Somewhere along the way, things turned from a sunny yellow to a cluster of facts for me. The smooth edges of childhood became a tear drop of maturity. Gone are the echoes of hear-says, murmurings, and words of wisdom that came from the both of you. Oh, I remember them so well.... One voice lies silent inside his place of sleep within a world of cement. Somewhere in another world, mama no longer knows of years, days or presidents in office. Seems so strange to here her say "Abe Lincoln".. Yes, I've lost her too, though I have her with me every day... Oh yes, I hear the other voice, often, with such clarity.... It seems to be locked inside the lace-like sleep of my locked mind.... "What did you say?" "Oh, that's what I thought you said." "No daddy, I was not prepared to stand upon the stage of life alone.... Ah, but I am grown, married and can do this...Yes, I must do this... Sunday afternoons take me across town where you're buried...I find myself thinking many things. So many wonderful memories, daddy. I drive down-hill on the white-paved road where you rest... The whole place is certainly 'spit shined'...Much like your boots were. Yes, eternal rest daddy... Bonnie blue skies stand at attention bearing puffed clouds that glide ever so gracefully to greet one and all...Well kept lawns are always expected on government property... I sit a moment in the car watching others kneel beside their loved ones..... The planes fly overhead with loud proclamations..... You always liked watching planes land and take off. You were in the Navy and talked of their landing on the ship that you were stationed on in WWII. I speak with you, bring flowers and tell you I love you. I think you speak to me, at times...I really don't want you to see me cry as I pick up my emotions and tell you goodbye. You have been gone now since 2008...I still can't make myself listen to your radio tapes.. I hold them dearly amidst a shadow of pain... Someday, yes just maybe someday, I can listen. Bye for now... I will return again, on Sunday.... I love you daddy

Secluded, through time zones, I sip from the nectar of your words as I sit quietly inside your world…. You are here but I am lost in the winter of my days, still yet...….. I wait while relishing a bit of your time…It taste of promises, sweet cinnamon and of infinity….. A secluded place in the mountains, I have created for no ones eyes but ours. I shuffle my life into the shadows when I can’t taste, feel or dress you inside my mirror… My eyes paint you at the intersection of each image...I kiss them all You know…... Like a Roman God, they speak To me………Like a Roman Goddess, I speak "Ubi tu gaius ego gaia", in quiet reply EGO diligo vos meus Romanorum Breul. EGO specto thee

2012

Night falls on the closing of 2012. I look around to observe a myriad of changes, but my heart is not silent as I see the windows that continue to close on God and all that he is to America. I think about Sandy Hook Elementary School. Christmas, birthdays, unwrapped toys lying in the corner. The parents’ hearts are wrapped in sorrow and grief. God alone can unwrap the upcoming years with healing to the broken. What has happened in this world? Think of the young girl in India who was recently raped and tortured in such a horrendous manner. Why didn’t someone help? Is this another one of those thoughts in today’s new world? "Oh, please, I don’t wish to be involved in this, so I will look the other way while someone else does something." Yes, we are too busy even if it means someone is murdered. What happened to the Biblical teaching of going the extra mile (Matthew 5:41-42)? Could that pertain in this case? The saddest part of all is that we’ve become complacent and have taken up the adage of the in crowd: "Anything goes, and don’t get involved." After all, this is a new generation of people; things have changed since the old days. We are said to be living in the dark ages if we live by the principals that our parents lived by (and taught us). You know some of those. A hand shake is our bond or do unto others... If your brother needs help, give your all including the shirt off your back. Our conscience is seared and split by whatever feels good to us. Well, the New Year is upon us and it's bound to be different, isn’t it? Thank God for his mercy and grace. It never changes from year to year. I am thankful for my mother being with us at Christmas, and my niece was here limping, but smiling. Wait upon the Lord and he will renew your strength God bless you all this upcoming year. December 31, 2012

The Artists' Image

I oft times ponder the eye gate of an artist, his heart, and his subject. Does his painting project what he feels thru his own imbued emotions - paintings, possibly created by number? This would indicate the number of women, if he painted women, that meant something to him or subjected him to great vexation or happiness. Whatever the image from his mind to paint brush… albeit, mother, wife, girlfriend, lover? Who knows? Point being made, the facial expressions in paintings are what the artist mirrors about the subject, be it woman or man. Famous faces on an easel will be sold for millions of dollars. People stop to ponder what they see in the art gallery. After deciding what they think (and who makes them an authority?), they create that person’s life experience within their own metaphoric chambers. Do they know? Maybe so…. I think of Marilyn Monroe, Joan of Arc, Lady Godiva and Jacqueline Kennedy, just to name a few. They all looked fairly content with only a hint of sadness, didn’t they? After their passing, we learned of turmoil that seemed to be kept in the lower chambers of their heart where fragile lies the face therein. Does an artist see this through his own pain and suffering? I wonder……

The Broken Window

"May I come in, he said as he peered through the broken window at her. The wood that divided the panes resembled a cross that seemed to illuminate the sadness etched across her face. Could the sun be drawing its own image of her, he wondered? Pensively, she stared at him for a few seconds before answering. “Dreams that have been deferred by life and its valleys, have left me broken, she said as she gazed at the wooden floor. The cold winters hovered in her bosom like suspicions that could not thaw in a world that held no promise. He walked closer to the broken window and spoke softly to her. “Please, my beautiful one, don’t let my love for you turn to dust inside your wintered soul.” She lifted her eyes to meet his stare as tears traced her face with their own stories. “My Sir, she spoke in a soft voice that reflected her love for him; “the mirror no longer stares back at me with hope.” He heard the sunset-ring in her voice as he felt the tears brimming up in his own eyes. “My dearest Missy Green Eyes, don’t you realize that a woman like you makes me hunger deep within my tomorrows?” The cross shadowed her face as the sun continued its drawing. “Look at me”, he said to her with the eyes of a mighty hunter. “Hell will not stop me now nor the demons therein.” “I shall come for you in the summer of our time.” He turned and walked toward the setting sun like a cowboy of yesteryear…She walked closer to the broken window placing her hand on the sun-drawn cross. She knew he would return to take her away. She knew she would go. She loved him…..The hunter had found her waiting….. waiting in her new white dress

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~THANKSGIVING~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Today, for a long time, I sat staring out the window.. Orange leaves, like passing seasons, waved aimlessly while the incertitude within me seemed to identify as winter lingered under painted skies of promise... Thanksgiving sections me into a glass of many colors.. I see the images of pumpkins and pilgrims thru the mirror of reflections. I see the smile of my mother, quiet, inside the frame of what will be her heavenly color... One may meditate on any aspect of this wonderful holiday, thankful for things in the past, present and this moment.. In the field of November thoughts, amid pumpkin pie I am thankful this day for God’s mercy and his amazing grace

Glass of Colors

I reside amid the valley of stone washed dreams... They speak to me in shadowed syllables about our flight, which may never come to be... Can this ladder of realism be climbed as you indicate? Stepping from my box, the light smothers my mind as yesterdays’ moments trace my broken steps into a mirage of broken stones; a tangled bridge will not allow me to cross where your promises are swirling; where your sweet love beckons me... The clouds sweep ore me in shimmering smiles as your lips whisper down the golden sun; your hands become soft petals that caress me as your words melt me; Sunday morning, coming down... Walk me carefully into your thornless rose world as you section me into a glass of colors; remove this fluid pain... Promise me the moon from your distant mindset... until my purple window mirrors you, in fullness

Billy Graham's Suit

Billy Graham is now 91-years-old with Parkinson's disease. In January 2000, leaders in Charlotte , North Carolina , invited their favorite son, Billy Graham, to a luncheon in his honor.

Billy initially hesitated to accept the invitation because he struggles with Parkinson's disease. But Charlotte leaders said, 'We don't expect a major address. Just come and let us honor you.' So he agreed.

After wonderful things were said about him, Dr. Graham stepped to the rostrum, looked at the crowd, said, "I'm reminded today of Albert Einstein, the great physicist who this month has been honored by Time magazine as the Man of the Century. Einstein was once traveling from Princeton on a train when the conductor came down the aisle, punching the tickets of every passenger.. When he came to Einstein, he reached in his vest pocket. He couldn't find his ticket, so he reached in his trouser pockets. It wasn't there. He looked in his briefcase but couldn't find it. Then he looked in the seat beside him. He still couldn't find it.

"The conductor said, 'Dr. Einstein, I know who you are. We all know who you are. I'm sure you bought a ticket. Don't worry about it.'

"Einstein nodded appreciatively. The conductor continued down the aisle punching tickets. As he was ready to move to the next car, he turned around and saw the great physicist down on his hands and knees looking under his seat for his ticket.

"The conductor rushed back and said, 'Dr. Einstein, Dr. Einstein, don't worry, I know who you are; no problem. You don't need a ticket. I'm sure you bought one.' Einstein looked at him and said, 'Young man, I too, know who I am. What I don't know is where I'm going.''

Having said that Billy Graham continued, "See the suit I'm wearing? It's a brand new suit. My children, and my grandchildren are telling me I've gotten a little slovenly in my old age. I used to be a bit more fastidious. So I went out and bought a new suit for this luncheon and one more occasion. You know what that occasion is? This is the suit in which I'll be buried. But when you hear I'm dead, I don't want you to immediately remember the suit I'm wearing. I want you to remember this: I not only know who I am. I also know where I'm going."

May your troubles be less, your blessings more, and may nothing but happiness, come through your door. "Life without God is like an unsharpened pencil - it has no point."

What a beautiful thought...............

Sanity versus Insanity

On December 04, 2010 I wrote a blog titled Tidbits of Information. It dealt with my concerns or convictions of individuals being labeled with varied mental health diagnosis. The possibility was there for physical health issues being the culprit instead; things yet undiscovered in the 1700s-1900s. I collaborated with an out-of-town psychiatrist who would get back with me regarding the required information of this era. Regretfully, I was unable to obtain the info that I needed to continue my blog on that subject. I would welcome insight from anyone that could add to these thoughts.

Recently, I read an article on how mental illness possibly has an effect on an artist’s work. One of the artists in the article was William Blake. It seems most of his drawings and poetry was inspired by visions that he not only saw but with whom he spent time conversing. As in the case of William Blake, many have taken this train of thought to connect art with a form of madness.

Thinking of a close friendship of mine, I think of a person that has been asked to draw this thing or things which he sees. These drawings are horrendous to the point of causing concern to the psychiatrists’ involved in this case. This particular person has several mental health issues; but in many other areas of his life, he is quite intelligent.

Once more, I pick up the thought of labeling. Have we continued to label individuals
not based on their saneness, but their insaneness because we, as a people, have determined what is sane and what is not…..

I know there are areas where there are absolutely no questions that someone is perversely ill mentally. But, where do we draw the line in labeling or casting a shadow of negativity on someone that may not be as MAD as we have projected them to be?….

Footprints On The Rug

I stare for a long time
At your strange white face
An eye that seems to ponder
Yet never blinks

I leave this silent place
And the face that stares
How did you get there;
But I knew from inside out


Others came and left the place
A small voice is calling
Is it the face with one eye?
Yet no mouth to beckon me

Inside this room of silence
You have vanished
Another takes your place
Distorted and angry

I wonder if you moved
Or blinked an eye
I wonder if you knew
That I saw you there… briefly
~ ~ ~

Do you Wish to SEE

Everything that I retrieve comes from my past. I can see the shadows
waving around me like a wind blown summer. As I stop and think about it,
if it happened a minute ago, it's in the past. I have what we all have;
a cluttered memory box that's opened on all sides; to me of course.

Somewhere in the shadows will lie tomorrow's past. Do I wish to see
what that section looks like? No... Am I afraid of what the future holds? Maybe..
Aren't you? I would like to trail my fingers thru portions of the shadows and erase things. All of us are human beings. We all have shadows that swirl around
in the dark expanse of our memory box...Don't we?

Like a blind man, he touched me gently. He touched the lips
of my smile as I felt his voice wrap around me like a fine silk
glove. He drank me like a summer's eve. The breeze brought forth
the murmuring of the leaves as he disappeared without a trace.
The white mist of loneliness settled over me

Can't You Hear My Echo

A silence falls as if each part of creation is waiting. The trees
are reaching toward skies of blue while the sun yawns with its yellow
mouth. Somewhere in the distance a fire lives and breathes; I feel
the roar from its crackling conversation. Clearly, the garden
gate swings as a shadow on my garden wall. Can't you hear my echo
calling you? This echo without two voices.

A Torn Page

I am not just a torn page from your book of phone numbers
Nor your shadow at the end of a winter's day. You can not
pencil me in because I am not your appointment; nor will I
ever be your torn page

Memory

Forgiving does not erase the bitter past.... a healed memory is not a deleted memory.... Instead, forgiving what we cannot forget creates a new way to remember.... we change the memory of our past into a hope for our future

Just bring my son back

Today, while doing my housework, I heard the saddest story. I thought about it and knew that I must post this for anyone that may need to think about their relationships, families or whatever the case may be...

This is a true story that happened a few years back. The talk show host was using it for an analogy of sorts.

It seems that a father had backed out of his driveway not knowing
his young son was behind the car. I am not sure of the age of the son.
The father backed over him and killed him on the spot.

The ambulance arrived and the father pleaded with them to save his son at any cost. They said he was pleading that whatever amount of money was needed didn't matter..... "Just bring my son back to life."

But You Were Never There

Somehow, I found a trace of you
inside the entrance that protected you.

Through remnants, I walked in to find
unwritten letters, anger and emptiness

Layered strongly, is the scent of your habitation
yet I can only smell my own intrusion.

I wanted desperately to place you in my
garden of rainbow fantasies, amid bits of sky

Maybe oft times to speak in whispered vowels

But you were never there............

Where Will You End Up?

Who has stopped briefly on a winter's hill?
Without a future or a past you stand there
in the moment; bare before
yourself……….

You wear a thought that no one sees…
The moon walks across the dark night sky.
You walk across inner moments
of yesterday,today and tomorrow..
Where will you end up…………….

Seashells In Sand

My mind isn’t buried like seashells in sand
Ink spots of reflection become my pen in hand
A glimmer of light becomes my only command
A taste of life becomes my only stand

Truth

Followed closely on the heels of dishonesty, you will find truth making its way
toward the door of home; and there is where it should be most comfortable.