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Posted on 01/02/2006 7:52:08 AM PST by Soaring Feather
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Something I wrote as an assigned topic:
Home
That place of memories,
like the smell of chocolate chip cookies
baking in my grandmother's kitchen,
the taste of spice and oatmeal
and morning coffee,
or the anxiety I felt
asking my dad to tie my brownie uniform tie,
report card day
losing a job
late night TV on a Saturday evening,
or the place of sadnesses,
like at my grandfather's funeral.
Home
That place of acceptance,
Where you belong in spite of yourself,
Like an irritating three year old who will not take a nap,
Or a moody teenager who wrapped
Emotion and adventure around herself like a cloak,
Like resting as a baby in your mother’s arms,
Like sitting with her on her last day,
holding hands at the hospital,
connected,
loved.
Home.
That place of returning,
some day,
one day,
where I will stand before him,
he who still bears the scars of his caring,
the hard carpentry of true love's calling,
and as he takes my hand
he will say,
Welcome Home.
Good morning!
Well done! Good images.
--- Ralph Waldo Emerson wrote, "Do not go where the
path may lead, go instead where there is no path
and leave a trail."----
if you do that, be sure you file your Environmental Impact Statement first, or you'll find the Sierra Club right there with a restraining order!!!!
ROFLOL!! Well, one can be a leader, one which would impact lives and leave a different kind of trail. ;)
Good morning, ms feather.
Good morning, Kathy!
Thank You, for Blessed Assurance.
For a Lady with an Irish soul!
I recalls Old Shamus
Some folks fill a pub with laughter, ‘n Shamus did ‘is share,
a sing’n songs o’ Erin, ‘n playing ‘is squeezebox ‘alf ta night.
‘E’d larf ‘n sing it louder still once aga’n if’n ‘e didn’t get hit right,
swap’n jokes ‘n laffs with all aboot, drink’n beer without ta care!
‘E were a man of fair size, ‘e ducked coming through the door,
shoulders as wide near as tall, ‘n he were strong nuff to toss a keg.
‘Ands like a catcher’s mitt, and gnarly tree trunks fer ‘is legs,
‘n a smile ta light the room, a good man, ‘n hin a need h’ven more!
By day ‘e were a fisherman, take’n a catch fer market day,
‘n by night, ha pub singer ‘n music man wid out compare.
Knew the old songs ‘e did, my favorite ‘Tara Hill of Kings’ so fair,
‘is gravelly voice could make ya weep, aye, ‘e ‘ad ‘is way!
Twas da night before da Easter day, a storm come to Athenray,
‘alf ta fleet were trapped within da bay, not da place amid da waves.
Many’d ave died, hif not fer Shamus, an ‘is small boat, those ‘e’d save,
Dar’n da storm, hin da rocks, pull’n men from sink’n boats da day!
Rage hit did, but Shamus cared not ha lick, there was work ta do,
‘n ‘e set aboot it wit a smile, ‘n ‘is voice a sing’n thru dat storm then.
Da Saints must abeen wid ‘im as ‘e crossed da bay aga’n ‘n aga’n,
bring’n men back to ‘earth ‘n ‘ome ‘n families a fretting, da night flew.
By dawn’s cold light, da bay were a mess of battered men ‘n boats, my son,
but not a sign of Shamus was ta be found, nor, ‘is little cockleshell boat so small.
Da Vicar led us in a prayer fer a man who set ‘is cap, ‘n dared death ta call,
we hung hour ‘eads and remembered ‘im what saved us each one by one.
Ta da pub we went and tipped a cup ta ‘im in silent respect, a sailing man,
‘n we knew ‘e would a done ta same fer us hif we’d not come back.
Tears there were, and voices soft we recalled ‘is rowdy ways wid out lack,
fer a better man then I ‘ad given all fer one and all, until ‘is time were ban.
Da pub door crashed open ‘n in walked a mountain of a man,
wid a fella slung hov’r a shoulder, ‘n a mile wide grin.
‘It were old Shamus ha bit tattered ‘n wore a mite hamid da din,
‘n Kathy took one look, and to the big man she yell’n, ran.
Kiss’n ‘er with a lusty grin, ‘e sit old Erin down ‘n yell’n true n’ loud
“Now be giv’n old Shamus ‘ere a brim’n glass, ‘n one for Erin too.
We’ve swum ha pretty piece n’ need to chase haway da chill we do!”
‘n Kathy pulled them both a pint, look’n hat ‘er man so proud.
Took all night ta get da story of Erin’s boat a go’n down outside da bay, its hull tore,
‘n how Shamus had brought ‘im ta shore a sing’n a song and laf’n their fears away,
We toasted ‘im until the break aday, ‘n he sung us da old songs is all I can say,
fer we’d lost much, ‘n’ad so much given back ‘cause one man safe didn’t stay a
the last word missing was 'ashore'
I recalls Old Shamus
Thank You, Johnn, I love this poem!!
Artist name correction=Fusion Andina
Umbrellas and shadows
marking our lives,
like the sun during an eclipse,
like an oak on a summer's day,
or a red moon hanging low in the sky,
a shadow dancing behind a running child.
The shiver of bad news
A moment of quiet
the color of anger
a candlelit shrine
the grief of loss
a prayer said in silence -
weaving though our lives,
the pause,
the shadow,
the darkness
boundaries we cannot escape,
sure as our shadow
on a bright summer's day.
Wonderful images. Thank You.
Two Front War
Soldier, soldier now so far from hearth and home,
serving with your matchless honor to duty’s call.
Doing what’s needed wherever you’re sent to roam,
struggling with Death himself to make our enemies fall.
You look to home, to see that which you fight for,
and see a shadow on the land you die to defend.
While your taking out the bad guys in bloody door to door,
enemies right here at home, are preparing freedom to rend.
America, your home, your way of life is in political strife,
torn by forces within, neither respectful or even friend.
Laws fall by the way, by Judges who’d be Kings in life,
and words are banned to limits, a terrible message they send.
God is banned, so responsibility may also fall,
and the young are sacrificed on altars of the left.
Hand-out lifestyles traded for the power of the vote’s call,
and America dies yet a bit more, from this freedom theft.
Those who hate what we have made,
destroy America a bit more each day.
Hiding behind PC, sensitivity, and race’s raid,
gutting our nation, to hold onto their power play.
Illegals mean more to the left then you,
and your death to protect them is their joke.
Cruel Utopia, the sick dream they pursue,
at the cost of God, and Honor, and the common folk.
Elitist Corrupters of American kids in schools,
teaching nothing, to indoctrinate their wasted lives.
Generations lost to political greed, such fools,
a hundred years this stain to clear with bitter strife.
Folks afraid to act, afraid they’ll be called names,
media collaborators spewing twisted words of pain.
Courage gone, afraid to speak truth, so it falls in flames,
insipid anti-Americans demanding respect in a bitter rain.
Soldier, soldier, now so far from those you love at home,
your still serving with matchless honor to duty’s call.
America’s internal war, under a divided Capital dome,
and brother, I can not say in truth if America will fall.
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