Facing Death

I think I may soon die, my friend,

This road we tread must have an end,

The days we walk are numbered sure,

And none will find this life secure.

I sense corruption at my heel,

The brightened day is but surreal,

Yet, I believe that I am blessed,

Excitement rises in my breast.

I long to hold the one I love,

Then praise my Maker up above,

And let my soul go fast asleep,

And pray the one I love won’t weep.

To My Love

Meet me on a quiet hill
Far away from city strife
In a place so distant that
It's seldom seen by human life.

Touch me in that secret world
Which only you and I will know
That hidden spot, that sacred shrine
A home where just we two can go.

Yes, hold me in that magic realm
And love me as you hold me there
Speak promises of dreams and bliss
Then seal each promise with a kiss.

Enduring Spirit

Each dawn with tedious rhythm early breaks,

Same graying walls, relentless, dingy, old,

The keys on chains, the bars, the bare yard makes,

Each dweller in this dying land feel cold.

I pray, read books and study, talk with friends,

Walk thrice around the endless, dusty track,

My hopes, my dreams, have perfect happy ends,

For tattooed, angry throngs I watch my back.

The singing in our chapel behind bars,

A view of blue sky, clouds, a single gull,

And love words wrapped in letters from afar,

Conspire to make the dreary day less dull.

These prison walls don’t hold the strength to stay,

My love, my joy, my dreams, or block my way.

Love

Love

In the Danville Post Office,

Waiting, at first arms folded, foot tapping,

At the tail end of a lengthy queue,

Slowing of words, careful speech, couched in solicitude,

To the faltering girl at the counter,

(Which, upon seeing, unclenched my teeth),

I suddenly glimpsed it.

On the old Post Road, in hands,

Painstakingly guiding out of stumbles,

Providing strength and stability,

Freely given,

To one crippled by time, by illness,

I saw it there,

And my breath was caught away.

At Bonsall Park,

“You go first,” “I’ll help you,”

In words (and looks and attitude),

In the simplicity of a child, not always so wise,

It was very evident,

I was shamed by my own inadequacies.

I saw it in a Roanoak County Courthouse,

The judge speaking words,

“25 to life,” those killing words,

The father hugging his wayward son,

Encouraging smile masking tears,

It was there,

Challenging my understanding.

In the simple hands cuddling and comforting,

One squirming, noisy, disruptive infant,

At the Raleigh Church of Christ.

At the side of a bed at Jacksonville Hospital,

Wiping away sweat and spit from a no longer pretty mouth,

On a warm fall afternoon not many years ago.

At the funeral of Jeremy Coucher, in 1974,

His wife sobbing at his graveside,

The hand touching her elbow,

The soft words ruffling her brown hair,

I saw it there.

Conflict

A man sleeps right beside me,
I talk to him each day,
We go to church together,
He holds my hand to pray,
We visit kids in tandem,
Each holiday we share,
And when I face the doctor,
I trust that he'll be there.

I love a man who loves me,
He lives so far away,
I never get to see him,
I've seldom heard him pray,
His voice I can't remember,
His touch I've never known,
I suffer life without him,
He calls a prison home.

And every hour that passes,
As days flow into years,
I ponder my existance,
While holding back my tears,
What about commitment?
What's love supposed to be?
And I marvel that such conflict,
Resides inside of me.

Cat Door

O, rectangle of nothingness,

Rigid in quiet possibility,

A means of egress from the cold,

Or regress from a quarrel,

A way of escape to the wild places.

Tiny emitter of whiskers, paws and fur,

Savior from litter, like glitter,

Spread over a child’s floor.

You’re a trickster, allowing in new friends,

The baby deer, once frigid from the snow,

Now slumbers on the bathroom rug.

And the masked stealer of cookies or other treats,

A cuteness hiding teeth and claws,

Enters through you, as if bidden.

You, open gap where ears emerge,

And where eyes glance furtively around,

Before a fluffy body pops inside,

Or where is seen a glimpse of only a tail,

And a pair of back legs as they depart.

You’re a passageway from home and hearth,

To foreign parts, then back again.

Why Teachers "Cheated"

Parents are responsible if their children aren't up to par, even if they say, they "didn't know it." Why didn't they know? Don't they help their children with homework, pre-quiz them on their spelling words, discuss their ideas for reports and read those completed reports, help them pick out and read library books, drill them on math facts?? Teachers are pushed to the wall by the extremely unrealistic "No Child (no matter how limited) Left Behind" law and threats against their livelihood if they can't teach children who NO ONE ELSE lifts a finger to help. In the district where I taught for 10 years, many children are obviously neglected by "parents." They eat breakfast at school and are left for after school tutoring, come to school without appropriate attire and basically have to be taken care of by the school district. As I teacher, I bought many a jacket or backpack and tried my best to teach and tutor. With as little help as parents give, it's a miracle that some kids learn anything. And those neglected, undisciplined, unloved, unattended children then disrupt and interfere with the rest of the classroom, making the job even more hopeless. It's no surprise to me that they cheated. But very sad, indeed, that it has come to this. Wake up to the reality. It's the parents!

Victor's Kiss

I will remember…

The baby hummingbird I held in my hands

What pads of kitten feet look like

The three foot tall goose at Descanso who came running

Cabins in winter

The crackle of a fireplace

Baby shoes

That quiet, shady, hotel balcony one warm afternoon

Reading O Pioneers with my daughter

Her wedding day

The reunion of Christian, the lion, and his friends

Eating cantaloupe in my little play pool

My mommy

The first day of school

…and Victor’s kiss.                             

My Dad

My daddy died today. It makes me quiet and thoughtful. He provided well for his family. May God be merciful.

Not a Princess

I watched the “Royal Wedding” with curiosity. The preparations leading up to the big day were amazing. I’ve decided that it’s for the best that I am not a princess. And it’s quite lucky for me that I have decided that, because there is no chance whatsoever of me ever being one. The closest I ever came was once in my Brownie troop. We were putting on a little play and there was a part for a princess. I overheard one of the troop leaders who had a tender heart for the downtrodden (and thus frequently gave me extra attention) say, “What about Sharon?” To which the more senior leader replied, rather forcefully, “Definitely NOT Sharon!” Well, that was my closest brush with being royalty. Here is why I don’t need to be a princess and it works out fine for me:

1) I like to drive my own car and go where I want to.

2) I know to put my panties on first, etc. so I do okay even when my clothes aren’t “laid out” for me.

3) I don’t want to ALWAYS have to be “in style.” Sometimes it’s nice to just stick on some jeans and an old, soft t-shirt and call it a day. 

4) I want the confidence to know my dress can be from the thrift shop (on their extra 30% off day) and I still look okay.

5) I don’t want to always have to say the right thing, because I, frankly, don’t always KNOW the right thing.

6) I want to have things to need and hope for and plan for and save up for.

7) I want to attend the church that I believe in, or change churches if my beliefs change.

8) I don’t like funny looking hats.

9) I don’t want to have every minor discussion I have with my kids, husband or sister analyzed in great detail on World News Tonight.

10) I want a reason to keep being excited about getting killer deals on eBay.

11) I want to keep thinking that my 1200 square foot house is pretty cool.

12) I want to take out the trash in my pajamas without it being made into a photo montage.

13) I don’t want Vogue magazine to critique my “beauty.”

14) I want to be so ordinary that I am able to relate to, understand and help other ordinary people.

Manuel

Manuel was a boy from the hood. Born to a young Hispanic mother overwhelmed trying to support her family in a  violent inner city slum with little ability and no assistance, he had no father and other children were already in the home .Having little but his mother’s love, and he had very little of that, he barely survived. The apartment he called home didn’t have room for him. At night no accommodations were provided, no bed, nothing. He found places on the floor, in the “living room” to sleep. But, because his older siblings engaged in drinking and drug activities nearly every night with their “friends,” the noise was difficult to endure, as was the violence and abuse. As a young child, ages 3, 4, 5, he was pretty well abandoned. He was not fed, was neglected, and was hit repeatedly with sticks and other weapons. At age 5 he was taken temporarily by an aunt where he was allowed to sleep on the couch. Noticing he seemed very ill and didn’t get up from the couch for a number of days, she took him for medical attention. Apparently he was near death due with an infection in his brain caused by the physical injuries he had endured to his head, which had not healed. Antibiotics saved him, but nothing at home, to where he was returned, really changed. The beatings, which he took more and more frequently at the hands of an older alcoholic brother, finally drove him in despair from the apartment. Thus, at age 12 he found himself living on the streets of Los Angeles alone. He had to hunt for food where he could find it, sleep where he could and survive as he was able.  It should come as no surprise that he joined forces with those who offered to help in some way. He became the member of a gang. By nature this little boy was tender hearted and sensitive. Frightened by “scary” movies, drawn to animals and babies, horrified by anger and violence, he had a difficult time adjusting to his new “lifestyle.” He would retreat, when he could, to a flood control / water diversion cement “room” which he had discovered and where he could sit alone to think, and to cry. He committed burglaries and similar crimes to survive and did jail and prison time intermittently. He didn’t commit violent crimes because he couldn’t stomach them. At age 18, he was, remarkably, pulling his life together somewhat, in spite of the fact that he was also suffering with grief for the loss of his mother who had recently died from breast cancer. He had a job, a car and some hope for the future. Then, a neighborhood friend asked him for help. He was planning a car theft and needed a ride to the location where he was going to steal a car. He approached Manuel who agreed to drive him to the mall. He dropped him off and left him there. The friend, later, was arrested for grand theft auto and Manuel was implicated. At that time, the infamous new California “three strikes” law had just gone into effect. Because it was Manuel’s third “felony,” Manuel was given a life sentence and remains housed in a state prison to this day, 17 years later.

Jake

Jake Lashcomb was a little redheaded boy, skinny, pale, freckled. His brother was a tiny brunette. They were buddies, best friends. Because they had no father and little else, they particularly held onto one another. Jake was 7. James was 6. At the local market they straggled along together as their mother stalked rapidly through the store. As they left the front area of the store and arrived outside, Mother stopped short. “Jake,” she said “Wait right here until I get back,” and, leaving Jake on the sidewalk, marched away down the street with James in tow. Jake waited. He waited for a long, long time. When at least a number of hours must have passed, he went inside the store (not having any idea what to do) and, when questioned by the store owner, acknowledged his circumstance. Unfortunately, he didn’t know his own address or phone number. However, he could remember the phone number of a neighbor child with whom the two young boys occasionally played. The proprietor of the store called that number and the neighbor lady came to the store to pick Jake up. She took him to his house and was in for a shock. The place had been deserted, the furniture (what there was of it) all moved out. The mother and brother had vanished! They were gone and were never to return. Jake had been abandoned at a grocery store in his 7^th year and his “best friend” and brother taken as well!

Remarkably, the neighbor lady, Beverly, simply unofficially “adopted” Jake and raised him with her own. She, too, lived in impoverished circumstances, but she gave him kindness and love, and that was what he needed most. As a kindergartener, Jake was unsuccessful. He was tagged “special education” at that early age and, because of that early “evaluation” found himself in such classes through all his years of school which culminated when he, not surprisingly, finally dropped out of high school. Finding himself at 25 living in the “projects” (as he had for most of his life), having little in the way of education, a paucity of self confidence, and a wife he loved but couldn’t support, he made some consequential, but hardly unpredictable, decisions. And those decisions led him to a prison cell facing a life sentence. By age 35 he had lost his adoptive mother (whom he loved dearly) to cancer and had been deserted by the wife he adored. (He had always shown pictures of his wife to all who would show any interest, until she wrote him the Dear John letter that devastated him completely.) That was the year he met Carrie. Carrie Malcolm was a teacher. She taught GED classes at the prison where Jake was incarcerated. When she first came upon Jake in her classroom, she confronted a man who was (as he put it) “too stupid” to get his GED. Carrie knew better and told him so. She assured him, “I’m a fully credentialed teacher. I know what special education is and you aren’t it.” At first, he didn’t believe her. But she convinced him. He started taking serious interest in his studies. He worked and struggled and learned and, yes, finally passed that GED (after eleven attempts - talk about determination!). Not only that, but (at Carrie’s prodding and with some of her financial assistance – which, by the way, was against prison rules) he even began taking and passing college courses. Carrie also witnessed to him about God and got him studying his Bible and going to chapel. A sad and lonely boy was being transformed by the love of God and hope into a productive man. (It may be added that even a "10 year denial" at a parole hearing, while upsetting to Jake, didn't put him off his recently acquired determination to succeed!) Praise God!

The Escorts-Look Over Your Shoulder

Christians "in Chains"

“Remember those in prison as if you were there with them...” Hebrews 13”3

There should be tremendous love and support for those in prison who are a part of the body of Christ. God has called to that harsh “ministry” remarkable and supremely dedicated individuals. It is a painful road to travel. It is a barren, desolate mission field. Theirs is a struggle to bring the message of peace, kindness and love into a world immersed in fear, anger and hate.

Many in prison have suffered immeasurably throughout their lives. When will the society, the world, understand that children are often raised in neighborhoods and environments that do not provide adequate care, love and safety, but rather, only injury, hate and fear? Often these precious souls feel they have nothing to hope for and little to live for. How can children comprehend and exhibit the love of God without experiencing it?

Christians in prison are remarkable. Out of their own pain and grief, they seek Truth, grasp it and then share it with others. People in desperate situations, like war, life threatening illness, concentration camps, gang infested inner cities and prisons, if not destroyed, have the potential to be made intensely stronger. That these individuals have survived, and thrived, is an incredible testimony to each of them personally. Some of the world’s most God-fearing, sincere and dedicated disciples of Jesus are presently incarcerated. They are “survivors,” examples to which the rest of us can aspire.

To My Sister, With Love

Pink and blonde and curly,

Sweet, precious little child,

Her father didn’t want her,

Her hope for joy had been defiled.

Her mother tried to shelter her,

From words that cut and tear,

But she was too intelligent,

Her father’s face was harsh, unfair.

Her tiny little lungs, so frail,

Could not cope with what they found,

She didn’t need two smokers,

Yet those were the only ones around.

Her little hands, they tried to please,

Her smile was self assured,

But hatred would be winner here,

Her “self” dismissed with just a word.

Poor, sick little baby,

Struggles to grow tall and strong,

Poor precious little girl,

Her hopes and dreams would all go wrong.

Of all the great potential she had,

This lovely infant, so smart, so dear,

An assassin could not have done much worse,

A father’s disdain’s a poison clear.

Now all grown up, she tries to cope,

Repair the pieces of her hurting soul,

But every day is so filled with pain,

She wonders, will she ever be whole?

With Love

I tell you every dream I have,

Because I know they’re ones you share,

I tell you all that makes me sad,

Because I know you always care.

I tell you all I hope for,

And all I hope to be,

Because you share my every hope,

And dream my dreams with me.

Though I tell you what I pray for,

It’s a waste of time, it’s true,

Because my each and every prayer,

Is breathed in prayer with you.

I tell you all that scares me,

Things I don’t understand,

And then with words you hold me tight,

With phrases warm you hold my hand.

I share with you the million things,

I’ve never told another soul,

Because you always calm my fears,

And make my heart feel whole.

So, this little poem’s a tribute, Love,

To all the kindness that you show,

And what a precious love we share,

I want the world to know.

Ode to Doctor Meade

This is an ode to the great Dr. Meade,

Who is a fantastic, grand dentist, indeed,

And I’m one who knows,

I’ve got swell teeth (it shows!)

Dr. Meade, as a dentist, I can’t live without him,

For over long years, I’ve found no cause to doubt him,

Meade’s simply amazing,

You’ll not find HIM lazing.

His “girls,” well, they’re “special,” (you’ll see if you visit),

You’ll truly like coming! (That ain’t normal. Is it?),

All Meade’s patients know it.

Their big smiles show it!

I hate to be bragging, but tell you the truth,

I’ve got all MY teeth, so it don’t take a sleuth,

A wise dentist’s tended them,

(When fate could have ended them!)

So visit in faith, the great Dr. Meade,

This impressive, yet humble “tooth doctor”, you need.

He’s meek as a kitten,

You'll surely be smitten.

Death Wish

Lord, call me home I humbly pray,
I've been the source of trouble here,
My poor heart follows its own way,
Still, God, I know that you are near.

Forgive my faults if you are able,
Condemn me if it's right to do,
My ways, my thoughts, are too unstable,
I cannot tell what's false, what's true.

To haunting fears each day I wake,
The nights afford a sleepless rest,
I want to change for my Lord's sake,
I look to Christ, for He knows best.

Someday I'll cross that river dark,
And then behold the other shore,
Will I then find I missed the mark?
That I am lost forevermore?

"Father, lead me gently home,"
Words like these are sung through tears,
Place me deep beneath the loam,
Spare me any future years!

Despair

I dare not think,
I cannot cry,
I sit alone,
And wish to die.

Can't calm my fears,
Can't clear my head,
Can't bear to live,
I should be dead.

Can't go to sleep,
Won't rise from bed,
A thousand worries,
Pound my head.

Too sad to move,
Yet can't be still,
Can't do a thing,
Have lost my will.

My Prayer

Let me do good,
Help me be fair,
Have me give water,
Lead me in prayer.

Stay close beside me,
Throughout each day,
Guide me in walking,
Only Your way.

Hand me my orders,
Keep me alert,
Make me talk softly,
When others hurt.

Gently correct me,
As I make mistakes,
Let Satan not triumph,
If tempting awakes.

Give me some respite,
At close of each day,
And when life is over,
Bear me away.

To My Son With Love Now and Always

I know that you’re unhappy,

Yes, you’ve reason to be sad,

Your life has not been easy,

And things have seemed so bad.

But there is me who loves you,

And there is God above,

Who offers you His mercy,

And seeks you with His love.

And all the time you’re fighting,

You’re angry and you’re sad,

Still on and on He loves you,

Yes, even when you’re bad.

Please see that there is goodness,

In this “wrong” world there is “right”,

Be we must all choose for ourselves,

To share the “day” or serve the “night.”

You may think I don’t know you,

But that thought is far from true,

I’ve heard your words on Facebook,

So, yes, I have a clue.

And though your thoughts have pained me,

Since I love you, as you know,

I never will desert you, Son,

That’s why I’ve told you so.

So every day you’re living,

Remember all my care,

And that I gave you all the love,

From my heart, that I could share.

Know also that I want for you,

To know God’s heart this day.

He’s good, John, and he cares so much,

Don’t give that all away!!!!!!!!

Sadness

My mind is all confusion,

I want what I know not,

I’m hungering for something,

I need some help, but what?

I don’t like where I’m living,

The place I dwell is bleak,

My body feels so tired,

My muscles seem so weak.

I hate to see the mirror,

My image makes me cringe,

My eyes are crowned in sadness,

I vomit, then I binge.

I dress to hide my body,

Put rouge on my blank face,

I look as just a sliver,

Of the useless human race.

My sleep is cloaked in turnings,

Wrinkles etch my skin,

I may be near to dying,

Not lovely, but so thin.

All my friends are sick of me,

To strangers I live not at all,

My soul is reaching out for help,

Yet has no one to call.

Loss

The emptiness of letting go,

A holy pain that only God can ease,

Goodbyes are wretched,

Tearing, breaking, bleeding,

Creating hopeless hollowness,

A vacancy in the soul.

The heart, left open to despair,

Laid bare, exposed to freezing winds,

Then tides of sadness,

Beset the tattered heart,

So that the soul, driven to its knees,

Seeks its God, to finally,

Only then, find some semblance of peace.

In My 58th Year I Learned to Love

Love, that puller on our souls,

That craving from the inmost parts,

A searching that will never cease,

Desire, with dangerous disregard,

To gain the goal for which we seek,

Slowly, tentatively, grudging,

Incrementally, I awoke,

Painfully, arthritic, slow.

Truth became more clear,

It’s “Taking” that takes away,

But “Giving” that draws love near.

I held true love in shaking hands,

Pulling it to my troubled breast,

And then, on letting go,

Found that I had loved it best.

Emptiness left a holy space,

My love, one with the universe at last,

In my 58^th year I learned to love,

My selfishness is past.

God, Give Me

A heart for those hurting,

An ear for what’s wise,

A hunger and burning,

To comfort their cries.

Alertness to warnings,

To quicken my pace,

A sense of God’s presence,

In each holy face.

A will to shun evil,

And feet that obey,

Hands used for love’s work,

Rather than play.

Money spent freely,

To further His cause,

Without hesitation,

With nary a pause.

Love given quickly,

Fear never known,

Kindness and sympathy,

Lavishly shown.

Let those be my virtues,

To God be the praise,

Who knows I am worthless,

In all my own ways.