|The Queen©Page 3 of 4 (1, 2, 3, 4)|
|His face was wrinkled leather|
Scarred by Father Time
Furrowed deep by etchings
From widely varied clime
His hands were calloused hard
Evidence of work that strained
But it was his eyes that showed
A soul so deeply stained.
No one knew his origin
No one asked him where
He might have been before
He’d ended up … right there.
His stance? Over six foot ten;
With strength of many men
His chest? a redwood tree
His temper ran too violently
Anvil fists could kill or maim
Breakin’ railroad ties was just a game.
Had breath like kerosene
His name was: Nasty Mean
Then one day, the story goes, a female came to town
Seems no one had seen her there-abouts around
She weren’t that pretty, fact some say: it was Homely She
But Nasty Mean he liked ‘er – ‘n that’s how it was to be
Nasty come up to that gal, ‘n said: “Hey, I’d like a kiss”
Guess it was his words to her, that got her so damned pissed
She whirled around quick as lightenin’ an’ smacked Ol’ Nasty’s face
The air went deathly quiet … not a sound within the place.
Faster than a freight train, she quickly squatted down
And with a leg extended, she spun herself around
Nasty took a swing that whistled through the air
‘Cause that Homely She, wasn’t standin’ there
Her leg caught Nasty Mean just behind his knee
Then he hit the ground like the fallin’ of a tree
The ground shook like thunder - dust was ever’where
Nasty bellowed out - his hatred raw and bare.
Nasty began to rise - scramblin’ to his feet
Homely She moved in quick, and didn’t miss a beat
Her leg shot out – it was nothin’ but a blur
Nasty swung two times but both times missin’ her
Her kick caught Nasty on the right side of his head
When he fell so hard, we all thought he was dead
But Homely She wasn’t finished with Ol’ Nasty Mean
What she did next, put an end to what we’d seen
She bent down, and spread Nasty’s legs apart
Then delivered a mighty kick to Nasty’s private parts
Involuntary was Nasty’s passed-out groan
Homely She had provided pain that went down to the bone.
After pain she did impart, Homely She just walked away
Thinkin’ things were over, but … there’s more we have to say:
No one could believe it … Nasty Mean had met his match
And after that one moment, to her he was attached
If she was to go huntin’, well Nasty’d be right there
I’m sure she got tired of it … but he followed ever’where.
He even brought her flowers, what was that gal to do?
She couldn’t shake Nasty Mean, she was in an awful stew.
Then Nasty Mean asked her, for her hand to wed
Guess that did the trick, ‘cuz nothin’ more was said.
After that Ol’ Nasty Mean changed his devil ways
He don’t go out fightin’ or settin’ barns ablaze
Got themselves married, by the preacher from Wolverine
And now her name is: The Queen of Nasty Mean.
Posted: 3/14/2008 8:03:28 AM
|Well, Hamazing ... I'm glad you liked it ... and thank you for your kind words. Your brief synopsis of an era of your past indicates you did the right thing in your life - I'm glad, and trust you'll have happiness as your companion forever more. You are welcome here anytime ... PC4U|
Posted: 3/20/2008 11:22:13 AM
|The discovery is like a physical blow without the touch.|
Shock instantly engulfs you, so severe is it, it becomes impossible for you to speak. Breathing is labored and irregular.
Those involuntary muscle spasms in your chest, are the forerunners of sobs, but they can’t come yet, because the shock is still paramount and controlling your mind and vision.
The initial shock phase passes, replaced by rage, or disbelief, or the healing rush of uncontrolled sobs and tears, or all of those emotional explosions.
For the next few days or weeks or even months, you’ll revisit that initial shocking discovery millions upon millions of times within your mind. The event is permanently burned and branded into your being, and you’ll never, ever forget it as long as you live. The pain seers within you at each re-visitation of your thoughts. With each recollection, the event is reborn all over again, in living screaming color.
For most persons the next phase following the discovery phase is the denial phase. You can not and will not accept that whatever has befallen you really happened. If you do, you justify it by some invented excuse or outside influence, and grapple with every conceivable alteration or reiteration of what transpired, so as to make it acceptable. But, in reality, it isn’t. The denial phase can be the longest one. Some people never exit the denial stage, simply because they can’t withstand the pain were they to do so. Forever after, embracing denial is their method of coping with unwanted discovery.
Acceptance is the next to last phase, and it is within this phase that peace of mind begins to slowly make its’ presence known. True friends, comforting family members, clergymen and self-assessment are all avenues to acceptance. Without acceptance being absorbed into your being, the next phase can never be achieved either.
Finally you get to the healing phase. This is where you can re-visit the original discovery, and not emotionally break down. This is the phase where you can objectively look at the true causes of the original discovery. This is the phase where you can plan to never get into situations that would cause a repeat of the original discovery. This is the phase where you can say, it’s over, it’s done and I can move on with my life.
And … you do.
Posted: 3/20/2008 12:11:41 PM
|And that’s the way it’s always been,|
An’ I guess will always be
But that don’t mean those things are right
They could be contrary
So if you go to Johnson’s Woods
An’ start “stirrin’ up this stew”,
There’s some things you need to know
An’ I’m remindin’ you:
That Billy Ray Thompson boy
You know he’s out there yet
You goin’ out to find him
Might be somethin’ you’ll regret
You can talk about those eerie screams
An’ what their source might be
But, if I was you, I’d turn blue
‘Fore I’d go out to see.
Marv LaMesa you recall
Showed them bleached-white bones
An’ said they was all ‘twas left
Of our Reverend Jones
An’ don’t forget that knife they found
Out near Willow Creek
Of such decadence decent
Folks won’t speak
Just last night ‘round my house
Was tracks so deep and wide
Three-toed tracks with claws
Hell …I went back inside
Now you can go on lookin’
I won’t stop your search
But I’m goin’ to the creek
An’ fish me up some perch.
I don’t think that you should go
Into Johnson’s Woods
I’m thinkin’ what is in there
Just couldn’t be too good.
Yep, you can have adventure
An’ your opinions too,
But if you don’t come out of there
I’ll not look for you.
And that’s the way it’s always been,
An’ I guess will always be
But that don’t mean those things are right
Johnson’s Woods … they ain’t for me!
Posted: 3/20/2008 1:34:00 PM
|(this is a "darker" entry)|
I am not your friend,
I am not your foe
But I am not the person to
For comfort you should go
But if you listen carefully
As winds begin to blow
And moonbeams on mountain tops
Begin their eerie glow
I’ll tell you of wicked things
Of curses old and new
But these things aren’t free
There’s a price I’ll take from you.
So sit there very quietly
And do not make a sound
Within your head and mind
Your thoughts will all be bound
‘Tis your belief
In my words all written here
Controlling of your mind
To summon up your fear
So, please … relax …
And when you think it’s safe
Your mind I will attack,
As words begin their strafe.
Now fly with me o’er the hilltops
And through the mists below
As we journey back
To centuries long ago
Below we see “The Plague”
Just now taking hold
We know of the outcome
But ‘tis today, not “days of old”.
An’ in the midst of chaos
Where Death lurks everywhere
This is why I’ve brought you,
And I’m taking you … in there.
The rat infested cottages,
The ravaged dirt-floored huts
Prolific rodent feces
And flies eat chicken guts
The stench is overpowering
For people here don’t bathe
Disease is in the air
Everything is in a scathe
Come lay down where
A dead body’s been removed
It is now your resting place
The one that I’ve approved.
There. Go ahead and rest
Feeling diseases as they do infest
Fleas and ticks climb thru’ your nose …
Within the week, comes Death throes.
First will come the open sores
While draining blood and pus
Then will come delirium
High fever on you thrust
You will crave for water
And scream that it be so
But no water’s to be had
‘Tis only pain that you will know.
Your agony’s exotic
Your ravages so sweet
Oh I so enjoy them
As I stand here at your feet
But I interrupt my ecstasy
As my duty calls
Torturing lost souls you see
Of my life enthralls.
The price that I eluded to
When was first we met
Payment … if you make it
Then out of here you’ll get
Your price is but one soul
The one that you possess
Just paying that to me
Will take you from this mess
What’s that you say?
Was the word you spoke a “yes”?
Wonderful! Now just wait …
I’ll relieve you from your stress.
See, how simple?
How well we do combine!
You with a soul-less life
Me? I own your mind.
So forward ‘tis we go
Toward your century
You think you’ll be okay now
But there’s no harmony
For now without your soul
You’ll not know happiness
Before you lies a life
All filled with hate and stress
And I? I will go on looking
For another soul
Then when I’ve found them
Through other centuries will I stroll
And you, my naïve reader,
With Temptation do you dance
You can’t keep it up forever …
Soon, I’ll have my chance.
Posted: 3/21/2008 10:29:06 AM
|There’s a filter on my water,|
I filter my room’s air
The FDA watches things I eat
If not …I wouldn’t dare!
There’s “filters” for the airwaves
that sift obscenities
But the commentator windbags
They still say what they please.
With all this censored “filter-ship”
I just can’t understand
Why there’s still corruption
In governance of our Land.
An’ why there’s geed and avarice
We all agree is bad
When hungry kids are in our streets
And in ragged clothes are clad
Why is it our businesses send
Jobs out overseas
Why indeed would they do that,
Don’t the hear our workers’ pleas?
Why’s the American Dollar
Worth less each passing day
What is it our government
About that facts’ to say?
Outrageous price of gasoline
And heating oil too
With our jobs and houses gone
What’s America to do?
Everyday there is a wreath
Upon a neighbors door
We’ve lost another serviceman
I fear there will be more.
Yes, we can place our filters
And initiate new laws
But first I think we do indeed
Need repair existing flaws.
|Fight He Can©|
Posted: 3/21/2008 4:22:31 PM
|He walked into the barroom|
He was standin’ proud’n tall
Didn’t say too much I see,
‘fact, he didn’t speak at all.
Wasn’t dressed like “normal”
No cowboy hat, or boots
An’ didn’t even take one
Of offered bar cheroots
He ordered him a draft
And began to suck his suds
Twas then he was approached
By some local “studs”
“We don’t want you in here”,
One of the locals spit,
“We don’t like your looks,
Besides, you smell like sh*t”.
Quietly his beer sat down
The Stranger slowly turned
And deep inside him
His rage began to burn
As he faced them,
With shoulders wide and stout
His rage was building to a peak
Soon, he’d let it out
On his face a scar…
Across one eye and down a cheek
He looked them all up and down,
But still … he didn’t speak
“Get you’re a** out of here!”,
The local speaker said
“’Cuz if you don’t I’m tellin’ ya’
You’re gonna wish that you was dead!”
The Stranger at the bar there
Only moved his eyes
‘Twas these kinds of a**holes
He really did despise.
Then a local rushed the Stranger
And felt his cheekbone break
When he hit the floor
No longer was he awake
The second local right behind
Heard his sternum snap
As most his ribs
Turned instantly to scrap
Martial art was tried
Of karate kick
Both legs were broke
Bones through his pants did stick
Finally the “speaker” screamed
As a fist he threw
A broken arm at the socket
The arm twisted and askew.
All four locals lay whimpering
Lying on the floor
The Stranger drank his beer
Then headed for the door
But just before he left
I heard myself inquire:
“I’ve seen quick fightin’
But … how did you acquire …?”
He stopped in his tracks,
And faced me man to man
“Those skills I’ve used in Iraq,
But I hope not in Iran …”
“All fightin’ should be avoided
At least that’s how I feel …
But if I’m forced to fight … I can,
See … I’m a Navy Seal.”
|Did It Matter?©|
Posted: 4/2/2008 9:31:07 PM
|Did it matter? …I mean, we get on the merry-go-round, watch the sights as they go by, interact with a few people along the way, then we get off at the end of the ride. It’s over.|
Other than having children and starting them out on their merry-go-round ride, what does the average person accomplish in the period between birth and death? (The significance on a tombstone (1851 – 1901) is the “dash” between the two dates, because that’s where all the life was consumed, and it seems to me that “dash” should be a lot bigger and a lot longer).
Looking back at the dusty trail that is our lifetime, what did we leave of importance to our posterity along the roadside?
Each of us must answer that question, at least unto ourselves, sometime before we die.
|A Gentle Friend©|
Posted: 4/13/2008 7:59:06 PM
|It only takes about five solitary minutes, if there are no disturbances from doorbells, cell phones, or television sets; For it to happen, there must be nothing but a single source of uninterrupted music.|
The music must be that which you, personally, have selected to be reproduced. It should be a mix of slow and up-beat tunes, inter-disbursed one with the other. The tunes, however, must be those that have special meaning for just you – they must trigger memories of specific moments in your life the instant you hear them.
It doesn’t have to be in a darkened room, but, it’s better if it is.
It is imperative that you be totally relaxed, and lying down.
Turn on the device that will reproduce the music for you.
Close your eyes.
As the notes of that first tune invade your mind your journey begins …
The melodies erase more and more years as they tap on the Doors of Memories … and as those doors crack open, cherished faces and familiar places lift out of the lessening fog as bided …
Recalled laughter and smiles begin to intermix with the misty melody, and the two become inseparable … the touch of hands … a warm, soft caress … a dance … a stolen kiss …
The music beckons more memories …
There’s a walk in the moonlight … a soiled shirt, from a spilled drink … a broken heel off her shoe … again, there’s laughter
The graduation dance … the first fraternity or sorority party …
The military … the homecomings … Mom and Dad, sis and brother …
A magical courtship … a wedding day and reception … the honeymoon …
A child’s birth … followed by a birthday party … and a graduation day …
That memorable vacation … a tragedy of loss … a recovery …
These and so many more wonders, glide effortlessly across the musical stair-steps that take you up and down their twisting path … then … you seamlessly slide into restful sleep and pursue the pleasantries the music brings to you …
Music. A gentle friend of us all.
|Build, destroy, rebuild|
Posted: 4/13/2008 10:58:06 PM
|We build our defenses against the emotional rapists, and huddle behind the ramparts protected by the moat of painfully remembered, but dead, floating relationships – which remain our proof and justifications to never go there again. Beware, indeed, and rightfully so. |
Facades of humor, or aloofness, or pseudo work further our defensive stances, and forbid entry by another.
But the loving infant boy or girl in each of us longs to trust, and provide - and receive -love. Living behind a moat protected rampart, does nothing to re-enforce the belief that we can ever trust again. It serves only to prolong our emotional self-preservation.
In our future, so great will the basic human need to trust and be trusted, to love and in return be loved, that first a window will be allowed, then, after a period of observation, so will there be a door constructed in our ramparts … and a drawbridge of faith extended across our moat. All this will occur because man is not meant to be an island unto himself, and the deep ancestral need to commune and interact with societal peers, in the end, will prevail.
Our caution will be heightened and honed to a high degree, and our antenna, (searching for betrayal), will be hooked to our alarm system, activating our retreat mechanisms at the slightest justification.
The final result will be: Another life; Another love; and more enduring trust, but the cost of the trip to find them will have been high, i.e., heart ache, tears, pain, irreplaceable loss of precious time, and needless self-evaluation – because the emotional rapist we dealt with was not of our doing, but theirs.
|Build, destroy, rebuild|
Posted: 4/14/2008 6:11:39 PM
|TNT and Crystal ... I remain amazed at the talents you possess - and the seeming ease with which you convey your thoughts through the printed word ... I always enjoy your entries here, as I'm sure do the other POF patrons who happen by ... PC4U|
Posted: 4/14/2008 11:10:14 PM
|When I was aboard ship during a portion of my military service as a young man, the eternal vastness of the ocean, coupled with the endless umbrella of nighttime stars was humbling. On many occasions I would make my way to the main deck of the ship, and stand by the railing at night. The black water, disturbed by the ships passing, would twinkle with phosphorescence, and the bow waves would sparkle like blue-green diamonds. But it was the water and stars that were truly awe inspiring. It was not until I witnessed that incalculable surface of water and limitless expanse of heavens that I understood the miniscule insignificance of man. There was I, small, irrelevant and inconsequential to the turning of the world looking at an immensity I, nor any living thing could ever truly grasp. Oh, my. I would not give anything for that experience. No sounds and no light save the billions upon billons of stars. I’m quite sure that uninterrupted silence was the quiet heartbeat of God.|
But I was born and raised in Missouri, landlocked to my heritage which always beckoned me home, for I missed the seasons on the land and all the wonders they held.
In each of the 66 years I’ve been allowed to breath on this earth, Spring has managed to at last fight it’s way through Winter, and bring sunshine and warmth back into my, and everyone else’s, life. This year is no different.
What a blessing to see those itsy-bitsy green sprouts on the seemingly “dead” tree branches in the yard, or across the way, promising, promising. Robins’ turn their heads in order to present one eye to passerby’s while they hop across muddied but grass sprouting yards and parks in search for sustenance.
It goes on. One year slowly nudging the next into eternity, and each generation takes its’ turn watching the transition.
One day we will join the vast wonders of that which we could never grasp while visiting this earth, for we were filled with busy actions, duties and responsibilities that mattered not.
Posted: 4/16/2008 4:24:32 PM
|If you were to put to paper all your experiences, all your dreams, all your accomplishments and all those things you WANTED to accomplish … how much space would be required … how many reams of paper would such an undertaken endeavor require?|
Cemeteries do it with a single dash – placed between your birth and death dates on a tombstone.
Is that realization humbling, or what? Maybe we weren’t as important as we thought, eh?
Posted: 4/16/2008 5:35:50 PM
|Stuff: … I’ve bought, sold, burned, given away, thrown out, discarded, crushed, rejuvenated, restored and reworked all kinds of “stuff” in my life time, and STILL have tons of “stuff” left over.|
For years upon years accumulation of this “stuff” was a priority for me. Every estate sale, every auction, every antique sale, every garage/yard/rummage sale … I was sure I had been pre-ordained to attend. After all, “people” loved to look at this “stuff” which became my possessions through such attendances.
You’ve no doubt read or even seen the great mountainous regions of earth, such as the Andes or the Alps or the Great Rocky Mountains. Well, I’ve possessed and destroyed at least seven such mountain ranges – and all of them appeared in my garage at differing times of my life.
There was the “Anti-Q” Mountain Range of the mid 1970’s, comprised solely of “stuff” aged 30 years and older. This mountain range was destroyed by “Lack of Continued Interest” (a mental disease of unknown origin – but deadly to such mountain ranges none-the-less).
This mountain range was followed by the “Any-and-All Collectibles” Mountain Range, and while large, its’ life span was of much shorter duration, as it fell victim to the “Where-the-Hell-Has-My-Money-Gone” Virus, (remnants of this specific various is dormant, but relapses have been known to occur from time to time). Luckily most of this mountain range was “sold”.
The last mountain range was the “What-the-Hell-Is-This-Junk-and-Where-Did-It-All-Come-From” Mountain Range. Though greatly reduced, this particular mountain range is still in evidence, albeit to a much smaller degree. (Atop this mountain range is a seriously faded stuffed pillow with sparkly fringe, that has the words: “You Were Here” and a stitched outline of something no longer decipherable. This pillow is mindful of an inedible cherry on top of an even more inedible sundae).
Why this “stuff” is still with me has complete been eradicated from my mind by a mysterious malady called “I No Longer Care”.
Over the decades I found need and justification to relocate my residences many times. Each time I did so, to move all my "stuff" I would hire an independent moving company, (because I thought I’d get a better ‘deal’ and I wanted to help stimulate the local economy). I believe it to be a Law of Man, that independent moving companies MUST be owned and operated by a converted tribe of semi-literate mountain gorillas. (The mother of the members of these gorilla bands changes semi-tractor trailer tires at the local truck stop – and she doesn’t need or use a jack or a wrench, just her bare hands.) I believe this to be true because I have actual photographs of mangled, crushed, twisted, maimed, broken, gouged, scarred and bent possessions that were physically man-handled by these various and marauding gorilla bands. One of these photos depicts a BENT-double angle-iron bed frame railing. Superman had better hope he never meets the moving guy gorilla-dude who bent this railing, ‘cause his “stronger than a locomotive” crap is gonna be challenged. I understand these people are actually allowed to walk our streets and even pro-create. You talk about a diluted gene-pool. Geez.
But I regress.
All kidding aside, we all possess such “stuff”, and, like me, there comes a point in time when we stop and reassess our reasons and motivations for having accumulated all this paraphernalia around us. We don’t need it. And, if we really look hard, we don’t even want it any longer. You’ll find just how important to others these things are, when you get “no takers” when you try to give it away. So, it remains just … our “stuff.
Over the years I’ve found my “stuff” no longer carries the import nor priority that once it did. Oh, there are those material possessions I will always hold onto – but they are the heirlooms of relatives and ancestors, not things that I have purchased that belonged to someone else, and hold no nostalgic value for me. It seems now my only interest, where material possessions are concerned, are those items in which I have a personally invested nostalgia. Everything else is just … “stuff”.
But when I am gone, so will be the memories that prompted my reasons and justification for holding onto those heirlooms – because I can still see “Mom” using that rocking chair, and I can still hear Dad thumping his cigar ashes in to that old, ugly glass ashtray, and I can remember my Grandmother washing those dishes. But, no one else has those recollections or memories, and my “priceless” heirlooms will then become just more … “stuff” to those who don’t possess the memories to go with them, which for me elevated their value to above that of “priceless”.
And our hands, having writ, moves to another page …
Posted: 4/16/2008 10:22:04 PM
|As a younger man I walked in dreams|
But few turned out, so it seems
And somewhere in Life’s foray
They got lost along way
Why were they lost, or where they be
Without substance or even name
With which to lay a claim
Of evidence of thoughts long past
Of lost legacy of fame to cast
My minds footprints of my stride
Washed away with Life’s tide.
Posted: 4/20/2008 9:37:55 PM
|At the crest of a hill dotted with the visible tips of large, buried boulders surrounded by lush green grass, you stand, witnessing the ever increasing bright intensity of golden sunrise turning into a brilliant yellow. You squint from the onslaught of intense light and a hand rises nearly involuntarily to shield your eyes.|
The world comes alive before your very eyes. Flowers begin to lean toward the light; Birds begin their songs of the day; small creatures vacate their homes and nests and begin their daily foraging; Morning breezes begin their journeys’ to … everywhere; Dew begins to evaporate as the suns rays converts the coolness they contain.
The future unfolds before you, just as history slides aside, and you transcend them both, and wonder:
At some time hence, will there be another life standing where you are now, witnessing the magical phenomenon you’re enjoying? And … will they realize, as you do, that someone else may have stood on this very hilltop long, long ago … and saw these same endlessly cycled miracles of Life?
Is it important to us to know, on some future date, at some location on this earth that someone else should know: You were here; You lived an entire lifetime before theirs ever began; That you cared; That you, too, left footprints in the sand. That you …“were”.
Posted: 6/8/2008 6:00:26 AM
|Before World War 2, a little boy was born|
And the family count was five
Rejoicing was: Word of the Day,
A good time to be alive
Then came The War in Germany
And the husband/Dad was gone
The family count was down to four
But still, they carried on
The kids grew up, and helped their Mom
With chores, and paying jobs
But Times were hard and difficulties
Often came in globs.
Then came the call: The oldest son
Died where he’d gone to ski
Sadness and misery
The family dwindled down to three
Hard times and tragedies
Continued to accrue …
Then God called the Mom away,
Now there’s only two.
Today my only sister passed away in sleep
It cannot be undone
Now the little family
Has come down to me: I’m the final one.
|Forever Holding Hands©|
Posted: 7/24/2008 10:27:39 PM
|Worn slick and smooth by millions of student footsteps, the deeply furrowed stairs stand silent, the sentinel of subdued memory.|
The highly polished hallway floors reflect light slivers from unseen windows, and share them with adjacent walls, all, without sound.
As I stand in the midst of the deafening silence, an involuntary tear traces across my cheek signifying the track of my minds’ wandering through its’ vast storage of recollected memory of …
I haven’t moved, but memory fills the hallways with sounds of shuffling feet, staccato shouts, laughter, locker doors slamming and the invisible mass of moving and varied faces of classmates swarming about and past me.
As suddenly as they appeared, they are gone.
Again the hallway returns to being just a hallway, the stairs, just a worn group of boards.
It is the presence of my memories that revitalized the area around me. No one will ever feel my exact same memories within this exact same hallway or of these worn old stairs.
I am overwhelmed by a sadness born in knowledge of the passage of entire generations of persons that had traveled up and down these stairs and traversed this very hallway – some of whom I will never see again, and others whom I will only see maybe once or twice more in the remainder of my lifetime.
The school’s stairs and hallway will vanish as all man-made structures will, the memories, too, will one day be gone, but what transpired within this school can not be contained by any boundary created by man.
We have but one opportunity to trespass on the time owned by the ages, and to share the journey with those we call classmates. If we are very, very lucky, those classmates remain with us until we are melded into the eternities, as footsteps of the past … forever holding hands.
Posted: 7/27/2008 10:19:58 PM
|(from PosterChild4Ugly, by Rich)|
Is it possible to place too much faith in someone or something? If we feel betrayed, was it because our expectations were out of the realm of reality of attainment or containment? Did we, in fact, bring the feeling of betrayal upon ourselves?
The answer to all these questions is: No … if we did our emotional homework thoroughly aforethought.
No human being and no material thing are infallible, and that includes those persons, places and things we see as “perfect”, and we logically know that. It is only when emotions enter into the equation that expectations go awry, i.e.: left becomes right, up becomes down and “yes”, turns into “no”.
The truth is: we are not reared by any individual or any institution to cope with our intangible emotions as well as we are reared to cope with those issues identified by our five physical senses.
An example: We know that Mom and Dad and other family members warned us: When we touch a red-hot heating element on a stove, our sense of touch is going to inform us it’s hot, and … it hurts. We very quickly learn not to touch red-hot heating elements on a stove. When coming in contact with a date we feel is “hot”, we may fall hook, line and sinker for that individual … only to discover sometime later our feelings were not reciprocated. The irony of such an encounter is: We continue to repeat those actions, over and over again, because we’ve not been educated on how to identify a “true” emotionally compatible companion BEFORE we “fall” for them.
Granted, to approach a potential partner – no matter the longevity involved in the potential relationship – with a “logical” measuring stick rather than an emotional one, may tend to dilute romance. But, that diluted process is only temporary. If one does their “emotional homework’ first, the chances of tears and fears are greatly reduced later on.
There is no guarantee that even with a logical approach there won’t be the possibility of heartache later on, but, that approach most definitely reduces the odds of an encounter with emotional pain at some future date.
Emotional rapists live in this world, too. And … they WORK at destroying those victims who fall into their very well-oiled traps. The trick is in learning how to identify them BEFORE we risk becoming another of their victims, and avoiding their well planned but hidden agendas.
Our pain, physical or emotional, is to be avoided if at all possible. Life is hard enough without the complications of emotionally draining relationships, especially for single parents. Even worse, when emotional damage due to a failed or problematic relationship is encountered, the havoc from such damage can easily spill over onto and into children, initiating a self-perpetuating set of circumstances that can only spiral downward for all involved.
When, after multiple attempts to find a meaningful relationship have ended in emotional turmoil, one should reassess the approach used.
If we’ve been meeting persons we consider as “being of interest” within pubs or bars or gin joints, we need to stop doing that. We need to find a completely different forum and venue in which to search for a companion. Try meeting people here, on POF … or at church … or political rallies or fund raisers … or at a sporting event. The point here is: If what we are doing is NOT providing us with the results we want, obviously we HAVE to change what we are doing! It doesn’t matter so much WHERE we go as long as we VACATE where we’ve been, and vow never to return there – physically, mentally and emotionally.
Hey … what do we have to lose? We know we’ve not had the results we wanted … at least not yet, so why not try something new … ANYthing new … we’ve just got to break the mold we’ve been ricocheting around in (and getting nowhere, except “Tear City”) and try a different approach – and if that one doesn’t work, we’ll try yet another approach. The only “rule” is: Don’t EVER go back to the original approach – ‘cause we already know: It don’t work!
Posted: 4/13/2009 10:41:23 AM
|Winter is the manifest presence of the announcement of intended death of all living things. As nature intended, it is the lowered curtain on Life’s Stage.|
Cold, Winter’s dreadful child, seeps in as the silent assassin of warm comfort and displays its presence through exhaled vapor of those beings still managing to survive its’ slow, icy strangulation.
Some, more hearty creatures, manage to survive several onslaughts of Winter, but eventually Winter wins.
Posted: 5/11/2009 10:54:23 AM
|Still today, there is an illogical portion of me which believes all problems could be solved through the wonders of a summer’s day picnic with my Mother and Father.|
Posted: 2/21/2010 12:45:11 PM
|I remember way back when,|
I couldn’t have been more than ten
On a dusty road with my cane-pole
Powdered dust ‘tween my bare toes
Walkin’ with no cares or woes
To the Covered Bridge and fishin’ hole
Taking up my time by walkin’ slow
Wond’rin’ ‘bout things I didn’t know
Time moved on, I became a teen
I met “her”, - she was serene
Entering my life, she made it bright
We held hands and we would dance
The world it sparkled with romance
And we’d go walkin’ late at night
Taking up our time by walkin’ slow
Wond’rin’ ‘bout things we didn’t know
High school days were left behind
My college grades were quite a “grind”
‘Cause my thoughts were back home with “my girl”
Then she met somebody new
They held hands like we used to
My mind and grades were sent into a “whirl”
Taking up my time while walkin’ slow
Wond’rin’ ‘bout the way that I should go
After Graduation Day
I found a job with decent pay
I began to get on with my Life
I met her at the City Park
Instantly I felt the spark
I’d ask Lila if she’d be my wife
Taking up our time while walkin’ slow
Talkin‘ ‘bout the things we didn’t know
That’s now been four kids ago
Lila and I watched them grow
Seeing all the things that they went through
Kids have married, now they’re gone
Time has a way of moving on
Sometimes I wonder where the time went to
Lila and I talked while walkin’ slow
Laughin’ ‘bout the things we think we know
I lost my Lila this past year
Oh my, how I miss You Dear
In my heart you’ll always ring a chime
And now I think back or’ the years
Filled with joys and filled with tears
And I wonder when will come My Time
Through this lonely house I’m walkin’ slow
Wond’rin’ ‘bout things I’ll never know
Life is only one short ride
Like the flowing of the tide
First it rushes in – and then it ebbs
I have taken my Life’s ride
And I have my peace inside
With no problems – with no tangled webs
I’ll see what lies ahead while walkin’ slow
Where God needs me, is where I’ll go.
Posted: 4/9/2011 9:40:10 PM
|They found her today, curled around a dirty blanket under an overpass. The coroner estimated her age at 71.|
She had been an aged, homeless woman, living on the streets. Finding sustenance had been a constant continual problem. Her health had been a serious issue.
While alive, when seen, most passersby had turned away in disgust; Youths would tell her: “Get a job”, or hurl insults.
Who was she?
She abandoned her dreams at an early age, and elected to follow the dreams of the man she thought to be her champion and life long companion. More than once she uprooted her life and accompanied him in pursuit of some passionate dream he embraced, and did her best to help him find it.
The “star” on which she had hung her hopes and her entire future abandoned her, with their child, in a bus station in Georgia. She was 37 at the time.
Wear of the years and hardships had taken their toll on her, both mentally and physically. The times and opportunities had passed in which she could have engaged in furthering her education, and it was these things she had put aside to follow “his” dreams.
It was not she that failed, but the “star” she had believed in. The mirror of hope and aspiration she had longingly gazed into when she was fifteen, he had shattered. A lifetime was lost, and its’ shell she wore as tattered rags.
She did those things she had to do to survive, and her child, taken from her, was somewhere in the morass of government bureaucracy, assuring she’d never see him again.
There were days of solitude where white tracks on her soiled face could be seen from her eyes to her chin, as the legacy of her memories.
Her days were filled with foraging. Her eyes had been dulled by disappointment and defeat. Her body was dirty and scarred. Hope to her remained as only a memory of a word of no substance or possibility. She was completely void of any expectations and lived from day to day driven only by the most basic of instincts …
It’s what’s left when dreams are callously destroyed.
I was too late, but today, at last I had found my Mom.
Make your choices wisely, for there, save for the Grace of God, go you or I.
|A Deadly Way To Go©|
Posted: 4/13/2011 4:05:46 PM
|He rode up to the building|
In a chauffeur driven car
A Rolls-Royce I think it was
He sported a cigar …
Wow … A big impression!
A rock-star could he be?
No, just a salesman -
For Nuclear energy.
An’ there within the boardroom
A ’fore his spiel began
He flexed his corporate muscles
Revealing avarice in his plan:
His presentation: awesome
His dress: impeccable
But the content of his words
Were not so laudable
Embraced were words of safety
Extolled was energy
But n’er did he speak “meltdown”
Nor “nuclear misery”
He hung his head in shame
When questions then began:
Radiation in Japan?
Our citizens sent him packing
Japan and we both know:
Nuclear energy …
A deadly way to go.
Posted: 5/20/2011 3:32:11 PM
|For weeks it had bothered me so|
And twice had I started to go
But I’d not walked the lane
For I feared the pain
Of what taking that walk might me show.
‘Tis a coward I thought I may be
‘Cause I wouldn’t get myself to go see
That is – ‘til tonight
When I conquered my fright
And went off without heraldry
With bluster did I initially walk
Not once did I falter or balk
That is … ‘til the House came to view
Then my resolve turned to goo
And bravery my cowardice mocked.
The moon, hanging high in the sky
Winked goodbye, as a cloud drifted by
And here, on the ground,
T’was ne’ry a sound
As moon-shadows disappeared to go cry
There - in my tracks - I stood still
Breathing not – to bolster my will
I tried hard to move
My cowardice disproved
(If my bravery would ever refill)
The path, relit by Moon’s Face,
Saved me a coward’s disgrace
For the cloud moved away
My Shame got a stay
When resuming there my normal pace.
The Wind, was most quiet ‘til now,
There ‘bout ‘came lively somehow
And tree branches “spoke”
‘Cause the Wind it awoke
Every leaf, bark and dark bough
Dead leaves on the path ran about
In apparent unorganized route
Their rustling sounds
Were mindful of hounds
Chasing something unseen but devout
A chill then slowed down my gait
And gave pause - a moment to wait
Some unspoken dread
Entered my head
And I paused there awaiting my fate
And the pause gave birth to The Moan
Low … forlorn and alone
It sinister be
And deeply chilled me
And my soul then touched a tombstone
Glancing about where I stood
Looking for someone that would
Emit such a sound
But … nowhere around
Was there any being who could.
The on-rush of Fright was immense
Illogical and hotly intense
My instinct to run
Became then undone
When my mind readjusted its’ sense.
The Moan again reached my ears
Renewing my doubts and my fears
Panic set in
“RUN!” came again
Fears were my legs’ puppeteers
Then up the path did I run
Believing my mind was undone
The Moan was behind
But, left me inclined
To believe I was in a caldron
My only thought then of FLEEING
Was interrupted there by my seeing
A darkened door sill
Of the House on the Hill
As Fear gripped tight on my Being.
Each intake of breath was a gasp
My lungs beginning to rasp
The House was so near …
Yet so was the Fear
Then at last the door knob I grasped
I quick turned the knob and surged in
Then slammed the door shut again
Then I felt safe
A cold lonely waif
But … t’was the House on the Hill I was in!
Back into my mind fled the story
Of events of this house oh so gory
How persons had died
One was a bride
The facts of the tale all a sundry
The Moan’s words built me a touchstone –
Rendered to mush was my backbone
The cause why I’d fled
That Filled me with dread:
“The Horrors of Hell you’ll be shown!”
My thought was: Wait until daylight
‘Tis then I’ll be rid of my fright
I’ll not shed tears
Because of some fears
Yes … come daylight I’ll be alright.
T’was then I examined the room
Dark and dank filled with gloom
The musk and mildew
Like that of bayou
Promised to consume and entomb
Windows with light from moon-glow
Adorned the room in trousseau
Seductive, and yet …
A conceivable threat
Of revealing things not to know
Though the room was barrenly rife
With no visible clue there’d been life
My mind knew the truth
Caused Death to invade via lowlife
The House then seemed to connive
My thoughts of it’s being alive
‘Cant’ let it be so
I’ve got to go
And get out – if I want to survive
Then, footsteps from the floor o’er my head
Their sound began to outspread
Then dragging sounds
Rationality – replaced there by dread
Calculations through Fear, go awry
And then should never apply
To rational thought
To do what it ought
With reasonable things to comply
Now words of The Moan seemed less woeful
The sounds from above were more awful
I turned to the door
To go out once more
The knob wouldn’t turn – I was baneful
With panic again my companion
My circumstance I sought to abandon
But … nowhere to run
My nerves were undone
Bravery had lost its’ persuasion
A staircase was off to my left
Footsteps thereon it were deft
No one could I see
To caused my melee
Of cohesive thought I’m bereft
The room turned black as a tomb
Reverting to Hell’s only womb
Footsteps came near
As I stood there awaiting my doom
My mind told my voice to then scream
I prayed this was only a dream
No strength could I find
To un-wind my mind
And there my soul to redeem
Powerless was I to resist
By some evil was my Being kissed
And I felt the pain
Of going insane
Then all of my thoughts went to mist
With my actions now all controlled
Every word, every thought is cajoled
By Powers of Hell
You know very well
By Evil now I’m consoled
Now I’M the Voice of the Moan
And forever I’ll not leave you alone
To you I address
My solemn promise:
“The Horrors of Hell you’ll be shown”.