search far behind the eyes to uncover the whole story--it’s in the reflection protected behind the shadows covering. Captured momentarily--once removed, it’s forgotten, but the tale has been recorded.
Tuesday, June 3, 2008
DuskThe day ends as quietly as it began
The nights covering hiding the earth’s secrets
The sun takes his rest
As the moon prepares to take his place
Stillness silence the calamities of the day
There’s a settling of the mind
Peacefulness as the stars play in space
The clouds like small children called in from a day of play
Is this there end or will they have a time to shine tomorrow?
Maybe in another sky
**************************************************
A place dared to be explored
One seemingly bottomless, endless--the way out a mystery
Not a maze—an un-navigated wilderness
Curiosity and desire draws to this place without an exodus
The aroma of ecstasy and the allure of passion
And temptation sweet like the night air--arouse the senses
Surrendering would be a certain lively death
Lost on the path of emotions
So tangibly real—living in a dream
Escaping to hide within the cleft
A world unknown to the common
Where the stars dance
**************************************************
There’s warmth in the air in spite of what’s going on in the visible view. The reality lies in the invisible realm. Tent dwellers—only passing through—but living as if this is the final show. All working towards that grand finale. Sometimes we play the main character. Sometimes we play the supporting cast. If Shakespeare is right—if life is just a stage there must be more after the final curtain call. Until then, take a bow and wait for the applause.
****************************************************
This day is ending--time soon forgotten only the faces seen in passing play on the minds screen. The evening sun will soon be sinking –sinking into its hiding place for a moments rest. Anxiety rolls in as the clouds roll away. No more time for play--only eternity is infinite and sure. The mood’s changing you can feel it in the wind. Time to set another stage the atmosphere must follow the course. Trying to hold the day’s moments is like trying to keep lighting bugs alive in a mason jar on a summer’s night.
The memories keep re-arranging finding there hierarchy among the days and times of forgotten scenes. Lessons as subliminal as background music constantly attempting to lead in a certain direction. We inevitably miss the cue until the crescendo is so obtrusively loud and we no longer can ignore the cymbals banging in the background. As the sun dial acts as the gauge even Kali’s dance can not arouse and cause it to stand erect and still.
Sunday, May 11, 2008
Behind Unopened Doors
No need to check the lunch box for the remnants of the crusted tuna fish sandwich or the couch cushions for the expired bag of M & M’s. Today’s a new day—full of possibilities. Maybe the mailman will come early or an old friend will stop by to reminisce about old times. Or just maybe you’ll stumble upon the future and discover why you’re here. Predestination is hard to appreciate.
The unfinished projects in the basement are a constant reminder of your incurable habit of procrastinating. If you complete them, then what is left to contemplate? If left to fend for themselves the possibility of another tomorrow opens.
No need to check the lunch box for the remnants of the crusted tuna fish sandwich or the couch cushions for the expired bag of M & M’s. Today’s a new day—full of possibilities. Maybe the mailman will come early or an old friend will stop by to reminisce about old times. Or just maybe you’ll stumble upon the future and discover why you’re here. Predestination is hard to appreciate.
The unfinished projects in the basement are a constant reminder of your incurable habit of procrastinating. If you complete them, then what is left to contemplate? If left to fend for themselves the possibility of another tomorrow opens.
Knock--or continue in the cystoids puddle of ponder.
Thursday, May 8, 2008
In the Hazy Rain
The rain pours unceasingly as if it is trying to rid the earth of a bloody scene. The ground’s soil’s thirsty, open mouthed it welcomes the moisture like a suckling being nourished. The hazy streamline water is visible only when it makes connection with the skin, while puddles render hypnotizing melodies creating a foggy envelope and sealing you into another element and time.
The rain seductively chilling induces the spontaneous search for comfort. Comfort in the natural and proverbial spaces where Inanna style overtures won’t be rejected because all perspective suddenly is distorted. They are succumbed to, but later forgotten, as the hypnotic submissive potion wanes.
Fill the water pots and pour over the cracked places within--after the rain the fragrance comes--the odor of cleansing.
The rain pours unceasingly as if it is trying to rid the earth of a bloody scene. The ground’s soil’s thirsty, open mouthed it welcomes the moisture like a suckling being nourished. The hazy streamline water is visible only when it makes connection with the skin, while puddles render hypnotizing melodies creating a foggy envelope and sealing you into another element and time.
The rain seductively chilling induces the spontaneous search for comfort. Comfort in the natural and proverbial spaces where Inanna style overtures won’t be rejected because all perspective suddenly is distorted. They are succumbed to, but later forgotten, as the hypnotic submissive potion wanes.
Fill the water pots and pour over the cracked places within--after the rain the fragrance comes--the odor of cleansing.
Sunday, May 4, 2008
Passing Milieus
Passengers shuffling through the lines of the train terminal like people who saunter in and out of one another lives. Some we take time to meet and some we ignore as if they were invisible.
The expectation of the rides scenery flashing by—places appearing as if non-existent until our eyes view them. It is as though they were invented at that exact moment. The images leaving a relief pattern on the mind stored away only to be recalled when the memory begins to fail.
Passengers shuffling through the lines of the train terminal like people who saunter in and out of one another lives. Some we take time to meet and some we ignore as if they were invisible.
The expectation of the rides scenery flashing by—places appearing as if non-existent until our eyes view them. It is as though they were invented at that exact moment. The images leaving a relief pattern on the mind stored away only to be recalled when the memory begins to fail.
Who has seen these same milieus before?-- and undoubtedly they saw the pictorial differently. It’s hard to believe that these images stay untouched and intact after you’re gone.
Every once and awhile you must stop--unload and refresh. The people’s faces look like puzzles or walking episodes. Each person appointed to be in the same place at the same time.
Strangers until we collide together seemingly with no control of our own. It is when one tries to orchestrate these meetings that the design is ruined. We spend our adult lives under the assumption that we are living according to our own will. Oh, what fools we are.
Who has known the mind of God and who has been His council? He is the Designer (as one of my friends so eloquently wrote); our lives are His intricate design.
Somehow the fellow unknown passengers on the train have a part in the finished product. Unexplainable scenes from the past that won’t erase. Some so ugly you question the judgment of the Designer—what principles and elements are rendered.
If expunged will they still be true, yes, why, you ask; because they are etched into the landscape.
Every once and awhile you must stop--unload and refresh. The people’s faces look like puzzles or walking episodes. Each person appointed to be in the same place at the same time.
Strangers until we collide together seemingly with no control of our own. It is when one tries to orchestrate these meetings that the design is ruined. We spend our adult lives under the assumption that we are living according to our own will. Oh, what fools we are.
Who has known the mind of God and who has been His council? He is the Designer (as one of my friends so eloquently wrote); our lives are His intricate design.
Somehow the fellow unknown passengers on the train have a part in the finished product. Unexplainable scenes from the past that won’t erase. Some so ugly you question the judgment of the Designer—what principles and elements are rendered.
If expunged will they still be true, yes, why, you ask; because they are etched into the landscape.
Bruised Wings
Discovering that the love that you have is no longer kind is a hurtful truth. Admittance is the door to a resolution. But who wants to admit that they are no longer loved and that they no longer are in love. That the existence of a union is merely habitual at best and worse (and more honestly) cowardly.
You shall know truth and truth shall make you free. Then what? Liberation??
Freedom must birth courage. Someone said it has teeth. Without courage to act upon what will set us free makes us like a trapped bird. Having wings but without the ability to fly we are left with just the unction to flap them and to hit them insanely on the invisible bars that imprison. And the dung that we leave behind on old newspaper that speaks of events in far away exotic places—like the Mediterranean perhaps, are all taking place while we dine insidiously on bird seed.
Discovering that the love that you have is no longer kind is a hurtful truth. Admittance is the door to a resolution. But who wants to admit that they are no longer loved and that they no longer are in love. That the existence of a union is merely habitual at best and worse (and more honestly) cowardly.
You shall know truth and truth shall make you free. Then what? Liberation??
Freedom must birth courage. Someone said it has teeth. Without courage to act upon what will set us free makes us like a trapped bird. Having wings but without the ability to fly we are left with just the unction to flap them and to hit them insanely on the invisible bars that imprison. And the dung that we leave behind on old newspaper that speaks of events in far away exotic places—like the Mediterranean perhaps, are all taking place while we dine insidiously on bird seed.
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
Within the Shell
Occupying space like an oyster in a shell
The exquisiteness held within, hidden--it must be extracted
The facets so dimensionally deep, developed one layer at a time
It would take a lifetime of excavating to uncover its sincerity
Priceless it has no measure until depravity creeps in
Pirating the shell of its innermost value
Disposing of it after it has robbed it of its chastity
Treasures within sought after for admiration or mere possession
The rarest stone requires a trained eye to see past its façade
Until then it’s locked inside its shell lying on the ocean’s floor--waiting
Occupying space like an oyster in a shell
The exquisiteness held within, hidden--it must be extracted
The facets so dimensionally deep, developed one layer at a time
It would take a lifetime of excavating to uncover its sincerity
Priceless it has no measure until depravity creeps in
Pirating the shell of its innermost value
Disposing of it after it has robbed it of its chastity
Treasures within sought after for admiration or mere possession
The rarest stone requires a trained eye to see past its façade
Until then it’s locked inside its shell lying on the ocean’s floor--waiting
Monday, April 28, 2008
If I Had Wings
When warmth seems to be absent from the earth
And my mouth dare not utter what my heart feels
The cues ambiguous as an unknown language,
Didn’t get a burning bush
The soul records the moments, the flesh marks the scars
While the inner self struggles to forgive
Anointed to be someone greater
Images I see when permitted
I must admit I know of her
How to become her I know not
The adversary is the father of lies
Believe him and fail
But sometimes the arrows come from a friend
Oh, If I had wings!
Sunday, April 27, 2008
Awake to Promises
Time’s moving quickly
Won’t stand still now
The evening sun is sinking fast
At a different place
Everything seems to have changed
Dawn chases away night
The terrors have dissipated
The new sun offers promise
At a different place
Everything seems to have changed
Each hour brings its own circumstances
May pass through the valley of Baca
Don’t worry about the sun dial
Dwell in the secret place
At a different place
Everything seems to have changed
But morning will be gracious again—awake to the promise
Thursday, April 24, 2008
Calliope --the 'beautiful of speech' Chief of the muses and muse of epic or heroic poetry
Mused
Living in the days of perilous times. Looking out at the world for an answer only to find the world looking back. Wishing for the visual aid of a child’s eyes. Eyes full of foolish anticipation that the dim eyed now have become oblivious to. Beaten down until the elliptical feeling is no longer tangible.
Once reminiscent of little boys with visions of flying and little girls that climbed mountains in their sleep. Every spectra of color flashing with each screen rendering a surprise edition. It must be that a child is lower to the earth so it’s easier for them to look up and see the sky’s view.
There is nothing from the past holding back--haunting at night. Nothing preventing a time for dreams to play out and provide a Muse. Muses that in the morning light manifest themselves taking shape and form becoming flesh to live among us.
Mused
Living in the days of perilous times. Looking out at the world for an answer only to find the world looking back. Wishing for the visual aid of a child’s eyes. Eyes full of foolish anticipation that the dim eyed now have become oblivious to. Beaten down until the elliptical feeling is no longer tangible.
Once reminiscent of little boys with visions of flying and little girls that climbed mountains in their sleep. Every spectra of color flashing with each screen rendering a surprise edition. It must be that a child is lower to the earth so it’s easier for them to look up and see the sky’s view.
There is nothing from the past holding back--haunting at night. Nothing preventing a time for dreams to play out and provide a Muse. Muses that in the morning light manifest themselves taking shape and form becoming flesh to live among us.
Saturday, April 19, 2008
I haven’t lived in this town long, but long enough to truly miss the one I left. The friends I left behind—familiar places and friendlier faces. The boss that was more like a friend, my co-workers more like sisters and the town folk that waved at the stop light and chatted at the Wal-Mart. I can’t forget the patients who thought I was special and that put a smile on my face. Yes, I miss Oklahoma!
Simple Times--Altus
A time and place when everything seemed simple
Places to go fewI once lived in a place
Where time seemed to stand still---everyday a parade
Everyone seemed to know your name
Took the time to ask about you
Bored when I lived there
Couldn’t wait to leave
Now I miss it—long for those slow days
To see a familiar face
Craving human contact
Nostalgic it now seems
A place so small caused me to grow
Named for its high altitude
Gave me memories that reach so deep
The lessons learned I hold tight
Friends I write notes of well wishes
Will I ever have another time like this?
Can’t tell—but this I do know
It felt good to live in a simple time in a simple place
Simple Times--Altus
A time and place when everything seemed simple
Places to go fewI once lived in a place
Where time seemed to stand still---everyday a parade
Everyone seemed to know your name
Took the time to ask about you
Bored when I lived there
Couldn’t wait to leave
Now I miss it—long for those slow days
To see a familiar face
Craving human contact
Nostalgic it now seems
A place so small caused me to grow
Named for its high altitude
Gave me memories that reach so deep
The lessons learned I hold tight
Friends I write notes of well wishes
Will I ever have another time like this?
Can’t tell—but this I do know
It felt good to live in a simple time in a simple place
Fly Away Like the Butterfly
Healed by the wounds from His side. A child jubilant in the spring, make me light so I can fly away like the butterfly. A lifetime believing in parables wanting faith in what they said. From what place did this anguish appear? Exchange it now for unpolluted mercy--then will my soul exhale. Soon I will be content--let it overflow. Euphoria surpassing natural comprehension. Almost shaken from grace--drifting into the mercury deep. The night knew no boundaries. Humbled to my knees, surrendering prostrate. Chasing the terrors away the morning tears dress the earth’s covering. The ambiance sweetened with nectar. The red bird comes again to sing—must be a sign.
Healed by the wounds from His side. A child jubilant in the spring, make me light so I can fly away like the butterfly. A lifetime believing in parables wanting faith in what they said. From what place did this anguish appear? Exchange it now for unpolluted mercy--then will my soul exhale. Soon I will be content--let it overflow. Euphoria surpassing natural comprehension. Almost shaken from grace--drifting into the mercury deep. The night knew no boundaries. Humbled to my knees, surrendering prostrate. Chasing the terrors away the morning tears dress the earth’s covering. The ambiance sweetened with nectar. The red bird comes again to sing—must be a sign.
Friday, April 18, 2008
My Portion
I came to the table
My soul was hungry
Hollowed like a drum
Needing to be fed
I came to the table
My soul was thirsty
Parched like the ground
Needing to be watered
The server asked
What would you like?
I answered--rest in my mind
Lightness in my heart
Acceptance--even when I am wrong
He began to pour out my portion
And fed me ‘til I wanted no more
I came to the table
My soul was hungry
Hollowed like a drum
Needing to be fed
I came to the table
My soul was thirsty
Parched like the ground
Needing to be watered
The server asked
What would you like?
I answered--rest in my mind
Lightness in my heart
Acceptance--even when I am wrong
He began to pour out my portion
And fed me ‘til I wanted no more
Monday, April 14, 2008
Willow
Long limbs draped down low
Let me lie down underneath you
Enjoy a cool evening’s breeze
Down on the grassy earth beneath you in the shade
Listen to you chime as the wind whips through
Making music from your bodies leaves and
Rhythm from the heart of your trunk
A secret place where I can escape within your shadows
Then slip into a deep aromatic slumber.
Long limbs draped down low
Let me lie down underneath you
Enjoy a cool evening’s breeze
Down on the grassy earth beneath you in the shade
Listen to you chime as the wind whips through
Making music from your bodies leaves and
Rhythm from the heart of your trunk
A secret place where I can escape within your shadows
Then slip into a deep aromatic slumber.
Wednesday, April 9, 2008
I hesitated to post this next poem because for fear it sounded to "sentimentalish", but I think about my brother all of the time.
For my major I am forced to stretch out and learn how to do things I thought were beyond me. Mainly I am speaking of drawing. The drawing element in this field of study is extensive; however, my abilities are not. So, I think about William a lot, and I ask for guidance and direction. He was very talented and mostly self taught. Sometimes I can sense him when I am working and stuck or frustrated and sometimes when I have success. William, I miss you! I hope you are proud, your sis Pam.
My Brother
Did I tell you?
My brother William died
Did you read his obituary?
They had a picture of him in there too
A picture he took before alcohol claimed his body
His eyes were big and bright
His hair curly
The telephone rang with the news
Williams is on life support what shall we do?
I calmly speak, oh momma I’m sorry to hear
Give it forty-eight hours
Let’s wait and see
Let’s pray seek the Father
He’ll tell us what to do
Forty-eight hours pass
He passed away almost to the minute
Tears I can’t find- no not right away
But I can sense his presence coming into the room
I say, William I know you’re gone, for now, let’s all get some sleep
The next morning I rise still no tears
My heart is full of worry
Worry for my mom and dad
As I hurry to pack my clothes
In the suitcase I find the tears
Tears to help me grieve
They come with a wail
And then a holler
Yes, I cried that afternoon
William’s gone I said
I can’t believe it’s true
I tell him I’m mad at him
He left us here alone
He was so young
In the prime of his life
His talents—gifts form God
They all died too
See William could draw, cook and think
He knew things that wondered around in his head
He didn’t care about houses and cars
Just give him a can of beer—maybe his only friend
The law he had little regard—he broke a time or two
He gambled and ran scams
A con man he was indeed
Jailed so many times we all lost count
He would talk his way through
He’s dead—the nurse she told me
When I called on the phone
It’s hard to believe
He almost died at least a dozen times before
But this time it’s true—my brother is gone
The life he lived
No, I didn’t agree
I wanted him to be normal
If anyone knows what that means
I would fuss and preach
He would shrug and try to prove his point
Yes William died—I planned his funeral
A pretty black and white suit
One like from his picture
A white casket dressed his lifeless body
They sang songs and read scriptures
We all said words
His art work I put on display
More than just a drunk
I wanted everyone to know
Yes, William is dead I say as they lowered
Him into the ground
Dead is dead—I began to realize
(Maybe that’s why I started living)
He was just about to make it
His dreams about to unfold
He lost his sight—blind all of a sudden
Maybe that is what really killed him
Maybe it wasn’t the alcohol like we all did think
All he had left was to sketch and to draw
What’s the use of living?
If I can’t do what I love
His talents they were many
Poems too he did pen
Are they dead and buried?
No, I don’t think
Too many nieces and nephews to live them through
Science, math and art--He could even fix a car too.
My brother died
My father hollered
My mother prayed
I wrote a poem he gave me early one morning
He came to see me every night for a week
At first I was afraid
But he wouldn’t leave
Now I look for him
He comes from time to time
I’ll say hello and ask him a question
Then he’ll depart
I miss my brother
The one I told you that died
For my major I am forced to stretch out and learn how to do things I thought were beyond me. Mainly I am speaking of drawing. The drawing element in this field of study is extensive; however, my abilities are not. So, I think about William a lot, and I ask for guidance and direction. He was very talented and mostly self taught. Sometimes I can sense him when I am working and stuck or frustrated and sometimes when I have success. William, I miss you! I hope you are proud, your sis Pam.
My Brother
Did I tell you?
My brother William died
Did you read his obituary?
They had a picture of him in there too
A picture he took before alcohol claimed his body
His eyes were big and bright
His hair curly
The telephone rang with the news
Williams is on life support what shall we do?
I calmly speak, oh momma I’m sorry to hear
Give it forty-eight hours
Let’s wait and see
Let’s pray seek the Father
He’ll tell us what to do
Forty-eight hours pass
He passed away almost to the minute
Tears I can’t find- no not right away
But I can sense his presence coming into the room
I say, William I know you’re gone, for now, let’s all get some sleep
The next morning I rise still no tears
My heart is full of worry
Worry for my mom and dad
As I hurry to pack my clothes
In the suitcase I find the tears
Tears to help me grieve
They come with a wail
And then a holler
Yes, I cried that afternoon
William’s gone I said
I can’t believe it’s true
I tell him I’m mad at him
He left us here alone
He was so young
In the prime of his life
His talents—gifts form God
They all died too
See William could draw, cook and think
He knew things that wondered around in his head
He didn’t care about houses and cars
Just give him a can of beer—maybe his only friend
The law he had little regard—he broke a time or two
He gambled and ran scams
A con man he was indeed
Jailed so many times we all lost count
He would talk his way through
He’s dead—the nurse she told me
When I called on the phone
It’s hard to believe
He almost died at least a dozen times before
But this time it’s true—my brother is gone
The life he lived
No, I didn’t agree
I wanted him to be normal
If anyone knows what that means
I would fuss and preach
He would shrug and try to prove his point
Yes William died—I planned his funeral
A pretty black and white suit
One like from his picture
A white casket dressed his lifeless body
They sang songs and read scriptures
We all said words
His art work I put on display
More than just a drunk
I wanted everyone to know
Yes, William is dead I say as they lowered
Him into the ground
Dead is dead—I began to realize
(Maybe that’s why I started living)
He was just about to make it
His dreams about to unfold
He lost his sight—blind all of a sudden
Maybe that is what really killed him
Maybe it wasn’t the alcohol like we all did think
All he had left was to sketch and to draw
What’s the use of living?
If I can’t do what I love
His talents they were many
Poems too he did pen
Are they dead and buried?
No, I don’t think
Too many nieces and nephews to live them through
Science, math and art--He could even fix a car too.
My brother died
My father hollered
My mother prayed
I wrote a poem he gave me early one morning
He came to see me every night for a week
At first I was afraid
But he wouldn’t leave
Now I look for him
He comes from time to time
I’ll say hello and ask him a question
Then he’ll depart
I miss my brother
The one I told you that died
One of my professors asked the class today about the young people who evidently thought it fascinating to beat up another individual and video record it to be posted on youtube. Her question was to the class "what do we think is going on and is this type of violence widespread?"
Well 20 years ago I was a senior in high school and would have never thought to commit such a horrible crime neither would any of my friends (and I had more than 8 that I associated with on a regular basis). We didn't grow up in the suburbs as one classmate suggested, but one thing we seemed to all have in common was faith. Whether you go to church or not or even believe in the entity, God is still in control!
I believe these are the signs of the times, a time in which we are in the midst of a dramatic moral decline in our society.
This poem is a fond memory of mine, growing up in church, or has it become un-American to say so. God bless! Pam
A Robe for Pam
Voices like soulful angels
Filled the sanctuary
The clapping of hands-- patting of feet
Aroma of hymnals and perfume
The majestic organ--grandness of the piano
The melodious sound coming
From the fat black lady singing
Finely dressed women wearing hats--handkerchiefs
Me, no older than eight
Too small to seem to matter
Possessed even obsessed with
Being apart of these people
Up there is where I needed to be
Marching down the aisle—all eyes on me
Could I sing?—who knew
Never had tried before
What must I do?
You have to be baptized they said
Well, sat on the mourners bench
All week long!
Waiting to feel remorse for being a sinner
Pool down underneath a trapped door
Down in the water I went
Cold—whew, let me tell you
Chilled to the bone
My soul rejoicing
Soon I would be singing!
Measured just for me
Made just for me
Beautiful royal blue--gold sash
The angels weren’t as proud
Of their divine garments
I loved it, I loved being between those walls
Somewhere to belong
I opened my mouth
Wide like a bird
Sung as loud as
My little lungs would allow
This must be
What it is going to be
When I get a robe
Made just for me
To sing in that heavenly choir
Well 20 years ago I was a senior in high school and would have never thought to commit such a horrible crime neither would any of my friends (and I had more than 8 that I associated with on a regular basis). We didn't grow up in the suburbs as one classmate suggested, but one thing we seemed to all have in common was faith. Whether you go to church or not or even believe in the entity, God is still in control!
I believe these are the signs of the times, a time in which we are in the midst of a dramatic moral decline in our society.
This poem is a fond memory of mine, growing up in church, or has it become un-American to say so. God bless! Pam
A Robe for Pam
Voices like soulful angels
Filled the sanctuary
The clapping of hands-- patting of feet
Aroma of hymnals and perfume
The majestic organ--grandness of the piano
The melodious sound coming
From the fat black lady singing
Finely dressed women wearing hats--handkerchiefs
Me, no older than eight
Too small to seem to matter
Possessed even obsessed with
Being apart of these people
Up there is where I needed to be
Marching down the aisle—all eyes on me
Could I sing?—who knew
Never had tried before
What must I do?
You have to be baptized they said
Well, sat on the mourners bench
All week long!
Waiting to feel remorse for being a sinner
Pool down underneath a trapped door
Down in the water I went
Cold—whew, let me tell you
Chilled to the bone
My soul rejoicing
Soon I would be singing!
Measured just for me
Made just for me
Beautiful royal blue--gold sash
The angels weren’t as proud
Of their divine garments
I loved it, I loved being between those walls
Somewhere to belong
I opened my mouth
Wide like a bird
Sung as loud as
My little lungs would allow
This must be
What it is going to be
When I get a robe
Made just for me
To sing in that heavenly choir
Tuesday, April 8, 2008
Seeking for a Friend
Have you ever been so lonely
So lonely—until it hurt
Hurts like someone took my heart out
Crumpled it up
Then put it back in place
People I know by the dozens
But today I have no friend to call
Silence so still it’s frightening
Even the air is cold
No ones talking or returning my kindness
I’d call someone—if I knew how they would respond
Acquaintances I have
Insincere hellos and how are yous
My heart is sick of empty expressions
Painted on smiles like a mask
Give me a friend
No one pretentious
One to listen and to share life’s turns with I’d listen carefully to their stories
The door bell doesn’t ring
No one knows I live here
The phone rings—wrong number
Again—I answer just to hear the voice
Tears—I have shed all afternoon
No shoulder to cry on
My pillow will have to do
No comfort they can offer—but faithful still
In a world of millions of people
Loneliness can still find a place
A place to roam and haunt
Occupy and feel at home
Loneliness you’re not welcome
But right now I have nothing to put in your place
How long do you plan on staying?
I guess until something puts you out
I think I have something to offer
A friend I could be
Maybe no one is looking
I can’t imagine why
The days of friendship have passed by
New trends take their place
Too busy to offer a sweet hello
Too busy to pass the time by
Old fashioned it does seem
Too much trouble to stop and listen
To see if someone is in need
Pause—hush you can hear it in their voice
Loneliness has a way of seeping out
Out in conversations
Gestures that invite--come in—you’re welcome
Help me put loneliness out
Jonathan loved David
Even more than his own soul
From his enemy he did cover—covered him with his love
Oh, how my heart is full of envy.
That type of friend I have never found
Yet I still look--thinking he may appear
That friend-- to cover me with his love
Have you ever been so lonely
So lonely—until it hurt
Hurts like someone took my heart out
Crumpled it up
Then put it back in place
People I know by the dozens
But today I have no friend to call
Silence so still it’s frightening
Even the air is cold
No ones talking or returning my kindness
I’d call someone—if I knew how they would respond
Acquaintances I have
Insincere hellos and how are yous
My heart is sick of empty expressions
Painted on smiles like a mask
Give me a friend
No one pretentious
One to listen and to share life’s turns with I’d listen carefully to their stories
The door bell doesn’t ring
No one knows I live here
The phone rings—wrong number
Again—I answer just to hear the voice
Tears—I have shed all afternoon
No shoulder to cry on
My pillow will have to do
No comfort they can offer—but faithful still
In a world of millions of people
Loneliness can still find a place
A place to roam and haunt
Occupy and feel at home
Loneliness you’re not welcome
But right now I have nothing to put in your place
How long do you plan on staying?
I guess until something puts you out
I think I have something to offer
A friend I could be
Maybe no one is looking
I can’t imagine why
The days of friendship have passed by
New trends take their place
Too busy to offer a sweet hello
Too busy to pass the time by
Old fashioned it does seem
Too much trouble to stop and listen
To see if someone is in need
Pause—hush you can hear it in their voice
Loneliness has a way of seeping out
Out in conversations
Gestures that invite--come in—you’re welcome
Help me put loneliness out
Jonathan loved David
Even more than his own soul
From his enemy he did cover—covered him with his love
Oh, how my heart is full of envy.
That type of friend I have never found
Yet I still look--thinking he may appear
That friend-- to cover me with his love
Monday, April 7, 2008
God Answers
Life’s a tricky thing! We sometimes can feel lost trying to find our way through this maze. But I believe we would go insane trying to figure it out. End up old and alone sitting in a padded room wearing stained pajamas drooling and talking to ourselves.
But be careful what you pray for, when you ask God for a sign not realizing that He is still in control. Child, He will surely send you one—but it may not come the way you think. It might just come in a bundle. (A small bundle called Anaiya La’Chelle) Don’t be dismayed, just remember—God answers.
Anaiya—God Answers
Dear heart honey sweet
Eyes bright as the morning
You calmly made your entrance
Into this world
Like you already knew your purpose
Hair brown like the sandy earth
You took us by surprise
Packaged so tender
Yesterday you were just a hope
Today you are our every care
We looked for an answer to our woes
We prayed for a breakthrough
Struggling everyday seeking
For our answer
Then we found out about you
Life had taken a different course
God the giver of life and every perfect gift
One look at you I discovered His amazing grace
Life’s a tricky thing! We sometimes can feel lost trying to find our way through this maze. But I believe we would go insane trying to figure it out. End up old and alone sitting in a padded room wearing stained pajamas drooling and talking to ourselves.
But be careful what you pray for, when you ask God for a sign not realizing that He is still in control. Child, He will surely send you one—but it may not come the way you think. It might just come in a bundle. (A small bundle called Anaiya La’Chelle) Don’t be dismayed, just remember—God answers.
Anaiya—God Answers
Dear heart honey sweet
Eyes bright as the morning
You calmly made your entrance
Into this world
Like you already knew your purpose
Hair brown like the sandy earth
You took us by surprise
Packaged so tender
Yesterday you were just a hope
Today you are our every care
We looked for an answer to our woes
We prayed for a breakthrough
Struggling everyday seeking
For our answer
Then we found out about you
Life had taken a different course
God the giver of life and every perfect gift
One look at you I discovered His amazing grace
The African mask displayed in the window. I looked at her I admired her right away. Her hair was adorned and crowned her face posed. You could tell before you read the title she was a woman of distinction. It is amazing how each culture has their own signs of status and even more amazing how over hundreds of years and continents away this hair and head adornment still is a sign of status in my world. Must have been taken passed down from the African queens she represents, this lady of honor with each strain braided so tight until her eyes went keen and her skin flawless shinning even in its replication. My heritage runs deep, yet sometimes I take it for granted. This lady reminded me today of some of who I am as she was displayed so boldly in all of her majesty—making me proud.
Hey, African queen
Girl, you looking mean!
Hair skillfully dressed
Nothing but the best!
Your skin flawlessly bronzed
Your eyes sing your song
Royalty you had to be
Headdress up high for all to see
I wonder--what is your story?
Displayed in all your glory
Some say proud even haughty
But all agree pretty—not gaudy
The masks task is to capture your spirit
There is a story to tell but some fear it
Speak to me--tell me a truth
For in you I find a root
Sometimes I wear a mask
Wishing to be free at last
No I am not bound
Look on my feet no chains to be found
But in my soul
My story yet to unfold
Behind the eyes there’s a story
Oh, one day, I wish to be crowned in all my glory
Hey, African queen
Girl, you looking mean!
Hair skillfully dressed
Nothing but the best!
Your skin flawlessly bronzed
Your eyes sing your song
Royalty you had to be
Headdress up high for all to see
I wonder--what is your story?
Displayed in all your glory
Some say proud even haughty
But all agree pretty—not gaudy
The masks task is to capture your spirit
There is a story to tell but some fear it
Speak to me--tell me a truth
For in you I find a root
Sometimes I wear a mask
Wishing to be free at last
No I am not bound
Look on my feet no chains to be found
But in my soul
My story yet to unfold
Behind the eyes there’s a story
Oh, one day, I wish to be crowned in all my glory
Sunday, April 6, 2008
Silence
Mimes as fascinating as they seem must be in a constant state of torture.
Their faces have to tell what their mouths can not utter.
They gesture and move about for others to guess what their silent whaling’s suggest.
Their life is one big riddle waiting for someone to figure out—like a test.
Like a conundrum spectators search to find the piece that will cause this act to unfold.
It’s puzzling—hard to discern, these characters look as if they are about to explode.
Oh, the silent movies of the twenties how frustrating but still enacted everyday.
We smile and maneuver in silence like the court jester waiting for someone to define our way.
Mimes as fascinating as they seem must be in a constant state of torture.
Their faces have to tell what their mouths can not utter.
They gesture and move about for others to guess what their silent whaling’s suggest.
Their life is one big riddle waiting for someone to figure out—like a test.
Like a conundrum spectators search to find the piece that will cause this act to unfold.
It’s puzzling—hard to discern, these characters look as if they are about to explode.
Oh, the silent movies of the twenties how frustrating but still enacted everyday.
We smile and maneuver in silence like the court jester waiting for someone to define our way.
Saturday, April 5, 2008
I had the "talk" with my daughter Brittney today. She will soon be a young lady and not mommies little girl--how sad, but exciting. This poem was written to honor two wonderful young ladies. I love you Joy and Britt, Mommie
It’s Fun Being a Girl
Pink bows and buttons
Frill and thrills
Silks and satins
Ribbons and slips
Socks with lace
Ponytails and bangs
Skirts and dresses
Sweaters and blouses
Rhinestone jeans
Earrings and things
Perfumes and fragrances
Bras and panties
Pantyhose and paints
Big hair and hats
Jackets and coats
Shawls and wraps
Shoes and slacks
Bath oils and powders
Hips and lips
Curves and switches
Suitors and on lookers
Cuddled and spoiled
Admired and adored
Adorn yourself
Because it’s fun being a girl
It’s Fun Being a Girl
Pink bows and buttons
Frill and thrills
Silks and satins
Ribbons and slips
Socks with lace
Ponytails and bangs
Skirts and dresses
Sweaters and blouses
Rhinestone jeans
Earrings and things
Perfumes and fragrances
Bras and panties
Pantyhose and paints
Big hair and hats
Jackets and coats
Shawls and wraps
Shoes and slacks
Bath oils and powders
Hips and lips
Curves and switches
Suitors and on lookers
Cuddled and spoiled
Admired and adored
Adorn yourself
Because it’s fun being a girl
Wednesday, April 2, 2008
Where the Tumbleweed Lands
The picture hanging in the gallery reminded me of Oklahoma. The title said something about a storm. Oh, believe me Oklahoma has its share of storms. You look for storms out there like you look for the tumbleweed that blows across the plain unto the highway.
However, this particular day I did not think about the storms--my heart was full. Driving down I-62 just my girls and me—singing and having fun. Out of no where we saw the storm chasers. You know the idiots who make their living by chasing death—those people whose calling is to tangle with the beast named tornado. Anyway, they were out in numbers. I stopped singing told the girls to turn on the radio--something must be wrong. Suddenly the sky turned black, a wall as high up as it was wide. They looked at me and asked, “mommy what are we going to do”? I said “I’m goin’ ta punch it and you’re goin’ ta pray”!
I drove as fast as I could to out run this storm. Mommy they asked “should we stop and get in the ditch?” I said “in my new suit--I don’t think so!” We kept on driving and let me tell you the wind blew that car from side to side. Reminded me of the time when Paul was a prisoner on that there ship (you know the story) and he told everyone you must abide to survive.
You know your life can flash before you, that isn’t a cliché--its truth. My oldest girl prayed harder as my hands clutched the wheel and my foot floored the pedal. To try to out run a storm you must be either one of two things--crazy drunk or just crazy! I don’t have the habit of drinking spirits so it must have been the other spirit that told me I could make it through--and I was just crazy enough to believe.
On the other side of the black wall the sun was shining as if nothing was happening at all. I looked behind me the wall was still tall it looked like that monster from your dreams when you have eaten too much pizza just before going to bed. Tears begin to stream down my face my heart about to burst in my throat. Just as we were at the edge of town a brush of tumbleweed scurried across the road—that was me just a few minutes before. Where will that weed land?--only the wind knows!
The picture hanging in the gallery reminded me of Oklahoma. The title said something about a storm. Oh, believe me Oklahoma has its share of storms. You look for storms out there like you look for the tumbleweed that blows across the plain unto the highway.
However, this particular day I did not think about the storms--my heart was full. Driving down I-62 just my girls and me—singing and having fun. Out of no where we saw the storm chasers. You know the idiots who make their living by chasing death—those people whose calling is to tangle with the beast named tornado. Anyway, they were out in numbers. I stopped singing told the girls to turn on the radio--something must be wrong. Suddenly the sky turned black, a wall as high up as it was wide. They looked at me and asked, “mommy what are we going to do”? I said “I’m goin’ ta punch it and you’re goin’ ta pray”!
I drove as fast as I could to out run this storm. Mommy they asked “should we stop and get in the ditch?” I said “in my new suit--I don’t think so!” We kept on driving and let me tell you the wind blew that car from side to side. Reminded me of the time when Paul was a prisoner on that there ship (you know the story) and he told everyone you must abide to survive.
You know your life can flash before you, that isn’t a cliché--its truth. My oldest girl prayed harder as my hands clutched the wheel and my foot floored the pedal. To try to out run a storm you must be either one of two things--crazy drunk or just crazy! I don’t have the habit of drinking spirits so it must have been the other spirit that told me I could make it through--and I was just crazy enough to believe.
On the other side of the black wall the sun was shining as if nothing was happening at all. I looked behind me the wall was still tall it looked like that monster from your dreams when you have eaten too much pizza just before going to bed. Tears begin to stream down my face my heart about to burst in my throat. Just as we were at the edge of town a brush of tumbleweed scurried across the road—that was me just a few minutes before. Where will that weed land?--only the wind knows!
Tuesday, April 1, 2008
Watching Time
Life’s images—surreal moving frames
My world’s paused
Characters around effortlessly engaged
Today’s scene--no different
Than the one before
Our story—a familiar script
Faintly I hear our song
The melody is still sweet
Muted voices—meaningless acts
Pleading for me to notice
Only our rhythm holds my attention
Anticipating our dance
Eternity’s recording
Won’t permit me to edit
Or blot out this empty space
Hollowed like the abyss
Marking still moments
Physics unrelenting
The sun slothfully ascending
The moon’s lethargic
Joshua once prayed—“O sun, stand still”
The earth ceased to move
Move quickly—I pray
To the long awaited ending
Our own choreographed improvisations
There’s a lesson to learn
Our life’s design unfolds
At the Author’s pace
Still from my window seat
I watch each day’s scene
Leisurely rotate on its reel
Waiting for our time
Life’s images—surreal moving frames
My world’s paused
Characters around effortlessly engaged
Today’s scene--no different
Than the one before
Our story—a familiar script
Faintly I hear our song
The melody is still sweet
Muted voices—meaningless acts
Pleading for me to notice
Only our rhythm holds my attention
Anticipating our dance
Eternity’s recording
Won’t permit me to edit
Or blot out this empty space
Hollowed like the abyss
Marking still moments
Physics unrelenting
The sun slothfully ascending
The moon’s lethargic
Joshua once prayed—“O sun, stand still”
The earth ceased to move
Move quickly—I pray
To the long awaited ending
Our own choreographed improvisations
There’s a lesson to learn
Our life’s design unfolds
At the Author’s pace
Still from my window seat
I watch each day’s scene
Leisurely rotate on its reel
Waiting for our time
Between Seasons II
The clouds are so thick until they cover the sun like a veil. They hide what lies behind them pretending it doesn’t exist. As if to say--don’t bother looking for any warmth this morning because there is none to be found.
Creation within itself is a mystery; this morning’s sky is no different. These clouds suffused together making it hard to tell where this sky’s mountains end and the earth begins. Their formation and suspension are a magical optical illusion appearing as if you could climb them and reach the place of eternity.
There is a rent in the clouded veil revealing some light--a small partition that appears to summon you to ascend into it. The opening eluding that someone might be standing on the other side. Someone who has survived and is returning briefly to shout from behind this wall, a message, to let us know it’s obtainable even when the way seems obscure.
We daydream and arrange scenarios through the night and in the morning dare not tell another for fear it sounds foolish. Often we are ashamed that we have visions, dreams or even watch the clouds. Maybe we are not afraid of failing—maybe it is what others think about our failures that hinder us from ascending into the clouds that welcome us, even on a cold winter’s morning.
The clouds are so thick until they cover the sun like a veil. They hide what lies behind them pretending it doesn’t exist. As if to say--don’t bother looking for any warmth this morning because there is none to be found.
Creation within itself is a mystery; this morning’s sky is no different. These clouds suffused together making it hard to tell where this sky’s mountains end and the earth begins. Their formation and suspension are a magical optical illusion appearing as if you could climb them and reach the place of eternity.
There is a rent in the clouded veil revealing some light--a small partition that appears to summon you to ascend into it. The opening eluding that someone might be standing on the other side. Someone who has survived and is returning briefly to shout from behind this wall, a message, to let us know it’s obtainable even when the way seems obscure.
We daydream and arrange scenarios through the night and in the morning dare not tell another for fear it sounds foolish. Often we are ashamed that we have visions, dreams or even watch the clouds. Maybe we are not afraid of failing—maybe it is what others think about our failures that hinder us from ascending into the clouds that welcome us, even on a cold winter’s morning.
Friday, March 28, 2008
Tummy Tuck
Who’s that?
That lady in the mirror
The one with the gray streak in her hair
Oh no, crows feet creep around her eyes
Laugh lines and worn hands that tell her story
Wait just a minute supple breast
Don’t be in a hurry
Don’t head south too quickly
We have more blouses to fill
We have more nights to give and
To receive pleasure
A wonder bra now will have to give the illusion
Oh womb that carried precious cargo
Little ones I gave you my thin body
In return you left me fulfilled
I guess you paid your bill
The cost for the time
You occupied the space
Forever leaving your marks
Underneath the tummy hiding
A longtime friend
Hidden—I lift the tummy to say hello
I pamper her I perfume her
She’s changing—but the day
She turns gray
I believe I’ll faint
For now she’s still longing still awake
Although once I thought she died
I wept at her funeral
Mourning her passing forever
Now she has been shaken
Resurrected or awaken
From a seemly medically induced slumber
Girl, where have you been?
I’ve been missing you
Thighs, oh thighs
Life was easier when you were strangers
Too close for comfort to familiar now to separate
I’ve tried a little of this
I’ve tried a little of that
Never thought I would end up here
Thinking I am fat
Vain as it may seem
I long to be lean
Young and full of life
Fewer days now are ahead
Knowing that can not be
Right now I would settle
To just be able to
Buckle my shoe
Who’s that?
That lady in the mirror
The one with the gray streak in her hair
Oh no, crows feet creep around her eyes
Laugh lines and worn hands that tell her story
Wait just a minute supple breast
Don’t be in a hurry
Don’t head south too quickly
We have more blouses to fill
We have more nights to give and
To receive pleasure
A wonder bra now will have to give the illusion
Oh womb that carried precious cargo
Little ones I gave you my thin body
In return you left me fulfilled
I guess you paid your bill
The cost for the time
You occupied the space
Forever leaving your marks
Underneath the tummy hiding
A longtime friend
Hidden—I lift the tummy to say hello
I pamper her I perfume her
She’s changing—but the day
She turns gray
I believe I’ll faint
For now she’s still longing still awake
Although once I thought she died
I wept at her funeral
Mourning her passing forever
Now she has been shaken
Resurrected or awaken
From a seemly medically induced slumber
Girl, where have you been?
I’ve been missing you
Thighs, oh thighs
Life was easier when you were strangers
Too close for comfort to familiar now to separate
I’ve tried a little of this
I’ve tried a little of that
Never thought I would end up here
Thinking I am fat
Vain as it may seem
I long to be lean
Young and full of life
Fewer days now are ahead
Knowing that can not be
Right now I would settle
To just be able to
Buckle my shoe
Brown Girls
A glimpse of myself
I see in the mirror
At first almost as if surprised
Maybe I thought I’d see another
Someone else staring back at me
A second look
No, she’s the same
The same as the day before
Some brown girls
Long to be white
I say, no, I don’t agree
Some brown girls
Long to be fair
Yellow, is what some say
They look with envy
Why couldn’t it be me?
I wash my face, examine it again
The darkness of my eyes
The roundness of my nose
The fullness of my lips
The curl of my hair
I claim them—own them
They are mine
Pretty was never a word
Used to describe me
I look again to see
See if I can see
What pretty is to me
A long time ago
I vowed to myself
When I got old enough
I would re-design myself
Make myself be who
I always wanted to be
Cleopatra
Maybe even Sheba
I look in my case
To find the right colors
With expectation
I apply some paint
Some may not approve
Be real—not fake
Real—that’s for each of us to discover
Discover what it takes
To make it on this journey
Wait one last touch
You look good I tell myself
I look again-- as if surprised
Taking one last look
To see if I approve
Pretty, you may not see
But I must say
I love the pretty brown girl
In the mirror-- staring back at me
God said let us make man
Make him in our own image
Created by God
His life dwelling inward
The image you see
Apart of His glory
Whatever He created—He called good
Including Brown Girls
Freda
A precious jewel—natures own hewed art of stone
Her amber color matched only
By her beauty within
The translucent brightness of this gem
Unmatched—another I have yet to discover
The softness of this gem’s glow
Parallel to that of her voice
But her words weighted with love and wisdom
This gem named by the Greeks meaning electric—hers peaceful
Her hugs they comfort like the warmth from a fire
Stones that once housed roaming insects
Her spirit too takes you in—as if you were orphaned
Like her, these gems used to calm and to protect
A natural mother many have
To find the love of another is a gift
Predestinated far beyond this gem known since the Stone Age
Homer too admired the stone
I admire its fleshly equal
Divine mercy surely was granted to me
When time gave me this ambered jewel--named Freda
A precious jewel—natures own hewed art of stone
Her amber color matched only
By her beauty within
The translucent brightness of this gem
Unmatched—another I have yet to discover
The softness of this gem’s glow
Parallel to that of her voice
But her words weighted with love and wisdom
This gem named by the Greeks meaning electric—hers peaceful
Her hugs they comfort like the warmth from a fire
Stones that once housed roaming insects
Her spirit too takes you in—as if you were orphaned
Like her, these gems used to calm and to protect
A natural mother many have
To find the love of another is a gift
Predestinated far beyond this gem known since the Stone Age
Homer too admired the stone
I admire its fleshly equal
Divine mercy surely was granted to me
When time gave me this ambered jewel--named Freda
Two Men Walking
A man stumbles upon a road
The way an abandoned path,
Surroundings the remnants of a fled city
The pavement grown up Spanish moss covers,
Like spider webs—weaved like tapestry
The beginning intertwined with the ending.
The gauntly limbs of weeping willows,
Cocoon the entrance shadowing its egress,
Openly making this way their own.
In this desolate place the air so thick it can be touched.
Anxiety rolls in like fog he begins to gasp—he is afraid
From behind the mercury foliage appears a man,
Someone this lost man has never seen;
But somehow he seemed familiar.
So, the man dazed not knowing how he came into this scene
And not knowing how to get out.
Ask him for direction
The stranger doesn’t hesitate to help his new lost friend.
Walking they talk—they both listen,
All the cares of his heart the stranger does read.
At the end of the way he wants to thank him for his guidance,
He turns in his direction—as quietly as he appeared he left the same.
He glared back at the path he had traveled it was not as dark as before.
He realized he didn’t ask the stranger’s name,
But somehow he knew he would see him again.
A man stumbles upon a road
The way an abandoned path,
Surroundings the remnants of a fled city
The pavement grown up Spanish moss covers,
Like spider webs—weaved like tapestry
The beginning intertwined with the ending.
The gauntly limbs of weeping willows,
Cocoon the entrance shadowing its egress,
Openly making this way their own.
In this desolate place the air so thick it can be touched.
Anxiety rolls in like fog he begins to gasp—he is afraid
From behind the mercury foliage appears a man,
Someone this lost man has never seen;
But somehow he seemed familiar.
So, the man dazed not knowing how he came into this scene
And not knowing how to get out.
Ask him for direction
The stranger doesn’t hesitate to help his new lost friend.
Walking they talk—they both listen,
All the cares of his heart the stranger does read.
At the end of the way he wants to thank him for his guidance,
He turns in his direction—as quietly as he appeared he left the same.
He glared back at the path he had traveled it was not as dark as before.
He realized he didn’t ask the stranger’s name,
But somehow he knew he would see him again.
Thursday, March 27, 2008
The Root
If it is true that loving money makes man evil and that it infectiously entangles the heart. Then this must have been what was wrong with Judas. But when did it start; when the widow in faith gave her last two mites or was it when he envious gawked at the woman bathing Jesus’ feet with the oil from her alabaster’s box?
However it began, it became an evil root that never was plucked out--becoming like the weeds that annoyingly grow in one’s garden. One would have to ponder did they grow accidentally or were they deliberately planted? If intentional, then who is the gardener that plants this seed--the seed of the root that produces such manner of fruit? The fruits of impiety that will cause a man to deny a part of his flesh or make a woman sell hers—only later to be ashamed.
Exactly how does this gardener choose his ground and what does he use to cultivate it? How does he know if the soil is pliable to yield the kind of fruit derivative from this infectious root?
Perhaps we should use Judas as our template. His last words not recorded--evidently only ungodly repentance. But what we could garner is that these roots do not grow over night. It takes time for this infection to blossom, secretly festering after while leaving no room for an antibiotic cure. And by the time it’s noticed, it is like the mold found on stale bread—it shows up at the corner but it’s spread all the way through. And the disguised foliage of this evil is covered with canker worms eating away at the heart it has now suffocated.
This strange fruit hanging from these vines—rotten—rotten like the gushed out bile of Judas.
If it is true that loving money makes man evil and that it infectiously entangles the heart. Then this must have been what was wrong with Judas. But when did it start; when the widow in faith gave her last two mites or was it when he envious gawked at the woman bathing Jesus’ feet with the oil from her alabaster’s box?
However it began, it became an evil root that never was plucked out--becoming like the weeds that annoyingly grow in one’s garden. One would have to ponder did they grow accidentally or were they deliberately planted? If intentional, then who is the gardener that plants this seed--the seed of the root that produces such manner of fruit? The fruits of impiety that will cause a man to deny a part of his flesh or make a woman sell hers—only later to be ashamed.
Exactly how does this gardener choose his ground and what does he use to cultivate it? How does he know if the soil is pliable to yield the kind of fruit derivative from this infectious root?
Perhaps we should use Judas as our template. His last words not recorded--evidently only ungodly repentance. But what we could garner is that these roots do not grow over night. It takes time for this infection to blossom, secretly festering after while leaving no room for an antibiotic cure. And by the time it’s noticed, it is like the mold found on stale bread—it shows up at the corner but it’s spread all the way through. And the disguised foliage of this evil is covered with canker worms eating away at the heart it has now suffocated.
This strange fruit hanging from these vines—rotten—rotten like the gushed out bile of Judas.
Between Seasons
Between Seasons
Winter morning, cold like the end of times, the atmosphere suffused with remnants of winter’s resistance. This morning the trees appear to be leaning looking like frail shivering old men—chilled down to their souls. The leaves that once adoringly clothed them are gone; they are now transparent exposed to the bare bones.
Hard to imagine at the peak of their majesty when buds of life evolved to colors of gold. Passing time brings swift changes, one day a giver of shield from the heat, a home for a mother’s young, a yielder of sweet fruit--now only these skeletal like figures remain. Only the photographic memories stored in their mind’s attic record the past days.
Still standing like inexorable doormen, waiting for a recess on this course, the biting wind howling, the fog hovering—holding back hope. Only the osmosis of the veiled sun offers some form of answers. The cold moist air cracking away at skin that is now unable to defend from natures blow. The bitter stillness birthing insanity instead of the expected new life. They are merely existing amid today and tomorrow, limbs weighed down frozen at their knees—trying not to give into the austerity of this place.
These old men-like trees, between seasons, space without form or time. To them nothing now makes sense—their world has disappeared like the fireflies that once danced around
their heads. Life’s rubble fills their pockets like the sap in bare holes. They wait on the forecast—for any mark of an end.
Who has survived this plight?—maybe the trees who have been here before. Wisdom did they leave? None any can find—just quotes to misunderstand. Sayings, rhymes, riddles, folklores, and old wives tales—discarded like the slips in Chinese fortune cookies.
Winter morning, cold like the end of times, the atmosphere suffused with remnants of winter’s resistance. This morning the trees appear to be leaning looking like frail shivering old men—chilled down to their souls. The leaves that once adoringly clothed them are gone; they are now transparent exposed to the bare bones.
Hard to imagine at the peak of their majesty when buds of life evolved to colors of gold. Passing time brings swift changes, one day a giver of shield from the heat, a home for a mother’s young, a yielder of sweet fruit--now only these skeletal like figures remain. Only the photographic memories stored in their mind’s attic record the past days.
Still standing like inexorable doormen, waiting for a recess on this course, the biting wind howling, the fog hovering—holding back hope. Only the osmosis of the veiled sun offers some form of answers. The cold moist air cracking away at skin that is now unable to defend from natures blow. The bitter stillness birthing insanity instead of the expected new life. They are merely existing amid today and tomorrow, limbs weighed down frozen at their knees—trying not to give into the austerity of this place.
These old men-like trees, between seasons, space without form or time. To them nothing now makes sense—their world has disappeared like the fireflies that once danced around
their heads. Life’s rubble fills their pockets like the sap in bare holes. They wait on the forecast—for any mark of an end.
Who has survived this plight?—maybe the trees who have been here before. Wisdom did they leave? None any can find—just quotes to misunderstand. Sayings, rhymes, riddles, folklores, and old wives tales—discarded like the slips in Chinese fortune cookies.
Sometimes I talk to Myself
Sometimes I talk to myself
Conversations so deep and real
I know that they are untrue
Reality often seems so harsh
Sometimes life seems so uncertain
I have to check in--make sure I’m headed in the right direction
Solomon said he was like a child
Not knowing how to go in or out
Wisdom he did ask of the Father
Liberally He will give it and hold none back
When I can’t find a friend
Someone to speak kind words to
I find a friend in me
We laugh, we wonder
We reason together
Sometimes I talk out loud
Sometimes at a whisper
Its okay I say—everyone does it too
If you don’t try it sometimes
You’ll soon discover it’s true
You don’t have to watch what you say
Don’t have to guard every word
No misunderstandings
No feelings to try not to hurt
The answers I find
The ones to life’s hard questions
I could seek silver-- like some
Others gold
But I seek the wisdom
To make it through life’s journey
It comes with experience
Lessons that unfold
Some may call this reflection
Meditation--even internalizing
I just call it what it is
Sometimes I talk to myself—and sometimes I talk to His Spirit
Sometimes I talk to myself
Conversations so deep and real
I know that they are untrue
Reality often seems so harsh
Sometimes life seems so uncertain
I have to check in--make sure I’m headed in the right direction
Solomon said he was like a child
Not knowing how to go in or out
Wisdom he did ask of the Father
Liberally He will give it and hold none back
When I can’t find a friend
Someone to speak kind words to
I find a friend in me
We laugh, we wonder
We reason together
Sometimes I talk out loud
Sometimes at a whisper
Its okay I say—everyone does it too
If you don’t try it sometimes
You’ll soon discover it’s true
You don’t have to watch what you say
Don’t have to guard every word
No misunderstandings
No feelings to try not to hurt
The answers I find
The ones to life’s hard questions
I could seek silver-- like some
Others gold
But I seek the wisdom
To make it through life’s journey
It comes with experience
Lessons that unfold
Some may call this reflection
Meditation--even internalizing
I just call it what it is
Sometimes I talk to myself—and sometimes I talk to His Spirit
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