Deer

Deer drinking at pond

jumps five

feet high

bee power

Friend

She

was my

friend

until

He

Leaf

A single leaf

splattered

against windshield

did it

hurt

much

Sometimes

Loving Understanding

never

easy

Sometimes

Eagles

Fly

A Child

The natural by-product

of love

But the implications

Oh, the implications

Baby

Baby in a casket

tear-drop

on his hand

who will brush away

this

cry for eternity

It is Friday evening and I am listening to Connie Talbert. I purchased her cd. She was seven years old at the time. she is angelic and should not be ignored. Pure innocence. A miracle to be admired. A voice from heaven….. Her cd is Connie Talbert…. Over the rainbow… It is the only music that touches my heart each time I hear it, it is truely miraculous…..

Mothers Beard

Monday, 20. September 2010, 01:49:50

Mom
I would walk through the door of our home after school. I was thirteen. Mom would be in the bathroom standing in front of the mirror. She would be picking her face, trying to get rid of the mustache she thought was there. Of course there was nothing there. Her face was raw and red from the constant picking. She would say to me. I can’t stand it anymore, it won’t stop growing, it’s growing down to my knees, its going to suffocate me. I would argue with her saying there was nothing there. She did not believe me. All through my high school years she fought the hair growing on her face, it was killing her.

Who did this to you mom?

Was it the broom handle across your body?

Was it the loveless home?

Was it the medication that filled the drawer?

Was it the shock treatments?

Was it because no one understood your pain?

I didn’t understand then mom.

I do now, I think.

and

Mom

I am so sorry that I didn’t know what broom sticks

could do to a persons soul.

Poem for Micheal

Wednesday, 25. August 2010, 13:09:32

written by Juan Guillermo Tornoe

Fast ASLEEP, suddenly,dawn.

A loud noise awakens you; where are you?

What time is it? Whats that sound?

Slowly it becomes clearer. The phone, ringing.

What happened? What could it be?

Abruptly, bitterly, everything comes back.

Yes, it’s him, your love, your life, your little miracle.

Frail, defenseless, precious, he who early arrived

Courageously fighting between life and death.

Have to rush to the hospital; your immediate presence is required.

Body performing its usual routine in no time—mind, somewhere else.

“Father, not my will, but Thine, be done.”

Arrival, darkness, silence, sleepless, people, slowness

An eternity until someone answers, protocol, bureaucracy.

“Our Father, Who art in Heaven, Hallowed be Thy name…”

“Hail Mary full of Grace, the Lord is with thee.”

Even the impossible is done, even the unacceptable is done.

Nothing, nothing is accomplished. Now he is with God.

Emptiness, tremendous emptiness.

Pain, indescribable pain.

Loneliness, gigantic loneliness.

Until now, you had no idea how deep you could fall into this abyss of sorrow.

Don’t know what to do, what to say, what to feel, how to react.

“The Lord gave and the Lord has taken away; may the name of the Lord be praised.”

“Goodbye my little love, goodbye my life. See you soon, if it is God’s will.”

A Crow Named Blackie

I opened the door to the garage , peeping around the corner to where Blackie was imprisoned . Lovely, beautiful, Blackie; black as coal, and more precious. Dad found him injured on the road side and brought him home. The injury looked serious and I felt sorry for him. I wanted to do something and remembered you could train a crow to talk– Why not try.

Each day I opened the garage door, trying not to scare him. I walked up to the cage and talked to him. “Blackie wants a cracker,” I would say. Blackie would have no part of it, he would hop to the opposite side of the cage. If I followed he would move back to where I had been. This went on for a few weeks. I tired of saying Blackie wants a cracker and gave up.

One day, I opened the door and to my surprise Blackie lie dead on the bottom of the cage. I felt bad about my failure to communicate and didn’t understand why, at least not until years later.

This little story happened fifty-five years ago and was lost to me—Until now.

Perhaps, I can garner a lesson or two and redeem a part of that moment in time. ( I believe that looking back and writing is a way of discovering myself and the world I live in.) Blackie didn’t cooperate because I didn’t give him time. Had I sat in silence for and hour or so he may have.
I pushed too hard for my agenda, and forgot his— what the hell, Blackie hated crackers. I thank Blackie,the crow, for the lessons “HE” taught me — isn’t that the way it goes; when you reach out to teach you often become the student…….. fifty-five years later

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