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Dorothy A Feb 2016
What can I say in ten words?


In spite of the pain, life is surely worth living
Make a noteworthy difference - look past your own front door
You, the author, can reach my soul with your words
Dorothy A Jul 2010
I have to ponder
Abraham Lincoln
I've seen his archaic face
so many times before
An icon of the Civil War
yet timeless in its definition of America

He poses, patient and wise
but more myth than man
The crags and valleys
of his complex face
forge out a map of my America

His rugged beard and stoic stance,
his jagged, rustic features bear out
the forests and the mountains
and the plains
A somber man
A sad man
A man with the weight of the world

I find a penny
I pick up a penny
and there he is
Abraham Lincoln
A shiny, new one
Its fiery, coppery red
sits a while and melts into my palm,
mingles with my imagination,
spreading illuminating embers like cherries,
like cherries in a tree with many branches.

President Lincoln
He set the captives free
His office, his aspirations cost him dearly,
cost him his life
Dorothy A Jan 2011
is all I see
in our society

All I desire is beauty
in nature's bounty
but all I see is man's folly

On the 24/7 cable news on TV
Shooting and killing sprees
Tell me why, please!
Dorothy A Sep 2012
Accept me as I am


Don't give up on me to be more
Dorothy A Nov 2010
I said "a haiku"
Yes, that's right--its a haiku
No, I did not sneeze
Dorothy A Mar 2015
Who would wear such a thing?
Who would be so despised?
So pathetic to a jeering crowd?
So utterly cursed?
So utterly shamed?
So utterly broken?

A foolish one, you say?
A liar?
A crazy one?
A sucker for punishment?
A mythological man?

How about this?

A man who would lay down his life for a friend
One who would take the place of others who really deserve what he got instead
One who demonstrates that the works of weakness truly outweigh the brutality of the mighty
One who is willing to connect the Divine to a suffering world

I say that is One who would wear a crown of thorns
Dorothy A Jan 2016
Rob's father came up to him on his eighteenth birthday, and tossed a *** of cash at him. "Time to be a man", he said in his usual gruff manner, "Get yourself a hot one".  His grinning face seemed more like a sneer, but Rob wasn't all that surprised. Throughout his adult life, he was thankful and glad that his mother kept him fairly grounded, did the best that she could, molded him into the man that he was, and he marveled at how she put up with such an *******.

Her name was Kat, but there were no introductions, not while he was soliciting her for ***. She was a few years older than he, but Rob never asked for any details.  He just wanted to get on with it, for he felt not only awkwardly nervous and ill-prepared, but halfhearted in his approach to buy some time, to hook up with a stranger in the shadows of the street lamps.  

Sure, if his old man wanted to give him some money—free cash—why the hell not? Instead of finding a "hot one", Rob was face-to-face with a burned-out and vulnerable, young woman who tried to hide behind her ****, seductive exterior. She was equally as halfhearted as he was about getting it on, for business-as usual seemed to weigh her down like a heavy chain wrapped about her ankles

So Rob opted out of this whole thing. He asked if he could buy her a cup of coffee. Why not? It was a chilly night, and they wanted to warm up—in  a legitimate way.

They found a small, late-night diner. It wasn't long before Kat admitted she made a huge mistake, and would do anything to get another start. Her regret was leaving Nebraska, leaving her hometown—her mom, her little sister and brother left behind. Her father was the dearest man she ever knew, but he died when she was eleven-years-old. If only he could see her now. She would be so ashamed to face him, and glad he wasn't around to witness this sordid path she regretfully chose.

Once, Nebraska seemed like an insignificant blot on the map of the world, but now it was inviting to her. She longed to make amends to her family and to get back to the basics.  She wasn't sure what she would do with her life, but what she had right now wasn't what dreams were all about. It was a world of unscrupulous pimps and men who lurked around, wanting their fill, their lusts exposed discretely, yet so ****** upon her to be met.

She had enough. Rob was the first guy that came along in a long time that really cared to listen to her, though he seemed more a boy than a man. Yet she's been with his kind before. She has seen all kinds—white and blue collar, old and young, married and single, the well-experienced and the sexually inept, the *** addicts and first-timers, the boring, the daring, the *****—yet safe ones—as well the creepy kind that a street-smart lady needed to have eyes in the back of her head for.  

When they went to the bus station, together, Rob admitted, "I got to tell you, straight. I'm still thinking you could be scamming me for drug money...and I'm maybe a complete *****... but I want to take this chance." Kat smiled, a tender sort of a smile, and gave him a soft peck on the cheek, along with a big bear hug. "You're an angel", she declared. She really was beautiful, with big, lovely eyes surrounded by big, fake lashes.  Seen through eyes of his inexperience—his innocence—she really felt beautiful, something she hasn't felt in a long while.

Kat wanted to pay Rob back for giving her the needed, extra money to buy her ticket. She offered to do that in the best way she knew how and made him an offer. Having a night of free *** wasn't what Rob ever wanted. No, there were no strings attached. So she jotted down her mother's address in Nebraska, and told him to be in touch. "I want to prove to you that I'm turning my life around. I'm going to do it, too. I promise", she said, sincerely. She had no trouble looking him in the eye, tears beginning to well up, and she began to choke up while saying, ”I just can't thank you enough".

Whether he did the right thing or not, Rob would wonder. He would never forget her—even if he wanted to forget. Only a brief couple of hours with her, but she made an impact in his mind, like a branding iron that would sear the hell out of his brain. Later, he lied to his dad, and pretended to be thrilled that he got the chance to have such an awesome night—just rocking! It was the best birthday present so far!  For a moment, he thought of telling him the truth, but he pictured his dad saying, "You *****! You wasted your chance and my money!"

Rob decided that he wasn't going to write her. He just didn't want to know, instead wanting to assume she made it out okay. He decided to keep the paper with her address, anyway. It took him several months, after mulling it over in his mind, to actually write her a brief note to ask how she was managing. Did she really go back home? Was she doing alright? Did she put her ****** life behind her?

It was only a week when he received a letter back from Nebraska. Rob kept that letter to himself, never telling a soul about Kat. She was back with an old boyfriend from high school, staying with her mom and working part-time as a cashier in a supermarket. She was so eager to write him back, thrilled that he finally contacted her, and wondered why on earth it took him so long.  Rob believed her, like he first did about her story, and it was a relief to hear from her.  He was glad he took the chance. It seemed to pay off.

He heard nothing back from her until over a year later. This time she sent a picture in her letter. Kat and her boyfriend broke up, for the second time, but she was now married to her good friend's cousin, Nolan. She was glad it didn't work out with the first guy, because now she was pretty happy and couldn't imagine her life any other way. Rob smiled as he saw the picture of the couple, and she was holding her little girl in her arms. He name was Willow, a cute, little girl with strawberry blonde hair.

Thanks, again, Rob! It is all because of you! You’re a sweetheart. My hero!!!

He didn't want to take the credit. He was no hero. It was bound to happen, with or without him.  Rob was quite sure now that he would not write her another letter, but did pick up a card to congratulate her, to acknowledge he got the good news and was glad for her.

He still had that picture of her, and the last news he found out about Kat is that she moved to Colorado with her husband, and now had a son, Nolan Rob. Her husband got a better paying job, and she felt at home near the mountains. A picture of the kids came with it, and her two smiling children conveyed the innocence that she once had and cherished.

Wanted you to see my boy. His middle name, Rob, is after you! I figured you'd know this, but I want to tell you, anyway! :D Much love from us to you, Robbie!

Time has passed, and during that back-and-forth.  Rob's parents split up, sold the house, and he had graduated from college and was on his own. Contact with Kat waned down to nothing at all, and it probably was just as well. Were things still going good in her life? Rob still wondered and hoped so.

Now he was married, with a nice house and boy and girl of his own, thinking of Kat, now and then. He envisioned her doing well, a far cry from the young woman in a scene that replayed in his head, a night when he helped an unhappy and desperate lady get a chance to find her life, again. If ever his day ******, such thoughts could pick him back up.

He'd never cease to wonder about her, but what he did for Kat belonged in the past.  If it wasn't happily-ever-after for her, he'd rather not know.  He did his part, was glad that he had enough maturity and integrity to do the right thing, but no way was he a knight in shining armor.  Still, he was a hero in her eyes, a reluctant hero of sorts. He could live with that.
Dorothy A Feb 2014
Someone is drowning right now

in drugs
             in *****
                         in ***
                                   in food
                                           in internet use
                                                             ­  in [fill in the blank]
                                                          ­                                    endless cravings
Going down
                                        the shaky steps
                                                        the­ slippery slopes
                                                          ­               into the rabbit hole
                                                            ­                                         d
                                                               ­                                         o
                      ­                                                                 ­                     w
                                          ­                                                                 ­      n
                                                          ­        Hopelessness?

Been there
                          Not shooting up
                                         Not popping pills
                                                    But devouring my addiction in masses  
                                                        ­           In order to fill the deep, hallow void
                                                                ­                                  Unable to break free

I envisioned the other day
                     That hope can fly away like a little bird
                                                 But it rests on the window sill while still looking in
                                                              ­           Like Emily Dickinson envisioned
                                                      ­         Still chirping its own song
                                                        For it's ready to fly back in
                                                  And roost
          ­                                               ~~~o~~~
          ­                          has wings
                   like that bird
Dorothy A Aug 2022
As a fellow woman
I'm appalled by the brutality
That you are enduring
The Taliban are cruel cowards
They are trying to blot the light
From your eyes
To take the breath
From your souls
To destroy your dreams
Denying you a reason
To ever get up again
And go on

Afghan ladies and girls,
You are my heroes
You that cry in despair, in fear
Who demand to be heard
You are the true warriors
You that fight for your lives
And for your dignity
Though the so-called men
That heap abuse upon you
Try to silence your voices
And shut you out from hope
That you need in order
To blossom and flourish

Oh, their wicked ways!
Their gloat and greed!
Those hallow hearts
Define them as the villains
That they truly are
Not a legitimate leadership
Deadly and dangerous
Are accurate descriptions
That define them well

Oh, Afghan women
May you always know that
I am on your side
Dorothy A Aug 2010
I raise up my hands to heaven
and say to God,
"Pick me up
Embrace me
Love me"
But then I shrink back
and I insist
that God must be hurt
by my exposed, broken shards

"I am not whole,
and not huggable
My pain is like thorns
that cut and inflict"
And so I look away with remorse

But God answers me
as only He can do, saying,
"Then we have a lot in common
Or did you forget the cross?
My Son on it?
Jesus, who was the most
broken of all"

I agree that I do...
I must!
But still...

"A nail in a hand
A wreath of thorns for a crown
He died quite damaged
for those like you
Yet was I not there to embrace Him
and welcome Him home?"

In spite of my tears, I reason
My mind and heart agree
So my Father and I embrace
and I accepted God's grace

After all
May 1996
Dorothy A Jul 2010
There's no place like home. There's no place like home. There's no place like home. Dorothy's Kansas never looked so comforting, her black and white world never so safe--never so flat, so barren.

Didn't she learn her lessons? She caused such trouble! She gave Auntie Emm such a fright! That bump on the head must have caused her brain damage. After the "big storm" was only a memory, and the terrible twister only a town tale, Dorothy did it again.

She ventured out on her own.

Yet Mrs. Gulch was still a witch. And Dorothy's "nasty, little dog" still got into the garden. The sheriff was ready to track her down and clamp down on her for good! Running home frantically for help, Dorothy realized that Auntie Emm was still too busy ******* at her shiftless farmhands, henpecking tired, old Uncle Henry,
and he was just too cranky to care. The farmhands were supposed to be her friends, but they just started crabbing at her again.

They soon gave her what for. "Dot, didn't you learn a thing in life?" "Didn't we rescue you once from a pigpen?" "That heart of yours leads you in the wrong direction! " "Where are your brains, anyway?"

Heartbroken, naive Dorothy realized something that was quite profound. Her heart was always in the right place--she just needed the courage, the courage to know she was smart enough to make it on her own. So Dorothy packed her bags, especially remembering her red ruby slippers. She would never forget her loyal friend and sidekick, her beloved pooch, Toto. If she was going, he was going with her.

So there she stood, suitcases in hand, in her bleak, little, colorless world. Terrified, she stood upon the precipice. Fear or faith? And all of a sudden she was noticed again! Just what was she doing? Who did she think she was fooling? Was she crazy!?

"You'll never make it!", they all warned. "You don't know the first thing about how to live in a Technicolor world!"

"Sorry, I do love you", Dorothy answered back. "But I disagree and I will forward you my new address". So off she went finding the path down the yellow brick road.
c. 2010
Dorothy A Feb 2017
I miss the age of innocence
No, I'm not an angel
As none of us are
The terrible twos and those tantrums...
But that tiny child
Who didn't have a cynical
Or snarky bone
In her whole body
.............................That was once me

For quite some time, we Americans
Loved to pretend we were so naive
When Lucy and Desi slept in twin beds
When Leave It To ****** produced perfect parents
When the world seemed less disturbing
As we wore those rose colored glasses
In my parents' generation
Nothing seemed meaningless
We were victorious and invincible
In the midst of World War II
There was great glamour and pride
The news wasn't 24/7- craziness

This was all before my time
I am a product of the sixties
When the Vietnam War surely made war seem like Hell
When fighters for civil rights showed us the ugliness of racism
When what it meant to be female was quickly shedding its old skin
Far from the role my mother represented to me

I wish I could be that believing again
That trusting and forgiving
I miss being so unaware
So fresh in imagination
Where I could shield myself from it all
And I'm now sad that I never will be that way again
Dorothy A Oct 2010
They ran so far, ran so much that the soles of her feet were stained with blood. His hand never lost its grip while hers was bathed in oil, her cheeks blushing with shock and excitement. To think they had pulled it off! She never felt so crazy in her whole, bland, little life!

The couple ran across streets. They ran across fields. The night smelled like a child's perfume. The flowers mixed their aroma with the grass to tempt any lover to imagine what their worth was. Only a sliver moon revealed itself, so they were blind to nearly everything, just as they were so blindly in love. It was an eerie night, but a captivating one.

They whisked past trees as if the tree boughs and twigs would swoop down  like a skeleton's arms and fingers, trapping them into a thorny grip. They dodged cars like they were alien outlaws from another realm. They ran like there was no tomorrow, and the whole world would explode in a moment.

She did not care what anyone would have thought of her. To have hung herself would have made more sense to her parents than to be so impulsive and take off with this man, this stranger. They would have insisted she was out of my mind--and she was--but she never felt so sure sure of herself.

She never knew who she was, but maybe she was about to know and it would be wonderful. The cares of her world seemed to melt, at least they did in the cool of the night as she gathered the courage to run free.

All was going well, as the wind kissed her cheeks and her mind felt eased of her burdens. Yet, for one brief moment, the desire to rip her hand away from his overtook her, a failed moment of self-doubt.

It did not seem like it was really her pulling her hand away. As she yanked free from his firm grip, she froze in her tracks, panting from sheer exhaustion. All the courage had sudenly drained out of her just as mysteriously as it had consumed her.

In the failing moonlight, the shadows played upon his face in ghoulish distortion. The chiseled, calm features seemed to transform. Suddenly, fear rose up in her and she wanted to deny what seemed so obviously grotesque. She rubbed her eyes. Were they playing tricks on her? She gasped.

Inbetween the shadows, his face looked demonic, like death. What was happening? For a second or two, she could not distinguish a man from a monster, who it was she was really following after.  It had to be an illusion!

His lips were formed out of putty and burnt rubber, seriously twisted out of shape. His teeth appeared busted and broken into jagged pieces of rotten glass. His eyes seemed to glow and slowly narrowed at her in frustration, his skin rough and embedded into hardened cheekbones.   She continued to rub her eyes and blinked hard a few times to erase that ugly, horrific  image.

A swirl of clouds veiled the moon, but they soon moved on to give her eyes some clarity again. Her perplexed lover was staring at her, his face fair again, well-proportioned and handsome.  So why couldn't she budge? She convinced herself that her eyes must have been playing tricks on her. She knew he was waiting for her to make a move, but she couldn't find the strength to respond to his wishes .

"Come on", he called out to her. Once again, he reached out his hand to beckon her to place her hand in his.

She now was not so sure of what she was doing. She stood there, dumbfounded, and so ashamed of herself. The leaves rustled in the wind as if they had lost their patience with her, too. Just a few moments ago, she had such courage. Now all the excitement and madness had abandoned her all at once, and she felt so small and powerless to the night, as if it was engulfing her in its darkness.

"Come on!", he repeated. The tone in his voice was angry now, and it sounded unnatural, gutteral. She dared not to look at him for fear the scary image of him would return. The minutes felt like they were ticking away in sludge, and the desire to run was creeping back into her, but not to run with him.

Soon, her lungs were stinging from the chill air of the night. "No", she feebly replied, "I can't do it".  Those few words took the last bit of energy she had.

He started trying to convince her to go on, but quickly the firm calmness in his voice had disappeared as his voice grew threatening. Before long it reached a crescendo of profanity and perversity, again sounding unnatural and more otherworldly than ever.

She began to cry in her helplessness. He mocked her. He shamed her. His words were punitive and cruel. She was nothing.  She was better off dead. She disgusted him and her presense degraded him. There was nothing good about her, nothing at all.  She was ugly, ignorant and usless. Fearful that he may hit her, she took it all in,  frozen with fear. But he did not touch her, yet it would have probably have hurt much less if he had. She shut her eyes to try to erase his image, and she covered her ears to drown out his cruel words and his harsh voice.

It may have been just a few minutes of him taunting her, but it seemed like eternity. She let him rage on instead of fighting back to defend herself. Fighting back seemed so futile, as she felt so cowardly and small next to him.  She could not find her voice even if she wanted to, but soon he had slipped off into the shadows, his footsteps sounding away from her upon the pavement on dirt road they had been running down together.

She was trembling now, more from cold than from fright. She now believed the threat was over. That was it. It was finished. As surely as it started, it was over. He was gone.

No, she was not going to run away that night. No prince or knight in shining armor was not going to rescue her to whisk her away to safety.  Nor was anyone going to take her away to a happier place that she often dreamed about.

So she slowly turned around to head back to her old existence. The hurt she felt was now turning into numbness, but that was nothing new in her life. She was used to it. She knew I did not have the life she had wanted, but she began to realize that it could have been much worse. Maybe she was nothing, like he had told her, but she was walking away and she was free. Yes, she was free from that nightmare that could have been the end of her.

She did not feel alive anymore, not like she did earlier, but she was able to put one foot in front the other take herself away from what had now become "nowhere".  She was confused at first to which way was which, but she  eventually found her way back to her familiar surroundings and headed home.
done in the 1990s but improved upon in 2010
Dorothy A Jun 2010
All equals,
we are all developing
in the womb
called potential.
All are ready,
each and every one,
to be born,
an unlimited woman or man

All equals,
we are all seen
through loving eyes
of our Creator
as a baby is looked upon
by its mother,
led by a gentle hand

When one
dominates another,
they are gaining ground
but loosing sand,
for we are all
granules on the beach,
equals upon the land
Dorothy A Aug 2012
Looking upon Lake St. Clair
I saw it lying there today
In its watery grave
A large and lovely monarch butterfly
Its gossamer wings outstetched
As if it had gallently fought its death

And was determined to fly
Ascend to the air
To its temporary abode
Inbetween earth and sky
As far as its wings would take it
But it sadly did not succeed

On the one side, it was facing the lake
On the flipside, the open sky
I almost couldn't recognize it
As if it was a piece of junk floating along
But I eventually saw it cleary
This exquisite creature of noble name

And now I say that
Even this winged, airborne creature
Is bound to this earth
Like the rest of us
Who have not the gift of wings

And death is not just for suckers
The unfortunate who cannot hack it
For gravity must triumph in the end
And there is never a day
In which there ceases to be any death
Upon this mortal world

Many of us want to ward off its coming
As we bide our time
And try to outrun the inevitable
Hoping to outsmart the clock
Yet we are all creatures of this earth
Just as was this beautiful butterfly
Born to inhabitant this world
But never designed to stay

This isn't poetic license
In order to construct a clever poem
It truly happened to me
Making me stop and think
Out from a day in the ordinary
To ponder upon the brevity of life
With the instant reminder that

All magnificent things must die
Dorothy A Jan 2014
Always chasing happiness
Seldom to stick around
Summer--it's too hot
Winter--it's too cold
Childhood--it's too long
Adulthood--it's too short and hectic
My aching brain can go in feverish circles
Longing, trying to find if happiness really exists
Or it just gives up in complacent surrender
Growing numb with doubt that it ever was real
After all, I belong to a society
That thinks we are forever entitled to happiness
Every minute of every day

But happiness isn't over there somewhere
Nor is it this or that thing that can be gone tomorrow
Too often becoming what really did not make us happy anyhow
Surely, happiness was never designed to heed all our demands
Never to be controlled or schemed  
No, happiness is a journey of the soul  
The ability to receive and to give love and kindness
It's discovery when you think you have nothing else to learn
It's letting go of the stones to throw
Not an easy road, for sure...but worth it
It's discovering what you can do verses what you cannot
It's connecting to a sloppy, messy world
And not expecting its perfection in order to live in it
It's the Divine touch beyond your limited comprehension
It's connecting and reconnecting with yourself
And being at peace with the being that you are
Dorothy A Nov 2009
Amelia fixes her veil in the mirror,
and tilts her head from side to side.
Not satisfied, she removes it.
She brushes her brown hair.
If only God had made her the way
that she wished she could be.
The artist that she is,
she desires to paint herself pretty.
It's like she feels that her Maker
put out His first draft on her
and forgot to erase the mistakes,
to improve the rough draft.

Amelia adds rosy color to her cheeks,
and petal softness to her lips.
She dots her eyes with lovely additions
and powders her nose as if icing to the cake.
Yet Amelia's love does not care
if she looked perfect.
He always teases her
when she fusses and fusses,
and he often reveals to her
that she is more beautiful
than a garden of flowers.

Amelia relaxes her face.
Maybe this isn't what she would have ordered
if she could have possibly gotten
her choice of looks
right out from a store catalog.
She can tell by her own eyes
that they are alive.
She laughs at herself in her reflection.
She knows her beloved is the right choice.
From down the hallway to her room,
Amelia's mother calls out,
"Come along, Amelia.
Today is your wedding day."
Dorothy A Oct 2010
They came from Germany
They came from France
They came from Switzerland
They came from Poland
They came from Lithuania
And God knows where else

What I thought I once was
I now am not
Discovering so much more
while shedding some of the mystery
But the irony is
that opens up a need
for new questions
I may never have the answers for

There is much more German
And barely any French
No Scottish, after all
Perhaps some Russian
Who knows for sure?
Most shocking of all
a touch of African blood
from a German/French
2nd great grandmother
It shows up in her face
of the only photo I have of her
It shows up in my DNA

I am the sum of all of them
To imagine
it took so many of them
to make who I am today
All of us, actually
owe our lives to these people
who came before us

It always has intruiged me
I wish to know more
To know where my origins began
doesn't need to define me
or make me who I am today
But it satisfies a burning curiosity
To look at old photos and see
bits of my relatives
bits of myself
Dorothy A Jun 2010
We reach out for dolls
with withered hands.
Stooped over, we play
in the sandbox.
Ancient children,
so old, with innocent eyes,
we never grew up
in an aged world.
Time steals our hopes,
to have everything be alright.
The ticking of the clock goes on.
Yet we cling to youth,
not quite knowing how to mature
to where we need to be.

We are the adult children of dysfunction,
and we feel equal weights of young and old
balancing on our scales of self.
The hardships we endured
heap wrinkles upon our souls.
But we go on.

Ancient children,
we've been around forever,
relics in the nusery,
babes wrapped inside
the armor of adults,
feeling all so wise,
street smart to a cruel world,
but only pretending,
so naive,
Ancient children,
we become in reality
what we long to still believe.
Dorothy A Aug 2010
Childhood is supposed to be a time of innocence,
a time when it is OK to be naive
So maybe I was duped into thinking
I was hearing sweet children's tales
and adorable nursery rhymes,
some sung in a song
Was I really?

Now I realize  
they were all strangely
scary or violent in nature

Let me give you a rundown:

The mother sings to soothe her baby
Visions of its cradle resting on the treetops (Huh?)
A broken bough and it hits the pavement
Splat! Pleasant dreams!

Let's not forget the Pied Piper
He lured children in with his music
and they disappeared from town
A serial killer!

Jack and Jill needed water
They headed up the incline
but tumbled back down
They nearly ended up in the hospital!

Peter, Peter,
the guy who loved to eat pumpkins  
stuffed his wife in a pumpkin's shell
Wife abuser!

The old woman who bore a ton of babies
found a home in some *****, old shoe
After she practically starved them
she gave them a whipping!

This is more sad than scary...
Another poor, old lady looks in her cupboard
seeking a meager bone for her dog
but had not one crumb to find (she probably ate his dog bones)

Ring around the rosie,
a possible urban legend,
had little tots falling to the ground and singing of ashes
as everyone around them died from the plague!

And when it rains it pours
A poor, old guy needs a nap
but gets a bump on the head
and remains unconscious!

London bridge was falling down
How come that happened?
Did someone blow it up?!  
A destructive depiction!

How about that blackbird pie
Those birds were baked alive!
One bird got his revenge
and bit off someone's nose!

Three blind mice endured a needless amputation
Wasn't it bad enough they were visually impaired?
Now a farmer's wife had to chop off their tails!
Somebody tell me that one is uplifting!

The cobbler's bench was a scene of mayhem
The monkey tried to get that weasel
So he could crack his head like a coconut

Who the hell thought this one up?
A nursery rhyme that will leave children crying!
A poor, little ladybug!
Her kids gone and her house on fire!

And they say that TV is full of bad messages?
Dorothy A Aug 2010
Like three tigers in a cage
Fierce like fire
Having a desire
for revenge
Not making amends

Hateful disgrace
The world's often a hostile place
Anger out of control, corrupting the peace,
Becoming a riot, calling for the police
Anger is combative to a truce
When raw emotions are on the loose

Anger comes in many colors:

Tumultuous reds
boiling in your head
Purple passions
in warlike fashion
Seething greens,
for envy is a fiend
Anger that is a shocking yellow
is anything but mellow

They blend together in a melting ***
A big, boiling cauldron, scaulding hot
In its feverish calamity, anger reeks
Of dead men's bones, you shall see
Like tasting gasoline, it is a toxic tonic
You don't want to be anywhere around it!
Its angry concoction you partake in to sip
Though it's like deadly poison on your lips!
In your body, it courses through
Before it makes a fool out of you!

Like two lighted matches on your tongue
Anger does the tango just for fun!

This mouthful of hot pins and needles stings!
You swallow it down, the whole **** thing!

You wash it all down with wine as it smolders
Down your throat anger goes, like jagged boulders!

Through your esophagus, resisting a slippery slide
Anger within you does not want to hide!

Into your gut, like a rugged coastline of pain
You now see the world with great disdain!

Your stomach evolves into a volcanic hole
Hot as a furnace with blazing coals!

Anger soon rises from the volcanic mountain
Lava bursting forth like a fiery fountain!

That is anger's transition that I see
My vision portrayed in this poetic story
Anger does have a rightful place
But out of control, it turns into hate
On one hand, it can help us fight evil
On the other, it can hurt other people
Dorothy A Aug 2010
I am but a piece of fine china
Fearful that I may break
For you must know
My existence is at stake!

It is hard being a plate
A porcelain product, flat and round
One slip out of your fingers
I'm in useless pieces on the ground!

You see, people use me
Their knives cut, their forks poke!
I think they think of me
As some kind of joke!

I have been painted
A piece of china, glazed
When on display in a cabinet
I want to remain there for days

You wonder of my colors
Why I wear this hue
The world is like a peacock
but I remain blue

I stand with my brothers and sisters
Fearful my world will be shattered
Along with the vases and teacups
Along with the platters!

Why couldn't I be a ring of gold?
Why couldn't I be diamond?
To be worn and venture out on the town
Instead of this piece of china!

I often feel like I am drowning
In a sea of sudsy bubbles in a sink
But then I'm proud that I'm gleaming
After I am rinsed!

I'm tired of being filled with pasta
Sauces, gravies, nothing new
That is why my color represents me well
That is why I am blue!
Prince Poppycock on America's Got Talent wanted people to create art with a contest centured around fine china, the blue and white ones especially
Dorothy A Nov 2010
At times,
I get a creative tornado
in my head,
as I am going along
in my daily life
And I can't wait to go home
to sit in front of my computer
to write all my poetic thoughts down

I'm convinced they are masterpieces,
that people will be blown away
by my work

All is silent on the response button

And suddenly I think
I am not that talented
That my work really wasn't
so great to begin with

This must be what all
artists go through...
painters, authors, sculptors,
screenwriters, playwrights,
songwriters and musicians
Doubting themselves
when art lies in the eye
of the beholder

Its all part of the subjective
nature of art
Dorothy A Sep 2013
I'm a poet....and I do even know it!
Dorothy A Nov 2010
All of creation
A purpose in this vast world
Fulfilled life is life
Dorothy A Nov 2009
Hope is something
I do not take lightly
It gives me a reason to be
So I fight for the right,
the right to believe
In the things my eyes cannot see

Dreams come, dreams go...but hope,
an intangible more precious than gold,
most assuredly lingers on stubbornly
I cannot discard it or disregard it,
a promise the world cannot sway,
a result of God's divinity

Hope is something
that does not die easily
It gives me a reason to breathe,
so I fight for the right,
the right to take flight,
and the right to believe
Dorothy A Aug 2010
I poured a drop of water
on my daisy
and watched for it
to bloom

It didn't sprout fast enough
so I sprinkled away
with an extra helping of water
To follow up, I fertilized
Still, it was not as colorful
as it seemed it was meant to be

I doted on it
Extra sunshine
Extra dirt
Extra air

But didn't you know
that plants could talk?

It shook
one of  its leaves at me,
another one was like a hand perched
upon its stem
as it glared at me without eyes
Its golden mane of petals
surrounded its pale, flowery face
like a halo surrounds the sun
and it said

"Are you trying to **** me?"
"Did you ever hear of killing someone with kindness?"
"Thank you for your good intentions, but....they aren't that good"
"Let me grow"
"Let me be for now"
"Let me come into my own"

I heeded it's advice
never noticing it nearly
withered and shriveled in its fight
but then I backed off
and before I knew it
the flower bloomed to height!

Ok, so this didn't really happen
But the moral of the story is......

Sometimes, you have to stand back
and let things happen on their own
as you can be more of a hindrance
than you are a help

A lesson, I had to learn in life
from 1996...........but fixed up
Dorothy A Apr 2015
Are you wounded?
There are endless ways that life can mar your heart
I need not read off the written list
For it would wind around the world
Again and again and again
Resembling a paper mache ball

Are you wounded?
Feeling beyond repair?
Oh, I hear you
And I don't know
Your persistent, internal struggles
Nor you truly mine
But I'm writing to testify now
That I'm still here

Though words can often seem empty
I'm proclaiming today: Never give up
When you think you've felt too much
Know that the sun rises every day without fail
And like its beacon of light
A glorious, universal flame
Take heed of its returning presence
And do likewise

For there is always someone else
Who is just as hurting as you
Or even worse
Who needs your light
To shine his or her way  
And banish the suffocating darkness
So share your torch
It just might initiate a spreading trend  

Don't let your pain be in vain
Dorothy A Dec 2011
A rose in the middle of December is what I saw outside. Instantly, I connected this odd occurrence with my life. The thought hit my thoughts like a ton of bricks. That is what I am, I had thought to myself. That describes me.

As I looked out my living room window on a sunny, but freezing, Saturday afternoon, I was surprised to see this solitary rose that had bloomed on my mini rose plant.  Providing me with a few salmon colored roses each season of its bloom, without fail this plant regrows again and again in my garden. I first planted it there since forever ago, or so it seems.

Usually, such a flowering occurrence should be no big deal, nothing major or out of the ordinary. Certainly, I would not find this as something really noteworthy to write about. Rose plants do that kind of thing all the time.

But it was frigid cold outside, and the middle of December.

What a strange, yet amazing thing to behold! Maybe there is a proper explanation for it, but I don’t care. The petals were just as colorful as ever when really they should have wilted awy from the cold. All the other flowering plants in my garden surely did! It didn’t really make sense, but its presence was pretty awesome.

I eagerly went to find my camera to take a picture of my sweet, little rose. The grass was dotted with tiny patches of snow to show that-yes indeed-winter is really only days away from its official entrance. Plant activity and growth really should be over. Isn’t that right? I know we have had some warmer days during the previous month, but the icy cold seemed to have come to stay for a while. It surely defies logic to think of blooming flowers on such days.

I often look for “God moments”, as I call them, in which God gives me something to hold onto that reveals His love to me. Not looking for anything earth shattering, I see often see God in the little things, in the details of life. And I don’t even always look for such things, for sometimes I doubt God really cares or really is that effective in my life. You see, that is not uncommon for someone who deals with chronic depression. I learned early on in life that nobody is there for you, not really. I know Christians aren’t supposed to feel this way, but if I can be bold to be honest, I am. Often, I just think I’ll get by on my own. If I can’t get by on my own, I often try to put up with it instead of turning to God for help.  But lately I was feeling desperate.

Suffering with depression all of my life, and with managable anxiety, the thought of the approaching Christmas had been especially difficult for me. I know that people are “supposed to” feel uplifted with the holiday, but I was not. To reveal this is a source of shame to me, and I have learned to mask such uneasy feelings, trying to fake it for the sake of showing the world that I really am OK inside. It is like I expect everyone to look at me and say, “What’s the matter with you, loser!”

I knew I could find two things that would appeal to me—Christmas music and lights. Yet the music that I often love could not do it for me. The lovely Christmas lights, shining in the dark of night, didn’t matter either. I was feeling dejected, and I was growing weary with life—again. When not obligated to go anywhere, I felt like hiding from the world, feeling safer from anxious thoughts by myself. And as safe as I tried to feel in my comfort zone, this was frightening to me. This did not feel like living to me.

Is this how I am going to live out the rest of my pitiful life? This was one of my kinder thoughts.

I usually get through Christmas OK, making the best of it, but my losses often feel bigger than my blessings. In 1998, I lost an estranged brother to suicide. In 2005, I lost a father to Alzheimer’s, a few weeks after Christmas. In 2007, my mother had to spend Christmas in a nursing home recovering from major surgery. That year, I struggled through that season with very hopeless feelings, for my mother was in jeopardy of never walking again. She spent almost half a year in that place—a woman with sever scoliosis, and chronic back pain, who cannot stand for very long. In my hopelessness, I seem to forget the miracles in my life, for my mom’s return home seems like one to me.

I also see my father’s experience and death from Alzheimer’s as something far more than a tragedy. For many years, I avoided my father, wanting really nothing to do with him. Grudges surely seem larger than life over time, and although I wanted to forgive my father and seek reconciliation, fear often stood in the way. Even though my dad grew remorseful for how he raised his children, it took my brother’s suicide for me to find forgiveness for a man I thought never supported me or believed in me. For over two years, while my dad was ill and dying, the bond between us grew into something special. I know from personal experience that even in the difficult times, there are larger purposes involved.
No doubt, I have been provided with some huge challenges in life. Thankfully, I always pulled through when I surely felt that I would crumble into pieces. I clung to my faith in God, even when that faith felt like dying embers in a fire, for it seemed to be all that I had. Nothing else worked. Nothing else satisfied for very long. And when it did last, I wanted more and more, like a drug addict looking for his next fix.  

I have often been plagued with self doubt. What is my purpose in this life? Why am I here? I knew I was not alone in this thinking, reminding myself that I am not the most unique person in my suffering. So I searched the internet, a convenient source to turn to when you can’t seem to face people, and the world.  

Not wanting to live or value your own life is a horrible state of mind that I would not wish on anybody. I have relied on a depression medication since my brother died, and still do, but there had to be something more to help me. Deep down inside, I did not want to die, but I didn’t know how to live either. The heart of the matter was that in my worst bouts of depression, I was just so broken inside. I survived enough to go through the motions, but I felt like I was losing the battle—and really did not want to win the war anyhow.

I still remember the “God moment” I had when I was in London, England in August of 2011. At that time, life felt like an adventure as I went on my very first overseas trip to Europe. I have yearned to go to Europe since childhood. It was a Sunday morning in London, and a religious program was on. From what one man was saying on TV about his experiences, my ears perked up and I hurriedly scribbled some things down on a pad of my hotel paper before I forget some of his statements that stood out to me.

During my short stay in London, I was experiencing a cold. I wanted to feel Gods presence as I felt the swallowed up feeling of being a stranger in a faraway place. As intruiged as I was,  in the huge, bustling metropolis, I admit I was feeling a bit overwhelmed. I find big cities as places in which people pass others with no concern other than to go about their way. London was fascinating, but I am a suburbanite, for sure!

The things this man was saying on TV really impacted me at the time, and I now carry that scrap of paper around with me in my wallet. Little did I know that a few months later that these statements would help to pull me through from reaching into despair. That despair began a few months after that trip when I was quite sick with the flu, twice in a row, and feeling very isolated and weary.

Sometimes, we have to get into that place where all there is is God.

It is not that I did not believe in God. I did not think God believed in me.

Sometimes, we grow best in hard times.  

All my crooked crutches and phony props, as I call them, weren’t working. If the computer wasn’t taking up much of my free time, television was numbing my senses from the stark reality that life felt empty for me. Where was God? Logically, I knew I had no reason to be bitter, for I knew the answer. I felt so far away from Him, helpless and hopeless—yet I clung to this hope—God never moved at all. I was the one who walked away, but like the prodigal son in the Bible, God would be waiting there for me with a joyful expectation. I truly believe that even though I often wonder how God puts up with me.

It has been a long time—if ever—that I fully trusted in God alone. Yes, I believed in Him, and trusted in Jesus as my savior, but I often held back. I was still so angry and hurt about the past. Why didn’t God rescue me from such a horrible childhood? Why was I bullied in school? Why didn’t I have a better family? Why did loneliness and insecurity plague me as it did? Why wasn’t I beautiful? Why didn’t I have a better life? Why this and why that. Even though I logically knew better, in my hurt and wounded soul, life felt like a big, horrible mistake. God must have not cared about me. I may not have consciously acknowledged it, but my actions proved otherwise.

We live in a world where you got to be stronger, you got to be better; you got to be tougher; you got to be faster; you got to be more successful. The media pounds this into our brains all the time in many different forms. How many of us feel like we can never measure up? I am sure I am not alone in feeling the inadequacy. Yet I could not concentrate on anyone else’s pain when I was so wrapped up in my own.

A rose in the middle of December—I put it all into proper perspective. What a fragile looking thing, but an enduring one! It symbolizes to me the invincible, indelible human soul in the midst of an often perplexing world. When all around seems bleak, when life takes a toll on you, that remains unscathed, untouched by the trails we often have to face.  When we die, I wholeheartedly believe, it will be the only true thing that remains of us. When our bodies decay into dust, our souls will be like that rose, brilliant and beautiful.    

Besides myself, there are two groups of people, near and dear to my heart, which I could compare to that symbolic rose in my garden. My current job is working with special needs students, usually with autistic children and young adults. I worked 19 years in a bland office job, and could not ignore the constant nagging feeling to get the courage and desire up to do something more fulfilling with my life. With fearful, but bold determination I thought: It’s now or never.  Maybe it was not the wisest thing, but it felt so freeing to say to my boss, “I think I quit”, without another job to back me up. I basked in the encouraging applause of many co-workers who wished they had the guts to do the same, but soon the panic set in.

What do I do now? What can I do now?

Never working with children before, I felt a call to work with them, and I absolutely have a greater sense of purpose. Many of these children cannot talk. Many of them cannot walk. Many of them accept people just as they are, for I believe they want the same in return. Their lives teach me what really is important in life—and that is compassion.

Other than children, I also love the elderly, sensing their desperate need for love and compassion. Forcing myself to get my mind off my own troubles, I heeded my pastor’s call to not simply “go to church” but to “be the church”. I knew I had talents. I knew could open my mouth and carry a tune. From what I went through in my life, I knew I had the compassion. After all, I dealt with my dying father in a nursing home. With a nursing home ministry in my church, and a nursing home right across the street, it was obvious—there are others out there that need hope and they need love. So what was my excuse?

In this world that expects you to be stronger, better, tougher, faster or more successful, there are those that live in the world that they don’t fit any of these categories. But yet they are here. They exist. Can they be ignored? The answer is surely, yes, and they often are.  Perhaps, the world is uncomfortable with them, does not know what to do with them. They don’t fit into the false demands for perfection. They don’t fit into push and shove to get ahead of everyone else, but they remind us, sometimes to the point of discomfort, how fragile the human condition often is.  

Lately, I have had such a hunger that food cannot satisfy. I yearned for a peace, one that only God can provide me with. I found two uplifting stories on the internet of people who struggle on and whose lives defy the idea of a perfect world. One of them was about an Australian man, Nick Vujicic, who was born without arms and legs. He was picked on at school because he was perceived as a freak, as someone who did not seem to have any real chance at living a normal life. And he was angry that he did not look like, or function like, most everyone else. At about the age of eight he wanted to end it all, thinking he had no purpose in life. He eventually gave his life to Christ, and now lives a full life, reaching out to others with his incredible story of hope and perseverance.

Another woman, Joni Eareckson Tada, continues to amaze me. She is a quadriplegic from a diving accident gone horribly wrong. Her story touches many people with her hopeful attitude and her amazing faith in Christ. She, too, wanted to die when she thought her life had no more meaning. Recently, she has even fought breast cancer and chronic pain that has added to her decades of struggles with immobility.  She touches so many lives with her honesty about her suffering, giving people hope in times that seem hopeless.            

I wanted what these two people had. No, I did not want their afflictions, but I wanted to be able to reach out to others and touch their hearts, as well.  I wanted that faith, desperately, a faith that will not back down in the face of fear, in serious doubts, deep sadness, and pain. These people had little choice but to turn to God. The alternative was utter bleakness, a lack of purpose, and a slow death. But they defied the odds and etched a life out of faith, helping countless others to endure their struggles and to find meaning in life. There were plenty of times when I did not pray to reach out to a God that I gave my heart to many years ago. I bought into the belief that God was as inadequate and ineffective as I was feeling.    

Sometimes, we have to get into that place where all there is is God.

It is not that I did not believe in God. I did not think God believed in me.

Sometimes, we grow best in hard times.  

With plenty of tears, I cried out to God. It was a gut wrenching cry of someone with nothing to give but a broken heart. I wanted that kind of faith, and I meant that with every fiber of my being. Deep inside, my faith wasn’t gone. It never really left me, but only God had the ability to grow it, to prosper it, and to produce “life” back into my life. The battles might have felt overwhelming, at times, but I have always been a survivor. In spite of heartaches, and from what they actually teach me, I can be an encourager to others. Instead of just wanting to make everything go away, I can look forward to new chapters in my life.  

I know there will still be times when I will struggle to want to face another day, yet with my faith in God, I can.

So a rose growing outside may be not a big deal. Writers and poets have seemingly exhausted the topic, hailing it the most precious of flowers, the most perplex, with such lovely fragility, yet sheltered by stinging thorns. My inspiration to write on the same subject may not be unique, but as a rose blooms, and its glorious petals unfold, so does my story. I admit I hesitated to finish writing this, not sure I wanted to expose these things about my life. It takes a lot of guts to admit how imperfect you are in a world that seems to shun or poke fun at such things. But if I can encourage even one person, who has similar struggles, I will gladly try to be an encouragement.    

For almost a week now, existing in a stark contrast of its surroundings, that little rose remains, cold winter weather and all. Every day since, for about a week now, I continue look for it outside and find it going against the grain.  All the other flowers in my dormant garden are long gone. It will be gone eventually, but I am still enjoying my “God
Dorothy A Jul 2010
A lone, solitary ship sails out
Where on earth will be its route?
From a peaceful harbor, it embarks
Nervous, but ready to make its mark

It's not sturdy, its not massive
Not a luxury ship, it's more passive
Dingy and plain, it has only one sail
What will it do if the winds prevail?

Cold and cruel are the seas
Ready to swallow up what they may please
Strong and mighty is not this boat
Yet Will alone shall keep it afloat

Currents may seize it and shake its foundations
Nature may not produce good relations
But what if there was never a risk?
The currents calm and the winds not brisk?

What would propel this little boat forward?
The ride, smooth, if every inch was assured?
Its size looks incapable to prove the odds wrong
Yet even little things can be strong

Bigger and better ships will pass it by
Overtaking its course, they will fly
But Will alone will be the fuel
And Faith, above, shall be the guiding tool

Though the winds are coarse, and the boat dips
Just try and sink this ship!
Only the Captain will decide that fate
He can force the rains and winds to dissipate

It can take lightning strikes, rain and sleet
It can take it and not feel much defeat
For it has coursed all kinds of weather
Only to prove that is is better

So onward go! Forward sail!
Do not be afraid to fail!
Here it comes over the blue horizon
And just look how it sails on!

It proves the naysayers wrong
As the little boat chugs along
And there it goes around the bend
Not satisfied till it reaches its end
Dorothy A Dec 2009
As I sit here today,
apart from society,
hit with this cold,
feeling not well,
I struggle again
to find my purpose
in this world,
as I often do.

But if I have just
helped out one person
and I know I have
I already laid
a firm foundation
which leaves room
to be builded upon
some more,
perhaps by me,
perhaps by someone else
coming along.......
the floors,
the walls,
the ceiling,
the windows,
and the roof,
or simply planting
a seed in the garden
which will from one
tiny beginning
spring up life.
Dorothy A Jul 2010
Put me in a cage,
and I'll fly away
Put me in an aquarium,
and I'll swim out to the seas
Put me in the wilderness,
and I'll find my way back home

I've had dreams
Many never came to reality
I have failed
with the world, have dropped it like a ball,
turned directions until I was dizzy
to try another and another and another
way that never seemed to work

But I cannot give up
and cannot find any more roads
in a cage,
an aquarium,
or the wilderness

God has not forsaken His children
though we may endures such places,
but I venture to say that He gives us
a way out of any snare
that man has designed

I've got a song in my heart
I've got a place to go
no matter how shut off the world can be
God gives me melody beyond measure
Yes, I can go on!
Yet I need not convince anyone
but myself of this truth

Although I nearly lost the will
to experience God's joys at all,
I boldy answer the challenging call,
spanning the skies
that once looked threatening,
swimming the ocean blue
that once engulfed me in fear
traveling through the wilderness
that seemed never ending

Yes, I trekked afoot far and wide
just to hear a pleasant voice again,
and to find mine

If you listen
you can hear what I say
with the stroke of my pen,
although you detect
not a sound

I've got a song in my heart
that will not go away
and keeps me
moving on
Dorothy A Oct 2013
I’m a weird, little guy
Bananas I like to eat
You know we primates
Like a fruity treat  

I’m a monkey with stripes
A true oddity, I must say
A zebra might look at me
And yell, “What the hey?!”

So I’m pretty messed up
With a rip on my side
But what do you expect of me?
To go run off and hide?

And what about my ears?
So you want to make fun?
But it’s none of your business
That I only have one!

It is quite obvious
That I am quite a mess
And with all my monkey shines
I must really confess…..

That I ripped off
My very own ear
But one is JUST FINE!
Your yappin’ I STILL HEAR!
Dorothy A Apr 2015
Don't listen to what the culture says about you. Forget about what you see in the magazines. Forget about what you watched on TV. Forget about what you have seen in the movies. Forget about what you hear on the radio or came across on the internet. Forget what you just saw on a billboard or store poster. We are women of worth. It doesn't matter what we look like, how much we weigh, what our bra size is, or how **** we are...we are beloved by God who made us and He loves us without ridiculous, unrealistic demands, the cruel demands to be perfect to the eyes of the world. Outer critics are everywhere, and our inner critic wants to chime in and get aboard. We are women of worth. May we all remember this.
Dorothy A Jul 2010
The barn door creaked open, and I faced it like a scared rabbit, my breath panting, short and rapidly.

The silhouette figure of Jim stood there, his strong, distinctive voice calling out, "Mary?"

I couldn't respond like I wanted to. Maybe I should of just stood there and hid in the darkness and he would leave. I felt so cowardly and so ashamed of myself.

"Mary! Are you in in here?"

"Yes, I'm here", I replied nervously, my voice shaky. I couldn't stop my lip from quivering, even though the darkness of the night hid it from full view. Trying to look brave, I quickly asked Jim, "You got a smoke?"

Where did that come from? I never smoked before, even when Sue and all her friends did it. How they used to make fun of me for refusing a cigarette! Now here I was blutting out things that never would have come out of my mouth before.

Firm and steady, Jim held the match to my cigarette, but my hand shook so badly that he looked at me intensely. Soon, I feared that I would faint if he did not look away.  In the warmth of the flame, he eyes flickered, and I felt goose bumps rise upon my skin.

He steadied my hand for me, and I took a weak puff upon my Lucky Strike. "What's the matter?", he asked "You look like you saw a ghost. You're shaking from head to toe!"

"I'm just cold", I lied.

In a flash, Jim wrapped his jacket around me, and in another flash, his reassuring arms were folded around my waist as he pulled me close to himself.

Now my knees were really ready to give way. Thank God that he had me in his grip, for I would have fallen for sure. I looked out into the darkness, it nearly pitch black if not for the tip of my burning cigarette.

Sue stood there, hands on her hips in her cocky way. "Don't be such a baby!", she warned. "Relax, or it'gs going to hurt a lot worse!"

I shuddered. Why did I have to think of her! My sister!

Reluctantly, I asked her for advice this morning. She was the only one who knew where I really was tonight. Oddly enough, she was the only one I could trust to keep her mouth shut. To Sue, snitching was something only weaklings and losers did, and she was neither. We were not close sisters, but I realized if anybody knew anything about anything, it was Sue.

So maybe I was a baby, just a step away from dolls as far as my sister was concerned. Yet here I was, on the edge of a fate that was supposed to make me a woman, that made me desirable to a full-grown man. Who cared about Sue now anyway? I imagined her just slipping away, becoming smaller and smaller.

Jim's comforting arms, his wondrous touch--I felt his warm breath against my cheek, his fingers work magic upon my back.

But someting was terribly wrong.

I was pulled into it too fast. It was not me standing there as his deep kisses engulfed me into my make-believe fantasy. As Jim overpowered me, I should have been on the top of the world. I should have felt beautiful, felt like I meant something.

I tried to stop, to pull away, to refuse to go any further. All along I thought of what I should tell him.  I don't want to do this! Stop! I can't stay here with you. I really like you, but I can't! Will you let me just go back home, please?"

Instead, I could not find my voice, or my footing. He was going too far. It was all going too fast, on a runaway freight train which I had no way to jump off from . I felt too weak, too overwhelmed, embarassed just to push him away. Blood rushing into my temples, I felt myself spinning as the room was spinning, spinning out of control like that crazy, old iron rooster skating about in the wind on top of the barn.

Jim lay me down so easily as he placed himself on top of me. For that awkward moment, I did not want to be there, so I removed myself from the situation the best that I could. In the remaining time we were together, fear ruled as I shut my eyes and expected the worst.

Finally, I did find my voice. My scream was so piercing, lough enough to knock that rooster off its bearings from up above. It was as if my soul had been pierced too, torn right down past the flesh and through a writhing pain of guilt and sorrow.

Like a woman in heavy labor,  at last I knew what my sister was talking about. The rip and tear of my innocence seemed so gone away from me. Just like that.

All I could do was wimper like a puppy, the illusion of what love was shattered before my eyes. Pulling away from me, I swore that Jim  gave me a look of suspicion and anger, one that I would never forget.

From the gaps in the roof came enough exposure to shed a few rays of moonlight. I lay there as Jim harshly grabbed me by the shoulders.

"How old are you!?, he demanded

"Fifteen", I admitted, meekly.

For a moment, he just sat there, stunned. The moment felt like a lifetime to me. What was he going to do? Slowly, he bagan to shake his head in disbelief.

Then abruptly he rose up. "You're bad news!", he concluded. He grabbed his jacket, took off, and left me with words that would hurt and sting far more than our encounter together.

What occurred after that seemed like slow motion. The night seemed to last and last, in punitive judgment, as it took me a while to leave that spot, my knees curled up to my chest in a fetal position.

Eventually, I did rise up, fix myself up and headed for home--only because my stomach was growling.

But I did not feel hungry.

I tried to imagine what Sue would say after she pulled the truth out of me. You know you are still a ****** if you couldn't go through with it! She'd have that superior, smug look on her face. And ****** if I was going to feel small in her presence!

I went through the kitchen door of my house. The dawn barely breaking after the dark hours, so punishing and so long.

To my surprise, there was my father's voice from behind his favorite armchair. "You came home from Janey's house sooner than you said", he commented, startling me back to reality. "Much earlier than I expected", he added, almost as if to say, "It's nice one of you girls listens to your dear, old dad".

That was enough to bring about a true confession, a flood of repentant tears. But turning around, as I made my way upstairs, I forced a weak smile.

Yet, what I really wanted to do was turn around and run right into his lap and pour out my heart. That would be the fantasy of a child, and I fought off the urge .

I did not know what I was anymore. Still a girl? A sucker? At that moment, I felt like I did not even exist, numb and shocked to the core.

Sue met me in the hallway and started to ask me in eager whipsers, "Ok, did you do it? How was he?"

I shoved her down on the floor so quickly that she couldn't believe it. "I couldn't get enough!" , I sneered at her, my fist curled up, ready for another comment from her. Our eyes met, and mine were so steely that her reaction shocked me.

Sue never saw me this way, and lay there before me, speechless.
I got away and made it to my seclusion. Before the bathroom mirror, at last I was safe. The tears fianlly came as I studied myself closely. There was no sound, only silent, long, wet tears.

Who now stood before me was different than who she was before, and I mourned the loss of my innoence.
copywrited..............integrity....What's mine is mine.
Dorothy A Feb 2012
A woman needs to feel like a woman
and man like a man

Don't tell me that's anything new
It's been that way since the world began

A woman needs to reproduce love
It's part of her genetic make up
So do all that you can
Surround her with selfless love
And you'll be her man

Don't tell me that's anything new
It's been that way since the world began

A man needs to know he is useful
Not just a ***** donor
Not just a means to your own plan
Give him the respect he is due
And he'll be your man

Don't tell me that's anything new
It's been that way since the world began
Dorothy A Sep 2011
I am just a fragment
of the whole vision

I am a canvas, not fully painted
I am a story, not quite scribbled down
I am piece of music, yet to be ended
I am a sculpture, with carvings here and there
I am a song, not yet copyrighted
I am a stage production, assembling a cast

Yes, I am
Ready to come to life
Dorothy A Sep 2012
How come with all the brilliant thoroughbreds
That stand strong and ready at the starting gates
Those glorious, shiny coats gleaming in the sun
Do I keep on beating dead horses?
Instead of placing my bets on the alive and thriving?

Don't I want to finally engage in the race?
Don't I want to to keep my eyes on the winning prize?
For a dead and decaying horse,
With flies swarming about its lifeless carcass
Just ain't gonna move

Dead horse beating is a ludicrous hobby
It is more futile than leading a thirsty horse to water that just won't drink
That whip, in hand, just needs to be surrendered, put down on the ground
As well as finally releasing, letting go, on the pulling of those reins
So that horse can finally have a proper burial

Be finally laid to rest

In my dictionary
Dead horse (a noun) = people, places, or things of decay that should be out of your life
Dead horse beating (a verb) = from your thoughts to your actions, trying to revive a lost cause
Dead horse (synonoms) =  bad relationships/friendships/acquaintances {that are of the morgue}

Anything that is counterproductive to your life
Dorothy A Sep 2012
Forget about how Hollywood defines it
Don't let a commercial insist what product creates it
You cannot purchase your sense of worth

Cosmetic surgery,
I've contemplated it myself
But who is to say exactly what perfect features are?  

Don't feel defeated because you think you'll never compare
Don't feel like you have been given less than others
For you are who you are

Nobody owns the true book on beauty
It comes in various editions
And shines greatest from within
Dorothy A Jul 2010
Beautiful Swan,
head held in high esteem
Beautiful baby
gracefully stroking down the stream

Ugly Duckling,
with head held down in the pond
Lesser creature who really
wants desperately to be the Swan

For nobody notices the inferior kind,
who cannot delight they eye
With the others ahead of the way
but can't keep up the pace it tries

Beautiful Swan rudely splashes water
in the face of the desperate Duck
Smug Swan proudly proclaims
"Too bad, Ugly Duck, you're out of luck!"

With one last fighting stroke,
Ugly Duckling catches up to push on
Ugly Duckling looks back and answers
"***** you, you Beautiful Swan!"
Dorothy A Jun 2010
Been a fighter all my life
From a home filled with strife
Decided to put down my boxing gloves
Make not war, but love

But I realized the fight has merit
It is something that fuels my spirit
When I begin to lose that spark
My mind gives up, goes dark

I become the passive person I am not
So I'll take up the banner, a lot
Because the battle is never won
When you feel your life is done

I've been a fighter all my life
Dorothy A Oct 2013
Everything faded to black. He had a hard time remembering just what the hell happened. He wasn't sure of downing some random pills from of the medicine cabinet-- his first attempt to end it all. Making sure he would not recover-- if the pills didn't do the job-- he had already devised the set up of the noose in his bedroom. Definitely, he didn't recall anyone cutting the rope, forcing him down to the floor.

Lacie joked with him. "Dude, you've got nine lives! You must really be a ****, fricking cat in disguise! That's why you'll eat those nasty tuna fish sandwiches they serve in the nuthouse! "

Chris grinned at her.  He had to agree. To refer to it as the psych ward at the hospital made it seem like more of a jail term, but calling it "the nuthouse" lightened up the severity of the situation. As grave and nearly tragic as everything  had become, it was kind of laughable to him.  He supposed he had more chances than a cat's fabled life. It all seemed so crazy that it must be funny.

Well, what could he say? He had flirted with death, but unwillingly managed to escape its grip. "Pathetic..."--he commented. "I don't not even know how to die well..."

Chris  eventually realized that he had been rushed to the hospital, but wished it wasn't true. Since then, everything was either a total blur or a bizarre state of mind . Even waking up in his room was like a remotely vague memory, almost like a long ago dream that might not really have happened.

Maybe, he was somewhat aware that his sister was screaming in shock and horror at the sight of him, shouting out downstairs to her boyfriend to help her. But the walls were turning red, a glowing scarlet- red, with an added fiery orange and yellowish-gold-- all joined together in pulsating embers. He was quickly losing consciousness. It was like some, bad acid trip. Not that Chris knew this firsthand, but it sure was like something he saw on TV or at the movies.

And now he was the star of the horror show.

Did he die?  Death was what he planned on, so waking up was not a relief, or a reality back into motion--just the opposite. It was as if being awake was the real nightmare, a delusional time when everything was not true, and was only an scary, offbeat version of the life of Chris Cartier.

The bad acid trip continued. He recalled hospital staff rushing about him, seeming like real people-- sort of. Then they morphed into fish in scrubs. From overhead, an IV was dripping into his arm. Tubes were shoved down his throat. His vital signs were displayed on a screen that made beeps and sounds, increasing the chaos and adding to the mayhem to his mind. Soon, the vital signs machine started talking to him that he was a "very bad boy" and other such scoldings.

He was thoroughly freaked out. If he was still alive, he'd rather be dead.

He wanted to run. One of the fish pushed him back down and muttered out undecipherable utterances-- like underwater gibberish . Then that fish used its slimy fins to inject him with a needle in his arm. The other fish circled around him like fish out of water--with opening and closing mouths-- as if gasping for air.

As they surrounded him as rubber monkeys shot out from the walls and bounced all over the room. On top of all this madness, the florescent lights above were flickering on and off, in sync to the wild music, like the drum beats of a distant jungle. It was one bizarre tangle of events, a freaky, crazy, out-of-control ride in which reality could not be distinguished from the animation and mass confusion. It was one overpowering ride that he would much rather forget.

When Chris got out of critical condition, he found out that he could still not go home. That would take a few weeks more. Dr. What-The-Hell's-His-Name assured him that he needed to start on the path to his psychological healing--just as grave as the physical--right here in a safe place.

It didn't seem so safe to him.

The enemy wasn't what was out there in the world, but the big, bad wolf was actually him. He had to be protected from the true culprit--himself-- and that was a mind-blowing concept. Just what did he get himself into?   

He never had been a patient in a hospital before. In all his twenty-six years, he didn't so much as even have his tonsils out. Feeling now like a prisoner,, he was still scared out of his mind-- as if it was day one all over again. When was he going to get out of here? Chris began to fear that they would never let him out. No professional had a definitive answer, as only time would tell of his improvement.

Man, why couldn't he just be dead?

His parents visited almost everyday, but it was of no reassurance to him. His mother always left in tears, and his father was lost for words. This was nothing new. When it concerned their troubled son, they felt inadequate to help him. The best his dad could say was, "Hey, Chris, we're pullin' for ya". That was of no comfort, whatsoever, like he was some fighter in a boxing ring that his old man had a bet placed on . His mom always clung to him as she said goodbye, like she needed the hug more than he did, saying to Chris through her sobs , "Miss you". Her emotional state just unsettled him to the core, and he was worried for her more than for himself.    

At best, his outlook was grim. But then he met Lacie Weiss, and things started looking up.

Lacie was one of the quietest psych patients in the ward, always sticking to herself. But then he found himself sitting right next to her in group therapy, and they hit it off. He had no idea that she had a fun side. She usually looked apathetic and quietly defiant to society, a nonconformist in the form of a Goth, with edgy, dyed black hair, dark eye make-up and some ****** piercings of the eyebrow, tongue and nose. Her look was quite in contrast to his light blue eyes and sandy-brown hair. Chris never was into Gothic, viewing those who were as spooky creeps.  

It was obvious that Chris was scared and confused. Now although trying to seem tough and stoic, Lacie seemed so little, almost fragile, yet obviously trying to hide her broken self together. Petite and somewhat girlish in appearance, she was barely 5 feet tall. Chris was 5 feet 11 and a half inches, close enough to the six foot stature that he wanted to be. Only a half inch less really didn't cut it for him, though, even though his slim build gave the impression of a lankier guy. He would have loved to be as tall as the basketball players he so emulated. But such was life. He was never used to having the advantages.  

At first, Lacie never opened up, not to a single soul. Like Chris, she certainly acted like she didn't need this place, and nobody was going to help her--or be allowed to help her. As stony and impenetrable as she tried to be, group therapy it was hard to disappear in. Everyone was held accountable for opening up, and the leader was going to see to it.  No way, though, did Lacie want to crack or look weak in her turtle shell composure, in her self-preservation mode. So it was agony for her.

She first spoke to him, whispering loudly to him, onc,e in the group circle "This is all *******!"

Hanging with Chris was the one salvation that she had in this miserable experience. They both could relate more than he ever realized. They both really liked motorcycles and basketball. He had his own Harley, and it was something he loved to work on and go on long rides with it, his own brand of therapy.  In spite of how she looked, Lacie was also actually close to his age. He was twenty-six. and she was twenty-two.

They first broke the ice with casual introductions. "No, the name is not pronounced like Carter", he corrected her about his last name. "It is like Cart-EE-AY...... It's French".

"Yep", she replied. "Like mine is the same way, but as German as brats and sauerkraut,  Ja dummkopf?"

Chris gave her a weird look. She continued, "My mom's dad was from Germany, and I got my mom's name. Ya don't say it how it looks. You would say Weiss like Vice, but I couldn't give a **** how anybody says it. Nobody gets it right and original, anyhow." Her dark brown eyes flashed at him as she said, " But I think I like Chris Cutie, myself, better than Cartier.....cutie it is for me. Huh, cutie pie? "

Chris laughed hard. She was pretty coy for a die-hard Goth. She batted her eyes playfully at him and winked."You're worth being in here for, ya know", he told her, blushing, still laughing at her silly remarks.

She studied his face in response, all laughing aside. Suddenly, her mood turned solemn.  "I'll bet".

They began hanging out in the commons, walking down the halls for exercise, and swapping stories of their plights. Chris quickly found that she Lacie wasn't so steely and unapproachable as the day he first saw her.  And she discovered that he was more than a pretty boy.

"My parents weren't home when I tried", he told her one time after lunch was done. They were sitting in a corner, trying to be as private as possible. "Twenty-six years old...and I still live with them. Yeah, that's my life. I got a twin brother, and he's moved out and doing alright for himself. My sister's younger, is going to college. Wants to be a doctor".

Lacy didn't have any siblings to compare herself to. "Must be cool to have a twin", Lacie said. "I always wondered how that would be to have two of me running around! Scary, huh, dude?"

Chris shook his head. "No, it's nothing like that. Jake and I aren't identical. We are just a two-for-one deal...I mean  is that my parents got two babies in one, huge-*** pregnancy. Jake and me don't even act like twins. Half the time, I don't want to be around him."

No, it wasn't like his cousins, Adam and Alan, who were identical friends, mirror images, and best of friends. Chris never identified with that kind of brotherly relationship. He and Jake never dressed alike, or knew what the other one was thinking. And Chris felt that his brother always felt superior to him. He was the popular one. He was the ambitious one who landed a great job in computers, as a system analyst.  To add to Chris's feelings of inferiority, his little sister, Kate, had surpassed him, too. She was acing most of her classes, and boarding away at college. She was well on her way to becoming a doctor.    

"So if your mom and dad weren't around...who saved you?" Lacie asked. She stared into his eyes with such a probing stare that Chris almost clammed up. Just thinking about that day was overpowering.

" sister and her boyfriend were hanging out in the basement. She was home from college, and I didn't know it. My parents were out-of-town. Our dog, Buster, was acting funny. He knew something was up..."

Chris stopped abruptly, but went on. "Kate, my sister, explained to me that she saw me in my room, getting up on a step ladder. She says she yelled at me to stop. I don't remember...but I guess..I guess I was going to do it anyway, and she wouldn't be able to stop me....stop me I hurried up and jumped off before she could stop me."  

Lacie could almost picture it, as if she was there with him. She said, "But she did stop it. She saved you."

"Yeah", he agreed. "Buster started it all...barking, alerting my sister to come upstairs from the basement, and upstairs by my room...." All of a sudden, he felt so weird, like he was having an out-of-body experience.

"Hey, it's OK", Lacie reassured him. "It's over now. You aren't there anymore".

Chris started to cry, but tried not to. "If it weren't for Brian, Kate's boyfriend....she would not of had the strength to hold me up by herself, and cut the rope, too. I must have been like dead weight, and Brian grabbed a kitchen knife and told her to stay cool about it. Yeah, sure, like that could have been possible ! She was trying to keep the rope slack, while trying to save my sorry ****...and she was scared, shitless! "

Lacie opened up, too, relating her tragic past. She had an unbelievable tale, one hell of a ride herself.  It was amazing how detached she was when relating it, though. "Well" actually I got to fess up" "I'm not really an only child....I mean I am...but not really. I know that sounds weird---hey--but I am weird. Oddly unusual is the story of my life-- even before day one. "

Chris had no idea what she was talking about. "What are ya' trying to say?"

She added another surprising bombshell. "Also,  I have a two-year-old boy. His name is Danny. He don't see his dad--ever. The guy's a waste of space. Anyway, my mom has him. She can afford him more, and can do a better job raising him than me. Well, she does OK money-wise. Anyhow, my mom deserves him because she lost everything. And I mean EVERYTHING! Her whole fricking family practically wiped out!"

The shock that Chris had on his face-- his widened, blue eyes and open mouth were expected.   Most people had a hard time believing her.

She explained, calmly, "I mean she nearly died--way before I was born--in a car accident. And her two, little boys were with her in the backseat...and they died that day. "

Chris looked pale. "That is so awful!" he said, hoarsely, barely able to say it.

"Yeah", she continued. "Not a **** thing she could do about it, too. She was like in a million pieces. I know a part of her died right there and then, too. I just know it.  You know, dude, my mom was once really, really coasting along, just doing fine. A typical wife and mother-- a bit older than me now-- life was good. Her little boys were just cute, little toddlers--like Danny. I found out from my grandma that she was  pregnant, too, just a month or two. Nobody could have imagined it coming. She was just driving--doing nothing wrong-- when some idiot broadsided her.  I don't know if it was a guy or a lady, if they were jacked up on ***** or drugs, but they were speeding like a demon out of Hell. Her husband was at work and wasn't around."  

The boys were Benjamin and Gerard, but Lacie couldn't remember their names, for her mom could barely mention them without breaking down. It was an unbearable loss.

Chris was so horrified, amazed that Lacie related this like it was someone else's story. She was almost too cavalier about it.

"And they died ?!" he asked.

"Yeah....*****, don't it? Pure, pure agony. Downright Hell on earth. My mom had to learn to walk again. It took about year, I think."

"Oh, no! What about the baby she was supposed to have?"

"Miscarriage. Worse yet, the **** doctor told her she'd never be able to have kids again. She lost everything, man! Her husband couldn't handle it and left her. **** on top of ****, on top of more ****, on top of more. If it wasn't for her parents, and her sister's help, she would never have made it.

"But she had given birth to you, right? Or were you adopted?"

"Yeah, she gave birth to me. I was her miracle baby, and she didn't give a rat's rear end if my dad wanted me or not. He'd send her money, once in a while, but he wasn't really into either of us. Who cares though? She didn't give a **** what he thought. I was her baby. Truth is, before I came, she ended up slitting her wrists--just like me. What was the use? At first, there was nothing to live for. But now she has Danny.

"And you!" Chris quickly pointed out.

"Dude, are you kidding me? I have been NOTHING but grief for her, a real pain in her ***!"

Unlike her deceased, half-brothers, Lacie grew up before her mother's eyes, from a shy girl to a ******* rebel. Since the age of twelve, she would sneak drinks from her mom's liqueur cabinet. Eventually, she smoked *** and tried ******* and ******. Dropping out of the eleventh grade, she soon away from home, living with friends or boyfriends ever since.  Thankfully, she wasn't doing drugs when she conceived Danny. And her drinking wasn't as prevalent as it was in her teen years of partying and binge drinking. That didn't mean that her drinking problems magically disappeared, or that she was cured. Immediately, though, when she knew she was pregnant, she refused to touch a bottle, but it was just a white knuckle process that was effective momentarily--a band aid on a more serious wound. And going months without a drop of alcohol didn't deaden her urges--quite the opposite--as it only made her crave what she could not have. Often, her fears caught up with her--of especially becoming
Dorothy A Nov 2013
Today, is an overcast, sky-filled grey, autumn day. Nevertheless, the colors are still holding out as the leaves are making their last hurrah in the parade of changing their look. Therefore, I was not bothered by the gloomy looking weather. And on my way to the health food store-- high up among the telephone poles--I spotted the sight of three parallel wires full of birds, perched side-by-side. as if connected.

I am not sure what kind of birds they were, but they lined those wires, brown and thick, like ants on a sugar stick. And they must of huddled there for warmth and security, comrades of instinct and survival. Indeed, they surely seemed fine with their electric perches, with no intent on flying off, congregating contentedly.

With too much human expansion, it seems, I surely do wonder and am at awe at the magnificence of nature, this being a small example. Birds, as fragile as they often look--they haven't a thick coat of fur to warm their feathery bodies--do not appear fit for the cold--not for a second. And many fly to the South for winter. But there they were--bird after bird after bird--just hanging out up there, as if their temporary hangout was wired and strung just for them. This surely is a common sight, and is not supposed to be a big deal , but I found it special enough to keep in mind, important enough to return home to later record in word.  It is akin to me witnessing geese flying in a V-shape pattern, or hearing the melodic calling of a bird to a potential mate, of viewing a mother bird feeding her young in the bird house that I have provided outside my door. Or it reminds me of last year, on a snowy night in the Christmas season. when I was amazed by the sound of birds outside of KFC--of a bunch of sparrows that were just chirping away, arranged in a tree like living Christmas ornaments.  I don't ever want to take this stuff for granted, for it becomes easy to do so in the maze of life we often have.

With just this small example, today. I am reminded of how wonderful and majestic this earth truly is. Nature surely is a feast for the eyes, as well as for nourishment for the body. For me, it is medicine for the soul, sanity for the mind, music to the ears, as well as a stimulating journey in awe and beauty in the wildlife, grand landscapes, fragrant flowers and abundant plant life. Who can say otherwise?
Dorothy A Nov 2010
Mother's ache in birth
Baby fears brand new world
Neither free from pain
Dorothy A Sep 2011
The future is framed
in a painting titled, Unknown
It appears to me as
a scene in a winding road
that is shrouded in a thick veil,
a misty fog of doubt

What tomorrow holds for me,
I do not know
For I have yet to arrive there
Certainly, nothing comes easily in life
Nothing seems set in stone

I cannot accomplish the journey alone
Inspite of my stubborn insistence to try
Counting just on myself,
out of my own efforts,
And I surely encounter failure
I've learned there is nothing worse
than going it all alone

So one assurance of hope do I fiercely cling to
It is the only way that I can survive

Therefore, I place my mortal hand in His,
A that hand is always offered to me,
And I grab hold of it for dear life
As the Lord is perpetually near
A divne lantern
unto my feet

The pathway ahead is still dimly lit
Only a few steps can I see at a time
But it is meant to reveal
only just what I need
To get me along through,
to penetrate the darkness

For what is faith
If I need not trust?
What is faith
If I demand to know everything?
Dorothy A Nov 2010
Cornflowers so blue
Lovely skies soft, powder blue
Blues within banished
Dorothy A Aug 2010
Broken hearts
need a jump start
Broken hearts,
so ripped and torn apart
Broken hearts,
immortalized in art
as the martyr of mankind

All around the world

Those cardboard people,
they exist everywhere
Slaughtered souls
seen upon the streets
Like paper, they are 2 dimensional  
People who walk about
just like sticks
People a centimeter thick
go about their way but
Who knows where they’re headed
Can’t go very far,
ripped and shredded

All around the world

Whether they are mentally battered,
physically battered,
spiritually battered,
battered by poverty and disease
or battered by oppression
they have lost their way
because by a throw away society
that exists today
they are now tossed aside
and on the inside
they feel nothing

All around the world

I think you get the picture
of what I'm trying to say
Cardboard people
have caught the paper disease,
a little gust of wind
and they go blowing in the breeze
Little weight to hold them down,
They are descending sidewalks
with their tattooed frowns

All around the world

They pass us on by
but few of us
really look anymore
at the souls who
are torn and tattered
their hearts bleeding
and quite shattered
Often we wish not to
be bothered with
their sight
Consumed with our problems
and not with their plight

All around the world

I have to remind myself
to not look away,  
not wanting to be reminded
that I was also there
A card carrying member
of the Broken Heart's Club
and still at risk
must I say
But God sought me out
a scared, lonely girl
as I felt no place
in this cruel world
Judge them not He commands
It does not matter
how they met their despair
Broken hearts
need to mended,
and can be repaired

All around the world

I imagine the human race
as refined paper cut outs,
delicately designed,
exquisite and fragile
in their intricate beauty
Once linked togther,
hand in hand in unity
were we
But  we are not puppets
but are free
to choose whether to love
So the world was torn apart
by those who have
hardened their hearts
and the broken pieces
are now scattered everywhere

All around the world

So I wonder when
we will ever learn
that people are not paper products
of this thoughtless world
A world in a hurry to look out
for its own interests
as it continues to go about
And I wonder when
we will ever learn
that people aren't like dollar bills,
Something that crumbles and burns
Spent away like paper currency,
Used up like old money,
Flimsy, worn and past the urgency

All around the world

Broken hearts
need a jump start
Broken hearts,
so ripped and torn apart
Broken hearts,
immortalized in art
as the martyr of mankind
Dorothy A Mar 2017
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.
Dorothy A Oct 2010
feels like lead
getting out of bed

But I keep movin' on

My energy is sagging
My feet are dragging
And I am lagging

But I keep movin' on

Fill my lungs with morning air
Comb out my brown hair
Grumpy that life is not more fair

But I keep movin' on

Feet finally find their way
Got to work to earn my pay
Reluctantly meeting the day

But I keep movin' on

Because I refuse
to loose

Letting the daily grind
consume my time

Because I believe
there's a higher purpose to achieve

So I muster up fresh strength
Walk life's winding path of greath length

And I keep movin' on
Dorothy A Mar 2015
You've read my writings
But you don't know me
Maybe this is the first one you've read of mine
Or you've read much more
You've read me pouring my heart out
Words spilling out in abundance that reveal my fears, my hopes and dreams, my imagination, my hunger and yearning to be heard, my pain and sadness, my insatiable need for acceptance and acknowledgement

I've revealed things that I haven't told to some people I know
Maybe I feel safe in this public domain
For you don't know me
And we are never face to face

And I don't know you
But we are all flesh and blood
We all laugh and we all cry
We all bleed the same color
We all take our thoughts and put them to words
We've all written some of the same stuff
Have had the similar stories to share
Familiar words of hope and loss
Sadness and joy
Desire and regrets

We writers have an incurable quest for expressing our world
A search to find the meaning within
Our words prove that we are lived here
Like random people carving their initials in a tree
And though you don't know me
You and I can feel a kindred spirit
Of some sort
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