by compound complex 135 Replies latest jw friends
AN INTIMATION OF MORTALITY
Can you hear the rain, the cold and pressing wet that pushes me to the groun'?
You are safe, dry, warm; still, I ask you, do you hear the rain that beats me down?
You are never aware nor care about the cruel forces of nature ...
You are, like me, quite a man of flesh and blood; of that I am more than sure.
How, then, do you escape the ravishes of time that 'pon my body must crash?
Are you an heir to Wilde's Dorian Gray whose image I wish to hell could smash?
Ok, I just wrote this and who knows what to call it. Bet a psych would have a good time on it!
Silence as Laundry
I sit and roar and roar and pour some more, Waiting for my words that do not come. I will myself to say them and yet, when faced with that moment of truth. The moment that laces people together or keeps them apart,
I am quiet. I sit and be still and calm and be quit some more. I keep it tied up like a precious box. Timid and shy, just like I cannot stand. I wait for the next moment while,
I am patient. I watch as my whole being clams up. Walls up. I dissect my in thoughts, I watch as they heap up in the corner of my mind. Like dirty laundry that has no purpose. Not a reason to wear it in the first place, and no reason to wash it after. For what do I wait;
Why do I wait? Silence keeps me calm. What is this fear that rages through me and I find myself someone I am not. A mouse to a lion and yet my thoughts of a lion and words of a mouse. Why dream just to put my dreams to bed each night,
I sleep. With sleep as short as my words. Not meeting my dreams, for fear if I should lose myself to sleep. Lost as my words are to me when it is time to speak. Perhaps I protect my words. Perhaps silence is protection.
Here's a little poem my Dad used to say to me when I was a kid.....
Now I lay me down to sleep
With a bushel of apples at my feet
If I die before I wake
You'll know I died of a belly ache
Hubert
Thanks much for participating, Decki and Hubert. Please return soon!
CoCo
OUR LIVES
From the moment Stan came into our lives twenty-three years ago, my parents and I have been unwittingly elevated to a different level of awareness; trifles that ordinarily go quite unnoticed came unexpectedly into sharp relief. A mental (spiritual?) acuity gradually began to develop within the three of us, and its focus was the new arrival. This child, as the song goes, came into the world in the usual way. Nevertheless, had the scenario that unfolded over the last two decades been staged within the sacred theatre of Biblical antiquity, this unusual child, like the infant Samuel, would have been dedicated unto the LORD.
Stan was always a happy baby, and to say that he was just another cute little boy, well … more of that later. I mentioned that our level of awareness became keener because of Stan. It all started (our noticing something different) when elderly Aunt Rose came to stay with us for a spell after her husband, our Uncle Angelo, had died. His death was sudden and caused my family much grief. Especially Aunt Rose, needless to say. Stan was about four or five at the time, I believe, and I was in my early teens. I was the typical, self-absorbed teenager.
One particular day, like any other (well, almost), Aunt Rose was staring out the window, which was becoming part of her daily routine. The sadness in the air was especially palpable on that day; it was raining a melancholy and indifferent sort of drizzle. A lusty, wind-driven downpour would have been preferable under these distressing circumstances. The old darling’s gloom hung about us like a bad suit of clothes. The stillness was shattered, however, when she, totally out of the blue and without warning, burst into tears and sobbed with abandon. Mom ran into the living room to see what had happened and I stood there like a statue. What does a teenage guy know about comforting the bereaved? I knew some Scripture but hadn’t a clue how to wring any practical comfort from the Good Book.
Mom knelt down by Aunt Rose and talked soothingly to her, and, after a few moments, the old lady appeared to calm down. Mom must have felt satisfied that Aunt Rose was all right, so she headed back to the kitchen to brew my great aunt a cup of restoring tea. While my mother’s aunt was recovering and I was standing in stunned silence at this most awkward of moments, Stan walked into the room and went directly to Aunt Rose. I had the presence of mind to halt this intrusion of her privacy and made for my little brother’s arm. Before I could grab hold and jerk him away, he abruptly turned his head toward me and gave me a look that could kill at twenty paces. I dropped back, utterly speechless. He turned back toward his elderly, great aunt whose attention he had already captured. Her face was the usual blank, only more so, if you get my drift.
Back into the living room came my mother, smiling gently in our general direction and carrying a tray crowned with a silver tea service and laden with the home-baked goodies she is locally famous for. As she set down the tray on the coffee table, Stan tugged at the ottoman adjacent to the threadbare, old wingback that Aunt Rose had made her permanent home. Once it was in place before her, the little fellow perched upon it and reached out for her wizened left hand with his right. Young and fresh clasping the ancient and scarcely living.
Do you remember the old saying, “Out of the mouth of babes”? Stan subsequently gave it a new meaning, a meaning that changed our lives.
After a few moments looking out the picture window, Stan gazed up at Aunt Rose, and, with a look of slight bemusement, she returned a gaze of her own. Mom and I were standing at a “respectful” distance to the side and saw the little guy’s lips begin to move. Given our position relative to this seated odd couple, who were occupying each other’s attention, we couldn’t read Stan’s lips. The reason I mention that is because he was talking to his great aunt so softly that neither my mother nor I had a clue what deal was being clinched.
With her hand still firmly in his own, Stan rose and shot a look out the window. It had stopped raining, much to my surprise. I have no idea why I should be surprised or not surprised at such a non-event. Perhaps it was because the clouds were breaking up and the sun was warming up the last shreds of so forlorn a day. My moment of reverie was broken when I realized that the pair was at the front door, yet hand-in-hand. With his left hand Stan grabbed hold of the old brass knob, twisted it and pulled a slightly confused but willing captive through the portal. Aunt Rose was not the only person in this diminutive boy’s thrall.
Aunt Rose and Stan were outside for some time walking about the garden, looking at the saturated yet glistening shrubs that were catching the last rays of a Sol rather belated in arriving. Better late than never. Geese were flying high above the treetops, honking jubilantly at their crepuscular escape through the darkening skies. I seriously believe they were shouting down a riotous salute to Stan, who was waving frantically at them with his free hand. Aunt Rose was looking upward and shielding her eyes against the fading sunlight with her right hand.
Mom and I, forgetting totally about time and all practical concerns, were still at the big window when that odd couple traipsed through the front door. I’ll never forget what I saw next. The old lady was somehow transformed; she was actually smiling and had a somewhat girlish gaiety about her. She was chatting away about what a beautiful day it was and, gosh, we’re hungry! Let’s eat! She took off her shoes – they were wet and muddy – and tossed them in the corner with all the other detritus of country living. After pushing back several wisps of unruly gray from her brow, she marched resolutely into the kitchen, grabbed and put on an apron and started fussing about like she owned the place.
My mother and I could only look at each other blankly. Stan was in the corner of the living room reading.
The leaden sky was pressing down upon my exhausted body as I fought my way through a berm of dirty snow. My mind - however confused by the recent turn of events - was still my own and acutely aware of its surroundings. Disciplined in some nearly forgotten (yet dimly recollected) boot camp of another lifetime, I moved on resolutely. Pain, fatigue, desolation: these are never reasons to lose your focus. Memories, though initially vague, were genuine and gradually came into sharp relief.
This was no joyous romp through a Currier and Ives winter scene on a chill but sunny morn. A killer was on the hunt and I was his prey. He was no ordinary hunter. I remembered why. All the widely scattered pieces finally fell into place. Able and skilled though this hired gun had always proven himself, I was no less a threat to him.
We both had had the same teacher ...
Please share your thoughts with us ...
Thank you.
CoCo
The squeaky wheel does get the grease.
My pleas to you will but increase!
I am caring for a neighbor's animals, one of which is called Bunny Foo Foo (her legal name, as found on her birth certificate). As I went to feed her this early morning, me all smiles and cheerful goodwill toward all creatures great and small, I got an awakening ruder than that of nature's own urgent call prior thereto. As I nonchalantly reached into the cage to put a measure of alfalfa pellets into her bowl, she lunged at my naked hand with the ferocity and malice of a she bear deprived of her cubs. She grabbed round my graciously extended hand with both her claws and let her razor-sharp fangs sink deeply into my quivering flesh - to the bone, actually.
When I came to - it seemed like an eternity - I thought of calling 911, but I didn't want to bring undue attention to myself and the otherwise tranquil neighborhood. I did, however, call my old friend Sgt. Joe Friday and proceeded to explain everything to him, but in even greater detail.
Stopping me short, he calmly and dryly stated, "Just the facts, Sir, just the facts."
I used to be a field hand, tending to cows and bulls; that was a safe occupation. If you never hear from me again, you'll know why.
Foo Foo went for the jugular ....
