Who Knew?

Who knew it was just a matter of time--
That the ticking of the clock
Would open up this heart
So my eyes could see
What I couldn't know
A moment before I knew?

Who knew it would take fifty years
For me to become me?
Fifty years was inconceivable to me
When I was thirty, and even forty-eight
I was loathe to even consider it
Until the day it occurred.

Who knew, when the time was ripe,
Just after the clock struck midnight
An owl would hoot--
For several minutes, in fact
And I would emerge from the trance
The bubble would pop
The spell would break
And I'd awaken,
Like Cinderella, with a twist,
Turning into me

Who knew it would be so easy?
When all was finally said and done
The long feared, dreaded dawning of fifty
Brought the gift of all I am
Presented with fanfare and celebration
Unequaled in my life

Who knew I was ready?
After all those years in vain
Vainly demanding to command such things
As I didn't understand
And when it arrived
It would happen in such a quiet, natural way

Who knew it would be okay?
No, so much more than okay
Excellent, fantabulous
And add awesome to that!

Who knew I would be basking in love?
From within and all around me
Alive as never before
When my day, my moment, and fifty arrived

©2005 Jodi Flesberg Lilly
www.lightinmotion.net

Emptiness

Withdrawn from the world outside my window,
I watch through the cracks of the blinds.
Voices echo from below my window,
Thunder rattles my walls.

I am alone and feeling the weight of my company,
Seeing my own weaknesses in vivid color,
Fearing my own shortcomings,
Second-guessing my life.

Thoughts echo against the walls,
Bare emotions surface exposing flesh,
Vulnerable before my own eyes,
Digging at myself.

Worthlessness takes root,
Love and affection seem distant,
Tears well inside,
I am alone.

The weight of my depression pulls at my defenses,
Everything is wasted,
I hope you understand,
I am nothing.

There is a moment of light,
The wind blows,
Darkness takes hold,
A frozen picture in oblivion.

© Steven Johnston

Friends

Confusion reigns on life's turmoil,
And concentration tries to foil,
But no amount of focused thought
Will circumvent what love has wrought.

So life is short but won't possess
Your hopes and dreams of youth, unless
You let them grow with life, with friends,
With those who'll stay through bitter ends.

A mind you'll make and then you'll see
How foolish most concerns can be,
For in the end you've simply been
The lives you've touched and helped and seen.

(c)2005 by Jack Huber
http://www.my-journal.com/journaler/huberjack

Whispers of the Heart -Maria Stepek Doherty

In the silence of this room
Intent, I listen to my Heart
Speak as to a wayward child,
Demanding that I hear her now.
Softly murmuring she says,
"I will be heard and you will listen,
Feed my hunger now,
Ignore me at your peril."

In the silence of this room,
I am startled by the sound,
Of a long low growling
Coming from my heart,
A soul deep primitive rumbling
Primeval longing and desire,
To fill the hollow loveless places;
She will not be denied.

In the silence of this room,
She whispers quietly, insistent.
"The dark tight tendrils of past sorrows,
Bind and choke the life from me.
Release the bonds of ancient darkness,
Let Light's sweet energy enter here.
The time has come to let them go,
That my wild power may be set free.

In the silence of this room,
I hear the whispers of my heart,
I hear the snap of bindings breaking
I feel my heart expand and sigh.
I listen as my heart sings softly,
"Feel the love that overflows,
To feed and fill the hollow spaces
Of this hungry waiting world"

http://www.chrysalistransformations.com
http://www.magicalmaria.blogspot.com

Dance with Me

Dance under the Northern lights,

Through yellow, blue and white.

Celebrate throughout the night

The calm of the moon's delight.

Stars glisten at the sight.

Mingling glances,

across the velvet sky

Twinkle at me tonight.

The clouds are our taxi,

through the universe we fly.

Hand in hand, star to star

heart to heart, never part.

Dance underneath the Northern lights,

Shout with glee, and delight.

Feel the warmth of auras on your skin,

the moon kisses your cheeks again.

White, so innocent is your face.

Your eyes twinkle day to day.

Hand in mine, heart to heart.

Underneath the northern lights.

The Lady Of Despair

The Lady Of Despair
Carol Roach

She moves quickly through the night
The Lady of Despair
Gathering minions by her might
For we must all beware
Onward she marches
No time to delay
Her ever-seeking body arches
Searching for her prey

She crouches quietly at your door
For that inviting light
Overpowering emotion and more
Quashing wisdom and blinding sight

She listens while your heart beats strong
Time being her greatest ally
You've lost if but one heartbeats wrong
She has no time to dally

Wherever happiness prevails
She unleashes her tale of woe
Causing all signs of joy to fail
Adding to her legions we all go

Many have attempted to resist her charm
For she is quite the temptress
Lost in her clutches succumbing to harm
Unable to withstand her duress

Alone I stand at my door to wait
To defeat the Lady of Despair
I cannot fail and seal my fate
For my soul cries out

I still care, I still care

Carol Roach
winterose@videotron.ca




If you are interested in other stories feel free to join her newsletter: Storytime Tapestry at: http://subs.zinester.com/98907 , or email her directly at winterose@videotron.ca and she will be glad to accommodate you. Carol enjoys email and responds to every inquiry.

I'M IN LUV WITH A EWE

Folks make fun of my best girl
They laugh at her skinny legs and her fleecy curls
Whenever we dance people stop and stare
And hold their noses up in the air

I'm in luv, I'm in luv, I'm in luv with a ewe

My gal chops don't tell no lies
And she'd never run around with any other guy
She gives me the woolies whenever she's near
A lamb of a girl who's so sincere

I'm in luv, I'm in luv, I'm in luv with a ewe
I'm in luv, I'm in luv, I'm in luv , I'm in luv
with a genuine, authentic, New Zealand sheep


c 1977 Steve Trotter, Even Steven Publishing

http://www.SteveTrotter.com

The Magic

I.
The medium
through which the magic flows
is but the container
for the creative essence we are
to rest upon,
to settle into

Evidence,
we are more
than we know ourselves to be

Proof
of what we can make
of the magic within

II.
Down deep beneath the skin
the essence I am
craves the movement
of pen across the page

With faith in the flow of the process
inspired by the joy of creation
finger on the power of the pulse
I find the rhythm in the inklings

Essential ideas
express my facets
Colored ink
reflects the mood

The adventure of putting pen to paper
fills the space
with the delight of the divine
inviting connection
with the magic
I am

(c) 2005 Jodi Flesberg Lilly
www.lightinmotion.net

Hardwired - Maria Stepek Doherty

A thousand sparks of memory,
Ignited by your voice,
Flash fire through my mind.

Consigned to the past,
I thought you ashes,
Scattered in time.

Your words burn me,
Delusion, melting to reveal,
A heart hardwired to mine.

ONYX 2097 - Prolog - Toni LoTempio

PROLOG –
EARTH – NEW YORK - 2097
ALL things considered, the New York of 2097 wasn’t all that much different from the city of the year 2005. There were moments, places of silence and small slivers of time where even the smallest breeze seemed totally insignificant.
It was, after all, New York.
There were still tall skyscrapers and the Empire State Building still ruled as the tallest of the tall. Broadway was still called the Great White Way; the Statue of Liberty still guided visitors to our shore. If you didn’t count the improvements intergalactic travel had made over the past 90 years or the fact that most piloted about in cars that gravitated 10 feet above the ground instead of the archaic motorcars, things were really pretty much the same. Neon and fluorescent lights bathed the streets in multicolored pseudo-light in the wee hours of the morning as music spilled from the doorways of trendy clubs and shops provided a never-ending cacophony of sound that boomed along the layers of pollution like an avenging angel.
Tonight seemed especially black.
Deep in the bowels of the city, in a dark room no bigger than a cube, a strange tableau began to unfold.
An alien pirate, a green giant of a man - no, make that creature - called Toza sat in a chair far too small for his hulk, his face contorted in rage. His large, ham-like hands gripped the edge of his seat and threatened to pull it from its moorings.
Across from him stood a woman. She too was large, although not of Toza’s gargantuan proportions. She was powerfully built. Muscular legs that seemed to go on forever peeped out from her yellow leotards. Her feet were encased in strapped sandals, bare at the ankles so that the wings positioned on each could have freedom of movement. Her well-formed lips were twisted right now into a sardonic grin and her most arresting feature - her pitch-black, flat eyes - were trained directly on the alien.
“Give it up, Toza. Surrender.”
Her voice was not unlike a rumble of thunder. Deep, commanding. She took a bold step forward. Toza’s beefy hand shot out and encircled her wrist.
“Never. Give me the tiara.”
Her obsidian eyes stared back. “Make me,” she purred with a sound deep in her throat. “Make me, Cretan.”
“Ah, little girl. You have no idea what you’re up against.”
His thick green lips parted in a sick semblance of a smile.
“And neither do you,” she thought, but aloud remarked, “Well, why don’t you show me, then? I dare you.”
“Many who have dared me have died.”
“I’m sure. However, this time is different. This time, you have no idea what you’re up against.”
She raised her free arm and before Toza could blink, twin bolts of lightning flashed out from under her fingertips and smashed against the side of his giant, green head. The force caused him to release his hold on her wrist. She moved her ankles swiftly back and forth as she fluttered in the air just above the dazed space pirate.
“Hold on now. This may hurt a little.”
She raised her arm again and as she prepared to do battle, the thought flashed through her mind again.
“How did I get here? Oh, yes…I remember….”

Desolate

Its depth of understanding need
To only be considered,
For those of us whose hearts concede
Become the souls embittered,
Alone in mind and spirit means
That even people near
Are not in retrospective scenes
Of soothing guilt and fear.
We search for others with lament
So similar to ours,
And grant each other permanent
Refrain from listless hours.

(c)2005 by Jack Huber

Backspace

I key in and expunge
words that gush unreservedly
from my earnest reflections

Too revealing in their
raw passion
and honest fervor

Sliding down my mind
decoded into letters
but obliterated by backspace.

(c)2005 Gautami S Tripathy

Stinky Squad

By DC Green

Chapter 1: Burp!

Spinner jerked awake and groped for his glasses. Two figures crashed through his bedroom door. They brushed off fragments and began to grapple, or possibly dance. Dust swirled through slats of morning sun. Glasses on, Spinner blinked. Festering skulls rotated toward him, their lips and eyelids rotted away, exposing teeth like claws and bulging eyeballs that could never blink. Spinner’s sphincter puckered.

Zombies!

But that’s... crazy? Spinner looked down. His blue hands looked normal enough, apart from the shaking rippling his silk pyjamas. He pinched one wrist. "Ow!" Super crazy! His eyes darted up.

Small Zombie struggled to bite Big’s bum. "Mmm!"

Spinner’s nostrils quivered. The rotting, wrestling corpses smelt like something a dog would dig up, and just as quickly bury again, whimpering.

"Brains... mmm." Big Zombie shoved Small Zombie through a cupboard and loomed over Spinner’s bed. "Must eat... brains!"

"Gahh!" Spinner squeaked and pulled his legs in.

Too slow. Big Zombie seized Spinner’s left foot. Zombie spit dribbled onto his toes. "Mmm... brains?"

Spinner’s stomach spasmed. He squinted at Big Zombie’s night-dress. "Mum...? Is that you? And... Suzy??"

Zombie Mum grimaced a hideous smile. "Join us... mmm... in death!" Her mouth creaked wide, a rat trap with bad plaque.

"Mum... You really need to floss!" Sweat blossomed across Spinner’s forehead. "Don’t bite meeeee!"

A familiar rumble surged in Spinner’s stomach, but with a tingling he’d never felt in his throat before. Projectile vomit erupted from his mouth. Unchewed chunks splashed against Spinner’s undead mum.

"Aaah, burnies!" Zombie Mum reeled back, clutching her smoking head.

"Um... that’s never happened before." Spinner’s heart sucked blood. "Mum?"

Spew rebound splashed onto the bed between Spinner’s legs. The doona fizzled. Spinner gawked. His vomit gobbled through feathers, two sheets, a mattress, then his bed base. Below the bed, carpet smouldered.

Spinner gaped at his disintegrating zombie mum. But then... NONE of this has ever happened before-

"Oooh... powers!" Zombie Sister, coated in splinters, shot Spinner a glance almost of respect.

Zombie Mum, head now blazing, paused to check her watch. "Mmm.... Must go. Must watch... TV."

"TV... Mmm." Zombie Sister agreed. The pair lurched out of Spinner’s bedroom, through the wall, leaving him spinning in his smoking bed.

"Acid vomit... zombie family... and it’s sport day at school. Has to be a nightmare... But then, I’ve already done the pinch test." Spinner glimpsed a chunk of vom-carrot on his leg.

"Gahh!"

He flicked. The carrot tumbled through dust eddies. It melted through Spinner’s Turbo Euroblaster boogie board and tumbled on through the wall, like it was made of wet tissue. Flames licked up.

Spinner scratched his ear. Huh? He checked where the vomit had squatted on his leg. Unmarked. Too early. Need coffee...

Spinner peered down the spew hole in his bed. His vomit splash had eaten clean through the carpet and floorboards below. Zombies in the kitchen and fire in the house. His mind tumble-turned. Time to leave the house.

Spinner climbed down his doona remnants. He crashed bum first in the dirt beneath his bedroom, next to a bubbling hole. How far would my vomit munch? Right through the core of the Earth to war-torn Orange Land?

Bent double, Spinner bumped toward the edge of the mansion. He squinted out. All clear. He scurried across the lawns that took the gardener a week to mow and ducked beneath the Oztrailer flag. It dangled limply. Spinner ran on, until he came to the perimeter hedge. On hands and knees, he peered out at his street.

Hairy purple postman legs lurched by. Spinner reeled back. Was the postie delivering zombie mail, dead on time?
A distant "mmm... hmm..." hummed. Or was that just electrical wires? The hum faded and the street fell silent, except for Spinner’s internal organs. His heart thumped and tummy grumbled.

Was that smoke rising from the mansion?

Nothing made sense! Yesterday, his mum and sister were annoying, but hardly zombies. And his vomit was mildly acidic, not a head-melting mutant death acid. Why had everything-

Of course! Spinner jolted. Today’s my birthday! What a mad start to my teen years! He forced a chuckle. Such madness has to be the work of some beyond reality TV show! Or else this was all just another warped marketing stunt by Zombie Dave, maker of the finest chemical-enhanced lollies in Oztrailer. With Mum and Suzy in on the prank! Yes, this was all too unreal not to have TV involved. Spinner patted his spiky hair down and glanced around for hidden cameras-

A scream!

Soft at first, with the odd pause for breath, the scream closed in. Spinner crawled out from under his hedge and slipped between two luxury cars to peer toward the shabby side of town.

A gangly figure sprinted down his street. The teen screamer tripped across an intersection, almost splatting face first. He appeared more human than zombie... sort of. Spinner checked his patched pyjamas, ratty blanket worn cape-style and the object stuck to the side of his head. A pillow, dribbling lumps of coloured foam.

Spinner snorted as he recognised him: that purple loser in the year above him at school who thought he was so tough, even though he owned one of the most fertile crops of acne in the Southern Hemisphere. And a somewhat harsh but fair nickname.

"Hey, Zitron!" Spinner called, from between the Kruppsters.

Zitron stopped running, and screaming. "Who the...?" He panted, and leaned on a car for support. His eyes darted. His mouth scrunched up, a purple cat’s bum of confusion.

"Wanna borrow my glasses?" Spinner waved. "You need ‘em!"

"What the...?" Zitron focussed, recognised Spinner and shifted to mocking tone. "Oh, it's you... the fancy blue nerd who spins around and vomits so he can get out of sport."

"That’s why they call me Spinner." Spinner forced a laugh, though he wasn’t sure what was more dangerous: tricky zombies, or hidden TV cameras. "Though I only get out of lame school sports because I prefer the dangers of boogie boarding." Spinner tried to stand tall and confident, though he stood one ruler shorter than Zitron and was running on 100 % fake confidence. But Spinner was also famous in the school yard for his snappy put-down replies, and he had ample for the likes of this scrawnbag. "Um, did you know you have a pillow stuck to your ear?"

"Yeah, yeah." Zitron flicked at his pillow, knocking out more fluff. "I’m not an idiot, kid. While I slept, my pimple pus somehow glued this pillow to my noggin, and my back to this blanket." He wiped sweat off his zit-mountained face.
It seemed Zitron’s pus did not affect him. Hmm.

Zitron bent low. "Try to tear my pillow off, kid."

Spinner shrugged, grabbed the pillow and yanked. "Sure. Just don’t call me kid."

"Ow!" Zitron’s head jerked along for the ride. "Stop... kid! My neck just cracked in three places! You’re only making my pillow leak more fluff!"

"Shush!" Spinner waved his arms. "Believe me, you don’t want to disturb the neighbours!" Spinner’s stomach burbled again. He struggled to keep his expression casual. "Um, Zitron... why exactly were you screaming down my street?"

"Oh... that. Heh." Zitron darkened. "I awoke to find my dog Skull eating through my pillow to get at my brain."

Spinner pushed his face into a smile. "You expect me to believe your PET turned into a zombie?"

"Kid, the whole country has gone zombie!"

Spinner dropped his front. "You’re in on the joke too, aren’t you? Tell me!" He grabbed Zitron by his blanket. "There’s no zombie dogs in Oztrailer! No zombies at all!! And I don’t have acid death spew!!!"

"Whoa, kid. You don’t look so ho-"

"Urrrrlp-" Spinner ralphed. This time, onto the neighbour’s car. The car blew up, spinning Spinner and Zitron into the spiky hedge lining the footpath.

Boom-blackened Zitron boggled. "You DO have acid death spew!"

"This is a TV hoax!" Spinner paled. "Right, Zitron? Right!?" But Spinner knew in his gut no TV hoax could explain his deadly new spew... power?

Zombies burst out of every door along the street. Skulls pivoted and neck bones clicked. Undead eyes locked on Spinner and Zitron. As one, the zombies lurched toward them.

"No hoax this?" Spinner’s cunning tongue froze.

"Mmm... brains!"

Zitron massaged his forehead. "I don’t think I’ll be the same without my brain!"

"BRAINS!!"

Spinner moaned. "Why do they always have to say that?"


Check out more DC Green Yarns at: http://dcgreenyarns.blogspot.com/

Minesweeper

It is like the game at which you excelled,
Broke all records, found all those mines
In 30 seconds flat. Ready to go again.
All set to win every game, ready to outshine,
Our counter-strategies always in vain,
As cold logic got you there, your luck held.

But life, my dear, is not a computer game,
Just like relationships don’t run in binary.
Something you never could fathom.
As you went on believing her in a hurry,
Discarding their complaints as random,
Scoring points and passing around blame.

Now there’s no turning back, no amends
possible. Each loved one is on the brink,
teetering at the point of no return.
While you watch, incredulous, and think
of numerical equations to soothe the burn
of seared souls and blazing fences you can’t mend.

Now the logic of ifs and thens leads to walls
of stony silences or acrimony. Tread light,
my dear, to find your way out of this minefield;
there’s much to lose to the darkest of nights,
Where no one is prepared to give or yield
Or help you gauge whence duty calls.


Now the logic of ifs and thens leads to walls
of stony silences or acrimony. Tread light
my dear, to find your way out of this minefield,
there’s much to lose to the darkest of nights.
Where no one is prepared to give or yield
Or help you gauge whence duty calls.

Pragya

Blossoms

There was a certain path,
behind the shed in her yard,
that led to an old orchard.

Once, on a warm summer day,
we walked together,
passed the faded tresspass signs,
to the tree with the white blossoms.

We lay together,
as the wind swept over us,
and the warm summer whispers kissed my ears.

The scent of ripe fruit overwhelming,
a single sensation resonating,
growing until everything melted together.

The grass has now grown long,
the blossoms blown in the wind,
but the sweet scent lingers in my memory.

© 2005 Steve Johnston

The Matchmaker (A Monologue)

(The Front Room of MRS CHITNIS’ home office. There is a table and a chair. There is a pile of files on the table. MRS CHITNIS’ voice is heard off)

MRS CHITNIS:

Come in, come in, my dear. What did you say your name was? (coming on) Anjali? Anjali Bambawale? Any relation to the Bambawales of Sadashiv Peth? You know, they live near Chitale Bandhu? The Sweetshop (pause) No? Oh, okay. (Sitting at the table) Let’s see now (searches among the files until she locates Anjali’s file, opens it, reads) Hmmm… 34? (Looks across at the imaginary Anjali) You’re THIRTY-FOUR years old? What have you been doing so long? Your parents should have tried to get you married long ago. And it’s no wonder you’re having difficulty finding a match… you’re dark skinned! Were your parents sleeping? They should have got you married ten years ago. Really, I tell you, parents are so lazy these days! (Pause) What’s that you say? Father died six years ago? Well, really. How are you going to pay the dowry then? That’s the trouble with you ‘modern’ people. No idea how important it is to have a father alive and earning to pay the dowry. Hmmm… let’s see (reads the papers in the file) any brothers…. brothers... brothers… hmmm.. one brother… hmmm… older…. ACTOR? Which Serial? (Pause) Humph… STAGE ACTOR? We can write off any dowry contribution from him then. You people make it so difficult for the matchmaker these days. Let’s get one thing clear, young lady, though why I call you young I don’t know…. THIRTY-FOUR! And dark skinned too! As I was saying, let’s get one thing clear; with a skin like that and your age, the dowry will have to be hefty. (Pause) Illegal? Well of course dowry is illegal. That doesn’t stop people from asking and girls like you from paying if you want a good match.

Well, let’s see if we can salvage something from the situation…. (reads the papers again) You’re a POST-GRADUATE? What on earth were you thinking? First of all, you’re dark-skinned. Then you wait until you’re 34. And on top of that, you go and get a post graduate qualification. Now you’ll tell me you want someone better qualified than you. (Pause) I knew it! No doubt he’ll have to be earning more than you do too… Don’t nod like that! Do you know how difficult your position is? And mine too. I have a reputation to protect, you know. I’m the best matchmaker in Pune. And I don’t believe in that nonsense about being spurred by a good challenge. If I were interested in spurs, I’d be a jockey – now don’t interrupt, young lady (sneering tone at “young”) I don’t need a lesson on horseracing.

Anyway, let’s see... hmmmm… Occupation, teacher… College! Ah, that’s good, that’s good. Teachers are in demand these days, especially if they are willing to migrate to the USA… What’s that? (Pause) Now look here, you silly fool. None of that patriotic nonsense. What do you mean you want to stay in India? (Pause) Nothing doing. Apply for a job in the USA or Canada. Or at least Australia. No wait! Australia doesn’t recognise Indian qualifications. It has to be the USA. Don’t interrupt! So far, you’ve done all you can to spoil your chances of getting married. Now don’t spoil the one remaining chance.

Here’s what you do. Look through the appointment pages – the Opportunities Overseas section – and apply for all the teaching positions in the USA or Canada. Keep me informed. There are plenty of good boys who will jump at the chance to marry a girl who gets a job in the USA. Canada too. The minute you get a job there, we’ll fix an engagement. Better to fix things so that nobody backs out at the last minute. There was one girl who went off and then married somebody in the USA. So you’ll pay my fee before you leave India. Yes, you may go now… (Watches as the imaginary Anjali leaves, then sighs and shuts the file, to audience) THIRTY-FOUR! I hope I can find a fool who will believe that she is still innocent.

BLACKOUT

Note:

• Women, regardless of age, who are looking for a husband are called “girls” in India. Similarly, a man looking for a wife is called a “boy”.
• Innocent is a euphemism for virgin.

What is love?

Does love wander on the streets

Strutting her stuff

offering her self to you?

Does love consume your brain,

Slowing down time, in your embrace?

Does love swim in rivers,

Traveling up your spine,

maximizing emotions?

Or does love hide away,

In a dark cave,

waiting to find the light?

A Dialogue on Love

"Why don't you just tell her?"

"It's not that easy. There are other things involved."

"Like what?"

"Good friends."

"What?"

"I can't tell her without losing a friend."

"Do you love her?"

"She holds all of my dreams, my hopes...my heart."

"But do you love her?"

"That doesn't mean anything."

"How can you say that? True love is the most..."

"What the hell are you talking about? True love is a fairy tale for little girls. Love is fleeting. It passes as the moment wills."

"Then why do people spend whole lifetimes together? Why do they have children and grow old together? Why do they dream of and plan for the future?"

"Convenience...fear...misunderstanding...settling. Listen, people make plans together all the time. Teenagers a re naming children that they'll never have because Johnny danced with Susie. How is that for futures and plans? Or how about the guy who lies and swears his love to some drunk girl just to get in her pants and feel good for fifteen minutes before he disappears forever?"

"Children and jerks. Children don't know any better. Jerks will die alone somewhere with a bottle and their hand for their best friend. Stop confusing what others do and think about your own truth."

"The truth, as I see it, is not some fairy tale. I could love you and lust someone else in the same breath. Isn't love grand? Love is an ideal that we can't live up to."

"You're human. Love is understanding and accepting. More importantly, love is faith that although you might get sidetracked, you will always find your way home to the one who loves you."

"Home? You can never go home again..remember?"

"So where does that leave you?"

"Alone..I guess."

You are Gone - a Poem for Deborah

You are gone.
A meteor blazing your trail
Across the dark sky of my soul,
Where you journey to
Lies beyond my understanding;
My soul may know the way.

You are free.
Like an eagle’s soaring spirit,
Released from earthly bounds
You leave behind your pain,
Your sorrows and your burdens,
Help me not to take them on.

I am so weary,
Drained by the leach of sadness
Sucking on my bones until they ache
With longing and with grief,
This cavernous sense of loss.
Who is it that I cry for?

It hurts so much.
I feel like a soft toy gouged open,
Stuffing knocked out of me,
Leaving me limp and flat,
An empty body whose soul has fled;
Did it leave with you?

I want to let go.
I want to soar above the earth with you,
To lay my sorrows down and be pure spirit
Yet life calls me powerfully,
Love holds me to this earth.
This is the parting of our ways.

I have a life to live,
A designated path to keep ,
People who are depending on me
To pull rabbits from hats and walk high wire,
While simultaneously being
The still, calm centre of their universe.

It still hurts too much,
Pain graws at my thoughts;
I don’t want to play this game of grief.
Can I stop it now, curl into a foetal ball?
Seek the dark warmth of my mother's womb,
And stop the bleeding of my heart.

I don’t want to grow up.
It is much too hard.
I want to be a child again,
Playing rope, innocent of grief,
Death has not touched me yet.
I want those soft blue skys.
Please let me be a child again.

I feel tainted by this anger,
Raging at the dying of your Light.
You fought so hard to stay alive,
Live out the sweetness of your days,
For one more gentle touch,
For one more night of love.

I wish that I could cry,
Wash away the bitter thoughts,
Excise this corrosive misery;
Feel the touch of joy upon my soul,
Live the happiness you fought for,
The precious gift of life.

And this too shall pass,
As all dark nights creep into dawn,
Golden fingers stretching out
Across the blackened sky ,
Nudging us awake from our bad dreams,
To see the light of day again.

Daydreamer

A thought, a dream, a fleeting glance,
A ditty keeping out of range,
Have occupied my mind, a trance,
A bubble floats, its shell in change.

A book, a sound, a friendly laugh,
A memory won't disappear,
An angel sings on my behalf,
Yet whispers of my life, my year.

A grunt, a push, a straightened back,
My body tries to gather in,
The cobwebs force another tack,
I close my eyes and settle in.

(c) 2005 by Jack Huber

The Winds of Change

The winds of change are blowing
That much is plain to see
I watch the tide come rolling in
The swaying of the trees
Nature says, All will change
Or it will cease to be

Why is it we humans
Reject this earthly truth
And cause ourselves such suffering
Resisting as we do
Rejecting our own nature
We deny life with our mind
When that which once was precious
Must be left behind

Embrace what is before you
Giving it its due
And the gifts will be revealed
Once hidden from view
Each step we take
Reveals a truth
We couldn’t see before

When we were holding what we knew
That fact became a door
Concealing the bridge before us
Inviting us to more

Bridges must be crossed
To go from here to there
Crossing is a process
By which we are aware
Only of what we’re leaving
Not of what will be
Awaiting on the other side
Is life’s sweet mystery

The compost of our history
Creates a fertile ground
Letting go of what we know
Relinquishing it to earth
We bow our heads, giving thanks
Before we know new birth

Then new seeds can be planted
New growth will be found
Again our lives can flourish
Upon this hallowed ground

Copyright © 2002 Jodi Flesberg Lilly

Soulful Haikus

Horse man of Death....1935.....Salvador Dali

Leisurely, subtly;
flee the torrential tempest;
the tormented soul.

**************************

Liberated, freed
yesteryear's tortuous past;
a new beginning.


**************************
Poignant memories,
shadowing beneath the sun;
darkness magnified

**************************

(c)2005 Gautami S Tripathy

On Death And Dying

By Carol Roach

Dr. Elisabeth Kubler-Ross passed away on August 24, 2004. Although she has written many books, I remember her mostly for her book, On Death & Dying, (Simon & Schuster/Touchstone), 1969. The book entailed groundbreaking research on the subject. She postulates a five stage theory about dying: Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression, Acceptance, and its impact upon the love ones left behind.

I do not have the space here to elaborate on the theory much as I would like to. You may ask then, why introduce this topic this week? My only answer and apology for my readers is that I feel compelled to review Kubler-Ross’s work as I go through my own grieving period. My youngest sister Joyce is dying in the hospital as I write.

For several years she has been suffering from bone cancer. A couple of times a year she has been rushed into the hospital on death’s doorstep, yet miraculously pulled through. About two years ago, my mother, middle sister, and I went for DNA testing to see if any one of us was a possible donor for a bone marrow transplant. Unfortunately neither of us made the match. Joyce was put on a waiting list and then taken off again. The doctor’s determined after suffering a stroke; she was too ill to undergo the procedure and too far advanced in her cancer for it to be of any benefit.

We watched and waited. While I was working, if I got a message to call home, the thought that it might be the dreaded call to inform me of her passing was always forefront in my mind. But Joyce survived it all. Her will to live was a testimony of courage and inspiration for all. If I was the one suffering from cancer, I doubt that I could ever match her bravery. She went through chemotherapy and endured her pain without a complaint.

This week she is back in the hospital. She is again at death’s doorstep. Not only does she have her bone cancer, but now she has throat cancer as well.

There is now a difference in her attitude. My sister says this is the end, she senses it. She is not afraid to die, and we as a family will be comforted when she is free of pain. My sister has suffered enough. She is looking forward to the eternal sleep. She is looking forward to being reunited with her deceased son and with her maker. No doubt we will continue to grieve, however, as a family we will be comforted when she is finally at rest.

Carol Roach, M.Ed, B.A psychology
winterose@videotron.ca
Author: Picking Up the Pieces: A Woman’s Journey, Angels Watching over Me
Newsletter Publisher: Storytime Tapestry: http://subs.zinester.com/98907

Lightning - Maria Stepek Doherty

Vivid lightning streaks the startled sky,

Thunder God's belly rumbles loud.

Prisms of sparkling light seed the earth,

With iridescent electricity

As though the world is set afire,

In softly flickering golden flames,

Consuming the darkness.

Lobsang and the Inspector

Note: This is the opening scene of “The Patriarch” by Deepak Morris.

(The tourist camp at Nubra Valley, near Leh. It is evening. The GUIDE is settling things, tending to the campfire (still unlit), etc. The side of a tent can be seen back, the start of a tent Stage R. Enter INSPECTOR)

INSPECTOR Hello
GUIDE Good Evening Sir! (enthusiastically) Welcome to Nubra Valley! (by rote) The Nubra Valley lies north of Leh and is accessible over the Khardung La, one of the highest motorable roads in the world. The Nubra Valley was on the caravan route from Leh to Kashgar via the Sasir and Karakoram passes
INSPECTOR (bewlildered) Why are you telling me all this?
GUIDE Is being necessary. Tourist Department say all to be told about Nubra Valley when arriving. I be Lobsang. I be your guide
INSPECTOR Oh, hello Lobsang, I’m –
GUIDE Please to waiting (takes out a sheet of paper, reads) Is you being Mr. Murijmal Gurnani, male, 62 years of age?
INSPECTOR What? No, I’m –
GUIDE Please to waiting. Is you being, Lalkisen Gurnani, male, 32 years of age?
INSPECTOR No, I’m –
GUIDE Please to waiting. Is you being –
INSPECTOR (Interrupting) If you don’t stop that I’ll hang you upside down from that tent there
GUIDE Please. Is being how Tourist Department say –
INSPECTOR Hang the Tourist Department too! Won’t it be faster if I tell you who I am? (GUIDE opens his mouth to speak, then looks at INSPECTOR and nods meekly) Good. I’m Inspector Gurinder Bajwa
GUIDE (Looks in the list) Inspector Gurinder Bajwa, male, 134 years of age?
INSPECTOR Are you a dimwit or something? I’m 34, not 134
GUIDE Is being say 134 in list
INSPECTOR Hang your list! Now where can I sit? My back is aching from that horse ride
GUIDE Is being you want massage?
INSPECTOR If you touch me I’ll tie you into a knot and make a Tibetan wind chime out of you. Now, where can I sit?
GUIDE (Indicates the chairs) You be sitting here. You seeing other tourists on road?
INSPECTOR (Sitting down) They’re on their way (Stretches) Oh man, that was some journey
(Enter Dr. PRIYA GUPTA. She is around 24)
PRIYA Hello
GUIDE Good Evening Madam! (enthusiastically) Welcome to Nubra Valley! (by rote) The Nubra Valley lies north of Leh and is accessible over the Khardung La, one of the highest motorable roads in the world. The Nubra Valley was on the caravan route from Leh to Kashgar via the Sasir and Karakoram passes
PRIYA What?
GUIDE Welcome to Nubra Valley! The Nubra Valley lies north of Leh –
INSPECTOR Oh God!
GUIDE (pressing on) north of Leh and is accessible
INSPECTOR Will you stop that?
GUIDE (determinedly) … is accessible over the Khardung La, one of the (sees INSPECTOR rise and finishes at top speed) one of the highest motorable roads in the world. The Nubra Valley was on the caravan route from Leh to Kashgar via the Sasir and Karakoram passes
PRIYA Why are you telling me all this? It’s all there in the brochure!
GUIDE Is being necessary. Tourist Department say so. (Takes out his list again) Is you being –
INSPECTOR Oh God! Not again! (Snatches the list from GUIDE and looks at it, then at PRIYA) You must be Dr. Priya Gupta
PRIYA That’s right
INSPECTOR (Handing the list back to the GUIDE with his finger at one spot on the list) Here it is. Dr. Priya Gupta. Got it?
GUIDE But Tourist Department say –
INSPECTOR I’m closer to you than the Tourist Department is right now
GUIDE Okay (to PRIYA) Please to be sitting. I waiting for others and then taking all bags to tents
PRIYA (sits on the other chair) Whew!
INSPECTOR Whew is right… I wonder where the Tourist Department manufactures them! Oh, I’m Inspector Gurinder Bajwa
PRIYA Hello Inspector, I’m – oh, you already know who I am
INSPECTOR (laughs) Yes I do. I’m on holiday
PRIYA Me too. Feels good to be in the open air
(Enter DINESH and SONIA, who is holding a doll)
DINESH Oh, hello
GUIDE Good Evening Sir, Good Evening, Missy girl. Welcome to Nubra Valley. The Nubra Valley lies –
INSPECTOR (almost exploding) You’ll be lying here dead if you keep up with that. Wait till they all get here and say it to them all at once. Hello Dinesh, hello Sonia
SONIA Hello Inspector (she sits on the ground and begins to play with her doll)
DINESH Hello Inspector. What a pleasant surprise!
INSPECTOR Surprise? Didn’t Mr. Gurnani tell you?
DINESH Daddy? No, he didn’t say anything
INSPECTOR He was the one who suggested I meet you all here. He called me a few days back and said you’re all coming here on holiday. Anyway, meet Dr. Priya Gupta
DINESH (immediately taken up with PRIYA) Hello Doctor, I’m Dinesh Gurnani
PRIYA Please call me Priya. I’m on holiday and I want to forget all about patients and diseases
DINESH (smiling) Ok, then, hello Priya. Did you see that yak as you came into the camp?
PRIYA Yak! No, I didn’t see it… will you show me? I’ve always wanted to see a yak
DINESH Sure. (to Sonia) Sonia, will you wait here with the Inspector?
SONIA Okay
DINESH Inspector, do you mind?
INSPECTOR Not at all. And please call me Gurinder. I keep telling you that. Especially now that we’re on holiday. I want to forget criminals, just like Priya wants to forget diseases
DINESH Ok, thanks, Gurinder
(DINESH and PRIYA exit)
GUIDE Wait, wait! I no be knowing your name!
INSPECTOR Let them go. I’ll tell you their names. Come here
GUIDE But Tourist Department – (INSPECTOR stands up) Okay, you be telling (takes out his list)
INSPECTOR That was Dinesh Gurnani
GUIDE (Reading) Dinesh Gurnani, male, 28, son of Murijmal Gurnani?
INSPECTOR That’s right. And this is Sonia Khemani
GUIDE Sonia? But is being no Khemani here. Is being written Sonia Gurnani, female, 10
INSPECTOR Okay, they may have registered her under that name then. It’s the same person
GUIDE But Tourist Department…
INSPECTOR I’ll burn down the Tourist Department if you mention it again! I tell you it’s the same person. Now scram
GUIDE What be scram? You want eggs?

END

Put Away

Put the shame away

on the mantle,

between two books.

Pick it up and read it later,

then shred the pages.

Forget about it.

Put the guilt away.

In storage boxes,

in the attic,

collecting dust.

Then move them downstairs,

and burn them.

Put the blame away.

In the kitchen,

let it get cold in the fridge.

thaw it out, and chop it.

Then sear it on the burner.

Put the despair away,

in a metal box,

dump it in the ocean.

Say goodbye,

let them

go.

Podcast: Ginnie recites Megan Allen's piece

This post is really a testament to the power of the net to foster truly collaborative projects. This is a podcast that was put together in the following manner:

First, Megan Allen wrote her piece, called "How Do You Love Me?" and posted it in the Creative Writers Network. I thought the piece would do well as a recitation and asked Virginia Foley if she'd like to recite it for my podcast. Well, she agreed, and in short order, this Indian sitting in Pune, India, had collaborated with two brilliant people from the USA to create the following podcast:

Click to hear Virginia Foley recite Megan Allen's "How Do You Love Me?"

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