Musings from the Invisible

Re: Book of Prose, Poems, Short Stories

The Beast That Is In Me

The beast is imbedded in my life,
sapping my energy, thickening my thoughts
and numbing my speech.
> The trickster, the saboteur, that heartless thing.
> It has a life of its own, but that life is really mine.
> How easy it would be to say that life is just different now
when really is nothing like it was then – before the beast came.
> I learned long ago to love myself,
that I could not love you unless I loved me.
> But, now my unwelcome guest, a guest uninvited and foul,
reeking of shit and vomit and heavy sweat
has not just visited, but lingered insidiously, anchoring itself
onto my very being.
> Who am I now? What is my worth?
> How do I love myself, my tainted afflicted self?
> What even tiny morsel do I have to give to you, you whom I love and respect?
> Am I still me, the me who worked so hard on self-discovery?
> Or by some cruel design am I something different altogether – a
fool, a jester?
> Tell me how I can possibly answer these questions
when the process of asking them brings me to my knees and takes my breath away?
> It makes me doubt my who-ness, my essence, myself.
> Why do the tests for all time come when I am empty of answers?
> Why are there so many questions, questions that are a torment, a gouge?
> I will win the last battle, tho the beast may win all battles before.
> No plan have I, but only the spark of my spirit, a spirit crying
> with such tears as could extinguish its own spark.
> The beast is embedded in my life.
> I know from my deepest knowing place that the answer is to love the beast.
> How difficult it is to love a part of myself that I would sooner
cut off and burn.
> But, then I would not be whole and whole I must be.
> I shall abide.

Paul Keenan Smith
Copyright

 

Re: Book of Prose, Poems, Short Stories

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Re: Book of Prose, Poems, Short Stories

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Re: Book of Prose, Poems, Short Stories

Ode to Great Big Mable

Out of Wax she came all shiny and new
The boys how they loved her, her size and her shape
They could tell at first sight, this girl knew what to do

Her colors were red, black, yellow and blue
She was to replace the last one
Her name was Mable, too

She could ride four men; she was the biggest you see
The boats all feared her
The next biggest could only ride three

It took three large lads to carry her about
She needed a big boat because
She was lean, sturdy and stout

But on the water she glided, she ripped and she screamed
The riders all bounced and laughed hard when she threw them
There was no raft finer they all had deemed

The badboys could not hurt her although they had tried
They whipped her and lashed her, and banged her about
But they all limped and moaned after their very last ride

Claire’s crew came next; they were bold, full of vinegar and spit
Claire first saw Mable and cried
Guys, look, holy shit

They all touch her and pawed her and wanted their chance
The raw awesome power, the beauty and size
It got one so excited he pissed his own pants

It was hotter than hell the waves were more bumpy than most
But Claires crew had to ride her they could be not coy
They had to prove to the badboys that her ride they could now boast

They ripped and they screamed, never so much fun had they had
They bounced and splashed and were thrown up into the air
They all had agreed that Mable was awesome and Bad

On the next day, Ryan cried out that something was amiss
She was taking on water
And starting to hiss

With Herculean strength to rescue her they tried
They pulled and they pushed till their muscles got weary
But on that hot freekin day Great Big Mable had died

Now full of water and too heavy to tote
I had to break the news, that the rope it must be cut
Great big Mable was now too heavy for my boat

She drifted slowly to the bottom, a big lifeless sack
Around the corner, past the camp ground
Near the place that they call Wax

Uncle Russell started bitching, man that really sucks
Because Great Big Mable
Had cost him three hundred bucks

But please do not cry, or mourn to your brethren
Because as we all know
All good tubes go to heaven

I heard a fisherman’s story one dark, starry night
About a ghostly apparition
That gave him great fright

A great tube he saw ripping all over the lake
No boat to pull it
Not even a wake

He heard laughter and giggles but saw no one and decide to hide
But I knew it was Great Big Mable
Giving little ghosties a ride

seadog

 

Re: Book of Prose, Poems, Short Stories


Behind This Mask

behind this mask lie my tears
hidden from your eyes
i can not say how i feel
so i'll stay within this guise

behind this mask i hide the truth
of all the hurt i feel
for believing all the lies i heard
when i should have known the deal

behind this mask i hide my love
not wanting you to know
about the way i really feel
i just can't let it show

behind this mask lies my soul
laid open for you to see
you only need to look inside
to find the real me

amanda lowe

 

Re: Book of Prose, Poems, Short Stories

I Have Menieres

I have Menieres,
It doesn't have me.
I have Menieres,
although no one can see.
I have Menieres,
it makes me sad.
I have Menieres,
no cure to be had.
I have Menieres,
I have finally accepted.
I have Menieres,
but I will NEVER be neglected!

Rae Nell G.

 

Re: Book of Prose, Poems, Short Stories

Humanity

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

 

Re: Book of Prose, Poems, Short Stories

This Year it Wasn't Just a Tree

Heavenly lace decorated the evergreens in front of the house. Fresh snow, the magic of winter, shrouded the dismal thoughts of our first Christmas alone. Just five short months ago, we had been a group of six angry, frustrated, and disappointed people, now we were five. With hardly a whimper, I had become a single mom with four kids, expected to carry on the family traditions of happy fun-filled Christmas activities and gifts. I looked at the splendor of God's hand on the world, and in the deepest of those personal heart spaces prayed that he would bury me as well.

Jolting me back to reality, four little hands waving wildly as they ran into the room proudly displaying their Christmas decorations made at daycare. The two youngest were excited to have something to contribute to the decorations and festivity of the season.

"Mommy, mommy, we can hang these on our tree." My third daughter then aged four was so expectant.

"Treeeeeeee" squealed my son, aged 3. I wondered how he could even know about a Christmas tree.

"Mom, you should see Mrs. Oliver's Christmas Tree. Its beautiful." The eldest daughter and caretaker of the brood in my absence, loves Christmas trees. She asked many years just for a tree, no presents, no special gifts. For her it was the splendor of the fragrance of pine, and the twinkling lights. She had always understood it was temporary, but rather temporary than not at all.

My second daughter knew that a tree was going to be a hard sell this year. The older two girls and I looked at each other trying to hold back the tears each of us felt. Somehow the Christmas tree was a focal point that brought us all a moment of peace; a hope and promise that everything would somehow be all right.

Money was tight, no child support, my salary barely covered the day-to-day. Even though abuse was not part of our daily life any longer, the memories were more than enough to keep us under a cloud.

My oldest daughter had slipped out of the room and went to the storage area, lugging in box after box of decorations, she and her sister started to decorate the mantel with the elves and stockings, garlands around the doorways. My role was to make the hot chocolate while the two younger kids danced in the middle of the living room. It was starting to look a lot like Christmas past.

Watching the love and appreciation for what they had, knowing that it was going to be totally different, we made the best of what we could do. As evening began to turn into a silent night a soft knock was heard at the front door. A neighbor who didn't say much and waved occasionally stood covered in snow with a smile as big as summer.

"My wife and I thought you might be able to use this."

Tears could no longer be contained, nor the sobbing of my heart. This man, sent by God to answer the prayers of a desperate mom, carried into our home a fragrant evergreen that became a Christmas miracle, not just a tree.

S. Smith

 

Re: Book of Prose, Poems, Short Stories

Vietnam War From a New Perspective

Growing up during the 60s was an interesting time. As youth we were moving from respecting our parents to we're going to do it our way. We had become intolerant and stubborn. Unfortunately, the Vietnam War was also going on and we didn't know quite how to filter that through the lens of duty to country and patriotism. Our graduating class was the largest in history at the school. By our senior year, with the war going full strength by 1965-1967 we had many who got married, left the country heading to Canada and those who went to serve their country; some returned alive, while others did not. Then there were the rest of us.

Some went about life as usual pretending life was beautiful. Others protested the war with great outbursts of emotions and marches. The Vietnam Era was really an "Era of Mass Confusion". President Kennedy had been assassinated, President Johnson thought he knew how to get a victory, Robert McNamara was running the show. Johnson knew he wasn't going to win and left the White House instead of running for a full term. You know its bad when even the government that is supposed to running things and telling you all is well bails out.

In retrospect, we were at a point in life of just falling apart socially and literally. Our moral values were being shredded with the hippy scenes of Haight-Ashbury and the Jesus Freaks in their vans. Music of Bob Marley, The Doors, Jimi Hendrix, The Stones, Grateful Dead were some of the hot groups of the era. And then there was this war that was in the way of avoiding the new roll-out of our generation. What we have come to realize--the Vietnam War helped define our generation. We were not Generation X, Y or Z ... we were the Vietnam/Hippy Generation.

Television played out the war for us every night on the television. The continual lines of body bags with young men and women forever silenced. Film in military hangers with flag-draped coffins of these same soldiers now back on US or their country's soil. It is painful to remember how so many hated the war and put the hate towards those who were fighting. We


hated the government, we hated those fighting the war, we hated our parents, and we hated society that was trying to keep us in line. The 60s was a time of sex, drugs, and rock and roll; finding Jesus through tie-dyed guru's, and hating the world in general. We were extreme brats as a generation, generally speaking.

Laughing through a smile when kids in school come and ask me, what it was like living through that old war, you know, Vietnam, I realize that life has come full circle. Telling the stories of hero's that stood in the jungles of Southeast Asia, booby-traps to kill wonderful people, horrible disease brought on by Agent Orange that men had to suffer for decades with upon return. And then tell them that this is the price for freedom. Then I tell them of the Vietnamese neighbors I had as an adult, one man had been a military leader, tortured just before he and his family escaped on one of the last military flights from Saigon.

When we sit and discuss the current war in Afghanistan and say the same things, "we shouldn't be there". All I have to do is look at the people who made it out at a time when their life was truly about to be taken from them and ask myself, "What is the role of mankind, if not to help others?" Does war help? Such a personal question and as many people that respond, I'm sure there are as many answers.

Hug somebody today, especially a veteran. Tell them thanks for fighting a war when maybe not a lot of people thought it was correct to do so. Write to a veteran or active military person, let them know you care and are thinking about them and the sacrifice they are giving to you and to me.


"All we need is love. la la la la la All we need is love la la la all we need is love, love.... all we need is love."
Let's get the right kind of loving moving on this planet before we kill it and ourselves.

S. Smith

 

Re: Book of Prose, Poems, Short Stories



Angel Faces

He squats under the table as only a four year old knows how, totally oblivious to the businessmen sitting in chairs above him. So focused is he on his empty stomach and the fallen bits of food, he doesn’t notice glossy black shoes that don’t move out of his way; a common sight at the outside cafés in North Korea. Children here know nothing of Prosperity, but Prosperity knows them – and ignores them.


***

Liquid brown eyes look up at the man in front of her. She smiles tentatively – hungry and tired. Precious. She dare not cry or whimper; her Cambodian caretakers know how to inflict the kind of pain that does not show. He desires young soft skin; not bruised, cut skin. Prosperity enjoys the wealth from her innocence as it feeds a lust never satisfied. She lowers her eyes and takes his hand.


***

Shivering bodies of all ages huddle together to keep warm in the sewer tunnels that open to the streets of Bulgaria. Bitter nights mean snow and frost. Stench and disease are the least of their worries for the night. The lucky ones are those close to the open-way where gas fumes of passing cars fill their lungs. Prosperity walks by daunting eyes of ashen faces while enjoying the warmth of fur-lined coats on their way to dinner.


***

Babies cry no more. They have learned no one is there. They know not a hug or a cuddle in this Romanian Orphanage of cribs and cages – cribs and cages they will never leave. No sun on their faces, no breeze on their skin, no fragrance of wildflowers in the spring … no music. Prosperity has better things to do than care for the abandoned and disabled. It is silent in this building of forgotten children. They don’t know how to laugh or play.


***

‘I don’t want to go home!’ cries one more child, afraid. Against stern advocate advice, American courts have ordered him back to a home that resents his intrusion but welcomes government benefits as long as he lives there. Life drains all hope, and tears unexpectedly rush down his cheeks. Boys aren’t supposed to cry, but he knows the routine so well. Home, beatings, foster care – Why can’t they see it too? I’m so scared! Two weeks later, he dies at the hands of a man that doesn’t want him around, anymore. Prosperity diverts funds to more worthy causes with even more government benefits.


***

The camera lens zooms in for a shot, capturing a dog lying on the streets of Bombay. It is feeding one lone suckling as she tries to survive her own malnutrition. The picture makes a good front-page story. A closer look at the hungry bundle reveals a tiny child receiving milk from this mother dog. Prosperity turns the page and goes on to the next story.


***

Suffer the little children?

‘Yes … they do.’

But, where Prosperity has ignored or exploited the innocent and helpless, God has raised men, women and families to fight their fight. Through these brave champions, I can hold these children; I can feed them, keep them safe, give them a warm bed … show them love. Rescue them. The impossible made possible through love, obedience and sacrifice.

If there is a lingering burden that continues to grip your heart, may I encourage you to search and pray for the organizations God longs to work with through you. Many international and local organizations pray for support to continue the battles for all children. The fields of desperate little ones are many.

Thank you for reading their stories – the Angel Faces of this world.



Matthew 18:10 "See that you do not look down on one of these little ones. For I tell you that their angels in heaven always see the face of My Father in heaven. (NIV)

Pat Guy

 

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Re: Book of Prose, Poems, Short Stories

Felt The Sun

I felt the sun
I let it warm me
I trusted it
I closed my eyes
I took my vision away from the sea
I hear the rage
The weight of the wave weighs down on me
I can't breathe
It leaves me covered in salt and sand and seaweed
I am wet
I am cold
I am angry
Water swirling around my ankles
And then there is the sun
I won't close my eyes.

T.L. Randolph
copyright 2009


My House Of Cards

My house of cards
My fragile vision
Delicately structured
I guard you from draft
I guard you from the careless hip
I guard you from the malicious finger
How will I guard you when the foundation rocks underneath me?

T.L. Randolph
copyright 2009

 

Re: Book of Prose, Poems, Short Stories

Pleasures of Summer

Basking in golden sunshine
the cooling ripples from a swim
cooking on the barbie
going barefoot on a whim
Lemonade and ice cream
fireworks that are a blast
are some pleasures of summer
still now and from the past.
ntf © 2005




Summers End

A cooler chill is in the breeze
sun settles sooner behind the trees
Peepers sing their summer tune
earlier in the afternoon
The woodsy scent that fills the air
gives hints of Fall soon to be here.
Lessons begin as school days return
with so many wonders for the children to
learn
and slowly the change of the season bears
the vibrant colors as autumn appears.

written by: ntf © 2004



The above poems my sister wrote herself, she has been writing poems since the age of 13.

Ruth/daize

 

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Re: Book of Prose, Poems, Short Stories

Spiders
by Amanda W.

It’s been incredibly rainy and stormy in my home town of Huntsville, Alabama, lately. My husband and I just bought a new house less than a year ago in a developing neighborhood located in the middle of a corn field nearby a wildlife refuge. Rain and new construction might be the reason spiders are seeking refuge in our home...I guess we should start charging them rent.

However, I am in the spider CIA...I can spot the smallest one from two miles away. I am half blind but I can see spiders. It’s like I can smell them. You know how hound dogs can sniff out prey for hunters? Well I am a hound dog when it comes to spiders...so let me begin at the beginning and tell you about my arachnid filled week.

I was on the phone while I was straightening up my home one day, minding my own business. When I headed into the bathroom, I spotted it—a huge wolf spider enjoying itself in my bathtub. I screamed and fled. I am the type of person who refuses to get close enough to spiders in order to kill them...my life saving husband was at work, so the spider was going to have to stay there until he got home...so what to do?

I ended the phone conversation, oblivious to what the person on the other end was thinking of my perilous scream. So I did the only logical thing I could. I took a towel and stuffed it underneath the door...just in case the spider ventured out of the tub…it wouldn't be able to get out of the bathroom and find me.

Then I noticed something that looked much like legs sticking out from the tiny crack between the carpet and the wall. I just knew it was another spider…or the same spider…I didn‘t care! Seeing as we didn’t have any bug spray (we always forget to pick it up), I did the next logical thing I could do. I grabbed kitchen cleaner, slipped on some shoes, and stood back, spraying while it ran about two feet until finally dying.

Eventually my husband came home, and luckily the spider was still in the bathroom so he killed it and cleaned up after it. Not satisfied that the spider was dead, I made my husband show me its corpse. The other spider corpse was still visible, so he picked up that one too. I won't clean up or even touch dead spiders due to my irrational fear that they will come back to life after I kill them.

The next day, I woke up and like everyday went to the bathroom. As I entered I quickly put to use my CIA techniques and scaled every inch of the room. Satisfied, I began to undress to take a shower when I saw it...another wolf spider walking from our bedroom to our bathroom. I was trapped…it stood between me and the door…what was I to do? I quickly dressed and for 5 minutes just stood there staring it down. I finally mustered up enough courage to jump over the spider and run out. I grabbed the counter cleaner again and sprayed it with half the bottle. I then sat on my bed and waited for it to die.

While waiting for it to die, my mind began to race. What if the spider had been crawling on me and laying eggs in my ears while I slept…what if….

About 5 minutes later, the spider did an Oscar performance of death by doing a complete head stand lasting for a few seconds, then falling onto its back. Dead…I hope…

I still needed to take a shower, so I took a towel, covered the spider, and then stomped on the towel just in case it wasn't dead enough. While brushing my teeth, I kept my eyes on the towel so that I would be ready if the spider came back to life. I took the world's shortest shower, got dressed, and then used the other bathroom for the rest of the day. My husband was on his way home from work when I noticed another spider lurking in the shadows of the kitchen...and another one on the ceiling as well!

I went out to the garage to get an item from our big freezer, and low and behold another even bigger spider scurries right in front of my bare feet...I ran out, tripping over things as I ran. Again my CIA skills took over: I locked the door leading to the garage because spiders cannot unlock doors, right?

When my husband gets home and I show him the two spiders that now need killing, he tells me about one he noticed in the computer room after I had gone to bed. He told me this was the biggest he had seen since we moved in. Then he did what a jerk husband would do...he made a joke about how he is feeling like our house is in the movie Arachnophobia. Real funny…dear husband…you'll be thinking that when you come home one day and the spiders have me tied to a kitchen chair with their super strong webs while they slowly eat me alive!

 

Re: Book of Prose, Poems, Short Stories

yes you do...it is my sister name...I did reply to your PM. thanks

 

Re: Book of Prose, Poems, Short Stories

Visiting Nana and Nampa in Boston, Massachusetts
By Ruth Coole


As a child the excitement grew within me as I started up the stairs to see nana and nampa. Dad drove as mom and I enjoyed the scenery of Jamaica Plain, Boston, Massachusetts where mom had lived and grew up! We would go every Sunday and as I held on to railing, each step was closer to seeing nana and nampa.

Oh the smell of nana's cooking filled the room! She made the most delecious homemade cookies and especially apple pie, my mouth would water of anticipation. I went out to the kitchen and sat at the table with my cookies and milk and talked to nana, her smile brightened up a room and oh she so enjoyed cooking. As I sat enjoyed every morsel, I would look out the kitchen window to the train tracks, there were 3 tracks. Beyond the tracks was another part of Boston with houses here and there, I would imagine what the people were doing, children playing, mother's busy with chores, Dad's fixing or washing cars. As the sun began to set, I could see the people in the trains, even though they were far away, the distance was close enough for me.
I would pretend that they were going to far away places on a trip or to see relatives, friends, or someone for the very first time. This was fun time.

I would ask permission from mom or dad to to outside in the small yard and look at the peach tree and also some flowers, the aroma of the flowers filled the air with sweetness, and in the other part of the yard was a lilac tree, beautiful tree, I would sit on porch and watch the people of all ages walking along the sidewalk, chatting, laughing and just enjoying.

Nampa would come out and sit next to me and tell me stories of how the peach tree grew and of nature, he made me laugh and I also learned a lot from him. Nana would call out the window upstairs and tell us it was dinner time. We said Grace and passed the food around, chatting, laughing, and then desert, oh nana's apple pie tasted so good, my taste buds were excited!

I went into the livingroom and sat on the pretty green couch, next to it was a lovely end table with pretty lamp. I turned on the television and the movie "The Wizard of Oz" came on, I was so excited and dad came in and sat down for a little while to watch with me. Mom was sitting at dining room table with her mother and dad having tea. As dad and I watched the movie, which was the very first time I saw it, Judy Garland sang "Somewhere Over The Rainbow" and I loved that song that very moment. Well, the movie did not get over until 11:00 pm, we stayed to the very end!

We had a long ride home, but, it was fine with us all. I reached up and gave nana and nampa a big hug and kiss. Oh I so loved nana and she smelled so pretty and nampa would lift me up and give a big hug, I would laugh and say "I love you nampa and nana".

I have so many memories as I could play dress up at nana and nampa's house, and enjoy every moment. Nana passed away when I was a young child and nampa passed away when I was sixteen. I was crushed by their loss.

I loved them dearly and have many cherished memories my nana and nampa.

 

Re: Book of Prose, Poems, Short Stories

I've never met anyone like her before.
She sauntered into my life one day and has remained.
There’s an air to her - a sense that she is holding onto life’s greatest secrets.
And the more I get to know her ... the more I learn what those secrets are.

She’s taught me so much...
That life is more about our questions than our answers.
And to trust the part that asks, knowing it’s this part that looks after us.
I used to think that answers were clever. But no ... it’s always been the right flow of questions.

She makes me feel special.
Not so much through compliments, but by the way weeks later, she applies a small part of what I say.
In that way, each conversation values the one before.
And any silences are shared and treasured.

She makes me laugh.
Not polite giggles, but great big belly laughs.
Sometimes she makes me laugh when she isn’t even trying!
But then with her, you know that all the silly things we do are only a tiny part of who we are – and so we can laugh.

She revels in her own uniqueness, encouraging me to revel in my own.
She knows we are all travelling the same river, only some are fighting it, some are looking to others for the way, while some go with the flow.
She splashes, plays, honours and shares without ever resisting what is in front of her.

She spins a yarn like no one else I know.
I wonder at her clever phrasing, her ability to set a mood, and the tale itself.
I used to marvel at these tales ...
Till I realized that her stories are so interesting because her LIFE is so interesting.

She inspires me
to be me.
And to realize..
who else is there to be?

She is my friend.
She teaches me.
She makes me feel special.
She makes me laugh.
She inspires me.
And today, in her sadness, she makes me cry.

I hope everyone gets to experience a friend just like her.

Lee
(mnme)

 

Re: Book of Prose, Poems, Short Stories

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