My Father was my example. I have a lot of my father's traits. He was a man of few words but his actions of caring carried much weight. Growing up on a farm in Western Nebraska, it seemed that it was a place where sandburs knew no bounds. They were everywhere. My father wore bib overhauls that had big pockets in the back. When I was little, the pockets were just right to fit my feet. When we came to a sandbur patch, he would pick me up and carried me over the sandbur patches. When I was tired after being with him on the farm and hot from the scorching summer heat, he cared for me.
My heavenly Father is my teacher through prayer, his word written and spoken and through the lives of others like my Mother and Father and many others.
Jesus is our example. Growing up and even today, the 4 words that keep me going in the right direction are: What Would Jesus Do. There is no better example to follow.
As a father, I try to follow the example of my heavenly Father. There are times I fail miserably and must ask for forgiveness from my family. My heavenly father never fails me. He carries me through the sandbur patches of life. He loves me unconditionally. Some day I will set foot on the heavenly shore as He carries me over the last of life's sandbur patches on my final journey of life.
Even though I have never heard my earthly father say, "I love you son", I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that he loved me. When I would say to him, 'love ya Dad" his reply was always "uhuh". I can't hear my heavenly father audibly say "I love you" but I know from all He does for me His love for me is beyond words. His love transcends the audible and speaks directly to my heart.
I tried hard to not bring shame on my mother and father.
The day began on a sunny note
For hours it shone
wet clothes wrinkled in heat
the clothes of the labouring man was wet.
the sun shine went bleak.
The winds arose in its greatness.
Sands and weightless filth rustled in laudatory.
was a sound like a Tornado,
sweeping through the trees and dry land.
Doors and windows rattled in response.
forcefully delivered its fruits.
Road gossips fled.
The clouds thickened.
The lighting struck,
making free-hand sketches on the clouds.
The sounds made
felt like God was smashing bottles in heaven.
Children ran under their beds
and tightly blocked their ears.
This went on
for a while
till the wheather blew the whistle for 2nd half.
The clouds cried sweetly
The winds pacified the clouds.
Children came out in troops,
They delighted in the taste and feel of the rain against their skin
Whatever that wanted to remain dry stayed hidden.
all was quiet
except for the children.
Soon it was nightfall,
bon fires were made.
The youths gathered to hear and tell stories.
The occassional flies made their way to these gatherings too.
Amazing night ahead
Weather in Africa
On her feet
sweat trickled down from her forehead,
to her neck,
down her bosom.
The sweat line made a stop at her belly button
and continued after it filled her tiny button.
Down it continued,
till it got to her under-wear
that absorbed it all.
She was all alone in the heart of the thick forest,
wanting to get un-lost and needing some human company.
She stopped to get some air.
The forest had its usual features, tall trees, short trees, crawling plants and green things alike.
The night clouds wasnt putting on its pendant, the moon.
The trees waved,
the wind whistled quietly,
the frogs croaked
and the owls hooted.
It happened in that order
for a while.
Her legs, unstable
her eyes, hot and wide open
Her breath, in quick bursts
and her chest rising and falling in fear.
The night, pregnant with horror, death and evil
Soon all that made sounds ceased
Her heart paused for three seconds.
Then, she heard a roar
a deep, rich and mature roar.
She wanted to run
but her legs would not obey
She wanted to scream for help
but her throat was stuffed and numb.
The creature sensed her body heat
and followed the trail, running.
Its foot steps caused the ground to shake.
It found her
Eyeball to eyeball,
she and the creature.
Death was a few seconds away.
Hot urine escaped her buttocks
as she stood face to face with this monster
As she tried to summone courage to fight for her life,
the creature swallowed her quick
Her death was painless.
Courage is quite expensive to gather and retain.
I am prompt. I am formal. I am a construct
of society’s bigotry.
In their eyes – I’m out of place. A cog
without a machine.
To them – I am useless. Wasted energy;
little to no spark.
Fire, fire; Blazing within the heat of my anger.
Liar, liar; Is the chant of those that question my stories.
Question the belief
that it’s them that hurt me.
Love is not defined by gender.
Love is not defined by body parts.
Love is defined by attraction
To things more than sex.
Love is not just monosexual
It is boundless concept -
more advanced then we give it credit for.
When dictionary definitions fail
And frantic explaining
I have no choice but to conform
to the standards of those that refuse to accept
When they tell me I’m lying
that what I am
does not exist
I wish death
And I wish for a world
where I am normal.
there was a little snowman he was very bold
not like all the others he always felt the cold
the snowman built a fire so he could feel some heat
built it very carefully and made it very neat
as the fire burned and it began to glow
now he was getting warm and the cold began to go
snowman fell asleep by the fireside
forgot about the cold that he felt inside
he began to melt while he was in his sleep
and woke as a puddle nearly to feet deep
this poem is not about you, i promise.
it's not about the line of your
jaw, how it locks in place or how
my lips pressed against your
throat are the only keys that will
turn you over, it's not about that.
it's about the tick of my heart and how
it sped up to match the speed
of light when i first felt
a hand curled around mine and how
i first felt it sliding its way between
it happened to be your hand, but that's
not the point.
this poem is not about you, i promise.
it's about my fingertips that ache like
cold nights, wishing to feel the
heat of a vein pulsing underneath
it, (i just need to touch you again)
this isn't about you,
it's about me.
it's about how i fell apart at the sight of you and
you pieced me back together with your presence and
how i tore you down after i decided we were spent and
how i took out several loans to piece you back together and
still never had enough to compensate for the wounds i inflicted and
how i fall apart now at the sound of your name and
how i have no strength left to stand up and
keep going after you said it for the last time.
this poem is not about you, i promise.
you were just the ringing in my ears
and this is my sad attempt at trying
to tear you out.
first touch of
seasons have passed
as autumn falls
bare trees lose
red berries, once filling
a flow of movement
match the full heat
of her heart, that now
feeds from an empty
source, a potential well
cold, one once filled
with light inspiration
pain and grieving
her eyes glassy, tears
mirroring the blue
skies that light up
the city, snowflakes
start falling, disguising
the flurry of droplets
hitting her cheek
painting patterns that
take form and shape
on her body below
investing in herself
she let her heart
set free as a bird
because it has been
for so long
letting go, never felt
more fatal than a
golden bullet straight
through her heart.
Days after, the blood
spilled from inside her
leaving a stained mark
where she had sat
a free bird on
a park bench waiting
but she never came
she never came
and this girl will never
be the same after
her love for her unknown.
© Sia Jane
[D]etachment means letting go and nonattachment means simply letting be. (95)
the street is empty: wednesday 215pm
everyone is at school or at work
This is when I thrive.
No worrying what each car is thinking of me as they drive by
the urge to check the backs of my shoes in case I've stepped in something is diminished.
"Whatismyhairdoingarethesepantstootight? These pants are too tight.
Hide your cigarette so they won't see. Am i walking in a straight line?
Should i be on this side of the road or the other
There's no sidewalk I don't know.
Someone I know
Someone I fucked
Will inevitably drive by
'That's her isn't it? Why is she walking by herself in the cold?
She doesn't have a car? Pathetic. She can afford to buy
cigarettes at ten bucks a pack? Irresponsible.'"
Head held high walking down an empty street
I feel the heat still radiating from newly-parked cars
Small and fleeting moments of relief
Akin to making eye contact with an attractive stranger on the street
Making whatever this is
The small but ample cottage tucked in among the trees with large trees like bedposts.
A small hum of excitement stirs the air. The ocean kissed sea air moves past the cottage searching for just a peak at her.
But not tonight, the windows drawn tight, and still sweating from the warmth there by the muted figures in the flames.
Just a glimpse of her edges out from the corner of my eye.
And only she warms me in a way, that even now the figures in the flames seem less willing to speak her name.
With her heat comes a light, and with her light the words are more clear and the beauty of season more evident.
She is a muted flame edging out in the corner of my eye.
Kissing me quietly as she drifts off in to cozy corners of my mind.
Karl von Mecklenburg
I once read that one cannot gain cold
But that there can only be an absence of heat
This make sense to me since I'm always cold
But those around me can feel heat radiating from me
Maybe this is how emotions work as well,
There is no sadness- just absence of happiness
This proves that you can be so cold on the inside
Yet somehow be so warm and bright on the outside.
You can think of light this way.
There is no darkness- just absence of light.
It can also be said that
There is no hatred- just an absence of love.