HAPPY BIRTHDAY
YOUR BROTHERS ARE BLESSED TO HAVE SUCH A WONDERFUL SISTER. LIKEWISE, DAD AND I ARE BLESSED TO
HAVE SUCH A WONDERFUL DAUGHTER!!!
1-8-2013 IS YOUR DAY TO CELEBRATE !!!!
GO CAPRICORN GAL!!!!
Monday, January 7, 2013
Wednesday, January 2, 2013
BLINK…AND YOU MIGHT JUST MISS THE FANFARE
With nary
a wink or a nod
2012 has silently
slipped away—
Too weary
to dance at dawn
Or drink
the tasteless vapors of duplicity.
There is
a fresh new year now,
One of discernible
distillation,
Begun at
the second bell of midnight;
A
winter-night so in love with itself...
Born of sequestered
champagne and genial applause.
The dusk darkly
whispered of what was to come,
And
twilight drew us in with piquant promise.
Yet, when
morning came it was without fanfare;
It was
courteous, polite and perfunctory.
The last
year was our latent caller;
We
guessed at its purpose;
We hoped
in its intentions.
And when
it scurried out without apology
We waved farewell
and blessed the send-off…
For it
was into the beautiful.
That night
was our vessel of light escape;
Forever gone
are the quiet sorrows of yesteryear.
Poem written by Lisa Porter-Grenn
January 2013
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 6:2
Be merciful to me, LORD, for I am faint; O LORD, heal me,
for my bones are in agony.
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
Wednesday, November 28, 2012
ITS WEBS ARE FULL...
WANT NOT/ “TASTE NOT”
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.
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
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
their sticky, repulsive, vibrant bodies
shouting like dumb-crazy dogs
against the glass,
only to spin and flit
in that very second,
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;
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-
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
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;
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,
dying without apparent pain;
simply crawling backward,
piece by piece by piece…
leaving nothing there, until,
(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
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