Night Visions

I had quite the imagination as a child. I would stare at the window in my bedroom until I conjured these horrible images that would stare at me from outside, then I'd run into my mom's room and hide my head under the cover. Once I decided to see if they would appear in my mom's window. This poem is about that time. Happy Halloween!

From my Bed I summon them as
Frameless panes compel my taunts.
Haunting glassy fantasies.
Lions, witches, beheaded wolf,
Effecting frightful trepidation.

Into Mama’s bed I run,
Presumptive sanctuary. 

Audaciously my tiny face 

bids my eyes to frameless panes
where my hateful witch awaits.
Boldly, she breaches the expected mores.
What a wretched witch!

My Brother

I wrote this for my "little" brother last year. Long story short, our mom let a couple adopt him who were his "baby-sitters" while she worked, and they moved away with him. Unfortunately I was 5 when he was born and he was everything to me. Of all the crappy things I can remember growing up this by far was the most devastating. We only recently reconnected (2 years) and are now slowly building a relationship. Today is his birthday, hence the post.

Gray October, baby boy

eventuating sister bond.
Fierce, fleeting, love,
callously removed.
Clarity, comprehension, 

left wanting.
A heart rent,
Benumbed existence,
sufficiently incomplete
Forty Septembers ensue,
fearfully, vulnerably, determined
a sister’s love compels.
Baby boy, grown, beautiful,
comparably, sweetly broken.
Tenderly, gingerly, a bond renews
as hearts slowly mend
A sister’s fierce love endures, forever.

Little Girl Lost

Ok, so this one's a little on the downbeat side, but it's therapeutically necessary

The chair rests in the

darkest corner of the

spacious room, either

believed to be her last

leisurely spot or simply

the most useful place to

conceal my soft sobs into

the worn out cushions

The game is one

I’ve grown weary of

at such a tender age

Recalling the usual numbers

I dial, anticipating the usual

responses from those

who know but for the

sake of one so young

would rather not say

Common betrayers

in my mind so betrayed

In a home full of others

who belong to me not

dejectedly, I summon together

All courage I possess

so as not to burden

The custodial ones

Continuing my tiresome

routine I ponder the questions

How she could leave;

I’m only a little girl

Why she would leave;

perhaps I’m too clingy

How long she’ll be gone;

Doesn’t she love me

“Are you ok” asks the

beautiful mom

sweetly smiling I nod my head

such a lovely family

yet one not my own

A tiresome game indeed

My Favorite Things

Love you goodnight sweet dreams

they softly shout as I descend the stairs

our favorite bedtime phrase

After titles of ponytails, love you forever,

And Amelia Bedelia escapades

And priceless childlike prayers

Oh the warmth contained in these floors

and walls and doors of this house of tenderness

Cheesy class parties and customary trips

to pumpkin fields and science centers

Amusing school lunches in tiny chairs

and homemade costumes of batmans,

sharks and Indian princesses

Pseudo santa gifts, squeals of delight

Shrieks of battles over contact and toys

And any little thing worthy of combat

But everyday love sometimes disguised

in the most peculiar moments

Heart replete, heart broken

Flutter yet for an instant

and up up they grow

graceful saplings, tall, strong, beautiful

soon to be gone, but always present

In floors and walls and doors

And memories of titles and prayers

And favorite bedtime phrases

In this house of tenderness

The Villagers

My attempt at a short story:

I breathed a sigh of relief as the plane lifted, no turning back now. Over the long ride to Hawaii my mind drifted back to the start. Bill and Melanie, Melanie and Bill. It had been “us” since mid-way through our junior year at Clark County High School, and, I naively assumed it would remain “us” forever. How can two people drift so far apart? I closed my eyes in an effort to squeeze away the tears that threatened to overtake me, and allowed myself sleep to shut out the emotions. As the plane descended upon the Honolulu Airport, a sudden trepidatious feeling overtook me, and I quickly whispered up a prayer for protection.

            Leaving the airport, I thought of my cousin Kai, and hoped she would be up for the interruption in her routine; although she had said I was welcome to visit she had sounded rather vague. I couldn't blame her for hesitating, after all I hadn’t seen her since we were kids. The taxi slowed, and I couldn’t help feeling that the driver must have gotten the address wrong. Surely Kai, the clean cut, seemingly privileged girl of my memories could not possibly have ended up living in such a seedy-looking part of town. I paid the fare, got out  and slowly walking toward the door, half-hoping the taxi driver would at any minute yell, “sorry, wrong address”; instead, he screeched his tires and sped away. I stepped onto the delapidated porch and  knocked on the huge heavily splintered wooden door nervously waiting while cumbersome footsteps clopped laboriously towards me. The door creaked opened, revealing a very large middle-aged man, clad in clothing comprised of feathers, bark cloth, and wood. Nervously I uttered something about Kai, and without a word the eccentric man stood to one side as if to allow me passage.

            The house was pitch black, and as I took my first step inside, instantly I was falling for what seemed an eternity. I must have passed out, because as I was slowly coming to, strange faces of men and women dressed in the same feathery attire as the doorman filled my vision. I was disoriented and everything was blurred, as if I had been drugged, but I had no memory of anything. I was strapped to a wooden plank, but how? Hadn’t I just been at the door of what I assumed was Kai’s house? What was happening to me? And where was Kai? I longed for the familiarity of Bill and home. As I groggily watched, the people began to sway to some sort of tribal dance. I struggled in my drugged state to decipher the chanting of these villagers. My eyes scanned the random faces surrounding me, until resting on a somewhat familiar one. There, in the midst of the primitive village people, was a vague semblance of the little girl cousin I knew so long ago; her eyes were rolling back in her head as she crazily danced and chanted with the others. I opened my mouth to scream, but like a horrible dream in which you attempt to cry out but can't, pathetic utterances were all I could muster the strength for.

 All at once I could feel my body began to rise, higher and higher, as my captors tugged at a crude homemade pulley. Their chants grew fainter until they were barely audible as I continued the long, scary, trip upward. I finally landed on a platform at the top of a gurgling, spewing volcano. I screamed again, this one from the very core of my being, but now, there was no one around to hear me. Once again I was moving as the platform inched closer to the center of the gigantic, fiery mountain. I remembered my brief earlier prayer and whispered “Dear Jesus, please help me!” My last thought as the platform started to dip was how much I loved my husband and how I would never be able to tell him that again. In what seemed like an excruciatingly long time I began to fall in slow motion, deeper and deeper into the scorching hot vapors, yet, amazingly, somehow I felt no heat; then what felt like a monstrous vacuum sucked at me, and again I fell into a deep state of unconsciousness. When I awoke, confused and visibly shaken, I was standing in front of the same door that had set the bizarre events of the past hours…minutes… in motion.

As fast as my feet would move I flew off that porch and to my astonishment found my cell phone in my purse – how was it that my purse was now on my shoulder – I pushed redial to summon a cab to return me to the airport. Had I just experienced what seemed so real in my mind? Had God just saved me, or was it all a dream? It was all so hazy in my mind, I couldn’t be sure. One thing I could be sure of; I was going home. Home to Indiana, home to Bill; home to anything life would present to me. After what I had just been through real or imagined, I was prepared to make my marriage work, no matter what it took. Once more I pulled out my phone, I was so excited to tell Bill I was on my way back, and to say the “I love you”  that I thought was lost forever.

She Speaks With Wisdom

To me, Proverbs 31:10-31 is one of the most influential group of Bible verses ever written. These words have inspired my life more than those of any book. Strategically contained on the walls of my home are at least 10 copies of goals all based on the words held in these verses. I've even strived to memorize this collection and although it has been a while since I've recited them, I could probably do so again with very little practice. So, you would think I have this lifestyle down to a science and perform it daily. Not!!! While these words have inspired me, they have also tried and found me wanting! Permit me to expound them for you verse by verse and what they mean and have meant to me:

A wife of noble character who can find? She is worth far more than rubies.

(Be an irreplaceable wife) Her husband has full confidence in her and lacks nothing of value. (He doesn't have to ask for clean socks and underwear : )

She brings him good not harm all the days of her life. (Lovingly submit to his authority, put his needs first, build him up and no nagging) She selects wool and flax and works with eager hands. (Happily give my all for my family) She is like the merchant ships bringing her food from afar. (Steadfast and dependable)

She gets up while it is still dark; (Up one hour earlier than anyone else to pray/read my Bible - ooh, I really struggle with this one) she provides food for her family and portions for her servant girls. (Plan all my meals, good healthy dinners for my family and help feed those in need, uh, I struggle with this one too) She considers a field and buys it; out of her earnings she plants a vineyard. (Have a nice yard, plant a garden, share the fruits of my labor) She sets about her work vigorously; her arms are strong for her tasks. (Take care to exercise and eat right) She sees that her trading is profitable, and her lamp does not go out at night. (Be wise with finances, work until finished) In her hand she holds the distaff and grasps the spindle with her fingers. (Wow, what a woman!) She opens her arms to the poor and extends her hands to the needy. (Be kind and chartible - a doer of the word) When it snows, she has no fear for her household; for all of them are clothed in scarlet. (See that my family is adequately, and neatly clothed and well cared for) She makes coverings for her bed; she is clothed in fine linen and purple. (Make our bedroom a beautiful sanctuary and always look my best for my husband) Her husband is respected at the city gate, where he takes his seat among the elders of the land. (Shine his armor daily, support him in whatever he does) She makes linen garments and sells them, and supplies the merchants with sashes. (Sew for profit?; use my talents and gifts generously to help others) She is clothed with strength and dignity; she can laugh at the days to come. ( Strong and independent,  well prepared for whatever comes her way) She speaks with wisdom and faithful instruction is on her tongue. ( This one convicted  me when my son was at a critical point in his young life, so I left a lucrative job to home school him and my daughter for a few years) She watches over the affairs of her household and does not eat the bread of idleness. ( Ouch!!! Be aware of what's going on in my children's lives - don't waste precious time on tv or the computer, make every moment count) Her children arise and call her blessed; (Love them unconditionally and be a blessing to them) her husband too, and he praises her: "many women do noble things, but you surpass them all." (Love him so much that his praise is compulsive)

Charm is deceptive, and beauty is fleeting; but a woman who fears the Lord is to be praised. Give her the reward she has earned and let her works bring her praise at the city gate. ( Let my true beauty come from loving God enough to love my husband and family with all my strength, and may my only reward be that of a heavenly nature).

So, can one woman possibly possess all these qualities? Highly unlikely; however, I coninually strive to mirror this consummate woman as she seems to embody some very traits modeled by Jesus Himself: Charity, love, dignity, servitude, strength, wisdom.

Understandably, satan labors continually, calling attention to my imperfections in mimicking Mrs. Proverb. After all, when and if I do get it right, he'll bear the suffering for my family's gain, and even if I don't, I know God will bless my efforts. Therefore I will pursue these pages of my Bible until they are a genuine reflection of my character; my husband and children are worthy of nothing less.

My Forever Love

A birthday poem for my husband:

Sultry summer night,

romance weary

twice I encounter him

this detective looking man

Barely there dark brown hair

 Liquefying blue eyes,

The detective man asks,

“are you following me”

I somehow suspect

I would follow him anywhere

And then again

as I twirl with another  

once more he addresses me

“when’s my turn”

sensing my destiny

 I reply at once

dismissing the other

“whenever you want”

eternal words of consequence

as it would seem

 twenty odd years,

 and some babies later

 oh how I adore

this detective man

detective though he’s not

The babies are grown

gray pervades dark brown

but oh those liquid eyes

yet glisten with love

Devotedly, infinitely, I know

I will follow him everywhere

Love, Lies, and Stupidity

He will likely never read this, but it was written for a man who was my stepfather long ago and the father of my brother although he emphatically denies ever knowing either of us now... 

Love, Lies, and Stupidity

You were a knight to me

A lamb among wolves

I trusted you and of your love

I was sure

So what can account for my

stupor or stupidity

Could it be that you

forfeited your soul

not my call

Perhaps you buried the truth 

so very deep

that it is unrecognizable

even to you

I’ve learned well

the fallibility of mankind

you however,

have established an all time low

In human imperfection

Sleep must elude you

with your belly full of lies

or can you truly exist

fictitiously, continually 

perjuring yourself

to those you “love”

Are you even capable

You make me cry

not for myself 

but for one I treasure

Unlike you I am capable

In time you will realize

the number of your days

You will long to reconcile

this regrettable mistake

which tragically will be fully spent

and therefore irreconcilable

I can release this anger

as it steals my joy

but sorrow shall prevail

for I loved you so

One day even my sorrow 

must cease

However yours, 

once avowed

will live eternal.

Chrissy

Aromas of bleach and cinnamon

permeate the air

of the tiny shotgun house.

Christmas night,

and all is temporarily well,

 before evil enters in

such are most holidays, and week-ends

 Tenderly, I press Chrissy’s back,

 a present from the morning festivities,

then snatch her hair to make it long,

sick and tired of her short do.

Sleepy eyes compel me to bed

but feelings of consternation

forbid my eyes rest.

Evil enters in,

as he usually does,

in spite of my pleadings

 for the alternative

Suddenly the aroma comprises

 elements of burning and wine

The dark room is penetrated

 with an eerie orange light

My tearful screams are no match

for the raging shouts of anger

Of what fuels this anger,

 I cannot be sure,

 but it manifests itself

in the strange orange light

 at the end of my bed

Screams surrender to whimpers

 as I struggle to comprehend

this perplexing blaze;

too fierce to be a candle

 the non-fire bearer apprises me

of the proper name: Flare

within my soft sobbing I pray

 for the flare to consume the bearer

Drowsiness converts to dreadful fear

of burning flesh and hair,
mine, Chrissy's

Fear mixes with sadness,

 Oh that he would disappear, or be normal,

or die.

The calmness of the non-fire bearer

pacifies the anger,

 the room concedes to darkness

Trembling exhaustion

abolishes former emotions

I press Chrissy’s back and shorten her hair,

sick and tired of her long do

 and drift away

I hate holidays, and week-ends.

Priscilla Johnson

I wrote this one day after visiting the JB Speed Art Museum looking for a piece to do a paper on for a class. Turned out to be a really interesting story as there was a Priscilla Johnson in the same time frame involved in an interview series with Lee Harvey Oswald

Priscilla Johnson
From the oversized ornate frame, her immense green eyes beckoned, “I have a secret, come see about me.” At first glance there was not much to see. A young woman in a bright green dress, nervously perched in a golden easy chair. But those eyes, haunted as any I’ve ever encountered. Something was terribly wrong with Priscilla? Possibly marital problems; yet there was no way to discern if she even had a husband as her ring finger was obscured from my view by the folds of her acid green dress.
Money problems perhaps. Or could it simply be the creepy plant that seemed to be making its way toward her awkward figure, mocking the shape of her bony fingers? Maybe she just needed a good meal considering the leanness of her entire body.

Then, stealing one more gaze into those penetrating eyes I concluded; her ghosts were much more complex than the material things of this world, Priscilla was troubled to the deepest recesses of her soul. I quickly left her, anxious to escape the uneasiness she stirred in me.
Whatever her secret, Priscilla’s eyes incited trepidation to the very core of my being; I once possessed those eyes, emitting piercing evidence of the torment in my soul. I've known the pain revealed in the flushness of Priscilla’s face, and although I’m never anxious to revisit, still I'm grateful, for mini-visits such as these only serve to remind me of the beautiful saving grace of my Savior by which I am now defined. For that I’m obliged to Priscilla, and I pray that somewhere in time, she too is now free from whatever haunted those beautiful green eyes.

The Clock

The seemingly inverted,

distinguished clock graces my wall

she loses precious time,

squandering a minute here, or ten

Faithfully, fallaciously, she resonates booming,

slightly less than melodious tones

signaling a desperate desire

for yet another turn of the clock key

But steadfastly her pendulum persists,

tocking and ticking, evoking memories

 of long ago times at far away tables

Perpetual faces etched delicately in shrieking chimes

Lovingly wooing me to action, clock key in hand.

Flowers

Wrote this sometime last summer after hearing of a young soldiers death...not much older than my own son. I'm not anti-war,although I feel that the war in Iraq was more about revenge than weapons of mass destruction, the fact is, I wanted revenge. I am ready, however, for the war to be over. Too many American and Iraqi soldiers have died; too many civilians. But how does one go about gracefully evacuating a country one has invaded on the pretense of effecting change, when in fact, no change seems to have been effected? 

Flowers

Somewhere flowers are blooming today,

as soldiers are dying in lands far away.

Children are bowing their sweet heads in prayer,

Beseeching their God for their mom or dad’s care.



In that faraway land where the brave soldiers die,

The flowers are burning from bombs in the sky.

While grief stricken moms and dads bow in prayer

Cause their children are dead, from the rockets red glare.

Summer Rain

These are some of the memories stirred in me by the title “Summer Rain.” I lived with my Dad at the time 1st or 2nd grade; I always was sad to see summer come to an end, and a new school year beginning. The song, “Kentucky Rain” always reminded me of my mom. Most of the time, we didn’t know where she was; oh but I loved her so much, I always wanted to stay with her when I did finally see her.

Summer Rain

Swirling drops of crystal blue

dance and fall with leaves of gold 

School is starting soon, of this I’m certain

Elvis sings on the radio.

“Kentucky rain keeps pouring down”

Windshield wipers keep time, late into the night,

Mama sings, “Hey would you like to swing on a star? ”

Her voice is pretty

Pitter-patter, swoosh-swish.

I bury my face into her sweater;

she smells of cigarettes and perfume.

“ Raining cats and dogs,” she says.

My whimsical mind envisions the domestic animals

as they splatter the windshield,

 I groggily giggle. She strokes my hair.

Her right forefinger, rounder than the rest,

is slightly mangled. From a motorcycle accident,

or a meteorite, my drowsy mind cannot discern.

Please God, can I stay here forever.

Like this, in her arms, just us two.

Oh yes, except for the slightly drunken man behind the wheel.

 “Well a fish is a mammal–

no wait, she must have said animal—

 that swims in a brook.”

Please slightly drunken man sir, don’t let her take me home

“He can’t write his name or read a book”

If only I can stay awake. I hate school.

 “So by the way if you hate to go to school,

 you may grow up to be a mule.

” Pitter-patter, swoosh-swish.

I wish I were a fish, or a mule.

Parable of the Horses

I love the parables in the Bible. After attempting to write one, I love even more how wise Jesus was and is. I struggled to make every piece fit, but He, off the cuff, spoke perfect words of wisdom to his disciples, in ways he knew they could understand. It has been my prayer for my children since they were babies that they will use heavenly wisdom, and fall in love with hearts before faces when deciding on a marriage partner. With that in mind this is my feeble attempt at a story that imparts anything which closely resembles wisdom.

Parable of the Horses

A wise father sent his three young sons into the city in search of a perfect workhorse, with only one  instruction: “follow your hearts.” Upon arriving in the city, the boys proceeded to the most reputable stable. The oldest son immediately sought the show horses, searching from stall to stall, for the finest looking horse available. He finally settled on a beautiful colt, tall and splendid, yet wild in nature.

The second oldest son wandered through where the racehorses were kept. Posted on the stalls were the best times, winnings, and bloodlines of all the thoroughbreds. The young man selected the absolute best horse based on all three criteria. However, many seasons of fast racing had resulted in orthopedic problems for the young mare.

Meanwhile, the youngest son, inspired by his father’s words to follow his heart, slowly made his way through the draft horses stalls. The older brothers followed behind snickering among themselves, whispering “nag-lover.” Ignoring his brothers, still led by his “heart” the boy stopped in front of “Penny’s” stall. At this his brothers were rolling in laughter, “girlie-nag-lover” they chanted.

“Penny” was thinner than the other draft horses, albeit muscular; to the youngest son however, this was not relevant. She was gentle and docile, and the boy just knew in his heart that Penny was the one.

 The boys returned home with their respective reports for the selections they had made, each but the third assured that their father would choose the same horse as they had. Upon reading the details of each  one’s preference the father called the boys to him.

 To the eldest he said: “Son, beautiful horses, like beautiful women are pleasing to the eye, but if at the core of their being, lies a riotous spirit, heartache will soon follow. To the middle son he said, ”My boy, the world loves a winner, but to win in life and love, the one who runs joyfully, all the while enjoying the race is more victorious than the one with the ability to rush to the finish.”

Finally, the father turned to his youngest, who anxiously awaited. “My son” he said with a smile, “You have chosen wisely. Your guide was neither beauty nor bloodline, but the virtue associated with a quiet and gentle spirit.” Then turning to the three he loved so deeply the father said, “seek your brides with the same measure this youngest son of mine has chosen his filly, and the richest of lives possible will be your treasure.”

Papaw

This is one of my very favorites because I wrote it to honor the man who in my opinion is quite possibly one of the greatest men to have walked this planet second of course to the greatest one to walk it...
My Papaw is largely responsible for the Christian woman I am today and I cannot wait to see him in heaven someday!!!!

Papaw

Brown as the baneful day you left,

were your eyes, and your feathery pillows

rivaled their softness.

Words of caring, velvety and pure,

were your banner over me and those you loved.

In the fearful shadows of my dark dwelling,

In you I found my refuge, my hiding place

For none esteemed me higher, save for the One you served,

and none portrayed the Heart of Him more perfectly

than you, tender and perfect like the Lamb you served.


Can you see with angels eyes, the woman I’ve become?

Can you taste the sweetness of my redemption

executed by your prayers?

My hateful existence could not define the person deep inside,

nor did I drown in mucky mires, although I swam too long.

Because of great love which even when left behind

flowed like rivers of succor, I emerged unscathed.

Because your heart, so replete with compassion,

could bear neither my physical pain, nor my

eternal separation, I will be where you are,

you and the One you serve.

Summer Of My Reinvent

I wrote this when I started college for the first time at 43, and began to wonder if I had lost my mind. It was pseudo published by one of those rip-off literary places that makes you think your poem is a one-of-a-kind masterpiece and for a mere 49.95 sends you a copy of a special collection of poetry with your "masterpiece" printed on the very first page! Without further ado:

Summer of my Reinvent
Mid July, who am I?
Wife, mother, daughter, friend.
Forty-three, blissfully,
tend to mine assiduously.
Dare I adopt a rearward glance,
alter course, provoke chance?
Redefined, I assent,
concede to mine, I've come unbent,
this summer of my reinvent.