We are writers
And we are all artists
We are a mouthpiece
To add to the voices of the world
We express pain
We express love
We express life
We express disappointment
We express despair
We express hope
It is just that the pen
Is our choice of expression

Violins make their point
When the bow crosses their strings
And the ear is filled with music

We are the collective melodies
That share kinship to their song

Trumpets blare their sounds
As the breath of the player
Makes contact with the instrument

We add our own kind of breeze to the world

When you've felt like there is nothing left of you
You're spent - flat out on the ground
The craziness of life has mowed you over
Well, you get up and stand
That is what survival means to me

If you cannot stand
And you have to crawl awhile
Then that's how you make it
To get yourself moving

If you can rise up
But your legs feel broken
Then you use a crutch
But you get moving

If you are utterly helpless
And someone else
Has to lift you up
Well, then reach out your hand
For it's up to you to start moving

The world is full of survivors

If I were a poem
Would I rhyme?
If I were a poem
Would I be free verse?
Would I be classical or modern?
Ordinary or a cut above?
Minimal or long winded?
Humorous or deep?
Make an impact or keep it simple?

I have written all such things
So I'm not sure

He was an old cowboy, and he never liked to hear that cowboys were a dying breed. Those were fighting words, indeed, so don't ever tell him that. Yes, a cowboy, through and through, and he hoped he'd die in the open, big sky of Montana, right by his old horse, Dusty. Falling in love with the outdoors, he grew up working on his uncle's ranch and was hooked from the very start. Now Ride 'Em Rick had breathed his last and finally met his Maker. He was ready, for sure, and died with his boots on, just like he hoped would happen. It wasn’t out in the open, but as he was snoozing on his recliner and he never woke up.

When most of his children were arguing about things they shouldn't be, Jet took charge to see to a proper burial. He refused to be among the squabbling siblings.

You never visited him!

Oh, yeah! The only reason you came over was to get more money out of him!

I loved Pop! You never loved the man!

You're just like him! Pigheaded! Impossible to tell you a ****** thing!

He's not just your dad, so don't act so high and mighty!

And so how would Pop have wanted to be buried? He was a hard man to know—even  after seventy-seven years on this earth. Well, Jet knew his father was a proud man, and a lover of all things cowboy. It would be nothing fancy—he’d be done up in his good flannel shirt and jeans, and of course with his boots on, and his cowboy hat slightly tucked under his cold, hard fingers.  A lasso would be a nice touch, and some of the old, cowboy tunes during the service would be perfect. Surely, if Rick was going to die with his boots on, they’d stay with him to the very end. So that was how it all would be.

And so Ride 'Em Rick looked regal in his humble garb. Stony in life, so he was in death. Mostly, the old man kept his distance, and that seemed normal to Jet. But now standing with his two boys, one on each side of him, Jet hoped he would have been a more hands-on father to his sons. With the help of his wife, Carly, he was surely keeping on course. The siblings were still at odds, but there were plenty of tears and hugs going around to keep the peace and to make a good gathering. And so it was a fitting farewell to man who felt most at home on the trails and in the saddle, buried with his boots on.

Aubrey was confronted by her mom in the kitchen as she was making her lunch for school the next day. "Two sandwiches?" her mom questioned. "What's up with that, Aubrey? Since when do you eat more than one sandwich?" Actually Aubrey ate well. It was always a healthy lunch for her, perhaps a sandwich with some lettuce and tomato on it, or something cooked and leftover. She rarely indulged in sweet snacks, like her brother and sister did, never going without a couple pieces of fruit in her bag.  

Audrey was a freshman in high school, and she was a forthright girl. There was no need to hide anything, so  she replied nonchalantly, "It's not for me. It is for Wade Hodak. He doesn't have a sandwich in his lunch".

With her hands on her hips, Audrey's mom smelled something fishy. Was Wade taking advantage of her? She replied, "And why not? Since when is it up to you to look after him?"

"Mom!" Aubrey protested. "He is lucky his mom even gets any child support from his dad! Her paycheck doesn't come til the end of the week. Sometimes, he eats okay, but sometimes they just don't have the money! You know how it is with bills and stuff! It is usually just a bag of chips and whatever else he can find"

Aubrey's mom only vaguely knew of Wade Hodak. What little she knew of his mother, his mom seemed on the up-and-up. She remembered that the woman had to pull her daughter out of  dance class because she couldn't afford it, the same class her younger daughter was in.

Aubrey's mom smiled and gave her a kiss and a hug, "Peanut butter and jelly?" Well, don't lay it on too thin.", she advised.  Aubrey smiled big, a sweet smile with those braces on her teeth, and she was becoming a beautiful, young woman, both inside and out.

"That's what I was hoping you would say", Aubrey said and added, gratefully. "Thanks mom".  Peanut butter and jelly it was.

Lily drove past tiny towns and big metropolises.  She packed up what she could in her small car and left the rest behind, anything to get away from the life that she helplessly felt was eroding away into disaster.

Her dad was right. "Never fall for a guy who is more in love with himself than he is with you," was his advice to her as she was about to embark to Los Angles. A practical man from Iowa, who was most comfortable on the cornfields, Lily's dad was always her solid rock.  She never felt she should compare her men in her life to her dad, but they fell far short in the comparison that she never tried to use as her measuring stick. Nothing phony or pretentious about him in his daughter's eyes, Mack was the real deal of what a man should be.

Now her husband, Trey, was just the opposite. He was the lead singer of a local band, and his magnetic attraction towards women was certainly not uncommon among musicians. They fell for him like he was the Pied Piper—for he was viewed as a lady killer—and he willingly obliged more than once to any adoring female fan. Lily couldn't put up with it anymore, and so she was heading home. Two years since she saw her dad, he was surely there to welcome her back with open arms.  He told her she always had a place in his home. Her old yellow lab, Buster, was waiting for her, too.    

Lily drove past mountains and valleys, twists and turns, drove by wheat fields and wildflowers. They were the breadcrumbs that paved a way to the cornfields and sleepy, little towns that were all so familiar to her. Once she got there, she'd give her dear dad a huge bear hug, receive dozens of sloppy kisses from her dog, greet an old friend or two, and take a nice good bubble bath—anything to clear her mind and soothe her soul.

So it was Iowa, once again, that she would make as her home. From there, who knew? All she knew is that she was well on her way.