My Very Bad Dream

I am walking on a sidewalk

In the middle of town;

It's a busy street for a small town,

Relatively speaking.

Ever so often, I look down,

I am obsessed with the cracks

In the sidewalk--I cannot

Chance stepping on one.

Something bad will happen.

As I walk on, I focus more and more

On the concrete beneath my feet;

I set my eyes and walk and breathe faster,

Feeling the anxiety push me forward.

 

The cracks are everywhere now.

Where are they coming from?

It didn't look like this

When I set off down this trail.

This is a very bad dream.

I can no longer afford to wear shoes

So I take them off and fling them

Just as another crack begins

To appear right beneath my feet.

I am afraid now.  And all alone.

Where are all the people who

Started this journey with me?

Where did they go and why did they leave?

I am desperately alone.

Barefooted, I feel the concrete crack,

Can feel the slight vibrations under foot;

They are coming faster and faster now--

Intent on consuming me.

I must breathe faster, run faster, 

Though my feet are bleeding now,

Surely, I can wrap them later

When this sidewalk ends.

I'm not sure there is an end.

The sidewalk is more than cracked now,

It's breaking into chunks and I scuff

My toes and feet bottoms on edges

Of broken concrete which cut my feet.

I am in pain, feet throbbing, bleeding,

Wondering if I will make it another yard.

There is no one to help me, 

No one to walk with me, carry me.

I cannot take another step.

Though I know what is coming,

I slow because the adrenaline is gone;

The final step is coming, I know it;

And I will be consumed.

I take a sidelong glance, 

Hoping that someone, anyone,

Will see me and reach out to me,

To help me.  But all is silent.

And I am consumed.

Former Fashionista

That's me, there, once a glamour girl,

Now in my ill-fitting slacks, thread-bare tank

Brassy blonde hair & roots to boot.

(Who can afford a stylist anymore?)

She's got a smile on her face--

But anyone close enough can see

How tightly she's got it stretched--

She'll need thearapy after this act.

Love those high heeled shoes--

Three years ago, they were fine,

And still, from a distance, one can't see

The places where the Sharpie

Has attempted to make the worn places

Look new again with a cheap trick of the eye.

Bless her, there are moments when

She still resembles the Fashionista she was.

One eye closed and squint with the other,

And maybe focus just from the neck up, 

Yes, you can nearly see the she 

She used to be:  This former glamour girl.

Sometimes, you will catch her

Still walking like one, talking like one,

Using make-up tricks and actually

Looking like one, every now and then.

On nights like this one, she reflects,

Perhaps foolishly, on who she used to be

And who she appears to be now.

(A woman who sees herself in third person.)

How long can she bear to look at this,

How long can she endure this broken down

State of affairs that it has all turned out to be?

If only I knew how to ask her candidly.

Last Hope

Hanging onto a last hope,

My thoughts are crowded tonight;

I can see the shadows

Framing in my current reality:

But I know I will make it through.

Overwhelming evidence

Tells me the ship is sinking;

(Or am I being hypersensitive?)

I can add and subtract--

Something's got to give.

Can I afford to ignore this,

With a one-day-at-a-time mentality?

(Will this get better in time?)

I must make it through;

There is no other option.

I close my eyes and summon faith,

From the depths of my soul: 

It must approach subtley,

For I cannot hear it now--

Is it on its way, then?

I choose to exhale now,

Realizing I've been holding my breath

(In every way a person can)

Counting one to ten, again and again.

I must survive this storn.

Letter to My Momma

Dear Momma,

How I wish I could pray the prayer that obliterates this awful toxicity from your body.  How I wish I could touch your body and summon forth the infection that plagues it.  If I could, I would turn this wish to a reality and pray that prayer and call forth the evil thing from your precious body and cast it into everlasting Nothingness, where it would never bother you--or anyone else--again. 

Never.

I see flickers of your pain, the fear you are holding back (I nearly see the reins that you've fastened to it), when I catch you lost in your thoughts. I can only imagine what lies behind that which is reined; thankfully, you've caged that.  For now.

When you speak, you sound as strong as ever, as resolute as ever.  You will not let anyone see you struggle with doubt and fear and shock and...pain.

Sometimes I think I can hear the little girl whimpering within you.  She's there, I know.  Perhaps it is she that is in chains, held back behind the fear.  

You speak with anointing and authority when you say, "I am not afraid.  I'm not.  I am not afraid."  But I know that you speak this in faith.  You know what the Scripture saith:  that our words bring Life or Death.  You will not summon the darkness.  Nor will I.

I know you feel very alone.  I know you feel as if you don't have a friend.  You've never said as much, but deep within me, I know it's true, this is how you feel.  You are friend to all but cannot afford the luxury of having a friend yourself.

"Oh, yes," I can imagine you saying, "I have friends.  Think of So-and-so, and You-know-who..."

Yes, Momma.  On some level, you have many dear friends.  But I know you have never let any of them in--not fully.  I know you can't afford to.

You have to be strong for everyone else.  And you have been.  Miraculously so.  You serve with a God-given passion and strength that only He could give.  I know and believe with all of my heart that you are a true Servant of The Lord.

I know that I'm not the only one who would fight the enemy with a fly-swatter (if that's all I had) for your sake.  You have many loved ones who would fight on your behalf, too, and love you with all of their hearts.  And they do, Momma.  With all of their hearts.

You are a blessing to all who know you, a living example and student of God's Word, an incredible mother and sister and daughter, aunt and friend, missionary and minister.  You are a inspiration to us all, Momma, please know that.  And there are a dozen people who would fight to the death for your life.  I know it.

But I also know something even more important.  I know in Whom we have believed and I am persuaded that He is able to keep that which we've committed unto Him against that day.

And as Poppa said so startingly and eloquently yesterday, "This is 'that day.'"

Momma, I want you to know that you're not alone.  You. Are. Not. Alone.  And I'm not even talking about all of us here.  I'm talking about Him.  

Our Lord and God Almighty knows precisely who and where you are.  He knows what's going on and I KNOW that God is ABLE.  I TRUST HIM in all things.  He will do what is right.  He has you in the palm of His hand. And when HE fights the enemy, it's not with a measly fly-swatter, it's with His Word and heavenly armies that are most capable.  

Though I would love to say I'd fight it all off for you, I know I am merely human.  HE, however, is more than able. He spoke this world into motion, moved upon the waters, breathed His life into a man, and committed himself to us because He loves us. 

He loves you, Momma.  And HE WILL SEE YOU THROUGH all of this.  

All of it. 

Amen.

These are those

These are those who stand

Tall as trees for all the others:

Sturdy towers of strength

Capable legs for the weary

Supernatural faith for the fears

Of all those they encounter.

And yet to whom do they turn

When they are in need?

A friend or a confidant?

These are those who stabilize 

Foundations and become corrective splints

For the rest--No time for self.

To whom do they turn

When they are worn and weary?

They cannot afford a friend,

It seems, when they must be 

Friend to all, Ear to all, All to all,

Resilient, Fearless, Stoic even?

Thanks be to The Lord 

Who is closer than any friend,

For these are those who must

Stand and walk and run alone.

Yes, these are those who cannot

Indulge--Too many rely on them.

The Girl Who Thinks Too Much (But Not Enough)

Who has time, really?

To think?  To dream?  To eat?

To dance?  

Who has time to dance?

What is there to think about?

Or what is there to say

That has never been said 

Before?  Anything worthwhile?

Where have all the dreamers 

Gone?  Their eyes are pried

Open and no one sleeps--

Is there anyone who has dreamed?

When is it time to eat, to feast,

To gather together and give thanks

For what we have

(And what we don't...)?

Why is anyone inspired to dance?

Is there music playing anymore?

Can anyone keep a beat,

If not, can they be taught?

How is it that anyone survives,

Without the very things that 

Bring us immense joy, peace, love?

These days, they're all but forgotten.

Sometimes We Think

Sometimes we think we are so far away

From the Danger Zone that we build

Our castles in our corner of the playground

Hang out our laundry and hire attendants.

We cut a path and park our cars, 

Plant daffodils and put up mailboxes.

Sometimes we think we need to mark

Our newly-found territories, accomplishments, 

And build sturdy fences to prevent

Unwelcome visitors from trampling the grass.

(We make a sign to denote as much--surely

Even the most daft of neighbors would understand.)

Sometimes we think it's all ours,

And we work ourselves half to death

Trying to fill our castles with things we deem

Necessary in order to have a life worth living.

"Mine, all mine!" we think, exclaim, shout,

Failing to convince ourselves of permanence. 

Sometimes we think we are the center of the universe;

We are unaware that storms are brewing

On the other side of the State Line, within earshot.

We make our choices not to hear, not to take action,

Not to be too concerned--after all, what has it to do

With our castle? Surely they can tend to their own.

Sometimes we think we'll live to be a hundred,

And maybe we would if it weren't for the million

Things that can and do go wrong in human life.

Even without outside factors, we've only got a few years,

At best, we live in our castles for ten decades.

At worst, we never live to see ten decades, or even two.

Sometimes we think it all lasts forever--

But not on this planet.  At some point, things change,

Our courses are impacted.  Some changes?

Predictable.  Others, not so.  Neither is better.

The end is the end.  Abrupt. No matter when or how.

Dying breath is dying breath, natural or nuclear.

Where Is Poor Boy?

Every memory was fuzzy--or, more accurately, foggy--

Literally, when he tried to think about his past,

Details would elude him, blurred memories confused him

He'd tried, and failed, for days to remember.

Something bad had happened.   What was it?

He had been walking, when he used to walk

Properly, on legs, like all humans.  Human legs.

He could remember that.  Walking.  

He'd walked that day instead of--what? 

Instead of driving, he'd walked.  Yes, to save

Energy or money or both.  No matter,

He'd thought it best and he was undeterred.

"I walked," he thought, knowing at once

That he finally had a breakthrough.

"I remember! I remember!" He congratulated

Himself on this major breakthrough of memory.

But what after that?  What had happened?

I walked.  I walked. Something bad happened.

And now I'm here.  Where is here?  

Not a place I've hever heard about.

He'd lost all track of time, and couldn't tell

How long it'd been since he'd left his body--

The human one--and occupied this one.

This one, he'd never seen, at least not yet.

He hadn't looked down since he'd arrived.

Wherever this was.  The vision he now had

Was more an awareness of being

Than one of human sight.

Did he have eyes?  Was he himself?

He didn't know.  There was no one

There to tell him anything, validate anything.

He was only half certain he even existed.

But there was that:  the thoughts.

An awareness of being.  Most certainly.

How he'd gotten there, he wasn't sure.

Something about walking, it was a bad day.

But nothing else came to him.

Not his wife, not his children, at least not yet.

Perhaps his awareness was protecting him

From the realization of what he'd left behind.

Self-protection, -preservation, that's it.

His mind was in charge at the moment,

And rightly so.  He was in no condition

To take the reigns.  If ever.

This guy needed someone to show up,

And he tried to seek out, in the space

He sensed surrounded him,  some signs

Of life, anywhere in this new universe.

Whatever form he took, he had no ears.

He'd recognized no sounds since 

The day of his arrival.  He'd seen no one.

But he still believed that he was not alone.

He could go on, feeling something was coming

For hours on end, and it would be worth it,

Whatever it was that he would discover

In this undiscovered country. 

This was definitely a place of no return;

But he knew that, had known it, somehow

All of this time he'd been there.

Things were not going to change soon.

But until then, what was that?  Pulling at

The corners of his mind?  Was it a memory?

He could almost see human faces coming

Into focus--blurred visages of important people.

But who were they?  And why weren't they here?

Why was he alone?  Why was there no music?

Music--he remembered!  But how?  And why?

He'd loved music, he knew that now.

Dancing.  He'd met her, a lovely girl,

Now just a blur in his thoughts.

But there was something that had happened

With this girl--but what?  Who was she?

He thought he heard a voice somewhere,

The rhythm of sound reminded him of--

Prayer. It wasn't her, though.  Not the girl.

But others.  Other voices he should have known.

Tired of the awareness, the half-memories,

The trek to the edge of memory, this

Poor boy shut out it all, all senses,

And pled for mercy and peace and quiet.

There was no response.

Awaking in the Nether Lands: A Story of a Poor Boy

Poor boy didn't realize his last day on earth

Would be in his thirty-fifth year, 

On an unremarkable day in October.

On his lunchbreak.  What a travesty.

Poor boy didn't get a chance to reflect

On his life--in full or in part--

Because his life was extinguished 

In a matter of seconds.

At least that's what the doctor reported.

Camera crews shot footage of the last

Place he was known to have taken a breath,

The slick suited and silver tongued journalists

Made his departure seem very dramatic and all.

Two onlookers were quoted in the local paper

As saying that they witnessed the horrific moment

And it was frightening, tragic, and clearly,

In their minds, he was gone on impact.

At least that's what's the townspeople said.

 

When his family, and then friends, were notified

About his passing, they took it hard, as any

Decent family or friend would--with tears.

They were both heart-broken and dumbstruck.

This poor boy would leave behind a family

Of his own, a family he did not have a chance

To bid adieu--this perhaps the greatest tragedy--

With daughters 8 and 4 and 2.  There were no sons...yet.

At least that was what the family told us.

No sons and a no real job--last year he'd

Been "downsized" when his employers

Required a degree he had not yet achieved.

This year he'd been slaving for the minimum.

What his family would do after his passing,

No one could be quite certain,

Though some were already talking

About her old high school boyfriend.

At least that was the talk around town.

His children cried themselves to sleep,

Clinging to one another with tight grip

And worried, hushed whispers.

These kids were concocting a plan of sorts.

"What are we to do?  What would dad want?"

Futilely, they attempted to find some solace

In doing what they could to please their father,

Believing in their hearts he would be watching them.

At least that was what the shrink said.

But no one ever dared to venture a guess

As to what happened to this poor boy--

Whether he had been laid to an eternal rest

Or awakened elsewhere in a vivid dreamstate.

Morality aside--he was as decent and hard-working,

As they come--this poor boy deserved some sort

Of a break from it all. Surely he was dancing in

Fields of Rainbows, somewhere, where Skittles rained down.

At least that's what his girls said.

We can certainly hope, though never know,

Where and when and how he is,

Whether he is aware or entombed somewhere

Unable to think or do or be...

So, then, we are left to wonder if he knows

Or sees what's happening to those he left behind:

What does he think?  What would he say, and

And how would he say it, given the opportunity?  

At least we can wonder what he would say. 

It's Nearly Three A.M.

It's three in the morning 

And this girl is wide awake

With a sinus allergy problem

That won't go away.

It's three o'clock in the morning

And I am no sleepier than I was

Two hours ago, when I crawled 

Into the bed with all intentions

Of sleeping.

But sleep is long in coming.

I cough and sneeze and cough

Some more, but my eyelids

Are not drooping...In the least.

I am tired:  It is three and I 

Have been up all day, working;

My tired feet would like to 

Call it a day--but they aren't allowed.

Aching feet.

I am thinking about tomorrow--

What if I'm up all night?

Is there something I should do?

Some project to tackle?

Wasting precious time and energy

Is never my intention--So what

Should I do while I am awake?

Write senseless poetry?

Mind numbness.

I've done all I know to do:

I've checked the news, online sales,

Even Googled "How to Start a Business"--

Just in case I get inspired to.

I've played my game,  logged on

To all of my social media sites

And scrolled senselessly in the hope

That my eyes would get heavy.

Wide awake.

So I'll write.

Pardon me while I write.

Whatever, Anything, Something:

Getting it on the page.  Because.

At least I'm putting my energy

To work--maybe, in a few days,

Some of this will miraculously

Make sense, echo profundity.

Probably not.

Notice about My Posts

NOTICE ABOUT MY POSTS:

Lest anyone read my posts (especially those made recently, especially yesterday) and misunderstand what is "going on with me," I wanted to make a very important disclaimer about my writings stored here on "A Happy Psalm or Two."

For all of my life, I have written as a means of relieving stress, frustration, and creative energy.  I often feel a NEED to write pieces which incorporate not only my own stories, but the stories of others I know--including things I've read in news headlines and articles inter/nationally and on social media posts.

I have a NEED to write poetry and prose that matters, poetry and prose with which people can relate, poetry and prose that gives someone solace knowing they are not alone in life.  

My inspiration comes from everywhere, and just because a post seems like I may be talking about my own life experience, it doesn't mean that I am.  I often use real-life as a starting context and then allow my imagination to fill in the rest.  As one learns when studying literature, the author's voice is not necessarily the narrator's.  The same is true of my narrators.   Most, I would think,are, in fact, me; others are not.   At other times, too, much of what I write is a blend of fact and fiction, or FACTION, as some refer to it.

Many of my posts, if not most of them, ARE about my own life, no fiction included.  But others? Perhaps inspired by real life--but not necessarily my own.

The challenge with my writing is that it is not always obvious which is fact and which is fiction.  It is up to the reader to make those suppositions.  

I cannot say.  :)

How Powerful a Memory

How powerful, a memory.

How plaguing one can be.

If only I could rid myself 

Of the dark shadows lingering.

Eradicate this memory, Lord,

I would assume that would

Please You--So I can move on

With my life and live it, joyfully.

Shine a light, Lord, in the dark

Recesses of my heart--

Repair and restore the broken

Places I cannot reach.

You know I am lonely, Lord,

Every thought, ever doubt, 

I thought I'd contained the

Darkness; apparently not.

How powerful a memory,

I give them all to You

To do with as You wish--

Vengeance is Yours, after all.

Little Girl, Little Girl

A few weeks ago, my sister-in-law invited us to join her family at the Arkansas-Oklahoma State Fair.  It was still very hot in the early afternoon hours, so we joined them in the evening, before dusk, to stroll around the fair and allow the kids to play games and enjoy rides.  

We split up into two groups when it was time for the rides.  She took the teens and tweens, and Stephen and I took the younger ones.  

They were excited about choosing which rides they wanted to enjoy "next" and took turns choosing which line they would get in.

When they saw the motorboats in the pool, they both decided they HAD to get in that line!  (And it WAS cool--the kids got in motorized boats and got to drive themselves around a huge pool filled with about two feet of water.  Perfect for their ages--six and seven.)

Stephen and I got them in line and kept a watchful eye on them.  

The line, we noticed, was slow moving, but we weren't too terribly far back, so the girls were anticipating their turn.

In front of us, though, I noticed several ill-kempt children who all seemed to be together.  There were two little girls and, as I recall, three boys in the line ahead of us.  There was, standing to the side, mouthing the oldest girl, one of the most loathesome individuals I have ever had the great displeasure to acknowledge.

He was an older man, silver haired, with tough, wrinkled skin and a permanent cigar groove in his bottom lip. He appeared to have not shaved--or bathed, for that matter--in some time, and he was crude and disheveled, and absolutely disgusting in every way.

When I first noticed him, it was because he was mocking the oldest girl in front of us, telling her she was too old to ride a kiddie ride and he wasn't going to give her a ticket to go.  The boys seemed oblivious to his comments, but the girls were huddled together, the oldest holding the youngest to her protectively.  

The man made my skin crawl.

The more I watched the girls react to him, the more I "read into" the situation.  Both of the girls were wearing "easy access" dresses, dirty and double layered.  (Honestly, these children looked like they were at a casting call for the musical, ANNIE.)  Neither girl looked at the man when he spoke to them--they looked down at the ground--and neither said a word.

"Here's your ticket," he thrust the ticket into the girl's hand.  We knew from his jeering at her that she was 12-years-old, although she looked younger, unhealthy.  His tone and condescending attitude toward her didn't change her mind:  she accepted the ticket without a word.  She said nothing at all, but stood in line, clutching her sister.

Then, this horrible man started talking to our girls.  And that's when I motioned for Stephen to come over to the left side of us, to block this man from seeing or speaking to our girls or us.

As soon as Stephen moved over, the man cursed out loud ("Eff that!"--only he said the whole phrase) and moved elsewhere, out of our view, while the girls waited in line to get on the motorboats.

When it came time for the girls to get on the boats, I saw something in them I hadn't seen in the whole ten minutes or so that I'd stood behind them.

They smiled. 

They smiled and laughed and had the biggest time of their lives on that boat, in those few moments they had together away from that man, away from the Reality they knew.  

It broke my heart on so many levels.  And as I stood there watching them, holding to my own two charges, tears streamed down my face.  

Stephen looked at me, "What's wrong?"  I shook my head.  "What is it?  What's wrong?" he asked again, worried about me.

"It's them," I said, motioning with my head and eyes.  "They're breaking my heart."

I felt so helpless, then, watching these girls.  With a tear-stained face and damp shirt, I prayed over them, for God to protect them, lead them, guide them.  That they would find a church they could call home and teachers, friends, and people to love them and invest in them and believe in them and encourage them to be all they could be, despite whatever obstacles.  

I prayed for them, and I pray for them now.  They have impacted my heart, profoundly.

We left the fair shortly afterward.  I could not stay after that.

I haven't forgotten these girls, and I often wonder why God allowed me to see that.  I felt so helpless.  But I trust Him, that He will take care of them and lead me to help other girls and children, somehow, some way, in the future.

That is my prayer.

--------------------------------

Prayer:   Lord, I know our steps are ordered, and I know that you put me there for such a time as that, to see what I saw and hear what I heard for a REASON.  Lord, I ask you to touch those girls with your love and hope and Presence, even now, that you will lead Your people to these girls, that You will protect them and save them.  Lord, I pray for the churches in their area to reach out to them, teachers, neighbors.  I pray for Your light and love to be shown to them.  And, Lord, if there is something I could be doing for these and other children, PLEASE GUIDE MY STEPS.  I want so badly to help them.  Please, Lord, help me to help others.  I trust You.  "Here I am, Lord.  Send me!"

Of All the Headlines in the World

Yes, Friends, of all the headlines in the world

In recent weeks, this one deserves first place:

USA Today reports, "Fence Jumper Got Farther

Into White House [Than Originally Reported]."

I had to make that last phrasal contribution

Because that's what they meant to say, right?

So the story goes that this former military man

Scales the White House walls, proceeds to run

Like an Olympian across the unguarded lawn 

(Because who in a million years would ever think

They'd have to guard the White House lawn?)

And actually makes it through the front door.

But there's more than our Modern Day Patriots

First reported:  This man made it farther than we knew!

He apparently easily mowed down the midget woman

Placed at the door by the Secret Service, and darted

Down a hallway and up an elevator before anyone 

On Planet Earth could stop him from his mission.

What was his mission, exactly?  

To take down our Leader?  His family?

Who commissioned this to happen?

Allowed it?  (Because we don't really believe

This JFK Lone Wolf Theory, do we?

I mean, have we ever really believed that?)

If this were a movie, I'd understand:

Maybe he's a super-villain that S.H.I.E.L.D. is chasing?

Maybe that's why he got that far without a bullet to the brain?

Maybe he's the new rogue X-Men character,

Trying to convince the Leader that people

With supernatural superpowers are really no threat at all?

Nay, This is Real Life, Friends; and I'm wondering

Why no one is talking about how and why--and who

Has put a target on the back of our Leader?

I don't believe for one minute that this man

Did this on his own.  No matter what you media say,

Or how you spin it, I don't believe it. And I'm not alone.

You can print your stories, and panel discuss for hours

On your pseudo-intellectual programs where the loudest

Mouths from Sea to Shining Sea shout their opinions

For the benefit of all the remote control button pushers;

But there are those of us, and I'll say it again, 

Who are not moved by your circus show.

While you're busy taking callers and discussing endlessly

About how So-and-So should get fired because, obviously,

This was the Governmental Oversight of the Century

(And do you think we can get a book deal out of this?),

Some Ones are out there now, RIGHT NOW, 

Collaborating and strategizing on their next attempt.

-----------------------------------------------------------

Another poem based on headlines.

10-16-14

  

This Girl Needs a Miracle

Monthly bills figuring

Out of balancing

Tight-rope walking

Nerves-a-Racking

This girl needs a Miracle.

Tightness of chest,

Heart rate increasing,

Labored Breathing,

Feels like she's drowning.

This girl needs a Miracle

Prosperity Prophecy:

Daring to Dream

Hoping, Believing,

Trusting, Expecting 

This girl needs a Miracle.

 

I receive the Promise

I declare the Promise

I believe the Promise

I expect the Promise

This girl needs a Miracle.

Old Man

Today I saw an Old Man

Stooped over, swaying,

Negotiating balance as he

Moved down the sidewalk.

I have known this Old Man--

Since he was a Young Man,

Back when he captained great ships

And contolled destinies.

I see no glimpses of the past,

In whatever the stroke left behind;

What Greatness remains 

Is not readily identifiable.

This Old Man never meets my eye

And I wonder if he remembers me:

I walk beside him and invite 

The past to revisit us both.

But he doesn't remember me,

Doesn't see the admiration 

In my questioning eyes:

What happened to this Great Man?

"Thank you for all you've done,"

I said, in an effort to express my heart;

"I'm not done!" he said, telling me

About scholarships he's funded.

"Wonderful," I said.  "Awesome!"

I wipe a tear as he hobbles to his car,

Wondering if the man I'd remembered

Was indeed the man I saw before me:

Old Man.

Goodnight, Sweet Day

The sun has dipped behind the mountain,

Its journey no longer in my line of sight.

We are left with the cool darkening of color.

From the now blue-green tree tops

To the deepening hues of the green grass,

The world is cooling--sky to earth.

Twilight reminds us that all that's transpired

In the heat of the day is now a lingering memory;

Tomorrow, distant half-remembrances.

I know the sun doesn't really set,

That its journey never ends, at all,

But it is now out of my sight, mind.

As I write this, the Night approaches--

Though I still see slivers of light in cloud breaks--

Desperately clinging to what's left of Day.

I feel a sigh coming on, heavy eyelids,

Slowing my intake of air--breathe in, breathe out--

Goodnight, Sweet Day.

 

Little Slice of Heaven

Little slice of Heaven,

This patch of land

Where You've enabled

Us to live & laugh & love.

Little slice of Heaven,

This opportunity

To camp out here

And breathe in You.

Little slice of Heaven,

Here, where You have

Placed us, entrusted us,

To make a Difference.

Help us to always

Lead others to You;

You are the Life-giver,

The Sustainer of ALL.

On This Front Porch: Musings on Ireland

On this front porch, most days,

I can see all the way to Ireland.

I see tall mounts with green forests

Of trees planted by the Master's Hand.

On this front porch, most days,

I feel the fresh breezes on my face,

Close my eyes and breathe in

The History of the People.

On this front porch, most days,

I hear the Stories of Ages,

Transported by the salty air  

Over dark pebbly beaches.

On this front porch, I hear Him,

Telling me that I am Home Now,

That this patch of His Earth is

Precisely what He designed for me.

I no longer spend days and years 

Pining for the Irish Homeland.

When I step out on this front porch,

I am there again and all is well.

I Dreamt of You: A Poem for my Aunt Sue

I just woke up from a Dream of You,
And it was crazy beautiful:
Full of color bursts and music and
Snippets of scenes of your life--
My Memories of You.

It was Now--but mostly Then.

You, here, two decades or more ago,
Tying the belt of your warm winter jacket.
You, at Delft, years and years before,
Emerging from the room at the parsonage
Which was wholly yours, your universe.

You are radiantly smiling.

These Then and Now memories
Flood my unconscious mind,
Deep emotions wash over my being,
I remember it all in moments:
A fantastic slideshow of You.

You are beautiful, beautiful.

My face is wet with the tears
Caused by this powerful Memory...
And I just want you to know
That I have always adored you,
Loved you, looked up to you.

Always Then--and forever Now.

Write Write Write

"Helloooo?"

Where have they gone?

I know you're out there,

Pesky boogers.

Is that you dodging into

That back alley of my mind?

What, now?  Am I to follow

Some graham cracker trail?

What is this?

Sticky, goopy streets--

I have seen your shadow 

Dart ahead, and my feet

Long to follow but are stuck.

Your design, I suppose.

Sweet.

I know where I am,

Stranded with no original thought

On a side street of little consequence.

You are long gone, your shadow

Having danced off eons ago.

Are you just going to leave me here?

Seriously?

I chased you out here, 

As the sun was setting,

In the hope that you would

LET ME CATCH YOU

For once...

But, no,

Heaven Forbid my Muses

Would slow down, even slightly,

To let me get a glimpse of 

Whatever it is I need to fuel my fiction.

I so long to write.

Write, write, write I would,

But without you, all of you,

It's a futile effort, indeed.

(Blank pages basket tossed.)

Yes, indeedy.

Homestead

When she moved to this town,

This girl didn't plan to stay;

Rather, she set up camp and bedsack

To learn and explore and play.

She really grew up here in this town:

Finding her wings and making mistakes,

Twenty-something, thirty-something,

Learning to breathe in her own skin.

Hers was a soul that chased the sun,

Passionately loved and fearlessly,

Uncompromisingly, and unapologettically

Determined to live a life worth writing about.

Unafraid to stare full in reflective surfaces,

This girl longed to know the good, the bad,

About herself, the world as she knew it,

Analytical and retrospective to a fault.

And yet here she is, forty-something,

With a husband and daughter,

And two step-daughters,

Contemplating the roots she's put down.

Did I stand still for too long?

Yet tomorrow, she commits to her first home:

Her campsite traded for something more permanent.

She is cognizant of the shifting within her own walls:

And wonders at this turn of events.

When did this happen to me?

Somewhere, along the way, things had changed

And this girl was a girl no more.

Strangely, awkwardly, this woman trades her tent 

For the uncertainty of the homestead.

"Such Transitions"

It's a "New Season," It's a "New Day";

"Turning a New Page," 

"It's Transition! It's Progress!"

What labels they make for change.

But what happens when one is forced

To turn the page, start a new chapter?

What if the transition is mandated 

By someone who deems you no longer of use?

I see it in her eyes--diminished sparkle.

I see it in her steps--slower pace.

This new season, page, chapter

Has aged her fifteen years.

Too bad such transitions fail to come

With pre-arranged contingency plans:

Some people figure you'll find a way to swim

After they throw you to the sharks.

I WILL her to survive, praying fervently

For her to regain her composure,

Set new goals for herself, and become

The Woman I know still breathes within her.

I DO believe that "all things work to our good,"

But that doesn't make some transitions any easier.

I pray, eventually, her dampered spirits and

Her damaged self-esteem will be redeemed.

I DARE to believe she will regain what she's lost,

Recover what has been damaged:

I will see her dance again, laugh heartily,

Embracing every moment of her life again.

Pick up your feet, my sister, and welcome the morning:

You were meant for more than the box they've assigned you to.

Stand up straight, Magnificent Woman--and walk with the dignity

And respect and honor you have earned and deserve.

"There are People Here"

"There are people here,"
She whispered, scanning
The fence line for any sign
Of a quiet observer.

She was quite alone.

There were others here,
She knew it, sensed it,
Heard them in the eerie
Stillness of the big backyard.

They'd been here for some time.

"How old is this house?"
She mused, eyeing the foundation;
Had anyone ever told her that?
"Perhaps a century or more?"

She was standing on a graveyard.

There were souls here, for certain;
This yard was a meeting place
Of the most extraordinary sort.
And there she stood among them.

They were watching her.

Would she speak to them?
No, she would hold her tongue.
Acknowledge their existence?
It was too late for that.

She knew they knew she knew.

She stared straight ahead,
Where she imagined they'd be
And half willed them to appear.
(She was, perhaps, ready for them.)

They remained still, watching her.

She turned and left them, then,
With no regret, no disappointment,
Determined to chase her own day
In the Land of the Living.

Their eyes watched HER retreating form.

"I Hope I Can Forget"

She never went to school
To be a private investigator,
But in recent days, she might
Have sworn she was destined
For that kind of career.

Two days ago, after a quiet dinner,
She stumbled upon a set of pictures,
Evidence of her friend's indiscretions.
Undeniably, it was her best friend
And he had buried himself.

When she saw her friend,
She confronted him.
"What the hell?" she demanded.
This isn't him, she thought.
He stared blankly, taken aback.

She whispered, "I saw them."
"I saw the pictures."
"Shhh," he said. "Not now,"
"Later..." (Nothing else.)
He continued talking to the others.

It was hard for her to engage
In conversation at the table.
She knew what he had taken great care
To hide--And she knew what she knew
Could change the status of the universe.

Afterward, after maintaining
A calm and cool demeanor,
He met his friend in the parking lot.
"I'm sorry you saw those pictures,"
He said. "There's no excuse for them."

"No," she said with finality.
"There is no excuse."
She looked at her friend,
Realizing she barely knew him.
"I just hope I can forget them."

Whether she did indeed forget,
Whether their friendship
Was forever tainted or healed,
We may never know--and who can say?
Who can say what is best?

------------------------
Another poem based on a headline I saw today.

Because I'm Smiling

It's become evident to me
That you think,
Because I'm smiling,
That all is well and we dance
On Sunshine and Rainbows
Again...

When we don't.

You've made it clear
That you think you can
Erase a slate, White Out wrongs,
Champion the "Forget"
In "Forgive and Forget";
Clearly...

I have not forgotten.

You sleep soundly,
Breathing deeply,
Dreaming dreams;
All is well in your world,
You think there is balance,
Obviously...

I beg to disagree.

Because I'm smiling,
You have come to believe
That we are at peace,
That the battle is over,
The storm has passed--
Conveniently...

I'm here to tell you:
It has not.

No, behind this smile
Is a girl trying to come to terms
With grace and boundaries
And sin and lies;
Not to mention our future,
Dubious...

No, I am not smiling inside.

There is a storm brewing
On the inside of me--
You should know that.
To be fair, you should know
That all hell has yet to break
Loose...

This is not over.

---------------------------------------
This poem is based on one of today's headlines. A high profile couple who clearly didn't know each other, discovered shocking and painful secrets about each other.

"Got a Cigarette?": At A Stoplight This Morning

At the first of many traffic signals I would encounter en route to work this morning, I found myself sitting at a red light. This, in itself, is never a source of stress for me because this particular intersection is the one that leads to the elementary school--it is usually only a matter of moments before the light changes.

No problemo.

Very rarely, if ever, is this a place where unusual things happen. This morning, however, it was just that.

As I dug around in my bag for my cell phone, a middle-aged woman in high-water pants and a crocheted hat of sorts crossed in front of my car. I saw her look at my car, then me, then me again. She looked at my face, as if she were assessing me. I could tell she was trying to make up her mind about something.

Then it happened. She walked up to my car door.

I cracked the window, praying the light wouldn't be long in changing.

"Hello..." I said.

"You got a cigarette?" she asked me, with a haggard look on her face.

"No, I don't, sister," I said. "I'm sorry."

And I was sorry.

At that moment, I found myself wishing I had, for no apparent reason, one or two cigarettes in tow. "Why don't I keep a pack stashed in the car for moments like these?" (Maybe because these moments never happen...?!?!?)

But seriously: I'd like to be prepared for moments like these, that's all. Be able to help someone in need. Person to person.

In that short space of time between her question and the light change, I chided myself for not having a cigarette or any money on my person to give her. By the looks of it, I might have been able to really brighten her day.

It doesn't take much, you know. To brighten someone's day. I just hated that my daily offering was not much more than an awkward smile.

She turned and went her way, with an audible sigh, and the light changed.

And I've thought about her all day.