Creative Writers Network

All Good Things Must End

2007-01-28T13:33:00.000-08:00

Creative Writers Network blog was created with loving care by a handful of writers who walked for a time on parallel paths, moving side by side, though continents apart, for a short span of time. Many other writers joined in the months that followed and contributed their good words, as well.

The Creative Writers Network on Ryze had its day in the sun and now lives on only in the hearts and minds of those of us who frolicked and played there for a brief but beautiful season. That which is created with love always serves to enrich the lives of both the creator and those who are open to receiving.

May those of you who come to read our offerings discover something that touches your heart and uplifts your spirit.

Many blessings to you,
Jodi Flesberg Lilly
Founder of (the now defunct) Creative Writers Network at Ryze.com

Lamplights

2006-06-14T07:14:00.000-07:00

Where are the lamplights
in the night?
The Venetian blinds are closed,
as are my lips,
listening to the breaths of my lover
sprawled upon satin sheets
like one thousand roses
cast into the foamy seapetals
spread in broken pairs.
What daylight could not conceal—
her omen and her destiny—
her scarred robes revealed
a frowning Lisa,
eyes shut tight.
Where are the lamplights
in the night?

Terza Rima----CONFLICT

2006-06-14T03:39:00.000-07:00

He lifted her veil, looked at her face
Sleep so deep, lashes so long
Casting shadows on her cheeks like lace

He stared at her with longing so strong
Tenderness and desire fighting within
Wanting her, how can that be wrong?

Mind, heart or body, who was to win?
This deep-seeded need, was that lust?
With all his guts, body wanted him to sin.

Closed his eyes, stopped himself just
From tasting her sweetness while she slept
Keeping distance from her was must

He walked away not giving in to whim
Would rather wait for her to love him!

©gautami.tripathy
~June 04, 2006

No Zebras Allowed

2006-04-17T19:13:00.000-07:00

Dunking donuts in my coffee,
I read the headlines
on the New York Times
There was a picture
of a black man
who had been hung
from a Red Oak tree
near an abandoned church
in Whitehurst County,
West Virginia.
A sign was nailed
on the tree
the words were scratched
with a knife
into a slab of bark.
NO ZEBRAS ALLOWED.

An omen of our times.
A young black boy
wearing a pair
of tattered white sneakers
drenched shirt and holy jeans
walked in the diner
and sat next to me,
lost in the music
of his portable cd player.
And the owner of the diner
shooed him out.

He had come in
to escape the rain
and was sent back out
into the lightning.

My Island, My Love and Me

2006-02-18T10:08:00.000-08:00

The fierce angry heat of the sun gives way to the gentle seductive breezes of the evening. It is inviting; enchanting as it serenades my soul. I gaze into the sky set afire with diamonds,

Proudly glowing

Wickedly sparkling;

Oh the tales they could tell.

I do not want to tell tales. I do not want to speak at all. I stare into my lover’s eyes. He has the most beautiful eyes I have ever seen. The green of his eyes are the envy of all. The beautiful blue/green Caribbean Sea cannot compete with them. The water shines as the gentle waves splash against the shore.

The smell of the sea mist both salty and tangy appeal to our senses. The sea succumbs to my lover’s beauty. The great one gives up the fight for majesty and bows down in homage. Neptune himself gives orders to the gentle breezes

to tease our senses,

captivate our souls.

He is a gracious opponent.

As the waves sing their lullaby to the shore, I gaze up to the heavens. The stars are smiling. The moon is full and brimming over with pure joy.

I look again to my lover’s eyes, my husband's eyes. They too are shining; they are spilling over with love.

Quietly we sit at our table. We are oblivious to our immediate surrounding. We know there is much activity going on around us here at the Hilton Hotel but we are unmindful of it all.

Our beings are united as one.

One mind

One heart

One soul.

We are at one with love and at one with the sky, the moon, and the sea.

I feel his hand touch mine as we drink in this paradise, this bliss, and I truly understood the words of the song,

"Beautiful Barbados Gem of the Caribbean Sea. You'll find rest; you'll find peace in Barbados. So come back to my Island and me."

Carol Roach
winterose@videotron.ca
Storytime Tapestry: http://subs.zinester.com/98907

Performance

2006-02-18T09:47:00.000-08:00

Shadows graze on water lillies
Vines cry out to thee,
damp criss-crossed bridge
reaches out to me.

Hope for tomorrow,
sun drips in like spring rain.
The sun's rays drift across your face,
my love.

A red, red rose falls at your feet.
Applause,whipping willow leaves.
Bravo, bravo!!
A performance to beat.

What are you to me?

2006-02-13T12:45:00.000-08:00

What are you to me
In endless reaches
Of time and space?

Atomic orbits intersecting
Divine spark connecting
Our energetic merging.

Eddies of time ripple
Parting as we pass,
Light speeds to light.

Central core pulsating
Two beats synchronise
Now, becoming, one.

Transcending death’s
Illusionary ending,
Love defies all laws.

No longer corporeal
Twin stars imploding
In cosmic orgasm.

Far beyond the body
Mind dissolved
Pure spirit blends.

In endless reaches
Of time and space
You and I - infinity.

The Essence of Me

2006-01-27T00:39:00.000-08:00

by Carol Roach

Long before my earthly incarnation
I was spirit, love and adoration
On central stage among the stars
I circled the planets Venus and Mars

Gestation period cold and dark
Brought forth the rhythm of my heart
Mother womb, portal on earth
I waited for my precious birth

To this world I would be born
A winter rose amid the thorn
Unprepared to brave the quest
I could not let my spirit rest

For there were those who could not see
My heart and soul; the essence of me
They wished that I would disappear
Among the clouds in total fear

The angels heard my spirit cry
My talent they could not deny
One sheltered me beneath her wing
Until she heard my true heart sing

Spirit awakened; robust and alive
Creative juices flowing; I began to strive
The world took notice of my plight
My strength endured; I set things right

For now they understood too well
How they created my living hell
My crafted words today I share
Among the world with tender care

I am who I was meant to be
Aligned with my perfect destiny
For now my future will be bright
I know that I was born to write

Carol Roach
winterose@videotron.ca

Story.....Normal

2006-01-23T08:58:00.000-08:00

“Shit!” He thought. Jason was always bored with such crowds. He seldom attended these parties. But Paul, his business partner had insisted and he could not refuse. Now, Jason stood there holding a drink. He looked around and stopped short. She was so breathtakingly beautiful with long silky black hair, dark eyes, and full kissable lips. Skin so soft and silky. A body so very inviting. He felt something stirring inside him. It astonished him. Females had never interested him. Until now.

She was laughing at something Paul had said. Lilting laughter. Jason walked towards her. Looked deep into her mysterious eyes and said, “I am Jason. And you?” “Olivia,” she answered. She too had been watching him all along and was pleased that he had finally reached her. She looked over him and liked what she saw.

“Dance?” He asked.
“Yes. Paul, will you excuse us, please?” She asked turning back towards Paul. He gave a strange look towards Jason and said, “Be my guest.”

After that, there was no looking back. Jason forgot his boredom. It was as if it never existed. They were inseparable. He had a gut feeling it was a start of something new in his life. He was confused by his own reactions. But he wanted to savour the moment. He knew people were talking about him and Olivia They knew enough about him. Why not? He had never hidden anything. He didn’t really care.

It was rather very late, when the party started to break up. Jason did not want to let her go. He kept looking at her unseeingly. Finally asked, “Would you like to go with me?” Olivia too was silent for a moment. She knew all about him. In the washroom, she had heard enough gossip. “Yes,” she answered. “Your place or mine?” He asked. “Yours.” Olivia answered.

In the lift up to his Apartment, they could not keep their hands off each other. He was pleasantly surprised. And very pleased with her body’s responses to his. Next morning, Jason woke up and stretched, smiling to himself. It had never been so good before this. Most important, he was normal. It was going to last forever. He could not have asked for more. Olivia was, after all, Oliver, a male.

My Wisdom

2006-01-18T16:45:00.000-08:00

My wisdom comes in snippets and snaps
Like the glint of sunshine reflecting on crystal
Or the flash of a camera bulb's light
To capture that moment in time
For all eternity

My wisdom comes out of the blue
Unexpected, like the rainbow
In the midst of a storm
Off to the right
Near the horizon

My wisdom throws open the veil
And sees with real eyes
I realize what was before my eyes
All along
But I hadn't the eyes to see

My wisdom arrives where there is beauty and truth
Grace is its companion
The clouds will part for wisdom and grace
Faith is restored
In the light of such love

My wisdom is a fickle thing
It shuns me whenever I beg
Hiding above the clouds
I am in the dark
Regardless of tears or complaints

I can't see where I am--
Not for lack of trying
Until the day I throw up my hands
And fall down on my knees
Surrendering my will and my way

Then wisdom and grace
Alight on my brow
And shine the light once more
Revealing what I'd never known I knew
In my heart and in my soul

My wisdom knows it is never true
That I have lost my way
Have faith, it says,
Night restores the soul
Sleep until you wake

Secrets, long forgotten
In the recesses of the heart
Dance and sing
And tell their tale
When human eyes are closed

My wisdom grows in quiet mystery
Far beneath the light of day
In the stillness
And the silence
Spirit revels in the dark

My wisdom knows all is well
That dark and light alike
Feed the inner flame
That gleams as it glows
Deep within the heart

A mystery in history
Solved in a flash of light
Wisdom divine
For all with eyes to see
The truth of a moment in time

A Poet's Lament

2006-01-13T20:19:00.000-08:00

Thoughts spring forth from every crevice
of my complicated mind
Some are jumbled fragments
While others well defined

Glimpses of past experiences or
aspirations yet to come
A mosaic of ideas
Filtering most, but sharing some

Thoughts sometimes so compelling
they wake me from my sleep
Carried fresh with me all morning
By evening obsolete

Why not carry pen and paper
everywhere I go?
Saving precious inspirations
like the poets that I know

What is the reason for stalling
this evident shortfall?
The answer very simple
I am not a poet at all

Carol Roach
winterose@videotron.ca

Her Smile

2006-01-12T17:07:00.000-08:00

I had a dream last night,
Of her smile.
I don’t know how long
I stared, dreaming,
But that perfect shape,
Burned in my memory,
Left me wanting,
To sleep.

New Dawn

2006-01-11T08:35:00.000-08:00

Foggy mornings with misty emerald green
Panoramic splendor with bluish sky hood
Enlightening snowy essence seren
It is joyous time with holiday mood.

Snowy drizzle with silvery sauna

Frosty crystal, icy dew drops on petals

Natural wonder in mystic fauna

For fun and frolic with love specials.

Flowery gardens with fur trees and pines

Dancing moon light with breezy bright

Chilling cold with refreshing dines

Festive spirit echoes with glittering light.

Winter steps in with Christmas splendor

Cozy comfort in yearly retreat time

New Year begins with hopeful ardor

Let us restart with vigor for future prime.

Resolutions 2006 (A Shakespearean Sonnet)

2006-01-11T03:18:00.000-08:00

This is the time to take stock of our life,
What we have done and what we have to do;
To lend a hand to those who are in strife,
To ponder awhile and be thankful too.

This is the time to strengthen all our ties,
It’s so easy to be drifting along;
Let’s watch the flowers grow and the sun rise,
And learn again to enjoy a bird’s song.

This is the time for us to start afresh,
To cleanse our heart of ills and past regrets;
Let’s begin to pull some out of the mesh,
To pause and wipe their tears, lest God forgets.

Let’s step forward and hold the flag unfurled,
Let’s try to build on earth a better world.

Nemesis....(55 words story)

2006-01-10T06:43:00.000-08:00

“Doctor, what is the problem?”

“This seems to be due to some infection.”

“What does it mean?”

“It might not happen.”

“What should I do?”

“Nothing, apart from taking medicines.”

“Will I ever?”

“Very difficult to say.”

“But why?”

“Undergoing abortions in rapid succession has this effect. Any specific reasons?”

“I conceived girls each time.”

Reeling Back Into 2005

2006-01-09T01:01:00.000-08:00

And the sun sets on yet another year.
Tucking it away
in the storehouse of memories.
One of the most riveting
and gripping.
Moments seeking sojourn in my memoir
sated with aide-memoires
that’ll haps set a trail of mellow champagne clouds
in my sunset days,
back to today, yesterday, thus far…

Some of them I shall revere for life
A few, leave out in the smoldering sun
to dry their soggy coats
to preserve till time lasts, or maybe char…
(as the case might be!)
And dispose of those
that have lived beyond their temper to console
and now sting,
with the folding edges of crackling crispness
that only a dry heart can rally…

Bumped into, connected with,
and chanced upon a few
Some tied down to terra firma
by the sheer weight of sensibilities
some uber-cool, some not so…
each deepened the sensitivity of my taste buds
(that savor life)
either by coating me
in the luxuriant richness of sweetness
or, by lending the dark, acrid taste of
chocolate gone bad…

Been a time of revelations.
Chance discoveries,
unclothing of self, unfolding of others…
Unveiling masks,
and stumbling upon piercing shafts of light
with the subtle shifts of pretenses
Bonds testing the tensile strength
of my endurance, love.

Faith lost its lane
And then, of its own accord, revisited.
Just like that.

New Year's Day

2006-01-07T12:03:00.000-08:00

Frozen between past
memories and future dreams
I stand in all time.

Planted in this space
our beating hearts spark warm smiles
melting down dark fears.

Living joyfully
and grateful of each moment
my dream is here now.

©Clare Goodwin
http://www.abgoodwin.com/mandala/
http://www.abgoodwin.com/counseling/
http://abgoodwin.blogspot.com/

Haikus.........New Dawn

2006-01-07T11:00:00.000-08:00

new year ringing in
disappears the previous one
lifting my spirits

*****************************
cold wintery day
warmth of the sun takes away
my thoughts of darkness

*******************************
memories of past
why come and trouble me so?
new dawn is here now

Resolutions....

2006-01-07T10:55:00.000-08:00

my resolutions
made before morning light
escape at twilight

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

ideal resolves
impressive, admirable
bitter to swallow

New Year Dawning

2006-01-07T09:48:00.000-08:00

Blank calendar page
Invitation to the new
Time draws us ever on
********
Storms rage, wash away
Trees sway, their branches bowing
Blessing Mother Earth
*********
New day, a new way
Tomorrow's promise calls forth
Bold inspiration

The Essence of Christmas by Maria Stepek Doherty

2005-12-20T05:54:00.000-08:00

Christmas is not a universal feast, but the underlying spirit is common to all of us, regardless of religious belief.
It is the celebration of light in the darkness, the warmth of hope spreading in the cold winter of life.
Christmas is about gratitude and appreciation of all we have been given and are still to receive.

This is my idea of Christmas.

Christmas is the distilled essence of love.
It is a time of angel's wings on earthly bodies, a time when the soothing touch of a nurse lets a dying man know he is not alone.
Christmas is the distilled essence of all that is good on this earth.
It is a time for softly spoken words of love that reach into the hardest heart, for it is only in giving our love unconditionally that we release the heart song in others.
Christmas is the distilled essence of a quiet joy.
It rings out crystal clear in the singing of the soul. It is the music of heaven played out on earth in each carefully composed note of giving.
Christmas is the distilled essence of the innocence of childhood.
It is their laughter, their astonished delight, their belief in magic,wrapped up in the overwhelming warmth of the love we feel for them that sets free the child in us.
I will always believe in magic.Open your mind and let magic believe in you.
Christmas is the distilled essence of peace.
It is the profoundest stillness of the soul when it quietens the rampant chatter of the mind and hears the single heart beat of the universe. We are never alone.
In that stillness, we are one heart, one mind, one soul.

Hold the distilled essence of Christmas in your daily lives all year around.

Reach out in love to those around you.

Christmas is here and now and every day of your lives.
Live it !

You and me

2005-12-19T19:54:00.000-08:00

Once shorn of
our egos and pretensions,
when the mirror castle
around us breaks,
you and me
are the same.
Like denuded chickens,
hanging on the bars,
waiting for the grill.

Vijay © 3rd June, 2005

Winter Blues

2005-12-19T17:09:00.000-08:00

Same time a year ago, snowy driveways,
frozen roads, icicles on naked trees,
for several dreaded despairing days.
I dreamt of July and a summer breeze
as the dreary darkness wore out its stay.

But even through this darkness bleak, I sought
a break in time. I did not want these days
to end, ’tis the passage of time I fought.

And so it’s true of our fondest wishes:
Of highs, of moments of joy unsurpassed,
that trail gloom toward weary finishes,
where we choose to let go or to make it last.

Awaiting seasons’ ends and new tomorrows,
we watch each sunset with immense sorrow.

Pragya

Regret

2005-12-19T07:45:00.000-08:00

I regret
everything I have done,
leading you this way.
I wish all of reality
would fade away.
I lied.
I did!
Don't say you love me.
I want the pain to end.

Never regret
what has already been done,
what you cannot change.
Don't wish it were not.
Because it was.
It happened.
It did!
I told you I love you.
This is not the end.

A Special Kind Of Christmas

2005-12-17T22:23:00.000-08:00

Carol Roach

The Christmas season is upon us once again. The stores will soon be crowded with people frantically rushing around buying just about everything in sight. Though the season is meant to be a celebration of the birth of Christ, apart for the odd Christmas pageant at the church, or a child’s pageant at school, many people ignore this most important occasion and replace it with a shopping frenzy.

It does not matter that stores are piping Christmas carols and songs of joy through the airwaves when still allowed by law. People listen with one ear, no longer drinking in the wonder of these songs. They are the old standards, comforting to hear, but few give much thought to their content and what they represent. The retailers use these songs, and wonderland displays to hoist their profit for the year. Many years it makes a difference between making a profit or going into the red. Even Santa and his little elves are there for a reason; to delight small children and fill them with wonderment, but most importantly to get their parents to buy.

Commercialism has taken over our world during this most precious time of the year. People are nervous and anxious, especially as the days before the 25th of December rapidly approach. But what are they anxious for? Is it to celebrate the birth of Christ with their family and love ones?

For the most part, it seems they are anxious since they have not finished their Christmas shopping. What should they get Aunt Martha who has everything? Should they buy uncle Bob another shirt again this year? What possible toy can they buy Suzie? She has just about everything on the market as it. How do they overcome the problem with Peter, their teenage son; unless his gift costs $200 and over he doesn’t want anything.

The spirit of Christmas and the season of giving have been reduced to giving from the pocket book until it hurts. Unfortunately for many Americans and Canadians alike, finances are at an all time low. We no longer can keep up. I know in my family as well as many others, the adults have elected to gift exchange with one other adult in the family. They choose names out of a hat. It is just too expensive to continue to buy for everyone.

Every year we complain about how hard it is to buy gifts. We rectify the situation by choosing one name for an adult; so we cut down. However, we still go overboard with the children. We still must get a gift for Ruby and Frank; after all they are spending Christmas with us. How can we open presents and leave them out? The list goes on, but the fact remains, we still go over budget, if in fact we had a budget at all.

Every year we talk about the olden days and how Christmas was much better then. We remember how families truly celebrated the birth of Christ. We remember the stockings hanging from the chimney filled with goodies from the oven: oranges, nuts and grandma’s knitted mittens. We complain that the kids just would not accept those gifts anymore. Furthermore, who has time to sit down and crochet or knit? We live in a fast paced world and everything must be done quickly. So we are reduced to buying a ready made overpriced gift.

This year, I propose that we put the love back into the word giving. We can truly celebrate the birth of Christ by following in his footsteps. We can celebrate humankind in a healthy inexpensive way that will not limit the number of people we can reach out to.

I propose that we do make Christmas stockings for everyone. Instead of filling them with expensive gadgets we truly cannot afford, we fill them with well wishes. Each person in the household would write something good about the person whose name appears on the stocking. Each piece would remain secret until Christmas when the recipients open up their gifts. These pieces must be positive and celebrate the human spirit and individuality of the giver and the receiver.

Here are some examples:

From a child: You are the best daddy in the whole world and I love you this much.

From a teenager: Uncle Bob, you are okay but could you just once let me win at chess.

From a visitor to the family on Christmas Day: Terry, I have just met you a while ago and look forward to getting to know you. What I have remarked in our brief encounters is that you have the warmest smile I have ever encountered. When you smile the whole room lights up and you make every one feel so warm inside.

These messages of love will light up the festive occasion and create good memories for years to come. These gifts are priceless and more importantly come from the heart.

Merry Christmas one and all!

Peace on Earth

2005-12-17T19:07:00.000-08:00

Morning stars glimmer
Softening the darkest hour.
Snow wraps us in peace.

Virginia C. Foley
(c)2005
www.virginiacfoley.com

A Christmas Story in Haiku - Maria Stepek Doherty

2005-12-17T16:05:00.000-08:00

Bright star in the East,
Lamb of God, Light of the World,
Leading the way Home.

Divine spirit sparks,
Life flows through the empty Womb,
Holy Vessel filled.

Night of love made flesh,
Choirs of angels singing loud,
"Holy Babe is born".

December Haiku~Jodi Flesberg Lilly

2005-12-17T09:14:00.000-08:00

Sun shines on bare trees
Mother Nature's gone to sleep
December morning
*******
Children sing, bells ring
Red and green, silver and gold
Heaven smiles on earth
*******
Mistletoe delights
Promising a kiss and love
Woman waits alone
*******
Champagne bubbles rise
Looking innocent, delight
Pack a morning punch
*******
Sparkling lights on trees
Reminder of the Divine
Blessings we receive
*******
www.lightinmotion.net

Winter Solstice - Maria Stepek Doherty

2005-12-17T06:18:00.000-08:00

Dark of night deepens,
Light now slips into shadow,
The sun lies sleeping.

Winter solstice comes,
Darkest day of nature's night,
Gateway to the Light.

See the blazing fires
Drive away the deepest dark,
Warm the earth for Spring.

your voice...

2005-12-13T21:21:00.000-08:00

on tip-toe
your voice enters
and snuggles next to
my slumberous form
still lush with
your words
in my ears,
softly humming
a trance-inducing
lilting tune
that melts
and languidly suffuses
in me, all over…

it collects me closer,
gently pulls the
warm duvet
of your
lingering memories
around me
and whispers
“sweet dreams, pretty”
kisses me tenderly
on my eyelids
and a fond smile playing,
lightly withdraws
on tip-toe…

:)

blueathenaisland.blogspot.com

Cycle of Blues

2005-12-13T08:12:00.000-08:00

A Blue note,
Resonating within my heart.
Extended arms open,
Like the welcome of my bed
I lay to rest.

Sadness,
A murky water,
Stagnant and festering,
Distorting the sound,
As rippled trails run down.

Pain,
The hollow feeling.
Emptiness, pulsating,
Within my broken soul.
A darkness rises.

Raw anger,
Bubbled to the surface.
My vessel bursts, screaming
Begging relief from the heat,
And scalding liquid hate.

Release,
The cool, calm, and inviting,
Air, moist and soothing.
From a soft whisper,
I am renewed.

Every ounce,
Sliding down my throat,
A bittersweet sensation.
And yet,
It is still there.

The sound,
A chorus resounding,
Echoing boldly,
In the darkest chamber.
A single note.

(c) Steve Johnston

Gethsemane

2005-12-10T01:23:00.000-08:00

Will you not watch one hour with me
In this dread garden of Gethsemane?
Oh, Lord, you have forsaken me,
Abba, father, set me free.

I wander twisting paths of madness
Lost in a shadowed shadow world,
As though in a mirror dark I see
The crucifixion of my mind.

The serpent coils within my brain,
An ancient darkness writhing here,
As fangs plunge deep into my soul,
The venom of insanity.

Here are demons dwelling darkly;
I fear the coming of the Night.
Hell spawned voices of delusion
Nail me to this living cross.

I ask their name, they answer Legion
Devils from the pits of hell.
I burn, I burn; put out my fire,
Put out this night, this life, this now.

"Eli, Eli, lama sabachthani",
Words from sacred woundings rise.
I hang upon this cross abandoned,
Eternal void of endless pain.

Being Shy

2005-12-05T14:52:00.000-08:00

Carol Roach

I used to be a shy person. Today I am a quiet person, but I am no longer shy.
When I was a child I never went anywhere unless I had a friend with me. I was dependant upon my friend to make my evening a success. Of course I did not realize it, at the time.
So if I wanted to go somewhere badly and my friend didn't go, neither would I. Instead I stayed home and remained miserable.

Up until my divorce, nothing much had changed. I was 25-years-old, still shy, and still depending upon my friends to make my social life for me. I will say in my defense that I joined a group called single again, all by myself – imagine that!

I had no other choice. None of my friends were divorced at the time. I was finding my married friends and I no longer had the same issues and they looked at me as the odd one. I was a failure; they told me so. I knew from that point onward, if I was to make a new life for myself, it had to include new friends who shared the same interests and the same concerns.

A few acquaintances from the Single Again group talked about a single parent association which held wonderful dances. I was never a dance person, but was very much interested in the meetings and outings that the association had to offer.

We arranged an evening to go, but one by one, they cancelled out. One couldn’t get a baby sitter, another didn’t have the money, and one said she was sick. Of course I did not go by myself and they never brought up going to the association again. Who knows they probably decided to go without me. In any event, these new friends proved to be friends only for the duration of the course we were in. Once we no longer had that common bond between us, the telephone calls ceased and the communication between us ended.
I missed out on an opportunity to join a new group because I would not go anywhere on my own.

One year later, I still remembered the single parent association. I still wanted to go, but I was just too shy to meet people on my own. I found the location of the group and literally begged one of my single friends to come with me. She was not interested. I bugged her so much she decided to go, just to get me to shut up.

When we walked into the meeting, the first thing we noticed was that everyone was white. My friend is a black woman and felt out of place. We sat down in a corner and remained pretty much to ourselves the entire evening.

The membership director of the group came over to talk to us. We scoffed it off. It was her job to do just that, we rationalized, but what about these other unfriendly people?
It was obvious to every person in that room, that we had copped an attitude sending out the signal - leave us alone we don’t fit in.

We left that evening complaining the people were not friendly. Nobody bothered to say more than hello to us. “Who wants to be a member of this snotty group anyhow? We whined.

Personally, what had I learned from that experience? I learned to reinforce my own negative thinking and justify my behaviour by putting myself in the victim mode.
Was I really a victim? I was shy, but was I blameless? Hell no! I never made an effort. I didn't get up and mingle, I sat there without even a smile on my face, and picked fault with everything I saw.

By the following year I had taken self awareness courses and started to seriously look at my weaknesses as well as my strengths. I still wanted to be involved with the single parent association. But this time, it would be different. I was going to let them know who I was. I was not going to sit in the corner and be ignored.

I had decided that being shy was not working for me. I was unhappy and unless I created a new life for myself, I would continue to be unhappy.

This new life meant I had to decide, whether or not I wanted to continue to be shy, stay home and be miserable, or go out, push myself forward, and see what happened.
I chose the latter. I went to yet another meeting of the single parent association with my friend. The difference this time was that I wasn't depending on her to make my evening for me.

Lavenia assumed her usual stance in the corner. I went up to the group immediately and introduced myself. I participated in the ongoing conversation; Much to my delight, the people were very open and receptive. They invited me to join the board of directors that very evening.

However, they found Lavenia was very hostile. She refused to contribute to the conversation. When someone tried to talk to her, she would respond with one word answers. Needless to say, she did not enjoy herself and told me she was never going back again.

On the other hand, I was opening up to a whole new world and its accompanying experiences. I am now 50-years-old, and I still have two friends that I met through the association twenty-three-years before.

I took on different responsibilities within the organization. My favourite board position was membership director. I meet with the new people as they joined, processed their applications, renewal fees, and listened to their issues.

One of the biggest membership concerns was about being shy and not knowing how to open up to people. From my observations, I could see there were two ways of approaching this concern. Some displayed a positive attitude, taking responsibility for their behaviour. However, others pulled a “Lavenia and Carol” sitting there doing nothing and expecting everyone else to make their happiness for them.

I had the opportunity to share my own experience with some of the membership, and with others, I just stated,

“I understand exactly what you are saying. You are right. Nobody talked to you. I saw that myself, but while you were watching the others have fun, you were sitting with people who were just as shy as you are. Did you ever think that maybe they were thinking you were unfriendly because you were not bothering with them either?”

The proverbial light bulb went off for a lot of them. They promised to make an effort to take one baby step at a time; to talk to at least one person sitting beside them. It was necessary to coach some of them on how to start up a conversation with a stranger.

I began, “Start with Hi, I am Jane. It’s my first night. Then just see what happens.”

Quite a few came back over the years to tell me they made friends with Joe or Jim or Mary who were also new and just as shy. Later a veteran such as Fred or Lucy became their friend as well.

Isn't it amazing just how much a shy person can really do when they make an effort?

Carol Roach
winterose@videotron.ca

CACO

2005-12-05T02:34:00.000-08:00

Morning colors has just been played and Old Glory streams from the flagstaff. The morning muster formations are breaking up and the enlisted men and officers are heading for their duty stations. It’s Tuesday as I hurry to a meeting with the Ops Officer. We will discuss a proposed air show that we are considering for Armed Forces Day. The consensus of the senior officers is that we should put on an aerial, acrobatic display for the local community as part of the celebration commemorating the holiday.

At 0800 I meet with Commander Winfrey, Operations Officer at Naval Air Facility. This is the military side of a larger facility called NADC Johnsville. Here basic research is performed for the aviation wing of the Navy. The air facility part provides the men and aircraft to make the ideas a reality. Commander Winfrey is charged with the responsibility of providing men and equipment that are qualified to perform these tasks. The conversation turns from discussing the morning flight schedule to the proposed air show. Commander Winfrey informed us that there would be two pilots coming to do aerial demonstrations for us this morning. The first is due to arrive in about a half hour. He is the owner of Ransome Airlines flying a blue, single-engined, acrobatic aircraft. Ransome Airlines is a small commuter airline based out of North Philadelphia Airport and Mr. Ransome is a qualified airline pilot as well as an accomplished acrobatic flyer.

At 0835, the tower calls the Ops office and informed us that the Ransome aircraft has entered the flight pattern. We walked outside to watch him land. Shortly after landing we walked around the hanger to meet him. Commander Winfrey stopped to talk to the Maintenance Officer as I walked ahead to greet Mr. Ransome. We shook hands and chatted as we walked back to join the group of officers and men waiting to meet him.

After meeting all those assembled, he told us his plans for the aerial demonstration. It sounded like something the public would enjoy. At the end of his presentation, he asked about the necessary procedures to meet the Navy’s requirements for fueling his aircraft before he flew back to North Philadelphia. With all questions answered, he entered his aircraft and we moved to a safe distance while he started the engine. With a wave, he turned and taxied out to the taxiway and down to the approach end of the runway.

We can see and hear his aircraft as he runs through his engine run-up procedures and shortly thereafter; he takes position on the runway for takeoff. We can hear the power of his engine as he winds it up and then begins to roll down the runway. As he lifted off, he waved and turned to the right to gain altitude. And then he began his demonstration flight.

It was an impressive show as he made this blue bird climb and twist, roll and dive maintaining a minimum altitude of five hundred feet at all times. At the completion of his routine he came in for a landing, fueled his aircraft and left. The second aircraft was not due until after noon so we headed for the cafeteria to make up for the scant breakfast that we all had.

At 1300 we walked back over to the airfield just in time to see a bright, yellow biplane complete its landing. It taxied over to the parking area and the pilot climbed out wearing a Navy flight suit with a white silk scarf draped around his neck! He looked like he had just stepped out of a barnstorming magazine from the 1930’s. As we approached him, a black automobile pulled up in front of the hanger and two men got out. One was carrying a large movie camera and the other looked familiar. As they joined us, we immediately recognized one of the men as Tom Snyder from the local NBC-TV station. He does the nightly news in Philadelphia. Tom introduces his cameraman and Commander Winfrey introduces the pilot to all of us. He is a Lieutenant Commander in the Naval Reserve and lives in town He flies a Great Lakes Special, a biplane with open cockpit that has been outfitted as a highly maneuverable, aerobatic airplane. The instruments normally found on the flight panel directly in front of the pilot were also embedded in the trailing edge of the upper wing so that the pilot could see them when his head was cocked back doing aerobatic maneuvers.

The pilot is explaining the basic maneuvers that he will perform for the demonstration and they sound very impressive in deed. He finishes and turns to climb back into his aircraft. We walk to the corner of the hanger as the cameraman sets up his equipment. And then the yellow plane taxies to the run-up area. We can hear the throaty roar of the engine as he puts it through its pre-flight tests. And soon he is taking position on the runway.

The tower has given him permission to takeoff and he begins his roll. He is gaining speed and then he quickly lifts the plane into the air. It is racing down the runway at about one hundred feet off the concrete when he suddenly rolls the aircraft inverted and continues to fly upside down past us. The plane begins to climb but it’s upside down! He rolls up right and begins a series of spectacular maneuvers that make all of us stare in awe. And then he dives down to the runway rolling inverted again. Half way down the runway, he rolls upright and is increasing his speed. And then he pulls back on the stick and it looks like the airplane has just made a ninety-degree turn straight up! It keeps climbing and falls over on to its back and continues to fly inverted. Then it makes a ninety-degree dive straight down pulling out at the last possible minute and touches his wheels to the ground. The tires smoke at impact and he slows the plane to a crawl! He quickly turns off the runway and taxies back to the hanger. We just stand there with our mouths wide open, still not believing what we had just witnessed. A Square Loop! It can’t be done but we just saw it!

Tom Snyder is yelling at his cameraman. “Did you get that?”

“No! he replies. “I ran out of film!”

“I am going to ask him to do it again so load your camera,” responds Snyder. And he walks over to the pilot and talks to him. The pilot nods and climbs back into the aircraft.

“He’s going to do that square thing again,” yells Snyder.

We decide to walk out next to the runway to get a better view. About two hundred feet from the end of the runway is a concrete area called the Crash pad. Normally the Fire Trucks sits here during take offs and landings but it is down at the other end of the runway where the plane is preparing to take off and the truck is on that crash pad.

Snyder, Commander Winfrey, the cameraman and I are standing on the crash pad. The camera is loaded and the operator is focusing on the approaching plane. He makes his roll and continues toward us inverted and then begins his climb out. Once past the end of the runway, he rolls over and continues his climb for altitude. He then turns down wind and flies back to the opposite end of the runway. Turning, he begins to dive for the deck and races towards us at about 50 feet off the concrete! Just as he approaches us he begins a rapid rate of climb to straight up but as he does the lower wing separates and folds back along the fuselage! Simultaneously, the upper wing fold backs over the cockpit! Pieces of debris are tumbling down towards us. We are running to avoid being hit as pieces of the wing fall towards us. The momentum of the aircraft through the air continues, and it appears to continue to fly towards the end of the runway. It is coming down and fast! We start to run after it. Men who had stopped work to watch are racing from the hanger in the same direction. The plane is falling as if it was in slow motion. It hits just inside the airfield perimeter fence and bounces back into the air! It flips and comes down again, only this time inverted! And then there is stillness, broken only by the screaming siren of the approaching crash vehicles! Men have reached the airplane and in a Herculean show of strength they lift and flip the plane right side up!

Commander Winfrey turns to the cameraman. “Stay right there, we will need to develop that film for a formal investigation.”

The ambulance rolls down the taxiway and pulls up by the crowd. It quickly opens as the paramedics run to the plane. They carefully extract the pilot and lay him on the grass. And then the lights are turned off and we know it is over.

Commander Winfrey turns to me and says, “Emil, call the Chaplain. I am designating you CACO. I want the both of you to go and inform the widow of the tragedy and tend to her needs.”

“Aye Aye, Sir.” I replied. Gees, what the hell is a CACO? I wondered as I head back to the hanger. Chief Strunk met me so I ask him.

“Sir that is the title of the officer that informs the family and makes all of the arrangements if they need assistance.” He replied.

That’s great! I thought. What am I going to say to her? I have never done this before.

A few minutes later the Chaplain arrives and we speak. He offers to break the news to the family and we get into the car. This is the longest 2-mile drive I will ever go on. As we pull up in front of the house, we see children playing in the back. The front door is open because the weather is warm. A lady comes to the door and freezes! She looks at us and screams ”NO!!” She has heard on the radio there was an aircraft accident nearby and the two of us stepping out of that Navy car confirmed her fears!

Later that night my wife and I are watching the evening news. Tom Snyder is the anchorman. He hurries through the local news and then he looks into the camera and there are tears in his eyes. He slowly tells the story as the film begins to appear on the screen. Dubbed into the tail end of the film is some film taken by some observers at NADC that were filming from the roof of the main building. Their visual prospective is different than that that of the cameraman shooting straight up at the crippled plane. You can see the pilot. He is holding the upper wing up with one hand as he attempts to steer the crippled plane. It falls behind another building and Tom continues his story. “This man knew what was about to happen to himself but he also knew that there was a factory of people just off the end of the runway on one corner and a gas station on the other. When the crash crew got to the aircraft and looked inside, they found that the pilot had turned off the engine, and turned off the gas to prevent a fire in case he hit one of the buildings!” And then the screen went blank.

The air show was cancelled for Armed forces Day and in its place a tribute was staged for the deceased pilot. Some nights I wake up with a jolt because I hear her scream.

Season's Greetings

2005-12-04T10:31:00.000-08:00

Season's Greetings

May this coming year be full of opportunities

To surrender our indifference

And engage ourselves in compassionate behaviour

Let's declare a war on self hatred and eradicate self doubt

We must decide if we are for self love

Or willing to harbour and support the downfall of humanity

This time of year is one of reflection and sharing

So why not resolve ourselves

To indulging in such behaviour on a daily basis

In the true spirit of Christmas let us give with an open heart

Receive with grateful hands and give thanks

For the smorgasbord of challenges and experiences

That we have been blessed with

May a sprinkling of fairy dust enchant the days ahead

Wax

2005-12-03T13:38:00.000-08:00

Crimson

wax,

falls

slowly like tears

down my face.

A black candle lit

in remembrance

flickers as rapidly

as my breath.

My body is molded,

melting downward

like my suppressed

emotions evaporating into nothing.

Smoke lingers, spiraling upward

then vanishes, until re-lit and born again.

New Beginning

2005-12-02T07:10:00.000-08:00

All this while
I have been wasting my life
reflecting,
pondering at a world
full of wonders
and
ignominy.

All my life
I have been busy speculating,
wanting,
someone else to
blame for
My
misdemeanors

Putting my life on hold
too long-
I need to learn
to let go

To reach out
take hold,
venture out,
in the deep unknown
reaching inside my mind
seeking answers
deep within

Maybe
when I find
the answers I seek
I will finally stop musing
and
have a
new beginning

(c)2005 Gautami S. Tripathy

Sanctuary

2005-12-01T02:12:00.000-08:00

It is busy in the hospital cafeteria. The Christmas decorations are up and the brightly lit tree brightens the cool modernity of the room, giving it some welcoming warmth. As usual it is filled with a mixture of patients, their visitors and the staff.

It is good to see the patients out of their beds sitting with family and friends in a more stimulating environment than the wards. Even the ones who look deathly ill seem to be more relaxed here. I know that I am. This is my refuge, my still quiet centre of sanity, when I visit my brother.

From the moment the obnoxious stench of concentrated cigarette smoke greets me at the entrance to Ward 17, emanating in foul stale wafts from the smoking room, I am counting the moments until I am here. The image is like a beacon drawing me away from this sea of human misery to safer, gentler shores. There is something so intensely and instantly depressing about that death bringing stench and yet it seems a fitting signal that we are entering a circle of hell, even Dante did not prepare us for.

I walk down the corridor which sometimes smells of urine in spite of the cleaners' best efforts. Not all of the patients are continent. None are sane by any legal definition. I keep my thought shield vision of the clinically clean cafeteria to the forefront of my mind.

I smile at all of the patients who pass, regardless of whether they show any sign of even knowing I am there. Some shuffle past in their drug induced near coma states. Some stare at me aggressively and I rehearse avoidance tactics. There are some here that I have come to know bear careful watching. Ah, yes, we all come to know one another so well over the long years I have been visiting. Sometimes it seems as though we are all serving our time together, patients and families. For this is certainly our own little prison. Think hot soup and tea, Maria. Hold fast to the protective vision of that other place.

I may exchange a few words with the nurses at the desk where they tend to congregate with one another rather than with the patients. I may have a longer conversation with the family members of the other lifers. We share a common burden and grief. It helps sometimes just to know that there are others who understand the longing for the cafeteria.

When I have procrastinated as long as I feel able to, I look through the glass windows into the day room where the shadow people come and go. Some of the shadows are more substantial, lively and talkative than others; the strident noise of their hyperactive minds assaults me and I have an urgent need to retreat. Some have disappeared altogether from this reality and inhabit other worlds. Once they were like you but now they are the projections of their own interior darkness and I cling to the normality of the cafeteria as my talisman against being overwhelmed by their chaos.

Today he is standing in a corner of the room. He is jerking his head from side to side like a marionette whose strings are being pulled by a drunken puppeteer. His arms are held out rigidly from his sides and he is flicking his fingers. He mutters dark incantations so softly yet so clearly we can all hear them. His beard is unkempt, greying and when I kiss him, it feels like a wire scouring brush. His dark curls have long gone leaving a lank thinning mess of long hair tied tightly back in a short ponytail. Sometimes he wears one of his many caps but not today.

He is unbearably thin and his eyes are telling me that he has seen me, but is not yet ready to acknowledge my presence. I must wait until he has completed whatever ritual his voices are instructing him in today. Then he is still for a moment and those sad, mad eyes pierce me. I am impaled on the memory of a four-year-old boy’s huge brown eyes sparkling with the mischief of childish innocence. It is better not to remember who he was, to stay in the present moment of who he now is. It is safer and less painful to simply be with what is. It is the difference between the abyss and the rack. Neither would be my choice but I can survive the rack; I doubt if I could ever find my way out of the abyss, better to suffer than to be forever lost.

He stretches out his arms and twists his head again. This is his crucifixion. He tells me about how his body is being continually broken on the cross and that his work is to heal it over and over again. He is redeeming the world, taking on its sins, and setting us free. It is hard to be the reincarnation of Jesus Christ. It is not so easy to be his sister and I long for the white walls of the cafeteria.

He tells me of the healing work he has done all through the night. He points to the little woman in the wheelchair who can now walk. He talks of the power that flowed through him into the young man admitted yesterday whose arm was broken in three places. An x-ray will show no breaks now. He asks after my son who has been unwell and tells me that worse is to come. We are the family of the Christ and we too are all eternally broken on the cross. At this moment, I am inclined towards believing him. I am one of the disciples who could not “watch one hour with him” in this Garden of Gethsemane. I want to escape to that calmer, saner place.

My head hurts. This is not one of my better days. Today my shield is thin and I cannot bear much more. I want to scream at him to stop his incessant shaking. I want to tell him that his pelvis has never been broken in three places. I need him to know that I don’t see what he sees and hear what he hears. I am ready to explode with the longing to deny him three times before the crowing of the cock or just the end of visiting hours. I also know that this would enrage him. I am not ready to be snarled at. I am not ready to walk away. I am not ready for any of this.

He stops as though he has read my thoughts. He looks sternly at me. Then he breaks into a great face-illuminating grin. He is that four-year-old boy again and I want to take him in my arms and spin him round and round. He laughs at me. “Come on Maria, I’m hungry. Let’s go to the cafeteria.”

I wrap my arm around his waist and we walk away from the psychiatric unit, up the hill in the cool liberating air. We stop to look at the beauty of the sunset and I tell him he should paint it. I only have words but he has art. I know he won’t but it is good for both of us to think that he might.

We walk down the long sloping corridor of the general hospital to my sanctuary. We sit at our table, he with his soup and me with my tea. We reminisce about some of the funnier moments of our childhood. Sometimes he borrows from other people’s childhoods, including mine, but that is so much better than being crucified. I do not contradict him. He weaves his own history just as he creates his own present and future from the rich material of his psychotic mind. We laugh together and if I am really lucky, we will get through the rest of our visit without any more twitching or visits from the voices.

Normality. That is what this place means to me. Here we sit surrounded by people visiting their sick loved ones. Some of the patients are allowed down from the wards. Some are in dressing gowns. Some are in wheel chairs. Some are still attached to drips and are accompanied by a nurse. It is all normality. That is what we are seeking here within these cafeteria walls.

In the far corner a large Christmas tree flickers with soft white lights. I smile at the sight of it. It grounds me in happier times. I will take him back to his ward in a moment, but for now I can pretend that we are simply a brother and a sister who love one another. We are out on the town in a quiet little café, sharing and catching up with our lives.

Here in our special place, schizophrenia is just the subject which I wrote my final year paper on. It does not exist outside of that yellowing document. It cannot enter my sanctuary.

Memories by Vijay Nair

2005-12-01T01:01:00.000-08:00

Somewhere, in a chapter in my past,
you were the protagonist,
when your writ held sway.
The monsoons then
were relished in your fertile lap.
A thousand flowers bloomed,
creating a colourful camouflage.
Then you vanished, so did the colours.
Frantic, I searched.
Amidst concrete skyscrapers,
in artificial lakes,
with modern gizmos,
but all in vain.
Today,
the raindrops sprout,
invigorate, memories.
In the rainbow I can see,
your smiling eyes,
a reminder of happier times.

Just Being

2005-11-28T06:06:00.000-08:00

I wanted to touch,
that place where love lies,
where tears never reach
and scars can’t disguise.

I wanted to heal,
the wound set so deep,
but words cannot move,
the dark treasure you keep.

I wanted to remove,
the symbols of your past,
the secret inscriptions,
in flesh and blood cast.

As I sat thinking,
the light slowly came,
these things were but letters,
that spelled out your name.

And so I embraced,
the sorrows and pain,
things I could not touch,
would never ascertain.

But that was alright,
I found a truer meaning,
for love is not wanting,
but sometimes, just being.

© 2005 Steve Johnston

Article Review: Acorn Stomping Anyone??

2005-11-27T20:06:00.000-08:00

Yesterday I read an article by Ian Frazier in the Nov. 7, 2005 issue of The New Yorker. The article is called: Pensées D’Automne and appears in the Shouts & Murmurs section of the magazine. I’ve read it several times since. I am fascinated by the way his words flow at a pace that’s as easy as the leisurely autumnal morning walk that he is describing. The closest analogy would be a train ride where each passing scene is framed by the window for an instant and then it passes as your eyes focus on something else. I was happy to board his train of thoughts for sometime.

Fall or autumn in America is always a memorable event, especially in the north east where some people are even described as leaf-peepers, they take to the roads in mid-September and head for New England just to stick their heads out of the window and absorb the fall colors at their peak, spotting hues they didn’t know existed in deciduous trees, interlaced with the greens in the evergreen gymnosperms; an innocuous yet magical activity that has the power to overwhelm, the power to soothe the soul.

Ian’s article, as the title suggests, is about his thoughts during a crisp fall morning walk. He talks about the special heavy, shin-high boots he’s wearing, a “Danner Foothill model with Vibram soles”, that he declares are perfect for, take a guess….”acorn-stomping”!! It was this talk of acorn-stomping that grabbed my attention in the first paragraph and I was hooked, I had to read on and discover for myself what acorn-stomping was all about.

Ian managed to convey the exhilaration that he felt at this favorite childhood activity. His Danner Foothill boots apparently have a “sweet spot” in the heels and as he walks along the oak-tree lined sidewalks of his New Jersey neighborhood he devotes considerable thought to a strategy that would maximize his satisfaction from this activity. He says, “Hit a single acorn just so and you get a satisfying, shivery tingle between the shoulder blades. Hit a series of acorns, first right, then left, then right, and so on as long as the random distribution of acorns on the sidewalk permits, each acorn struck square on the sweet spot, crunch, crunch, crunch, never breaking stride – well, that’s what you’re looking for.”

Now this article is really not all about acorn-stomping, it is about present day America, about the deep satisfaction derived from an effectively stomped acorn, the sound of its gunshot-like report and how disheartening and jarring it is to stomp on it the wrong way, in a way where one fails to make it pop and it just whooshes out its contents in a mess.

While walking and stomping he wonders about his reasons for doing so. Perhaps it is a way of working out his frustrations, his deep dissatisfaction with the rising healthcare costs in the country. But then again it can’t be because the more he thinks about the issues that are plaguing this country the more inaccurate his stomping becomes and the more unpleasant the activity. For an inaccurately stomped acorn, leaves one with a “jangling, teeth-grinding wrongness”. He compares this “wrongness” to the way certain theologians have described sin, as an “apartness from God”. This gets him thinking about the state of his own health which is why he’s walking in the first place. He talks about the obesity of this nation, a country where even the raccoons and squirrels are getting morbidly obese by rifling through suburban garbage cans, scurrying away with toaster waffles in their mouths. He talks about innocuous events that could shape the future. He thinks about these vast spaces, this land of plenty where deer are found dead on the road while we build homes in their natural habitats and the gourmet smells that rise up from our manicured, never-grazed lawns as we mow down the wild onions that are a part of many a lawn.

He talks about Venezuela’s Hugo Chavez’s visit to America and his comment about 99% of the cars, rather SUV’s, on the road being driven by a single occupant and how unsustainable a mode of life this really is. Hugo decides to sell Venezuelan oil to the poor in South Bronx, at half price, and an evangelist is prompt enough to issue a death threat on Hugo’s life.

As an American I can appreciate Ian’s concerns, I have felt the jarring, discordant note in many an aspect of my own life. A sense that things are essentially wrong and that this way of life cannot possibly be sustainable. However, thinking about comparing this to an acorn-stomping autumnal activity as a metaphor for contentment or discontent is what makes me feel like a stranger in this rather strange land. I could never write an article such as this one because this wasn’t my childhood. I have lived in America for seventeen years and this is the first time I’ve heard about this favorite childhood pastime. It is a detail I could never absorb, a metaphor I could never use.

This makes me realize how right Maugham really was when he said:

"It is very difficult to know people and I don't think one can ever really know any but one's own countrymen. For men and women are not only themselves; they are also the region in which they were born, the city apartment or the farm in which they learnt to walk, the games they played as children, the old wives' tales they overheard, the food they ate, the schools they attended, the sports they followed, the poets they read, and the God they believed in. It is all these things that have made them what they are, and these are the things that you can't come to know by hearsay, you can only know them if you have lived them. You can only know them if you are them. And because you cannot know persons of a nation foreign to you except from observation, it is difficult to give them credibility in the pages of a book. Even so subtle and careful an observer as Henry James, though he lived in England for forty years, never managed to create an Englishman who was through and through English."

But does this passage assume that one could feel at home, living and breathing the inherent, generational culture and memories in one’s so-called “homeland” as opposed to one’s adopted home? What if no place feels like home? Perhaps I should try some acorn-stomping along my own sidewalks and see if I can get to experience the sweet satisfaction of the shivery tingle that could start at the heel and travel up to a spot between the shoulder blades, perhaps practice could make me perfect at this exercise and then finally I’ll feel at home, enhancing the American dream by “living” the American "fall".

A Shot in the Dark...

2005-11-26T22:28:00.000-08:00

sometimes we trawl
back into those times again
through the tiny aperture
they call memories…

and scout from the shambles
some old photographs
those that we’ve
gingerly treasured as relics

hoping to filch some color
from those photographs
and vigorously rub
on the grayscale that tints today…

Stalked

2005-11-24T10:46:00.000-08:00

It had been one hell of a day at my office. Here I was negotiating the traffic with an edginess I barely recognized. I had worked so hard on that particular presentation to pitch our sales, which had been sliding downhill. Despite my best efforts, the buyers were not convinced. There had been series of meetings throughout the day to discuss the ways and means to save our company. We tried negotiating with the bank. But nothing came of it. If this continued, we would go bankrupt. Not a nice prospect. Finally we decided to call it a day at 9.30 p.m. I was not looking forward to the long drive home.

Impatiently I kept waiting for the lights to change, tapping at the steering wheel, the day’s events passing through my mind like a bad movie. Lost in my thoughts, I did not notice the lights changing. The car behind me honked. I moved, slowly turning towards the left. A yellow Chevrolet followed behind.

It had been raining intermittently for 3 days. The dark clouds made my mood even bleaker. Barely glancing behind, I kept to my lane. Rains make it so difficult to drive. I felt my car lurching. The yellow car was still behind me. I kept driving straight ahead. The car behind me turned right and disappeared from sight. But after some time, I noticed it following me. May be it had taken a wrong turn before this.

But it was uncanny; the Chevrolet followed me closely wherever I turned. I too noticed the driver of that car making wild gestures. It was unnerving. I accelerated, so did he. I slowed down to let him pass but he too slowed down, waving at me to stop.

Without warning I swerved to the middle lane, and he did the same, waving menacingly at me. I shook my fist at him angrily and accelerated away. But there he was, faithfully following me, shaking his head. By this time I was getting a little paranoid.

Again I felt my car wobbling but as it was raining I did not give it much thought. Now all my attention was on the car following me. I kept changing lanes, without fail. The car followed me wherever I turned. I speeded up and took another detour. But there it was behind me. I was getting genuinely scared by this time. My palms were so sweaty; I could barely hold the steering wheel. It was pouring so hard. Not another vehicle in sight. Occasionally, a car passed by. In that rain, no one had any time to glance at what was going on. I tried calling the police but no network on my phone. My mind was in turmoil and my heart was hammering.

Suddenly I felt my car shaking. I must have drove over a pothole. Before I could react, the Chevrolet speeded up and stopped in front of my car. I had to brake swiftly to avoid hitting him. The driver got out. “Jerk,’’ I thought. He looked so sinister. He came towards my side of the window. He tapped and said something, pointing towards the rear end. I kept my window close, stared ahead resolutely, avoiding looking at him. I did not want him to know I was petrified.

I saw another car stopping behind. A woman got out and tapped on my window. I ignored her too. They looked at each other, shook their heads and then kept looking at the rear of my car. I smelled something. Throwing caution to winds, I opened my window and asked what was wrong. She said my left rear wheel was on the verge of coming off. She did not offer any help and drove away. I got down with a jolt and checked it. It would have come off in few more minutes, if I had been driving. And if I had not stopped when I did…………!!

I kept staring at the wheel like a moron, my mind blank… Without asking, he got down to the business of fixing the wheel. That made me break away from my stupor. We both worked at it, without exchanging a single word. By the time we finished, we were both drenched to the bones and looked like drowned cats! But he did not appear to be unduly concerned. When I offered my thanks, he brushed me aside and drove away, taking a U-turn, barely glancing back at me.

I started the car, changed the gear, and progressed slowly. My grim mood had disappeared. I was lucky to be in one piece. Feeling the tension ebbing away, I switched on the radio. Suddenly I braked, and sat there with my head on the steering wheel, numb to the core, thinking, thanking my stars and that man in the yellow Chevrolet.

Interrupting the song, there had been an important announcement……….. The old bridge ahead had partly washed away, some time back taking a few vehicles with it……...

What if?

(c)2005 Gautami S Tripathy

Innocence Recalled by Vijay Nair

2005-11-24T09:15:00.000-08:00

Our innocence still lingers on
there, beneath that banyan tree
As if in an endless wait,
shadows of yesterdays roam free

Someone plays the flute again,
a lass dances to its tune, defter
the sweet jingle of her anklets
reminding me of your laughter

The meadows are still green,
like the scarf you used to wear
The butterflies flutter past teasingly
and the lake water is still clear

Children stream out in frenzy
when the school bell rings
like innumerable little sparrows
with just sprouted wings

Women in their colourful clothes
Men smoking, herded around a water pipe
Wind caressing the trees,
pleading to shed their mangoes ripe

This letter, I hope, brings to you
the earthen fragrance, as always
The raindrops on your windowsill
reminding you of our bygone days

Vijay © 7th September, 2005

A Time of Gratefulness

2005-11-23T10:48:00.000-08:00

It’s a cold and blistery November night, logs are crackling on the fire, and I am sitting here reflecting on that certain lady in my life…her name is Stefanie, and she’s my wife.

Ever since our first meeting in a recording studio, I believed in her, and knew she was destined for greatness. Of late, she has been building her strength up for the challenge – for the reward. She has always had a sense of purpose; a passion for life, and a love affair for the arts. She is not overly motivated by money, power, fame or success; rather she lives her life in the moment and loves to sing. Being born with the last name Singer, she has no choice but to pursue her namesake. It hasn’t been an easy road however, and she has had her share of struggles and obstacles to overcome.

The struggles have been that Stefi (as I lovingly call her) is not 21 and shapely. Rather, she is 45 and “pleasingly plump.” Consequently, she has not received due recognition as the wonderful singer she is. Believe this or not, some have actually told her point blank…”You are too fat and too old.”

I have seen the heartache and felt her rejection over this “finger pointing.” Nevertheless, I have stood by with loving support and suggested, “Stay focused on what you do best honey…writing songs.”
Succeeding in the arts is about self-empowerment – making it happen yourself for yourself. From my perspective, she is helping others understand their own lives better. I know she has had a positive influence upon my life, and I am now a better person because of her.

By listening to her perform, the audience discovers who they are and who they want to become – they affirm it with applause – as do I. She possesses all the tools; there is no need to wait any longer. She no longer needs to fear rejection or be dependent upon her mother’s approval. She was born a “Singer,” and a singer she shall forever remain.

Recently Stefi wrote both lyrics and melody to three contemporary gospel songs. Once the songs were "in the can," she sought out a producer on the internet super highway. After a two day search, she found one in Charlotte, NC. Smashing the piggy bank, we loaded up the ride and took off.The following day, Bill met us at the door, and invited us into his "studio..." his spare bedroom. We had sent MP3 files ahead so Bill could begin the "layering process" of producing the songs. Bill was a wonderful producer. Three days later we walked out with the finished product. The following day she met with a promoter who listened to the cuts. Of the three, she expressed an interest in the one that we actually liked the least..."This Time." With our funds nearly exhausted, we returned to Pittsburgh...a ten hour trip, with no deal and no "check in the mail."A few days later, Stefi received a call. The promoter had passed her song onto the record label EMI...a real biggie.

A “greater source” than Stefi has given her a special gift, and NOW is the time to open it. She is on her way to some new and exciting opportunities, the fullness of which is not presently known. But what is known is that she has optimism; she is organized, and passionate about what she does. Living life to its fullest requires a balance, and in order for all her dreams to be fulfilled, she keeps her focus on the creator…not the created. Today she is the sum total of all her yesterdays, and she just keeps loving, living and learning.

Stefi seems to have come to terms with the age and size barriers, and is now focusing on her song writing. She overcame these “obstacles,” and is now promoting herself as a songwriter…her true calling.

I love her more than any words I can write, and I am so grateful for her. She is the greatest woman any man could ask for. I believe in her….oh, excuse me, the phone is ringing…it just might be EMI.

-- Terry Ploeckelmann 2005

Diving Lessons

2005-11-23T08:35:00.000-08:00

Dive deep into the darkness
Beyond dark
To the light
Where everything
You see
Is clear
And clean
And bright

Here you find your Self
Waiting
Unscathed and serene
Flawless
Unique
And brilliant
At peace with what has been

Ready to claim the life
You couldn’t imagine
Or dream
'Til you moved through
The sacred darkness
To the place
Where awareness gleams

©2003 Jodi Flesberg Lilly
http://www.lightinmotion.net

Can You Smell It?

2005-11-22T00:08:00.000-08:00

By Carol Roach
winterose@videotron.ca

Living in Canada, we celebrate Thanksgiving on the second Monday of October. I am told we do not celebrate it with quite the same enthusiasm as our American neighbours. We give thanks to our lord for the bounty he has bestowed upon us. And we remember the first settlers to Canada and the hardships they must have endured braving the cold Canadian winters. We remember the story of Jacques Cartier who in 1535, came up the Shores of La Riviere St Laurent (St. Lawrence River) to establish the first settlement for New France at Stadacona.

Stadacona was the native name for his village settlement. Later that named changed to Quebec City, the capital city of the province of Quebec which is the province in which I live. Many of his men died from scurvy before they had even reached our shores.

If it weren’t for the natives as was the case with the settlers in America, Cartier and the remainder of his men would have perished. The natives introduced maize (corn) and other supplements to the European diet, and taught the men how to survive the cruel elements. Later, they taught the settlers how to hunt, fish, and farm.
First the fur trappers came over for the lucrative trade in beaver pelts, and then “Les Femmes Favorise”, the elegant French ladies from France who were to wed the trappers and create a new life and new family in this brave new world.

But after all is said and done, I can bet that if I went out on the street and asked anyone the question, “who were the first people to celebrate Thanksgiving,” the majority would say the pilgrims of Plymouth Rock, coming over on the Mayflower.

Do we have our histories mixed up – yes, but is it because we were not taught our own history in school – no. It is because America takes more pride in that part of her heritage. The pilgrim story is reenacted in plays all over the country. The Internet is bombarded with jokes and poems and information galore. The day is also known as turkey day to many and nobody has to question what that means, it is a given.

Thanksgiving day in Canada is a national holiday. But you see I work for an American company as a customer service representative, in its only Canadian call center. For me my Thanksgiving was just another day to work. Though I was given a different day off to compensate for working on Thanksgiving Day, needless to say I did not have a turkey dinner. As a matter of fact I worked until 9pm and didn’t have much of a supper at all.

When it came time for the American Thanksgiving, I thought for sure that I would have the day off. But much to my chagrin, I found out that we were working. As stated before, we are the only Canadian call center, for my company. The American call centers in Omaha, NE, and Houston, TX, were running on skeleton staff of course.
To ease our disappointment, the company maintained they did not anticipate many calls and that we would have a very light day. Such was the case and we laughed and joked around most of the day. We wondered why Americans would take time from their special day with family and friends to bother calling in to say they wanted to order a movie pass, or to cancel their membership. On the other hand, we had many clients telling us how sorry they were that we had to work on Thanksgiving while everyone else had it off.

If anything, we are a great group of people and we laughed and joked all day long. There were jokes like “do you know the Americans call Thanksgiving turkey day” and the retort being “well it sure isn’t turkey day for me, I have my tuna fish sandwich right here.” Michael asked “I wonder if I ordered a special turkey pizza would they make it.” And Samira replied, yeah if you ordered it from the states.”

As the day wore on, we of course grew hungrier. However, the strangest thing occurred. The call center started smelling like food. Since the company cafeteria is far enough away, the aroma of food never reaches us. Yet today, November 28, 2002, the call center smelled of food. How could that be? Charles having the wisdom of Solomon, and the humor of Seinfeld, retorted “it’s the Americans cooking their turkeys that we smell. They weren’t about to leave us out on their biggest day of the year.”

The real explanation for the smell of food in the call center was never determined, but for this little group of Canadians who never got to eat turkey on either the American or Canadian Thanksgiving day, in our minds on the American Thanksgiving, we sure could smell it.

Thanksgiving: Some thoughts on love and gratitude

2005-11-21T03:13:00.000-08:00

Today is a symphony composed by the Divine, weaving magical notes of joy, harmony, love and inspiration into a translucent, golden, glowing tapestry of energetic interplay.

Today is a blessing given generously to be received with eager open arms.

Today is a clean white sheet of fine hand crafted paper, gleaming with the invitation to write my life upon.

Today is mystical. Today is magical. Today is to be revered, treasured, loved, adored.

Today is to be lived at the top of my lungs, to the depth of my soul, to the utmost extraction and distillation of each precious second.

As I write, I am aware that my friends in the United States are celebrating Thanksgiving. I love the idea that a whole nation takes a day out of their full year to sit down together as family and friends, to simply give thanks for all the blessings in their lives. The practice of mindful gratitude gives us the gift of awareness of the treasures in our lives, the simple things that we take for granted unless we make gratitude a living ritual.

The daily mindful awareness of all I have to be grateful for, has seen me safe through some of the most challenging times in my life. It is about being fully present in the moment, chosing to focus on the light, rather than dwelling in the darkness. There have been times when tears of pain and fear have cascaded down my face as I spoke my words of gratitude out into the world and in speaking them, the tears dried and the pain was soothed. Gratitude gives the gift of healing.

The daily practice of gratitude has brought me another gift in the last few months, an ever increasing visceral feeling of reverential love of life which flows into every aspect of my presence on this earth, creating a deepening sense of joyful connection, so powerful that there are times when I feel as though I have entered another dimension of being. For those of you familiar with energy work, I would describe it as a massive energetic shift, a falling in love with life.

When you fall in love, everything is different. All of your senses waken up and your perception of the world shifts through the filter of that love. Suddenly you become acutely aware of the more subtle beauties of life, wonders which were always there but not observed at a conscious level. Emotions sweep unbidden and unfettered in response to stimuli you were previously deadened to. Everything is sharper, clearer, brighter, illuminated in glowing sacred colours. Radiant happiness shines out into the world and joy becomes your close companion. Life itself becomes the object of your passion.

I find myself allowing a deeper caring about the world around me, its joys, its sorrows, its triumphs and its pain. For the first time in years I am engaging with the wider issues of the day, speaking out boldly where there would previously have been the silence of unwilling acceptance.

I share more intimately who and what I am with an ever widening circle. I am no longer afraid of being known. Love has given me the freedom to express ever more clearly and powerfully the essence of my soul, who I am at the core of my being. Once I would have peeped out timidly into the world, revealing little flashes of my thoughts and feelings, then retreating back into the sanctuary of my privacy for fear of being swallowed up by the external world. This incredible gift of love has swept away those barriers of the mind's own making and I am ready for whatever comes. There is no going back.

What truth are you hesitating to acknowledge in your own life?
What passions have you been damping down for fear of the fire that it will light in your life?
What gifts lie dormant, awaiting your own kiss of life to blossom richly into the world?
What wings are aching with the desire for flight; what mountains to soar magnificently over; what wild thermal currents to drop down into, to be carried along on, trusting the journey and your own power; what savage joy in the freedom of flying free?

So look at life through the eyes of love; rekindle your passion for the great gift of life.
Take out those dusty dreams that became lost and buried in the everyday challenges of life.
Nourish those dreams with your love. Let them lead you out into the world , a world where your love will make such a difference.
Care with all you have and all you are.
Reach out to the world and love it.
The world has such a need for love and it cannot afford to be denied by even one of us. Start with those who are closest to you. Look into their souls and let them know how much they mean to you. When we are loved, we dare great things.
Through gratitude and love:

Dare to dream.
Dare to love.
Dare to act.

Maria Stepek Doherty

The Old Man, The Boy and Santa Claus

2005-11-19T10:49:00.000-08:00

Old man D’Souza sat huddled over his glass of tea and a buttered bun at the Irani restaurant. Christmas is coming, he thought, as he carefully chewed the morsel he had dipped in the tea moments earlier. Not that Christmas meant anything more to him now than the need to line his ragged coat with newspapers to keep out the cold. The tea soaked bun he was chewing jabbed into his bad tooth and he winced.

It hadn’t always been like this. There was a time when Christmas meant family gatherings round the Christmas Tree, presents being exchanged, squeals of delight from his grandchildren as they tore open presents and their frugal mothers tried to save the wrapping. A brief smile flicked across his face as he remembered that a generation before, his girl had squealed in that exact fashion and Fiona was the one trying to save the wrappings. Maybe her daughter got that paper saving habit from her, he mused. It was like a dream now. The decorations, the cake, the wine and the rum and the whisky that had flowed. He felt his pocket to check if his bottle of cheap, countrymade liquor was there, the only thing he could afford on his meagre pension. He’d need the bottle tonight. The memories would not let him sleep otherwise.

How nice it was before the Big Fight. When Fiona was there, and they watched together with pride as their daughter grew, married, had children of her own. Why did we fight, I don’t even remember that, he mused. But fight they had and he had lost count of the number of Christmases that had gone by without those family gatherings. Or rather, of the number of family gatherings gone by with him absent. For she was surely carrying on the tradition of the family gathering. Fiona had taught her too well for her to forget that. If Fiona had been there the big fight probably wouldn’t even have happened. Even if it had happened, she would have got it all straightened out. She had been a strong woman and he missed her strength sometimes. That’s life, he thought, then corrected himself. No, that’s death. I’ll be coming soon, Fiona, he whispered.

The waiter roused him from his reverie, demanding to know if he was going to go soon, there were people waiting for the table space. He paid up and left, shuffling down the street. He wasn’t going anywhere in particular. There was nowhere to go. But he had learned long ago that as long as you keep moving, the urchins and the police don’t harass you. Every once in a while he stopped to rest and to retie the cord around his waist to keep his trousers up. He reminded himself to be on the lookout for a cotton cord. Nylon knots kept slipping and loosened the cord.

He was scurrying past a sidestreet when he heard a sound. He looked into the sidestreet and saw a boy apparently struggling with a large man. “Hey,” he shouted instinctively, the sight stirring up a protective paternal reflex. Without regard for his own safety, he stumbled into the sidestreet as fast as his arthritic knees would let him, shouting all the time.

* * * * *

The boy scrambled to help the fat lady pick up her groceries, effortlessly elbowing the other boys out of the way. He generally didn’t like to help the fat ones. They always haggled over the price. Somehow, the thinner ones seemed to be more generous. Well, whatever it was that this one gave, at least he would have enough to buy his next bottle of glue. He had lost the last bottle in a fight. He needed the glue for the times there was no food and for the nights when sleep wouldn’t come. Then a few sniffs from the bottle gave him enough of a high to forget himself until he could either get something to eat or fall asleep. He loaded the groceries into the car and she gave him a Rupee coin. “Five”, he demanded. “Are you crazy?” yelled the woman, “get going before I use my hand.” “Please,” said the boy. The woman raised her hand and the boy slunk away. That was another problem with the fat ones, he mused. They used their hands as readily as they used their loud voices. He looked around. Not many people around, and no one who looked as if they’d need help. He’d have to cross over to the other side, to the vegetable section.

He entered the sidestreet, on the lookout for the other boys who might decide to gang up on him and snatch his coin. He saw the bike and automatically looked at the petrol pipe. No lock! He looked around for a bottle. If there was no glue to sniff, petrol was just as good. He saw a discarded water bottle and, scooping it up, ran to the bike. He had just tugged the petrol pipe off the tap when he sensed a movement behind him. He turned, poised for fight or flight. If it was one of the smaller boys, he’d fight. It would increase his status among the urchins. But if it was one of the bigger boys or a drunkard looking for a quick buck, he’d have to run.

The figure loomed large over the boy, dressed in some kind of bright red costume. Too large to fight. He had turned to run when he felt a firm, yet curiously gentle grip on his shoulder. “Look at me,” rumbled a voice in a tone that was strangely familiar to him. It recalled to him the times his mother had called him for a cuddle. When he had a mother. He turned slowly and saw a huge bearded figure in a red suit. It reminded him of that fat man he had seen some years ago, when some well-meaning socialite had tried to organise a Christmas party for urchins. The fat man had been brought in to distribute gifts, but he’d turned up drunk, lurching between the women and generally making a nuisance of himself till someone wisely called the security guard, who took him into a back room to cool off. Was this one drunk too? The boy gripped the coin tightly, determined to retain it at any cost. His eyes flicked from side to side, looking for a stone, a stick, anything he could use as a weapon. Then he looked up again, straight into the fat man’s face.

Somehow, he sensed that this was no drunk or fancy dressed fool. The beard was all too real, the costume somehow not at all incongruous on the huge figure. He’d never seen anyone dressed like that in the relatively warm weather of his town. The suit seemed to be padded enough to make a man sweat, but the figure was cool and comfortable in it. The huge man smiled and the boy relaxed. He knew he would not be harmed.

* * * * *

Old man D’Souza picked up a stick he saw lying on the ground and shuffled towards the two figures, shouting all the time. He didn’t know if he would have the courage to actually use the stick, but maybe the man would let the boy go if he made sufficient noise. He came closer to the pair and the large man turned. “Don’t recognise me, Mr. D’Souza?” he said, chortling. D’Souza stopped short. It looked like… it couldn’t be! And then, like the boy, D’Souza somehow knew this was the real Santa Claus.

“But you can’t be,” he spluttered, “you aren’t real. You’re just a Christmas myth.” “If you believe,” said the figure, “everything is real. If you don’t, nothing is. Now won’t you help me entertain this young man? It’s Christmas season, and he needs to know life can be good even without glue.” “Entertain?” stuttered the old man, “how?” “Just like you entertained your grandchildren. They’re grown now aren’t they? I believe Alex has even started working”

“I don’t know,” mumbled the old man, “I haven’t seen them for a while.” “Oh, but you can,” said the figure, “all it takes is for you to reopen the dialogue. I know you want to, and the universe always helps someone who wants to do something good. Now come, let’s show little Xavier a wee bit of Christmas. Remember the Christmas cards you used to get?”

And suddenly, the old man, the boy and Santa Claus were in a winter wonderland. They saw snow for the first time in their lives. The old man felt like he was in a Christmas card as he and the boy romped in the snow. They had snow fights, the boy shrieking and the old man chuckling in delight. They rode a toboggan down a gentle slope and went on a sleigh ride, the silver bells on the horses’ collars keeping up a cheerful accompaniment to the boy’s squeals of pleasure. At his begging, the figure in red pulled a silver bell off one of the collars and gave it to the boy, who promptly began waving it near the old man’s ear. The Christmas carols came alive for them and the old man and the boy wished it would last forever.

* * * * *

The old man woke up, and sensed the warm little body nestled against him. He looked around. They had fallen asleep against a door in the sidestreet. “What a dream,” he muttered to himself. He couldn’t figure out how he’d got in the sidestreet, but that was nothing new. He’d woken up in strange gullies after drunken binges before. He just presumed he was waking after another binge. But at least he seemed to have made a friend, this little bundle of energy who, even now, was smiling and kicking in his sleep. “I must figure out a way to buy a present for the little chap,” thought old man D’Souza, “if I can’t give my grandson a present, at least I can give this boy one.”

The boy stirred and woke up, stretching. “What a dream,” he said, “what a strange dream.” Then he looked up at the old man. “You were in it too. Am I still dreaming?”

“No,” said the old man, “this is real. But… I have a job to do. I have to reopen a dialogue.”

“What does that mean?” asked the boy.

“Just that I have to find someone. They moved house long ago and I never bothered to find out where. But this is a small city. I’m sure I’ll be able to find them.”

“Who are they? Maybe I can find them for you.”

The old man smiled. “I doubt it,” he said, “but I’ll tell you anyway. It’s my daughter and her family I have to find.”

“What’s her name?” queried the boy.

“Margaret Fernandes,” said the old man, preparing to rise.

“Oh, I can take you to her!” said the boy excitedly, “I do odd jobs for her every weekend!” And as the boy jumped up to take the old man to his daughter, something fell from his pocket and rolled, tinkling, between the old man’s feet. The old man picked it up.

“A bell,” he said in wonder to no one in particular, “a silver bell!”

Copyright (c) Deepak Morris, 1998-2005

Life is Beautiful

2005-11-16T08:59:00.000-08:00

Life is beautiful when we can sit quietly and admire an ant

Marvel at a grain of sand and find splendour in a spider’s web

Life is beautiful when we can sample nature’s garden

Watch the glistening ocean and walk amongst the trees

Life is beautiful when we can laugh with friends

Share with strangers and have compassion for our enemy

Life is beautiful when we can create our dream

Pursue our passion and share our wealth

Life is beautiful when we can read to a child

Listen to a friend or volunteer our help

Life is beautiful when we can smile at our mistakes

Forgive others for letting us down and heal past hurts

Life is beautiful when we can love and be loved

Break free from oppression and embrace the miracle of our own existence

Life is beautiful when we can stop long enough to understand

That our presence on this planet is a privilege what we make of it is our legacy

Life is beautiful when we can appreciate the diversity of life

Respect and accept our differences and be humbled by our own magnificence

A Dream?

2005-11-16T07:46:00.000-08:00

A warm embrace,
eyes, so young and innocent,
skin pale and soft.

The first time,
our lips joined in silent prayer,
the sound of water flowing.

The warmth of your breast,
full and ripe fruit of love,
the taste of salt and sweetness.

I woke up with an emptiness
cold, darkness beside me,
and the lingering smell of lilac.

(C) 2005 Steve Johnston

SILK

2005-11-16T06:00:00.000-08:00

Silk. It reminded him of the glorious sea waves sliding over each other. Of her smooth body in perfect communion with his. Of her lovely coil of black hair snaking down her bare back. He picked up his pen and began to write. Swirling thoughts in his head made him incapable of capturing them on paper today. Exasperated, he pushed back his chair and with an impatient flick of his hair went outside.

The sky was a purple bruise over the dark ocean. He wanted her desperately tonight. Time stood by and watched him, as he lay down on the sand and stared at the velvet sky above. The stars twinkling there reminded him of the glittering lights that would adorn her huge mansion tonight. Through a film of tears, he saw the stars move from their places and drop upon him like liquid fire. His eyes burned, his heart was ablaze, kindled perhaps by the fire before which she sat, in her red and gold silk sari. Silk on silk, he would say, every time she had draped a silken sari around her silky form. He could never have afforded one. But, that had never deterred him. He would drape her form with gossamer words, he said, or with velvet kisses.

With a start, he got up and walked to the ocean. Of what use were his words now? He kept walking. Silk on silk… he smiled and walked on. He remembered those silky arms twining round his neck as the waves closed over him.

Breath by Maria Stepek Doherty

2005-11-15T15:38:00.000-08:00

I breathe out upon this paper,
The beating of my heart,
Out into the wondering world,
A butterfly breath.

It shakes the forests of the Amazon,
Thunders on the mountain peak,
Stirs the distant oceanic deep,
One sacred breath, one heart beat.

I breathe out upon this paper,
In Black words etching
The whiteness of the universe,
Butterfly breath, breathing worlds.

Sleepless

2005-11-14T10:40:00.000-08:00

Boring, blasé,
That is what night is today,
How could feng shui
Energy just slip away?

Quiet, a yawn,
Even sound has long been gone.
Time stops, eon,
Dreary-eyed waiting 'til dawn.

Time to arise,
Sunlight pouring in my eyes,
Workload, apprise,
Suffer through the lows and highs.

Caffeine, Pills to
Get me home to try anew,
Clocks roar, I knew,
Sleeping hours are far too few.

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

SOMEDAY

2005-11-14T10:34:00.000-08:00

Man Rays Tears(1932)

I only want to know,
to dream
how your caress would feel
so dizzy for contact,
making me reel.
Unsure how to act,
not good at this game anymore.
But
sure that your love
will seep through my pores
and
expose my soul,
where
now in secret
grows a weedy garden
of needy wasteland.
Where
angst and pain
flows like rain
through the dream-cluttered
gutters of my brain.
My mind
screams a silent
refrain of mistakes.
And in
my dreams,
all that I yearn
seems so far away,
on the highest summit,
out of reach.
But
for now
I have to teach
myself to wait,
willing fate to
deliver one day.

(c)2005 Gautami S Tripathy

My Island, My Love, and Me

2005-11-14T07:29:00.000-08:00

By Carol Roach

The fierce angry heat of the sun gives way to the gentle seductive breezes of the evening. It is inviting; enchanting as it serenades my soul. I gaze into the sky set afire with diamonds,

Proudly glowing

Wickedly sparkling;

Oh the tales they could tell.
I do not want to tell tales. I do not want to speak at all. I stare into my lover’s eyes. He has the most beautiful eyes I have ever seen. The green of his eyes are the envy of all. The beautiful blue/green Caribbean Sea cannot compete with them. The water shines as the gentle waves splash against the shore.
The smell of the sea mist both salty and tangy appeal to our senses. The sea succumbs to my lover’s beauty. The great one gives up the fight for majesty and bows down in homage. Neptune himself gives orders to the gentle breezes

to tease our senses,

captivate our souls.

He is a gracious opponent.
As the waves sing their lullaby, I gaze up to the heavens. The stars are smiling. The moon is full and brimming over with pure joy.
I look again to my lover’s eyes, my husband's eyes. They too are shining; they are spilling over with love.
Quietly we sit at our table. We are oblivious to our immediate surrounding. We know there is much activity going on around us here at the Hilton Hotel but we are unmindful of it all.
Our beings are united as one.

One mind

One heart

One soul.
We are at one with love and at one with the sky, the moon, and the sea.
I feel his hand touch mine as we drink up this paradise, this bliss, and I truly understood the meaning of the song,
"Beautiful Barbados Gem of the Caribbean Sea. You'll find rest; you'll find peace in Barbados. So come back to my Island and me.”

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

Come Fly With Me

2005-11-11T09:20:00.000-08:00

Come fly with me
We’ve earned our wings
The time is ripe today

The game of life
Begun anew
Heralds another way

The sun and moon
The turning tides
Proclaim a pristine day

The currents shift
And jet streams flow
Clouds pass and drift away

Stars in heaven
Inspire and guide
Their gift a grand display

The dance begins
New trails ablaze
Spirits ignite in play

Eyes on heaven
With wings spread wide
We soar on golden rays

From high above
Observing earth
Its splendid disarray

In blues and greens
Our sphere revolves
Brilliance holding sway

Jeweled planet
Spinning through space
In sacred interplay

Love Unspoken

2005-11-07T15:11:00.000-08:00

I have no regrets,
Save the silent whisper of one,
That time on time haunts me
Like a timid well mannered ghost.
Slight shade of a choice once made.

I have no regrets,
Amidst a life serenely lived,
Save for the murmurs in the night
Of wilder dreams that could have been,
Had courage taught my heart to speak.

I have no regrets,
Save that lingering ache
For a path we might have shared,
For a love I left unspoken,
Silence severing what might have been.

Written in a Time of Sadness

2005-11-07T09:01:00.000-08:00

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.

(c) 2005 Steve Johnston

Separated By Winter

2005-11-06T11:24:00.000-08:00

Despite the cold winter's
Most desolate gloom,
My heart is full
There's simply no room,
Except for the warm
Sensual memories of
The woman whose sweet
Tender touch I love.

I remember embracing
Before my depart,
When the tear in my eye
Came direct from my heart,
I must keep in mind,
Regardless of snow
I will be with her soon;
That much I know

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

Love's Sacrifice by Toni LoTempio

2005-11-06T06:48:00.000-08:00

Love’s Sacrifice
Toni LoTempio

The light bothered her.
Turning her head away from the window, the girl fought against the nausea that welled in the pit of her stomach. She’d never felt like this before. She bit her lip and gazed out the window at the breaking dawn.
Colors of purple and pink lit up the early morning sky, and the sun resembled a huge ball of liquid fire. She turned away with a strangled cry and buried herself in her pillow. For some unknown reason, the light affected her strangely.
Her hand went to her throat and touched the necklace she’d worn ever since he’d placed it around her neck. A symbol of their love, he’d said.
Silently she fingered the large gold “B” encrusted with tiny freshwater pearls and her birthstone, the garnet. The blood red of the stone fascinated her.
“This will bind us together for all time,” he’d promised, an instant before he swept her up in his arms and crushed her lips with his own. She’d felt dizzy, light-headed, and assumed it had been from excitement. But now, thinking back, she realized that she’d never really shaken that feeling. Each day, she’d grown worse.
Her eyes rested for a brief moment on the tiny scar on her neck. That, too, had appeared suddenly. Flinging back the covers, she reached a decision. She would find him and make him tell her what was happening.

The hall was silent and she made her way carefully down the stairs. She knew every inch of the old house; still, there was so much that she wasn’t aware of. She paused. In the distance she could hear voices, joined in sing-song chanting. She strained her ears, trying to determine the sound’s exact location. As she went further down the hall, the chanting grew stronger, until at last she came to a brick wall. The voices seemed to be coming from there.
But how could that be?
She pressed her palms against the cool brick. The wall was solid. And yet-
She stiffened. Had she imagined it, or had there been a slight sound behind her, a footfall? Cautiously, she turned her head and felt a sharp pain, as if a million bright lights were exploding in front of her.
She knew no more.

When she awoke, all she saw at first was inky blackness. Then, as her eyes gradually became accustomed to the darkness, she saw that she was in a tiny, windowless room. She went to raise her hand and found that she could not. Both her hands and feet were tied, and she was stretched out on what appeared to be a marble slab. She felt the first beginnings of fear start to slowly rise in her stomach.
“Where am I,” she cried, knowing full well that it was useless. The house was deserted. Who would hear her? Yet someone had to have put her here. A figure emerged from the shadows, then, a figure wearing a long, black hooded robe. As it came closer, the hood slipped back, and she could see the features. She breathed a sigh of relief.
It was her own Alfred.
“Alfred,” she whispered. “You’ve come to rescue me. What am I doing here?”
He smiled down at her, perfect white teeth flashing in contrast to the black of his robe, the olive of his skin. “Ah, Giselle. You are perfect, little one. Do not be afraid. The master will be pleased.”
She tried to raise her head. “The master? What are you talking about? Whose master?”
He stepped back slightly. “Mine, Giselle. And soon, yours.”
She detected a slight movement and gasped in astonishment. From the shadows came several more figures, all dressed like Alfred, in black robes with hoods that hid their faces. Slowly, they began to chant the same chant she’d heard in the hall. She strained against the ropes that held her but they were bound too tightly. Alfred was standing over her, but he seemed different. Gone was her gentle, loving fiancee. In its place was this cold, unfeeling monster.
The chant grew louder and she tugged ever harder, but to no avail. In the distance, a clock started to chime. Alfred reached down into the folds of his robe, drew forth a gleaming knife,held it aloft. In horror she realized what he was about to do.
“No. Alfred. No,” she screamed, and in the background the chiming of the clock and the droning of the chant seemed as one.
With one swift motion, the knife found its mark.

Much later, he removed the necklace from around the throat of the now lifeless form. Slipping it into the folds of the robe, he silently left the room.
He’d loved her, as much as a creature such as himself could love anyone. But it had to be done. There was just no other way.
At least the Master would be pleased.
He leaned back, and a cry escaped his lips, long, loud and bloodcurdling, from the depths of his tortured soul.
He lifted his head. It would be dawn soon. He would have to hurry to get back to the safety of his coffin.
His fingers touched the necklace. His fangs, long and sharp, gnawed against his lower lip.
Soon, very soon, another would wear it. Another would be marked for death.
Another would become the sacrifice.
He raised his arms. For a moment, there was only silence.
Then the gentle flutter of wings as the bat flew away, the necklace clamped firmly between its teeth.

Needing to be free

2005-11-04T07:44:00.000-08:00

Snorting the wind
Falling down in slumps
Big Huge Windfalls
Wandering without sense or goal
Humping Thumping
Pete's a Jumping-Jack

Moon over fallen river
Screams of the rats awails
Floating on the sea of gumbo
Barking trees and
Darker Knight's
Smoke is filling the room

Yanking the invisible chain
Memories of a meadow in bloom
Lullabys from a mother's lips
Lights from a home
Surrending to the Misty lull
Failing yet another Day

Cordless phones in duffelbags
Smartchip's and Notebooks
Littering and blisters
Dark alleys and bizz-ness
Foil leaving no marks
Careful holding the pan

Not another winter night
Needing to be free
Lending just a few more
Making money legit that way
Freeing my soul and life
Selling That Magazine each day

Having a purpose
Doing my job
The Big Issue is
Loading and bringing
Life and audacity
Setting us free

Mari
Norwegian Coffeeaholic:)

http://OrganicPlanetCoffeeandTea.info
The BewsN'News Blog

I Remember

2005-11-03T21:35:00.000-08:00

I remember his green eyes, beautiful aquiline nose, white skin, and big bushy afro. He was the handsomest man I had ever met. At 19-years-old, he still kept his boy-like appearance. When I looked into his face, I could not help but see the innocence of youth.
As we walked along the street, all the young girls stared at him. Some were bold enough to come up and talk to him, ignoring me completely. I remember how good it felt to be with someone who was so good looking; someone far better looking than I could ever be. I knew other girls wanted him badly but he was mine; all mine.
I remember how generous he was; giving everything he had to anyone in need. Material possessions were not important to him. He received far more joy, just in the act of giving. Sometimes he made me angry, giving away everything like that, but I always loved him for his good heart.
He saw beauty in everyone. He had not yet learned to be suspicious of people in the big city. He had not learned that some people were simply manipulators. Even though I was just as young, we came from two different worlds and I understood the dangers of big city life. He understood the meaning of true friendship and the safety of the island paradise he called home.
He would walk along the streets of Montreal, smile, and say hello to everyone he met. He did not understand why people gave him a funny look and walked away. Everyone in Barbados would nod and say hello. They did not have to know you. All they knew was that you were another human being and worthy of love and respect.
I remember how I was concerned that Tony never really proposed to me. Our son was on the way and we needed to get married sooner than planned. We went to the jewelry store and picked out our rings. My blue-chip diamond gold engagement ring was set in a very unique triangle flower. It was the envy of all my friends. I loved that ring more than any possession I have ever had in my life. I still wear it after all these years even though we have long since divorced. Tony faithfully made weekly payments for three months until he could get it out of the store. But still he had not proposed to me.
I remember Valentines Day, February 14, 1976. It was the official date of our engagement. I remember Tony taking the rings out of the boxes and placing the engagement ring on my hand. I watched as he admired his own wedding band. He turned it around and around in his hand. Oh how he loved that ring.
Just before he put it back into the box and away for safe keeping, he said to me, “Carol, when are you going to marry me? I can’t wait a second longer.” My heart swelled as never before. I finally knew that his heart felt the same way as mine.
Of all the good times we shared before our divorce and before my husband’s illness, I will always remember the beauty of his heart.

Carol Roach
winterose@videotron.ca

A Native of Montreal, Quebec, Carol is a graduate of Concordia, and McGill University. She holds a bachelor in psychology and a Masters in counselling psychology. Carol Roach is a published writer and newsletter editor. You can purchase her book: Picking up the Pieces: A Woman's Journey at www.publishamerica.com, or www.amazon.com. You can also go to your local bookstore and order it there as well. Carol’s second book: Angels Watching Over is currently looking for a home. Stay tuned for details.

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.

Waiting

2005-11-03T10:45:00.000-08:00

Waiting

Through the years.
Searching for
Acceptance,
Respectability,
Camaraderie.
A cap
Of blue
And red
Warms the heart,
Stirs the soul.
Eclipsed
By stark
Black and white.

The baseball diamond.
American turf.
The curse
Is out there.
A goat
And a Chicago bar.
Urban legend?
Reality?
No matter.
Loyalty
Runs deep.
The championship
So elusive.

Waiting.

Virginia C. Foley
©2005

The Firefly

2005-11-02T00:49:00.000-08:00

Rahul had to get out of his house that night. How he would manage to do that, without his parents observing him, needed careful planning. Today, he would be very, very good. He would have his dinner without fuss, and feigning a headache, (something his mother always seem to suffer from) he would go up to bed.

At 8.30 pm, he was in bed. Now, he would have to wait for his parents to go to bed. The problem was staying awake. He kept pinching himself every minute, to keep himself from dozing off.

Rahul felt under his pillow to make sure that his net was there. He had constructed it himself with little bits of netting and a wire loop, and it had a stick for a handle.

He woke up with a start! All was still around him. Looking at his bedside clock, he realized it was 2 am. He must have dozed off. But now he was wide awake. On tiptoe he went, a white figure in his pyjamas, down the stairs, careful not to step on the one that creaked and finally he reached the front door.

Opening it, he felt braver. It was a full-moon night, and the garden seemed silvery. Holding the net in one hand and his slippers in another, he went out and closed the door behind him.

Rahul was a collector. A collector of shells, shiny stones, bright wrapping paper, matchbox labels and tiny models of cars. The latest craze was collecting insects. Beetles and bugs in little matchboxes, with holes on top for air, were lined on his bookshelf. Today, he had to catch a firefly.

The scene that was before him was magical. The dewy grass and cool breeze lifted his spirits. And woke him up good and proper. Now, for that firefly. He hoped to find a dark corner where the three tall trees formed a canopy of sorts, and moonlight made specks on the ground.

He had barely entered the nook, when he heard voices. He stopped in his tracks and pinched himself to see if he was dreaming. OUCH! My God! What a din they made, almost as bad as the boys at school. School! He wished his friends were here. They would never believe him if he told them about this!

“Oh no,” said a caterpillar to another, “Someone’s coming.”

“So late at night!” “How could he have known that we are having a moonlit party?” said another, munching on a leaf.

“Shh… what a din you make.”

“Chomp…Chomp…he’ll catch you and put you in his net as he did with Bugsy Beetle.”

“Let me tell you,” began Miss Ladybird, “that it is not proper to eat in such a manner.”

“Oh, SHUT UP!” came a unison of crackly voices. “The boy is almost here, let’s hide.”
They scrambled under leaves and twigs.

Rahul stopped to listen. Never had he imagined himself to be such an ogre.

“Well,” he thought, “ to work”, as he spied a firefly among the bushes. He quietly crept towards it, when he heard it say, “ Come along, come along, I don’t have all night. Will all the little bugs line up and come together?” it said, lighting the way for the tiny-tots.
Rahul paused, not wanting to disturb their nocturnal activities.

“How could he catch the firefly and leave the little ones in the dark?” He waited patiently for it to come back.

“There it was!”

Rahul managed to put the net over it, when he heard it cry out, “Oh no, don’t, I am needed in the insect kingdom.They cannot see in the dark.”

“You can light up my insectarium,”said Rahul, grinning.

“Bb…but…why do you want to catch us? We’ll die very soon.”

“I’ll give you leaves to eat and water to drink.”

“Little boy, our lives are not very long, let us live in peace in the wilderness.”

Rahul hesitated, but stilling the voice in his heart , he went inside his house stealthily and took out a matchbox.

“Oh no!” screeched the firefly, “Don’t put me in that little cave, I’ll die. I need to fly about, I need to light the way for others.”

Rahul pondered, and said, “But you just said that your life is very short. Why is it so?”

“Because…,”said the firefly, “Mighty Nature has made us live a short life, clambering, creeping, crawling about, as we did not value our time in our previous lifetime, and wasted our lives away. A life is for living for others. You do the same, and see what happiness it brings you.”

Pausing to catch its breath, the firefly continued, “Anyway, what will you do with us? You will show us to your friends, and very soon, when we die, you will throw us away. Let us live and die in your garden.”

Rahul paused awhile.

Shuddering, he remembered the time he had got locked in the garage by mistake.He had spent an hour there, imagine spending a whole lifetime?

One by one, he picked up the matchboxes and went out into the garden. Slowly, he opened them and let out the insects.

“Firefly, firefly, light up their way back to their homes,” he said.
“Sure, little boy, and thank you.”
“Goodbye,” said Rahul, as he saw it flitting among the bushes, a friendly glow in the dark.

The Chair

2005-11-01T09:56:00.000-08:00

He wouldn’t let me sell the chair. Or use it for my experiments in carpentry. “See this dining table?” he said one day, when I petulantly demanded to know why I shouldn’t take the chair apart to learn the fine art of furniture making. “It’s the finest I could afford. You can saw it to pieces if you like. But don’t touch the chair.”

I couldn’t see what the big deal was. Sure, it was an old chair. A small chair made for children. I knew the story behind it too. His father, my grandfather, had made several chairs for the local school, and this had been a spare, an extra. I myself had sat in similar chairs in the selfsame school, secretly proud that my grandfather had probably made several of the chairs that accommodated the bums of a couple of generations of schoolboys. But it still didn’t explain why I couldn’t dismantle that chair to learn the secrets of dovetailing and tongue-and-groove joints.

The years telescoped to my thirtieth. Against all odds, I had secured a job in Dubai, UAE.

The night before I left, he sat stroking the chair in a peculiar manner. He would rub his thumb along the edge of the seat, while his thick fingers, the fingers of an artisan, not an artist, caressed the strut that supported the seat.

In his usual style, he began speaking, with no preamble, “He liked to stroke it like this. And one night, he called me and told me to take care of Ma, your grandmother, as he stroked the chair. I didn’t know why he was telling me that. I didn’t know why he was stroking the chair. In the morning, he was gone. He died with his hand on this chair.” He looked at me, and it was the first time in thirty years my father let me see any emotion in him. “Ma,” he said, blinking back the tears I would see only once in my lifetime, “told me why he liked to stroke the chair. He was never around to caress us, so he took the chair with him wherever he had to go to make the money to keep us in school.”

He paused, then, “Go to sleep. We have to leave early so you can catch your flight.”

As I tried to drink myself silly on the flight back for his funeral, I realised why he wouldn’t let me touch the chair, and why he had stroked it the night before I left, as his father had, the night he bid goodbye to his son.

Deepak
Visit my blog

Who Knew?

2005-10-31T06:30:00.000-08:00

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

2005-10-30T17:51:00.000-08:00

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

2005-10-30T11:39:00.000-08:00

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

2005-10-30T02:03:00.000-08:00

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

2005-10-29T22:15:00.000-07:00

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

2005-10-27T00:21:00.000-07:00

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

2005-10-23T13:15:00.000-07:00

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

2005-10-23T12:20:00.000-07:00

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

2005-10-23T10:09:00.000-07:00

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

2005-10-23T05:51:00.000-07:00

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

2005-10-22T10:29:00.000-07:00

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

2005-10-19T09:54:00.000-07:00

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

2005-10-19T04:48:00.000-07:00

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

2005-10-18T19:51:00.000-07:00

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

2005-10-17T17:42:00.000-07:00

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)

2005-10-17T08:51:00.000-07:00

(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?

2005-10-16T15:29:00.000-07:00

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

2005-10-15T21:05:00.000-07:00

"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

2005-10-15T17:29:00.000-07:00

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

2005-10-15T14:11:00.000-07:00

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

2005-10-13T17:18:00.000-07:00

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

2005-10-09T10:18:00.000-07:00

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

2005-10-08T13:35:00.000-07:00

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

2005-10-07T16:44:00.000-07:00

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

2005-10-06T09:35:00.000-07:00

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

2005-10-02T22:56:00.000-07:00

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

2005-10-01T09:49:00.000-07:00

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?"

Deepak
Experience my Audio and Text Blog
Visit my Website

I Had a Dream

2005-09-30T11:04:00.000-07:00

I had a dream of meadows green,
Of lovely, gurgling brooks,
Of picnic treats and chocolate sweets,
Of a land without books.

I had a dream of moonlit trysts,
Of rain-drenched passions wild,
Of soaring high as eagles fly,
Of changes strong and mild.

I had a dream of a cozy nest,
Of little cherubs true,
Of strength of heart to do my part,
Of happy sailing through.

But dreams are dreams and fade away,
Joy, sorrow, name and fame,
The passions dry and cherubs fly,
And nothing stays the same.

There is a place beyond it all,
Where glorious patterns lie,
Dive deep within, and take a spin,
Just open your inward eye.

Let Me Hide

2005-09-30T10:07:00.000-07:00

Do not look at me;
I am not worthy.
Let me hide away
In the darkness,
Where I am safe.

This shrunken, shriveled world,
Holds me snug in its embrace
Do not force me to break free.

Here there is no risk,
No dare or challenge,
Here no knocking knees,
No hostile judging eyes
Fixed harsh upon me.

Here in the shadows,
I die little deaths
Of pedestrian paralysis,
Fearing the larger death,
Of living in the Light.

Do not look at me;
I am not worthy.
Let me hide away
In this darkness,
Where I am safe.

Facets of life

2005-09-30T09:16:00.000-07:00

thoughts, reflections,
tumultuous, yet intriguing;
ever moving, never stopping;
exhilaration, ecstasy, desires;
despondency and angst;
varied facets of life.

living it up with verve
no matter what, no matter how;
despite odds and adversity;
facing it head-on, i get on
with it somehow.

(c)2005 Gautami S. Tripathy

The Key

2005-09-30T08:46:00.000-07:00

The key to the lock
That opens the door
Is hidden from the eye
Only those
With the right combination
Of qualities need apply

Even they will be tested first
Their colors against the sky
If they fly free
Their destiny
Will move them toward the door

The door will not be opened
Despite the gifts they bear
All the wisdom they proclaim
The twisting of their rhymes
Can not turn its latch
That only occurs with time
Once the games and pleas
Have long since ceased
Surrendered to the Light

The Light will reveal
The key
That turns the lock
That opens the door
To the kingdom
That lies within the heart
Its wonders to explore

©2002 Jodi Flesberg Lilly

While She Lay Dying

2005-09-29T23:02:00.000-07:00

By Carol Roach

The world continued as before,
On everyone's mind, the Iraqi war
And the eagle continues to soar
While she lay dying

No time to think of her you see,
There are victims of Katrina and tsunami
The world is in a state of catastrophe
While she lay dying

Husband and children sat around and smoked
Not caring if she were to choke
Taking lightly cancer of the throat
While she lay dying

Where was the respect that she deserved?
From the family she willingly served
Do not rock the boat do not disturb
While she lay dying

Does she feel sadness or dispair?
Does anyone really care?
The world, the family, anyone out there?
While she lay dying

Erasmus James & the Galactic Zapp Machine

2005-09-27T15:16:00.000-07:00

Chapter One: My Dad’s Weird (Unlike Me)
By DC Green

Three! I was just three mouse clicks away from hacking into Bayfield High’s computer system when…

BOOM!

My bedroom rocked. What was that? Earthquake? World War Three?

A shock wave (or maybe just shock) toppled me out of my computer chair. I almost landed on Fang, my dad’s deaf ferret. Fang hissed and spat.

Then I smelt smoke.

‘Nnnnno!’ I cried. ‘Dad’s blown himself up! Again!’

I rushed to his rescue. Almost. For my earphones were still connected to my stereo, my left foot snagged in the jumble of power cables under my desk, and Fang took out my other leg with a biting crash tackle. I tumbled through my door into the hall, bringing down my chair, stereo and something that made a nasty, tinkling crash.

I looked up. A cloud of smoke rolled down the zigzag hall, shrouding a shadowy figure. Out waddled… a Frankenstein possum. ‘Ack,’ he coughed, and scratched his stitches.

More movement behind. Out lurched… my dad! Splattered with globs of fire-extinguisher foam, his eyebrows smoking, but alive.

Damn him! Why did Dad have to worry me so much? Causing worry was supposed to be my job!
Somewhat mad, I let rip a big Vietnamese rice burp. But my dad didn’t notice, not even when I kicked my guilty door shut. He just swayed and smoked in the hall like a black dog on a hot tin roof, eyes bug-wide open, beard half shaved, the hair on his head part gone, part pointing in every direction (looking for the missing crop circle perhaps). Luckily, when he gets blown up like this, my dad wouldn’t notice if I’d rented out my room to a homeless family (I hadn’t, but there’s a future money-making idea…).

I should point out that my old man normally has only a few kangaroos missing from his brain paddock, by which I mean he’s only partly a mad scientist. He’s actually a pass mark single father and a very clever inventor who’s invented clever inventions like the laser toaster (banned in every state), the wallaby wheelchair (zero sales) and chocolate flavoured toothpaste (his bestseller to date). That’s where I inherited my brains from. (Have I mentioned I’m brilliant yet?)

Yet unlike me, my dad is also somewhat weird. Especially at… normal things. For example, he works very strange and too long hours, sometimes wears his shirts backwards (like now) and, when cooking, has been known to burn water (which explains why we eat a lot of Vietnamese take-away) (which I don’t really mind) (burrrp).

If you think I’m being too critical of my dad, well, I have to be, because I’m the Organised One. It’s hard enough starting high school, topping every science test and preparing to wrestle with puberty, without worrying if my dad is going to blow himself up inventing a fart magnifier at nine in the evening. He just needs to get a faster car and a social life. (If he married Ms Trang from the Vietnamese restaurant on the corner, we could have discount take-aways every day.)

Even more embarrassing, my dad’s way too soft hearted. Every week he comes home from his long walks with yet another run-down, half-dead dog, cat, bat, galah, possum, kangaroo or homeless crazy person he’s scraped off the expressway or retrieved from under the electrical wires. Healthy animals are gross enough, let alone splattered or electrocuted ones.

So our house is too pitiful for me to invite any friends home (don’t believe any other rumour you might hear). The only good thing about Dad being such a softie is that I can almost always con my way (especially if I use goo-goo eyes or guilt him out about my lack of a mother (but that’s another story (and not really his fault (Aren’t brackets fun?))))…

VROOM!

I jolted with surprise as hall fans kicked in, blowing away the smoke.

‘Erasmus!’ My dad focused on me at last.

‘That’s my name,’ I replied, casually waving away my burp fumes. (In case you readers haven’t guessed, I’m also the hero and teller of this story (a story that is 95 % true).) ‘What went boom this time?’

‘Who boom?’ My dad flicked at his burning ear hair. ‘Oh, that boom! Well, I wanted to celebrate, so I decided to light up a cigar. Unfortunately, in my excitement, I failed to notice the build up of methane caused by the close proximity of a certain flatulent camel named Abdul.’

I began to untangle myself. ‘So camel fart gas caused your lab to blow up? Cool!’

‘There was a fire, but I put it out.’ My dad suddenly looked right at me. ‘How’d you get that black eye, Erasmus?’

‘Oh… that?’ I fingered my still-sore cheek. ‘Ah… cricket ball. Hazard of being small and hating cricket, I guess.’

‘Hmm…’ Dad raised one smouldering eyebrow.

I quickly changed the subject. ‘Um, you said you were celebrating something?’

‘Yes!’ My dad jolted back to his happy state. ‘I’ve finally finished it! The Nobel Prize will be ours!’

‘I’m happy for you, Dad,’ I yawned. ‘But I’m busy, um… e-mailing my stockbroker in Singapore.’

‘Your fiendish schemes can wait, Raz. You simply must see my latest invention!’ With a smile almost off his dial, my dad ignored my frown and picked up my roller chair, indicating I should sit. I grumbled, and sat. ‘Let’s roll!’

Dad laughed, scaring the one-eyed cat skulking outside the toilet door.

I sighed and figured I’d better play along. After all, my dad did pay my generous pocket money, and he was pushing me down the zigzag hall at speed, and I did love speed. Plus I didn’t want him to check my room too closely. Besides, he seemed so excited, even I was becoming a bit interested.

‘Eeeeh!’ My dad imitated a car braking as he pulled my chair to a skidding halt. A bandaged puppy slid by, her three legs skittering. We were outside the secret door, beyond which a solar powered escalator led to my dad’s even more secret lab in the basement. Normally, I wasn’t allowed down there (though I had snuck in before (roughly 367 times)).

‘Are you ready, Raz?’ My dad grinned. ‘Ready to see the most amazing invention in the history of inventions?’
I humoured him, and nodded. A willy wagtail with a bandaged wing plonked in my lap. ‘Stupid bird. Poop in someone else’s lap.’ I stood up. ‘Let’s go, Crazy Dad.’

‘Look out,’ he warned.

I ducked, and a ferret in a mini hang-glider cursed past my ear. Crazy Dad grinned even harder and reached out toward his secret door.

-------------

Before DC Green became a children's author, he worked for over 20 years as a surf journalist, winning awards for both his fiction and non-fiction. DC's writing credits include: some 2,000 plus articles published in over 60 magazines on every continent except Antarctica; stories included in a dozen anthologies; a commissioned movie script and a graphic novel for adults. He lives on the South Coast of NSW (at Milton-Ulladulla) with one slightly crazy daughter and three very crazy cats.
'Erasmus James & the Galactic Zapp Machine' is the first of a funny fantasy series for 8-108 year olds. The first chapters can be read at his website: http://dcgreenyarns.blogspot.com

Time

2005-09-26T18:20:00.000-07:00

A rainbow
Creating a bridge
From yesterday to tomorrow.
Engagement of memory
And dreams yet to be dreamed.
A spectral flash in time
Sending a post:
The storm is over.

In the distance,
A tree struck by lightning
Offers a bony branch in homage,
Longing for a simpler time
Of symmetry and youth,
Yet polished and stately
In imperfection.

The volume of the past
Fades to naught
As promises of the future
Dart amidst the spectrum of color.

Virginia C. Foley
©2005

http://www.virginiaCfoley.com