Musings from the Invisible

The book will benefit MRI.

Thank you everyone for your contributions.

 

Re: Book of Prose, Poems, Short Stories

Who is that woman in the mirror?

I slowly take my cotton towel and wipe away the steam, a refelction in the mirror startles me. A closer look reveals olive skin, brown eyes, high cheek bones, and long chestnut hair. It looks like someone I use to know; it must be a charade.

As I slowly begin to dress I ask myself what mask shall I wear today? Should it be the one that hides the invisible pain of losing my balance, hearing, cognitive abilites, and self to this darn disease. My hands fumble with my silk shirt buttons; my painted fingernail snags the silk. Frustrated I sit on the toilet seat; I know I should wear pull over clothes but I worry about my sense of style. I may be disabled but I can still dress well. I decide to deal with the clothes later; I rummage through my make up bag. A knock on the bathrooms door causes me to jump; I drop a small metal mirror on the floor.

“Ahh,” I cover my ears with my palms. This disease I have makes even the minute sounds vibrate with intensity and reverberates loudly through my head.

Sheepishly he opens the door; I can see a head full of brown hair.

“I am sorry,” he whispers as he looks down at me.

“Okay,” I utter trying to maintain my balance and stay visually focused.

“Are you okay,” his strong face is sad, “are …”

“What,” I lift my head and watch his full lips as he continues to speaks.

“I just wanted to see how you were, I heard a noise,” his white teeth are such a contrast to his sun burnt skin.

I nod my head to indicate “yes.”

“You must…” he looks down at my clothes.

I grab his face and try to read his lips; he talks but I cannot understand. “I can not hear you,” I say, “you must look at me and talk slower.”

He nods and re-arranges my skirt.

“Sorry,” I whisper, “I tried.”

His long fingers gently buttons my shirt; his hands trembles as he clasps the last button near my breast. His fingers linger for a moment…

In an instant…my world begins to twist…bile rises…I collapse in defeat…the mask of vertigo has won…for the moment.

A. Pearl
Copyright 2009

okay; if I can do it so can others...there are many here with more talent and spark than I will over possess...come on take a chance...send me something...so we can raise money to benefit Meniere's research, help others, outreaches, etc...

 

Re: Book of Prose, Poems, Short Stories

"Intruder - Crimson Letter M"

"I hate you," she whispers, "you cruel selfish beast."

She is reminded of a man who once stole her innocence, trust, and childhood. But this bastard is not a man, it is worse. A man you can fight, you can strike out in attempts to defend yourself. However, this beast can not be tamed or hurt, it is not tangible.

She looks into the mirror and glares at the woman who stares back at her. Life and joy use to gleam from her dark eyes, now all she sees is anger, fear and hate. Hatred over this cruel and relentless beast that ravishes her body as a cougar devours a wounded deer, anger that runs so deep that it fills the marrow of her bones, fear that she has lost herself to this...

'No,' she screams, 'you will not own me...you may have control of my body but not my mind.' She is reminded again of the man who stole her childhood, but this intruder is not made of flesh and bone this perpetrator is beast without a soul, a demon and black stain..

Confusion sets in, she begins to feel lightheaded. Her stomach convulses as her heart quickens, bile rises and burns her throat. Another convulsion, the room spins and twist as she expels her food. "I hate you...you bastard,' she cries as she collapses on the cold hard tile. Her eyes close, she is helpless as 'he' once again ravishes and invades her body, defenseless until 'he' is finished until 'he' is satisfied. However, once finished, this intruder will not leave her body, 'his' satisfaction does not end. "He' remains inside her entwined within her dark and secret labyrinths. Laying in wait for another time to strike, take, or shall I say steal and destory. There is no escaping this intruder, 'he' alway finds her. 'He' strikes without warning or reason. She knows there is no satisfying 'his' hunger as 'he' intrudes upon her body and creeps into her soul.

Hours pass and night has come. She slowly lifts herself from the tile, she is shaken and alone but okay. She has survived another attack. Slowly, the darkness inside mirrors the darkness in her heart. For a faint moment she smiles, but in moments the mirror reflects the truth. She is not alone, 'he' is now dormant inside her. 'He' has infiltrated her marrow and he will attack again. But when? She knows within her heart that 'he' will bide his time and strike again. 'He' will strike when she is most vulnerable, 'he' will strike when most unexpected. "He' knows she can not leave or destroy 'him'...to destroy 'him' would be to destroy herself...

Glass shatters as she tries to destroy her image and truth. She takes her finger and dips into the crimson blood; she can not bring herself to write the word "Meniere's'. The mere thought of the word causes bile to rise...she vows to destroy this intruder one day but for now she takes her fingertip and writes the letter 'M'.

Slowly she lifts herself again; grateful for another chance to conquer this beast.

A. Pearl
Copyright 2009

 

Re: Book of Prose, Poems, Short Stories

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Re: Book of Prose, Poems, Short Stories

On the Potter’s Wheel

In the hands of God I firmly rest,
Submitting to His will.
He conforms me to His perfect vision
While I remain quiet and still.

The Potter is the Master of the clay,
He sees the finished end.
I do not understand or know
What refining He will send.

He sits me on the wheel to turn
And is never in a hurry.
The molding process takes all life
Though I would rush and scurry.

He batters the clay into its shape
And whirls me as He might;
I can’t lose heart in the awful process –
Keeping my Potter in sight.

I realize that any notions of control
Are futile attempts to dictate God.
My silent, but noisy, world must
His mercy and sovereignty laud.

When I am in the valley of humiliation
Spinning to form His treasured ideal,
I do not disdain the careful work
He does on the Potter’s Wheel.

S. Mason
Copyright 2009

 

Re: Book of Prose, Poems, Short Stories

Friday

Friday the 19th and I was feeling great
I had much to do, so I couldn't be late

At 10:AM the roaring got louder, that sound that I only hear
I knew it was coming from my dead useless ear

In the blink of an eye, I started falling
But that’s what happens when Meniere’s comes a calling

The young the poor the old and the rich
We don’t know why she chose us, she’s a cold-hearted bitch

Six foot one, with muscles like steel
But no-one can see, how horrible I feel

He looks fine, so he must be, isn’t that what they say
In my shoes they should walk, for just one friggen day

My saliva is flowing, water meets my eyes
The bile in my stomach is trying to rise.

Appointments to cancel, apologies to make
Inform my children, I can’t drive to the lake

My throat is swelling, as a tear forms in my eye
Chest out, chin up, tough guys don’t cry

Sweat on my forehead although it’s not hot
My head on my desk, this day is now shot

To their cubicles and offices the Rats now must race
I thank God up in heaven, that I own the damn place

Seadog
Copyright 2009

 

Re: Book of Prose, Poems, Short Stories

I Wonder...

I wonder if they really see me
They can see; they can hear
I can see, but cannot hear
They look but don't really see
They can hear but don't really listen
I'm deaf but noises hurt
I've told them, but they don't understand
Or maybe they don't remember
Where is their humanity?
Perhaps they never had it
How very sad for them.

Linda J. Weber
Copyright 2009

 

Re: Book of Prose, Poems, Short Stories

I Wish I Knew How To Write A Poem
by: the one, the only, Nassman
copyright 2009



I wish I knew how to write a poem
Those that do seem so full of glee
Instead I stare at white paper
Blank as Bush’s face seconds after the 911 tragedy

I wish I knew how to write a poem
Those that do seem so cool
My mind just draws blanks
One verse is all I ask for…so I can make the mm.org women drool

I wish I knew how to write a poem
Put my pen to paper and write
Instead I stare at the wall clueless
Damn! Those that can seem so friggin bright!

I may not know how to write a poem
But I will tell you this
I’m a sarcastic son-of-a-gun from Canuckistan
Hey! I just wrote a poem, I bid y’all adieu as I have to take a piss….

 

Re: Book of Prose, Poems, Short Stories

Still the Same

They sit and visit
and talk and laugh
memories return
of days long past

There are a few wrinkles
and some gray
their gait is slower
each passing day

While she listens
her mind recalls
the warmth and love of
days long ago

They are older now
her brothers and she
it matters not
they are still the same.

Linda J. Weber
Copyright 2009

 

Re: Book of Prose, Poems, Short Stories

The Hole in My Heart

Never really been a cat person
Claudia was an exception
More human than feline
The sweetest thing I've ever known

Hard to tell she was sick until the end
So brave and courageous
So quiet in her suffering
So.......sweet

Daughter held her as she passed
Tears flowed
She suffers no more

She loved and was loved
And gave me sweet memories
To heal the hole in my heart...

Linda J. Weber
Copyright 2009

 

Re: Book of Prose, Poems, Short Stories

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Re: Book of Prose, Poems, Short Stories

Same Old...

oh my, i am somewhat concerned a bit.
it seems my good ear may have taken a hit.
i get slightly dizzy when i turn this way or that.
it didn't use to happen like this,
i thought i maybe had beaten this rat.
i can't touch my mastoid without pain,
maybe some fluid is built up in there,
it just won't seem to drain.
the tenderness goes down my neck and i just want to cry.
oh well what will happen i will go on, i must continue,
i can't just lay down and die.
if the good ear should go then so be it.
i won't let menieres take me without a fight.
it is just this damn discomfort i hate.
but my soul still sees some sort of hopeful light.

Rae Nell G.
Copyright 2009

I Cried Today

I cried today,
but still managed to smile.
I cried today,
but still felt allright.
I cried today,
but still kissed my love.
I cried today,
but still hugged my family.
I cried today,
but still had a meal.
I cried today,
but still have a home.
I cried today,
but still carry on.

Rae Nell G.
Copyright 2009

I Don't Dream

I don't dream anymore,
I just have a blank screen.
The pictures have faded away
just pitch black, no reds,yellows, or greens.
What happened to my mind?
Has it just forgotten how to think?
Nothing comes to me anymore,
no nothing but the feeling i am going to sink.

Rae Nell G.
Copyright 2009

 

Re: Book of Prose, Poems, Short Stories

You

iI never knew how much I could stand,
Until I fell on my face
and You were there to take my hand.

Rae
Copyright 2009

 

Re: Book of Prose, Poems, Short Stories

"Families Are Forever"

Even though I cannot see your face,
I know that you are there,
watching over all of us,
with your loving care.

I try not to question,
why you had to go,
but the Good Lord made us a promise
and this I know

Families are forever
No one can take that away
My love for Him is continuely growing
stronger each new day
I thank the Lord for giving me
each moment I shared with you
this isn't good-bye
it only means I'll see you someday soon.

Written by Stacey Nyborg in memory of my loved ones that have departed.

Copyright 2009

 

Re: Book of Prose, Poems, Short Stories

#13

 

Re: Book of Prose, Poems, Short Stories

How may I help?


I will write something just for this.

 

Re: Book of Prose, Poems, Short Stories

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Re: Book of Prose, Poems, Short Stories

Sometimes

Sometimes…….
I look at my hands.
And I wonder………
What if?

Sometimes…….
I look at my hands.
My life unfolds…….
As I look at them.

Sometimes…….
I look at my hands.
They tell a story…….
Known only to me.

Sometimes……
I look at my hands.
I see them holding…….
My memories, life.

Sometimes……..
I look at my hands.
The memories……..
Within, they are me.

Sometimes……
I look at my hands.
Past, present,……..
And for now

Sometimes……..
I look at my hands.
I want, I need…..
But what, I don’t know.

Sometimes………
I look at my hands.
It’s funny in a way……
My hands,

Sometimes…..
I look at my hands.
They tell a story……
Known only to me.

Sometime……..
You should look at your hands.
Look at your life……..

Look at your hands.



Mortality

I lost a friend back in ’97.
Seems cancer took him
He was not quite 41.

We hadn’t spoken much
At all since high school.
Our lives went separate ways.

He left behind a wife,
Stepdaughter, and had
Two boys of his own.

His stepdaughter
Delivered his eulogy.
It was heartfelt and she cried.

He was her dad
The only one she knew.
And he raised her as his.

I cried too
As did many there.
Our friend was never more.

Too young and
Our whole high school class
Turned out to pay our tribute.

We grew up together,
As boys, Allen and I.
Country boys, full of mischief.

High school teammates.
I blocked, he ran.
He and I. Always a team.

Basketball, football…..
And track meets, girls.
Fond memories to this day.

I wish we had stayed close.
I don’t know how that happens
When people grow apart.

Lives on separate tracks.
Lives apart.
If only his life fulfilled.

He passed away almost 41.
Bone cancer it was.
Was a very sad time.

I used to think until today
That it was his time.
But I bet he didn’t feel that way.

You see this summer.
I met my mortality.
I realized how fragile I, you are.

So I’ve become reflective
And my little story I’ve told.
Of Allen, my boyhood friend.

I’ve made it a point to
Reconnect in some way
With others, my childhood friends.

Anyway, as I started to say.
I lost a friend.
Twelve years ago today.

Twelve years ago today.
Allen died.
God rest his soul.

Twelve years ago…… today.

Richard Sloan
copyright 2009

 

Re: Book of Prose, Poems, Short Stories

My Uncle

John passed away last night. 83 years of age. He was the last of my father’s siblings, He was the youngest of the 7 of them. I guess that since he was the youngest that it would be appropriate that he would be the last one standing. He and my dad were the only boys with 5 sisters. Kidney failure we’re told, and his son, my cousin, said Junior was too weak for dialysis so the family decided to just let him go. He had been in ill health for a few years now and in a nursing home for the last few months in between stints in the local hospital. He was tired of fighting the inevitable, and his family respected his wishes. He is survived by a son and 2 daughters, many grandchildren, many nieces and nephews, and his second wife. (his first wife and lifelong partner passed away about 5 years ago after suffering a stroke.)

Notice that I called him Junior in the previous paragraph? He has always been Uncle Junior to myself and his other nieces and nephews. I have no idea how he began to be called Junior, he’s not named after his father, but he’s always been Uncle Junior to us. A giant of a man, 6’ 5”, barrel chested, and quite possibly the gentlest person to ever live on this planet. He was a farmer his whole life, tilling the ground, raising cattle and hogs, his wife working right along beside him. She could drive a tractor as well as he could besides raising their family together. A survivor he was, living through the Great Depression and grew up tending the farm and helping his mother while my dad was away at war in Europe. Their own father had passed away in his 40’s and wasn’t there to keep the farm producing, so John did.

So, I digress a bit……… John was a survivor. He had a heart attack 10 years or so ago, got on the fitness trail, and dropped a bunch of weight. Still a big imposing man, but healthier, he survived. He retired from farming several years ago, turning the farm over to his son. But he still got out and drove a tractor in the field occasionally, kept a few cows around…… you see, it was his life.

My own father farmed for a few years after the war, but gave it up and became a self employed carpenter. I have fond memories of going over to Uncle Junior’s on a Sunday afternoon, he’d let myself and my brother drive a tractor, we rode our cousins’ horses, and we played with the other kids in the barn. Nothing like rolling around and playing in the straw when you’re a small boy. And his wife was the best cook in the world (next to my own mom of course). A big man….. I remember him packing 3 or 4 of us little kids around on his back, hanging off his arms, and wrestling us until we’d had enough. Memories……. Yeah, I’ve got a few. Wait a minute, isn’t that a song??? Somehow I miss those days of innocence, being a small child and not having a care in the world.

On a similar note…… this past summer a few days after I got out of the hospital (some of you may know that story), John came to see me one afternoon. He drove up in his pickup truck, got out of it using his cane, and we sat down in lawn chairs on a hot sunny day in the shade of a huge maple tree. His wife had been canning homemade chicken noodle soup and he brought me a large jar of it. It was still hot in the jar. We talked for a couple of hours before he decided he needed to go home and lay down. He wasn’t well then, but he wanted to come see me, the youngest of his nieces and nephews, bring me some of that chicken soup. The man was an impressive human being.

The last of his generation in my father’s family. The torch has just been passed on to all of his children, nieces and nephews. I’m proud to say I’m one of those nephews. Somehow, it feels like a generation has passed, and I suppose it has. Kind of hard to put that feeling into words.
As I said, a gentle giant of a man, our Uncle Junior. This big cuddly bear of a man will be sorely missed by all of us. You can bet your last dollar that all of his family… everyone of us… will be at his funeral. I called my 2 children earlier today, and they are coming as well. My son will drive a couple of hundred miles to be here. That makes me happy. A very close knit family we all are and I am so happy my 2 children feel and understand that also. Tears will be shed in memory of our Uncle Junior and we will miss, we will reminisce, we will laugh, we will cry, and we will celebrate a great man in our life.

R.I.P John, we loved you.


copyright 2009
Richard Sloan

 

Re: Book of Prose, Poems, Short Stories

A Mama's War Dead Son

My darlin’s coming home today
His eyes no more can see
The war for him is over now
For me there’s nought but grief

He went away a proud young man
So vital full of life
His children will forget his voice
Dead husband to his wife

It was a place so far away
A land I’ll never see
One violent breath his very last
Then fell down on his knees

Uniformed men walked to our door
Their eyes were dark and sad
A duty to the dead performed
The living filled with dread

Oh baby boy, you’re home today
I wish to kiss your face
They put you in an oblong box
Our tears fall all the days

To feel your breath upon my cheek
A wish that’s only smoke
Oh sweetest child, my own, my blood
A quick and violent stroke

I bore you from my belly deep
You suckled at my breasts
This cannot be worth it no
Medals on your dead chest

Your daddy walks the darkest cloud
Your wife again may never sleep
Your children they do weep and moan
Your mama aches with defeat

Oh sweetest child my darling son
My baby boy you’re home
Oh finest man my flesh and blood
You’ve left us here alone

copyright 2009
Paul Keenan Smith