20 Lines A Day

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Vampire

coagulating

vampiric breath rising up

history arrives

 

history arrives

multiple index entries

flesh life no longer

 

flesh life no longer

devoid of metal stone wood

immortality

 

immortality

memic fashion center stage

all for naught or else

 


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Shakespearean Sonnet

I wonder why my husband’s father did
not speak of World War II. He flew a plane,
B25 by name. The Air Force hid
something. Aleutian Islands wielded pain

with cold and secrets he would never share.
You’d see a dignified and quiet man
when meeting him. War memories weather? Fair.
Or maybe, since we do not know, he’d scan

the skies of what he’d had to do. This caused
the swallowing of words that would describe
this past part of his life. Silenced and paused,
he kept tight to himself his wartime tribe.

After he died we found a little book
with names of buddies. Some the World War took.


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The Meaning of Legacy

Image

Legacy is a profound word. It tells us that what we are getting ready to read or hear will be known for generations to come.  I like to think of myself as the keeper of a legacy.  Each of us has a legacy, whether we want to or not, whether we share it or not.  I take pride in every one who came before me, for their struggles, their triumphs and yes, even their failures.  That is who I am, who we are as a nation, as a people. I encourage each of you to take the time to preserve the story of who you are, your family’s story,  and to fill up that now-empty page with what the future holds.


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Honeycomb

He knew there had to be a better way to kill, a faster way to disperse the enemy. He would have to find a way to produce a weapon that would not only be quicker to load, but that would allow more shots per load. It all revolved around technology. Everything revolved around making a better use of technology. If the enemy had to find the time to pour the powder, pack the wadding, place the cap, aim and fire each time, the simple remedy was a revolver. But how many bullets should it hold? Five? six? Would seven prove to  be too much? He thought of the shape of a honey comb-perfect.


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The Lone Walker

The lone walker going by the war-field,

Without nothing that could be used for a shield.

He was there weeping for the ones that have gone,

Silently with no noise what he did was moan.

He lost everything to the war,

Now he is left crying with a throat so sore.

He was crying, weeping all alone,

Never could he see his child grown.

The small child who was still in his wife’s womb,

Now he has to be buried within the tomb.

He had nothing else to live for but his pain,

Which is there settled for eternity in his brain.

But all of a sudden a voice within him speak,

The voice he did seek-

“Do not cry for the dead”, it said in a firm way,

Now he knew there would come a new day.

He won’t lose himself like he lost his beloved as such,

He would now try to survive, he knew this much.

He would live for his wife,

Dedicate to her his life.

He would live for that child, he could never know,

And love the people once again to show,

That he is still alive even after what happened to him,

And would outcast his grief full to the brim.

He would try end all this violence, so futile,

He would have to walk on a long mile.

Never would he allow anyone else to face,

He would pray to the Almighty for his grace.

The lone walker would live another life,

This time he would not allow the use of knife.

He would live, he would save,

So that not another person go in this way to grave.

The lone walker going by the war field,

With nothing that could be used as a shield,

Because he doesn’t require it anymore,

He has gained after all the ultimate lore.


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Memorial Day

How we romanticize a soldier’s job.
TV reports keep us in darkness, slice
collective consciousness of how wars rob
him. He returns from battle, jagged splice

through personality or body. Trained,
he crawled through mud, saw blood, and aimed his gun,
enduring hell. But then the bullets rained,
annihilating one more mother’s son.

Freedom isn’t free


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It May be 2012 out there, but in this House, it’s 1957!

Bird:

Today is my husband’s day off, so no time to sit here typing all day. Hope you all have a great day!

Originally posted on Everyone Has A Story...:

“If it is possible, as far as it depends on you, live at peace with everyone.” (Romans 12:18)

In this day and age, one would be hard-pressed to find a family that isn’t, in some way, touched by the presence of a blended family. I, myself, grew up with a stepfather, and briefly, a stepmother. Technically, I have one full brother, and 3 half-siblings. I have one daughter from one partner, and two kids from my first marriage. I have 5 stepdaughters from both husbands…It gets even more complicated from there. I lay claim to my ex-husband’s first wife’s two kids from her second marriage — Chantel and Paul. On and on it goes. But I don’t write this to confuse anyone. Only to point out that I’m in a pretty common position these days. And so, laying the foundation of knowledge, here is my humble advice on blended families.

View original 910 more words


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Billy Graham’s Son Said . . .

Evangelist Billy Graham’s Evangelist son recently said Mormonism is not a Christian religion and President Obama is a Moslem.  I have often been advised that discussing politics and religion with friends and relatives does nothing but cause trouble. That is good advice, though I have often ignored it; sometimes with regret.  However, with Graham’s recent pearls of wisdom, I feel I must ignore said advice once again.

I was born in Kansas and raised in the Evangelical United Brethren church.  By my teens, having arrived at a state of pseudo-intellectualism, I rejected that church’s concepts and decided to find a religion more in tune with my anticipated future as a writer of great literature.  Thus, I began investigating the great religions of the world.  Though I felt this was not my first life here on earth, I rejected all Wheel of Life religions and, instead, settled on Judaism.  I was certain that if something was worth believing in, it was surely worth suffering for.  I kept this matter to myself and, after a time, I realized that due to nerdish tendencies I had probably been shunned enough and the only suffering in my future would be for my art.  I dumped all plans for Judaism.  Eventually I settled on Deism, the choice of Presidents Washington and Jefferson.  Deism advocates natural religion based on human reason rather than revelation, emphasizing morality, and in Washington’s time denied the interference of the Creator with the laws of the universe. That seemed intelligent enough and should be easy to comply with since there was no mention of eternal salvation or damnation, no Heaven or Hell.

Which leads me back to Kansas . . . its old-time religion, conservatism, and dogmatic Republicanism.  I chose to be a Liberal and, in most cases, adopted the Democrats’ point of view.  I found politics fascinating and followed the country’s political ups and downs and reversals of fortune.  My favorite time was during presidential nominating conventions.  The States’ delegations parades and hoo-haw, their pitiful nominations of favorite sons.  The nomination of actual contenders.  The rumors of back-room wheeling and dealings.  And, finally, the third or fourth day, the party nominee would grace the stage.  His major acts were his glorious acceptance speech and the naming of his running mate: often his most vigorous critic, but now his soul brother to the end.  Then would come commercials, minimal debates, and election night . . . with exit-polling, judicious predictions by those who supposedly knew upcoming results, the waiting up till wee hours with the hope your man would win and the other side’s man would be dead meat.

Now the only occasion of similarity is the toned down election night.  We have suffered through a year of inane TV commercials ad nauseam, been punished with countless “gotcha” debates, primaries, caucuses, and, long before the convention, we will  know the candidate.  All the convention does is present a party platform of pledges, which is dead upon arrival and present a running mate, of whom most of us don’t give a rip.  Only on two occasions have I given a rip.  The first was General Curtis LeMay whose persona was defined by: “I’ve got more bombs than you and I wouldn’t mind using them.”  He scared the hell out of me.  The second occasion was most recent.  Yes, Sarah’s political diatribe made me want to vomit and the thought of her anywhere near the White House again scared the hell out of me.  There, I said it and have probably blown any rapport with some of you, or at least been a bit irritating.

So, we are not to discuss politics or religion both of which are guilty of much oppression.  Both of which have caused the needless deaths of millions.  The basis, or at least excuse, for all of recorded history’s wars.  I ask, “What are we allowed to discuss?”  The weather?  No, even that is no longer safe due to the small matter of global warming: a volatile issue of debate between realists and those who keep their heads up their you know what.

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