BARREN

Barren are the carpeted slopes on a faraway hill
Where reality and reflections were once surreal
The song of your stillness blows across the field
In a rehearsal of emptiness; now nothing is real

~~~~~~~~~~~*

Children lost in play amid the mounds of green
Spindled cribs of white; a simplistic kind of scene
A hollow by the pond; you and mom were seen
Listen to the lullaby; it’s peaceful and serene

~~~~~~~~~~~*

It’s almost time to go now; there’s nothing left to do
Everyone is leaving; the sun is even blue
I came here once more to hum a song for you
It’s only been a while; it seems a day or two
I miss you
Daddy

December 1, 2010

Emotional Statues

Have you ever tried to paint an emotion for the things you recall from childhood: The television shows, cigarette commercials, cartoon characters, radio shows, and so much more? Those things take you back to days of hopefully happy times and security.

I recall my grandmother getting up to do the necessary little things before starting her daily routine of ironing. She would turn on the radio. I can picture it now… the sculpture that I have carved in my mind. His name was Arthur Godfrey. This was a talk show of sorts, and Mr. Godfrey had many things to say to his listeners along with his ongoing list of interesting visitors. There stood my grandmother just ironing away to these faceless characters.

I was staying with my grandmother while my parents worked. In the evenings, when the stars were lined up and parading about the heavens, she would tread up the hill in back of her house and load her apron down with pieces of coal. It would be so cold in Tennessee; winter winds were harsh. I would walk with her, carrying my one little piece of coal. I was a little girl. I would chatter about everything as we made our way back down the hill. It was dark and somewhat scary to me. She put a few pieces on the grate. I would watch as she would poke at it with what she called a poker. She knew how to break the coal into smaller pieces. As I watched her, I thought she must have been the smartest person I knew because there wasn’t anything she couldn’t do.

She lived high on the side of the hill. At night she would open the curtains, and we would stand looking down across the city with its sparking lights.
I can see those beautiful lights now and hear the crackling in the fireplace. The only light in the room would be that of the warm fire. Oh, to go back to those moments in time…things that I have carved that bring special emotional auras for today.
I continue to carve these emotional statues. After all, I can look at them anytime I desire and only time can remove them from their place.

Words As Feathers

Recently, I watched a portion of a movie that I found to be thought provoking. The movie was dealing with people that spread rumors about others. The woman involved was one of the parishioners; she had made confessions regarding her own problem with gossiping.

The priest told her to go back home, take a feather pillow and a knife up on the roof top of her building. He then told her to slash the pillow with the knife. She did as she was told; feathers went flying every direction as the wind carried them farther than the eye could see. The priest then told her to go back upon the roof top and retrieve every feather. She told him that would be impossible because the feathers were floating in the wind in all directions.

This reminded me of a recent trip to the gravesite to visit with my Daddy. A feather floated past me; it, too, was carried by the wind. I watched it stop a few feet in front of me. Suddenly, I found myself wondering where it originated and where would it end up. I watched it for a long time until it finally flew out of sight. Actually, I left the place where I was sitting and followed it until it flew beyond a point that was designated out of bounds to visitors. I was on the military base.

I thought about the movie and understood perfectly how this walked hand in hand with our lives. We tell someone about another person; it could be something with an interesting twist or something hurtful and malicious. From our mouths these words would fly; likened to the feathers in the wind, we could not retrieve the words.

How sad that we do this. Maybe the next time we stop for a conversation with someone, we should think of the pillow, the feathers, and the seriousness of what we are about to do. The old saying goes like this: If you can’t say something good about someone, say nothing at all. Let’s not send our words flying into countless ears and minds.

Arcane Writings

We write arcanely, for the most part. Notice the careful segregation; truth
divided by fabrication.
Segregationism of one’s true self does not prevent others from fishing
without a license.

Too many times, we forget that homo sapiens enter into our thoughts
by way of the back door; known as our Achilles’ heel. Do you know
where your Achilles’ heel lies?
They, the homo sapiens, walk this tender path and proceed in raping
the mental synthesis of a person’s mind.

The Gulag Archipelago portrays horrendous dealings of what one can do
to another; if so inclined, via the mind.
This, too, depends on the ability to psych oneself out.
We must adapt as a circle; taking care to protect every aspect;
from beginning to end.

Well, how does all of this play a part in writing you ask? We must be careful
when sending out invitations to others, to view our thoughts lest
we are trampled by our own words.
The mind, an amazing work of art, should be cradled at all costs. After all,
that is where we dwell most of the time; is it not?

These Feelings

Today was an unusually pretty day; the kind of day that anyone would wish for under most circumstances. The weather was perfect. I had driven to a near-by store for a few household items . I watched as others were shopping, as well. It was somewhat sad as I listened to a child, maybe six years of age, asking his mom to buy him a small chair. It was made of plastic and certainly suitable enough for his frail looking frame. His speech was garbled and that of a much younger child. His clothes were shabby and he seemed unkempt in general. At any rate, I watched briefly as she picked up the little green chair and told him," I will get this for you, but don't tell your daddy". He quickly agreed in his garbled speech while clearly expressing how elated he was. His smile was priceless.
I thought of the complexities the words held for this little one and the implications of growing up being taught to fabricate things. His basic foundation was being built for sure.

I finished my shopping and started back home. I passed a bag lady with a grocery cart full of items; probably collected from the dumpsters close by. She was walking slowly as if the world had forsaken her.
Further down the road sat two men in the shade of an old tree; they had small suit cases beside them. I recognized their faces as those that stand on the streets with signs. You offer them work but they quickly refuse and ask for money for food. Yes, you tell yourself they will buy whiskey or beer or drugs. They are, for the most part, bums. I can't help but wonder about their heritage. What happens to bring someone to this life of begging; one where you no longer care of your appearance or personal issues, including being homeless.

As I drove along in my car, to my home and my life of comfort, I felt a sudden sadness wash over me. I felt empty for some reason. I questioned why these feelings of melancholy all of a sudden. Maybe the little boy that loved the little green chair. His eyes lit up like a Christmas tree; but he must remember not to tell his daddy about it. Maybe it was the little bag lady; or the men that allowed themselves to be imprisoned in another world; one that we do not have to live in. No, there are no physical bars holding them but something kept them in this strange world. Something in their minds that left them without the desire to escape. They no longer cared.

I thought of the people in my life that had passed away; my children that had moved on in life. So many things washed over me leaving me to feel like a tree branch standing barren and alone. Suddenly, I felt cold and bare.
I placed my thoughts inside another compartment as I unloaded my grocery items. What would happen to the little boy, the bag lady, and the haggard looking men sitting on the ground with their suitcases?

I walked into my home with all of its comforts and realized how thankful I was of my own life; but how sad I felt about so many things.....

Food For Thought

The mind is its own place, and in itself can make a heav'n of hell, a hell of heav'n.............. From Paradise Lost ~~~~ ~~~~

I contemplate the above quote (a very profound statement with abstruse meaning) of the well-known poet John Milton. If you’ll take the time to digest each word carefully,you can assimilate your own feelings. Do you have a good foundation of the environment of your own mind? Sounds absolutely absurd, you say. Does it? This revelation could turn us away from the mirror of our own mind if we dare to look closely.

We are indeed the keeper of our own minds. If we hold the key that controls our mind, what do we do when outside forces unlock our mind without permission? I believe we invite things in by our own mere ramblings or via osmosis. "Out of the abundance of the heart, the mouth speaketh."

We prioritize our thoughts. They must fit the situation at hand, so chaotic situations will be placed accordingly. Our brain becomes emotionally charged up. Is this where we are supposed to put calming thoughts into action? In other words, is it what we have created for ourselves, or can we alter heaven and hell when we wish? How we react takes place in the mind or the brain. That’s pretty much a fact.

John Milton speaks in reference to the mind being its own place and that it can make a heav’n of hell or visa versa. Norman Vincent Peale believes in the power of positive thinking. I think this concurs with the quote from Mr. Milton.

We have long heard the saying "Mind over matter." So ask yourselves this…Is it reality that causes the "hell or heaven" that tangles up our mind or is it that which rambles around in our mind at will, simply waiting to be disciplined?

Can we really control our limbic systems somewhat? I wonder if the above can be practiced to our advantage.

Welcome to 2012

Welcome to the year of 2012. You say,"Why that year?"

The prediction is that time won't exist after 2012.

The earth will be a mass of destruction and desolation.

Will anyone be walking around? Who will be left, anyone?

I have carefully listened to the Mayan Indian predictions and just recently

was introduced to the Hopi Indian predictions which seem to have a good

foot-hold along the same lines. It seems that many of Mayan predictions

have managed to take place. I wonder how this happens? How do they do this?

Do we live our lives, for the next two years, based on what they say is

going to take place? If so, how do we do that? Personally, I believe in

the book called the Bible and in the Godhead. No man will know the day

or the hour. Okay, having said that, I must say that the Bible says we will

know the signs of the times. I see those signs everywhere.

Well, back to the earlier predictions of the Indian tribes. They did not

have microwave technology that modern man has today. They had to

base their world around the stars, winds, magic potions, visions and witch

doctors. I think they managed to do pretty well considering, much like a

doctor back in those days who didn't work with fancy equipment and walk

through the halls of sterile hospitals after years and years of schooling.

He used tools much like the Indians used: Eyes, ears, hands and touch.

Think about it......is it really so, or could it be?