Friday, December 14, 2012

WITH HEARTS THAT ARE HEAVY, WE COLLECTIVELY CRY OUT,

“ABSALOM, O ABSALOM!”

2 Samuel 18:33   And the king was deeply moved and went up to the chamber over the gate and wept. And as he went, he said, “O my son Absalom, my son, my son Absalom! Would I have died instead of you, O Absalom, my son, my son!”

 



He heals the broken hearted and binds up their wounds…

[Please heal us, O Lord]

    Psalm 147:3
 
 
 

Is there no hope for the soul of this profligate young man? He died in his iniquity: but is it not possible that he implored the mercy of his Maker while he hung in the tree? And is it not possible that the mercy of God was extended to him? And was not that suspension a respite, to the end that he might have time to deprecate the wrath of Divine justice? 


 
 

Psalm 6:2  Be merciful to me, LORD, for I am faint; O LORD, heal me, for my bones are in agony.

 Psalm 41:4   "O LORD, have mercy on me; and heal me, for I have sinned against you."



 
 

We plead so grievously : How many more? ...How many more?


[Absalom...O, Absalom]
 
L.P.-G.    12/14/2012


The Sandy Hook Elementary School shooting occurred on December 14, 2012, in Newtown, Connecticut, United States, when 20-year-old Adam Lanza shot and killed 26 people, including 20 children between six and seven years old, and six adult staff members. Earlier that day, before driving to the school, he shot and killed his mother at their Newtown home. As first responders arrived at the school, Lanza committed suicide by shooting himself in the head.


Friday, December 7, 2012

December 7th: TODAY, “I” remember…


Robb’s birthday!!!!!!!!!!!
 
 
 
 






 

Happy 19!!
[Last year to be a teen]
 


 
 
   
 
 

XOXOX, MOM and DAD
 

On December 7th, we didn’t declare war, but LOVE



 



[You and Richie were so cute!!!]

Happy Birthday to you!!!!!!

12/7/2012
 
 

Wednesday, November 28, 2012

ITS WEBS ARE FULL...

WANT NOT/ “TASTE NOT”

 
Death wants more ‘death’, and its webs are full:
I remember my father's garage, how child-like
I would brush the tiny corpses of flies
from the static windows they thought were
lucid escape-routes-
their sticky, repulsive, vibrant bodies
shouting like dumb-crazy dogs
against the glass,
only to spin and flit
in that very second,
larger than hell or heaven,
onto the edge of the ledge…
and then the spider, from his dank hole,
nervous and exposed:
the puff of pitchy body;
swollen, silky, hanging there,
not really quite knowing,
but then (again) so ever knowing-
 
 
something sending it down its own string,
the wet weave of a web,
toward the weak shield of buzzing,
the pulsing;
a last desperate, moving hair-leg
there against the glass,
there alive in the sun,
spun in a white cocoon;
and almost like love:
the closing over,
the first hushed spider-sucking:
form-filling its ample sack
from this thing that lived;
crouching there upon its back
drawing its certain blood
as the world goes by (outside)
much like disinterested traffic
  and my temples screech for mobility …
 
and I hurl the broom against them:
the spider full of spider-anger,
still thinking of its precious prey
and waving an amazed broken leg;
the fly very, very still,
a dirty speck stranded to straw;
I shake the killer loose
and he walks lame and peeved
towards some dark, dusty corner
but I slyly intercept his dawdling,
his wounded crawling like some broken hero,
and the broom-straws smash his legs,
now waving sheepishly
above his head
and he’s looking…
looking for the enemy; 

 
 
 
 
 
 
yet… he seems rather valiant,
dying without apparent pain;
simply crawling backward,
piece by piece by piece…
leaving nothing there, until,
at last, the ruby-red gut-sack
(he wears aloft) splashes
its buried steamy secrets,
and I run child-like
with God's fury a step behind,
back to simple sunlight,
wondering …wondering
as the world goes by
(with curled smile),
if anyone else actually
saw, or sensed, my "caring"
  crime.

Adapted from Death Wants More Death; a poem by Charles Bukowski
 
 

Wednesday, November 21, 2012

SPEAKING IN CODE: YET HATE IS STILL HATE



YOU KNOW, MANY OF US CAN SEE RIGHT THROUGH THE THINLY DISGUISED CODE WORDS; WE’VE BEEN THERE.



WHEN WILL THOSE SMALL-HEARTED, BULL-HEADED REPUBLICANS STOP THEIR HATING?

 



NOW, SUSAN RICE’S COMMENTS DIDN’T SEND US INTO THOSE NEEDLESS, EXPENSIVE WARS.

[DID THEY??]




GROW UP, GUYS…


L.P.-G.,M.D.

Tuesday, November 6, 2012

WHO CALLS THE FINAL SHOT?

“SOMBER  R A I N S”   
SING
  (THIS  NOVEMBER )

  



They seldom, [if ever], SMILE






A Thief Amid the Rains
Written by Lisa Porter-Grenn
    YOU WISH TO STEAL THE SCENE, NOVEM’ ?


I trust you know the course!!
October trails three steps behind,
While you proceed, “full force”…

 HENCE, YOU DECIDE
THE PATCHWORK  PLAN,
Of fading browns to gold;
This sun-spent show,



Needs room to grow,
   Before chilled rains take hold.




  ALL ‘PRAY’ YOU LAY WILD WINDS TO REST,

And tie up life’s loose-ends;

The ‘Spirit’s of the Night’ trade bets

That you and Earth stay friends.


 
‘FIRST FROST’ PARADES HOPE’S

 *HARVEST MOON*

As slatterned-skies grow long,

Reflections mirror a gosling’s wing;

November tides roll strong


WHO CALLS THAT FINAL SHOT?

I muse,

      (As Venus pales from view)…

How strange(!!)

 I thought ‘I’ held those cards !

Yet now, (We know )

Tis YOU .


But nothing lasts forever…even cold November rain…

nor the ugly vestiges of Sandy (or so we dearly hope).