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Dorothy A Dec 2013
Part of the problem of letting go
                                             Is that you aren't sure what next to grab hold of
                                                              ­                                                                 ­            .......................................
Dorothy A Dec 2010
The past exists no more
Yet it hangs about like a ghost
Often haunting us with regret
We want to right the wrongs
We want another chance
to do things over
that truly trouble us
but we are powerless
to its demands

The present is this very moment
And it must compete
with the apparitions of yesterday
that crowd into our thinking,
like smoke and mirrors,
and rob us of this precious instant
of time that we truly have right now

The future is an unknown horizon
Yet we either look forward to it
with great expectations
or worry ourselves into thinking
that it will overwhelm us
or that it will disappoint us  
It is not ours yet to possess
Yet like the ghosts of the past
it has no business
taking hostage of our thoughts
We want to have control of it
when it is not anywhere in reach
Dorothy A Nov 2009
Pea soup,
but peas too few.
Life is a bowl
of murky green,
just wading
our way through
faded memories.
Reality,
hard to grasp
with a spoon.
Chunks and pieces,
a hint of aroma,
a fulfilling taste to soothe,
but hungry in an hour
for truth.
Pea soup.
Dorothy A Mar 2017
There was a girl born in Motown
Cold Detroit day with snow on the ground
I'm February's girl
An oyster's pearl
My writings become my voice, my sound
Dorothy A Mar 2017
You've heard that Michigan looks like a hand
We all come from somewhere - that's my land
Honored of where I'm from
Far along I have come
It's the Great Lake State in which I stand
Dorothy A Jul 2017
Sea of faces
All different races
Going all different places

I was at the mall
A solo mission
People were passing me by
A throng of beings
Going about their way
How I longed to connect with them
Any of them
For I had no smile
And the smiles I witnessed
Were not for me

My heart
Wanted to have a part
Lonely from the start

Loneliness has been my
Old, yet unwelcome companion
Since I was a girl
And it still reminds me
That it lurks in the shadows
In my shadow
As it follows me everywhere
In which the light cannot shine in

No matter your plight
Keep searching for that light
For every dawn banishes every night

That was my hope talking
Just now, that is
Indeed, it is a God given gift
Along with a faith
That refuses to give in
That says that I am *beautiful

That says that I am loved
That says that I am wanted

So now those sea of faces
In that tide of loneliness
Haven't swallowed me whole
As I, at first, feared that they would
For in those myriad of faces
I believe that theirs and mine
Are not so different after all
We are merely kindred spirits
Simply on that indomitable quest
Each one somehow searching for the light
And longing for that
Place in the sun
Dorothy A Mar 2022
I first wrote and posted this on July 2017

I have a beef with plenty of things. One of them is how self-absorbed we have become because of those **** cell phones. No, I am not a hypocrite. I own one. I cannot imagine not having a cell phone, for it comes in handy, especially when one is stuck on the road with a car that is broken down or if an emergency call comes. Though I know, from personal experience, how life was before cell phones. We survived.

I still have a flip phone. Yeah, I'm behind the times, I admit. It's just that I do not want to pay a higher bill. I got enough bills. Would I enjoy those extra bells and whistles? You bet! But like my car, I just am looking at what I need verses what I desire.  I don't want to google and go on the internet here, there and everywhere. I have plenty of internet use as it is, enough to say that I don't want to access it in a moment's notice.

So what has become of us? It used to be that the biggest enemy to being behind the wheel was intoxication. "Don't drink and drive",  a terrible problem. Now we are intoxicated on our technological toys. Texting and driving has become the new road hazard, comparable to *****.

Cell phones are everywhere, and people are on them like their lives depend on them. And do we really pay attention anymore? How about the person next to us who we may never notice? Our cell phones have invaded our need to be aware of our surroundings. It seems we are missing out on so much because of it.  

We would be lost without our precious cell phones--at least we think we would. I admit I am guilty. But sometimes, I'd just like to throw mine out the window and be free of the thing once and for all.

Postscript-added on March 2022

I now have a smart phone. I now access the internet on it all the time. New and improved?
Dorothy A Jul 2017
I have a beef with plenty of things. One of them is how self-absorbed we have become because of those **** cell phones. No, I am not a hypocrite. I own one. I cannot imagine not having a cell phone, for it comes in handy, especially when one is stuck on the road with a car that is broken down or if an emergency call comes. Though I know, from personal experience, how life was before cell phones. We survived.

I still have a flip phone. Yeah, I'm behind the times, I admit. It's just that I do not want to pay a higher bill. I got enough bills. Would I enjoy those extra bells and whistles? You bet! But like my car, I just am looking at what I need verses what I desire.  I don't want to google and go on the internet here, there and everywhere. I have plenty of internet use as it is, enough to say that I don't want to access it in a moment's notice.

So what has become of us? It used to be that the biggest enemy to being behind the wheel was intoxication. "Don't drink and drive",  a terrible problem. Now we are intoxicated on our technological toys. Texting and driving has become the new road hazard, comparable to *****.

Cell phones are everywhere, and people are on them like their lives depend on them. And do we really pay attention anymore? How about the person next to us who we may never notice? Our cell phones have invaded our need to be aware of our surroundings. It seems we are missing out on so much because of it.  

We would be lost without our precious cell phones--at least we think we would. I admit I am guilty. But sometimes, I'd just like to throw mine out the window and be free of the thing once and for all.
Dorothy A Feb 2014
I take a good look at myself, and what others have told me, and I admit to myself, "Dorothy, you are one hell of a great writer!"

Then I let that thought sink in, and I want to run away in fear, for how did I deserve such a talent?
Dorothy A Jan 2016
P**   Put your thoughts to words

O  Over a piece of paper, computer screen - or whatever

E   Edit your work to your satisfaction

T  Tell us tales with your fingers - let it be your voice  

R   Read your work over, and then read someone else's

Y   Yearn to express yourself, again and again
Dorothy A Nov 2013
P

         *O


                    E

                               T

                                           R

                                                      Y

A­wakens the senses....

Captivates the eye with a unique flair, like a skilled artist on the stage-a great dancer, a supreme actor, an athletic acrobat, an experienced musician, an engaging orator, a gifted singer, a heavenly choir
Entices the nose to imagine the hint of various scents, soothing or disturbing, and often blends different aromas into peculiarity
Touches the heart, mind, soul and skin--when it is spot on, perhaps with shivers, or perhaps with warmth
Teases the tongue to taste the words, salty, sour or sweet, vaguely satisfying, sometimes mystifying
Pounds on the eardrum to listen to its beat, at times, offbeat, at times, in perfect rhythm
Dorothy A Dec 2014
That one word. I never was--no, not me. Not popular in school--was just trying to survive, trying to dodge the bullies and *******.

I was never the life of the party, the friend everyone wanted. I was too shy, had too little confidence--much too nerdy. No, not popular, and I'm too old to care like I once did. Yet it isn't just kids and teens who crave to fit in.

I just observed the popular button on this website. I like to check it for notations and updates. I've plenty to say, and sometimes I hit the jackpot on my writing. Sometimes, I don't.

But I''ll say this: If you write only to get the accolades you write for the wrong reason. Whether your stuff is popular or not, write because it is a passion that you must do. If just for the sake of the art--write. Even if one or two enjoy it, you have accomplished something well-- if you gave it your all.

You write because you have something to offer.
You write because your words and thoughts matter.

That's my two cents, for what it's worth.
Dorothy A Aug 2022
I have to remind myself
To be aware that
Just because I'm
Having a bad day
Perhaps, having a
Rough period of life...
Pain, sadness
Confusion or anger
Whatever the struggle

Not to become
A porcupine
Not to form
Some pointy quills
For self-protection
Or preservation

I don't want
To poke or ****
Anyone who
Unknowingly
Crosses my path
Who doesn't deserve
A sharp jab
Dorothy A Aug 2010
When I scribble out a few words
Or choose very many of them
The message should remain simple
Like a beautiful, shining gem    

I do not want you to solve grand equations
I do not want you to be scratching your head
I want you to find sheer beauty
In the simplicity of what is said

Sometimes, I am a meandering rambler
Said very little with many words said
I'd rather trim off all the fatty excess
So you will not choke on what was read

We are often undiscovered treasures
We are often diamonds in the rough
We should create while we still have breath
For we will return to the ground, to dust

I hope you can envision lovely jewels
That the world was meant to create
Designed more to display humble beauty
Than it was meant to hate

Nothing special to say, you often think
I thought that myself, since I was a girl
As a pent up clam beneath the murky sea
Lies within myself the precious pearl
Dorothy A Dec 2010
I feel like a puzzle with missing pieces
I don't know when I ever felt whole
Perhaps I was the day I was born, but I'll never know

But now my life seems fragmented
Like a puzzle that is in many pieces
And I cannot find the missing parts

I have been slowly reconstructing it all back together
Sometimes, nothing seems to fit any way I try
And, in my rage and sadness, I find myself wanting and lacking

Perhaps,  none of us are meant to be whole
But our lives are filled with "holes" instead
So we know we need to rely on others

Relying on others so we are humbled
That we don't have it all together
And in our need, we shall reach out

In that way, my brokenness is a blessing
For it bannishes my foolish pride
And lets me know I am only human

It lets me know I need God
I am but a part of a bigger picture
Even if I do not have all the answers I want
Dorothy A Dec 2013
It looks like any other path. It is deceiving that way, that danger that for whatever reason isn't so obvious to you, it being quite sneaky and tricky while you are thinking that things are going just fine. Before you know it, you're knee deep in it, and it is pulling you under, threatening to devour you in its breath-******* muck and mire. The more you struggle, the deeper you go-- until it has all of you.

That could describe a lot of things, but to me it is the depression and, sometimes, anxiety that I wrestled with my whole life. It was never an everyday thing-- not always the most ominous feeling--and that is why I haven't always been wary of the warning signs. I was quick to want to forget about it, thinking that if I didn't continually address the matter that it would be gone forever. In other words, I wanted to return to the old and familiar, the patterns in which  life seemed easier than dealing with the matter. What felt like normalcy never required anything differently from me.

Ideally, when we are sinking, we would want there to be someone there that would be on solid ground to save us from that deadly patch of quicksand--that tsunami of terrible dread--but often the isolation becomes an only friend, a cold companion. Fear takes over, and it is just as gripping as the loss of our sure footing. Some people just don't understand, or surely think that we should have saved ourselves from this mess in the first place. And, no doubt, there is self-responsibility to counteract the lack of good chemicals in our brains, or deal with the unpleasant circumstances in our lives, but often it starts with us reaching out our hand to accept the hand that lends itself out.  It is that leap of faith to accepting outside help that becomes our first step--one of many steps we need to take in our journey.

And concerning faith, when there isn't a physical hand or tangible grip to grab onto, I know God is  always there. In my lowest of times, I have remembered the teaching that God never leaves nor forsakes us. Even when feeling unlovable, this becomes my lifeline.  So soon-- or eventually-- I come to realize that I can be brought back on dry, level ground, back freely onto my feet, unhampered and untangled from the muddy web I was stuck in. And God remains faithful--whenever I lose good direction--and the way seems so utterly, hopelessly lost. He always has. For no matter what, when I turn to God I know I can always reach out and my hand will not be slapped away.

Gratefully, I will do my best to do the same for someone else.
Dorothy A Aug 2010
Rage
It's the age
Peace
Conflicts cease
In the world
In your soul
Dorothy A Aug 2012
Rain,
long,
and luscious

At last


Rain,
saturating,
and satisfying

My thirsty soul


Rain,
inspiring,
and inviting,

Relief to my poetic drought


Rain,
nurturing,
and nursing

Nature, and all that is living
Dorothy A Nov 2010
From a bird's-eye view
I bet those feathered creatures
don't envy us

They must look down
from their arial dance
and pity us

We scurry about in
our cities and towns like mice,
as if we are caught up in a maze

Rats chasing after
a prized piece of cheese
in a hectic world

Bumping into one another
in a rush to get to a destination
that is slowly doing us in

How I wish to soar on bird wings
To be rid of this rat race,
finding my way out of the maze
Dorothy A Dec 2013
I write with my hands
          My fingers busily typing along to the dictates of my ideas
                                   Or I'm scribbling out my chicken scratch with pen in hand

I write with my eyes
          They are a telescope that examine and focus to the creation unfolding
                   As I am designing themes and cleaning up any grammatical  errors

I write with a purpose
                            And I often have to work it again and again
                                                      Until­ I think I have done what I set out to do

I write with my mind
           For the horizon of the brain is broad and keenly aware to what comes in its sight
                                           The imagination, as brilliant as a roaring sun

Most importantly.......

I write with my heart and soul
                  Giving my all, my everything within
                                         Genuine, personal, and proud to attach my name to

Without heart
                   Without soul
                                      I'd wish not to write at all

All these ingredients
                      Blend together in a harmonious cohesion
                                                        ­               And make for a good recipe
Dorothy A Jan 2016
The court jester
Does his mocking dance
Dressed in bells
And wild colors
Acting the fool
Sticking out his tongue at me
To ridicule and to scorn

This courtyard fool
Who calls me the fool
Is just an obnoxious reminder
Of the roads I've not taken
Or the ones that never
Should have been my path
Not able to relive yesterday
I am painfully reminded

Yes, that is how I picture
All of my regrets
Dorothy A Jul 2010
Look upon all my beauty
I'm a traditional rhyme
Written so elegantly
Perfect in every line!

No, look at my free verse style!
I'm not prissy or fussy
I'm free as a bird with a free spirit
That flies within the realm
Of so many possibilities and directions!
Much less inhibited than you!

Nonsense! The camera flashes!
They are taking pictures of me!
Lovely, poetic form of old
Style, as pure as can be!

You're out of your mind!
You traditional snob!
All the oohs and aahs
Are really all for my poetic genius!
Move aside!

And so they soon got into a tussle, words flying everywhere....that is according to Free Verse

Traditional Rhyme felt so robbed
Free Verse, you trouble maker!
You may be the rage of the day!
But to me you are a faker!

Free Verse had such a harsh choke hold
On the throat of Traditional Rhyme
I can rhyme too... but not like you!
Perfectly? No! Not all of the time!

Traditional Rhyme called a truce
Finally accepting both ways
Sure, she had grace and she had style
But Free Verse would not go away
Dorothy A Jul 2010
I belong to a thousand faces
and yet I am my own
I look in the mirror for answers
How did I get this look?
I believe each lifetime comes
only once around,
and I have faith
in eternal heaven
Yet they live in me,
those who came before me
And they shape these eyes
And they shape this nose, this mouth
I never need to wander,
or hang my head in shame
Like a well branched out tree,
with a firm foundation,
I am complete
I have roots
Dorothy A Sep 2011
My eyes used to see faded colors
Everywhere I looked, I saw shades of grey
But now I got on my rose colored glasses
And everything is going to be Ok

Not!

To hell with a pair of rosy lenses!
I don't need to wear those pastel shades!
Who was it who said that life should be easy?
And that everyone should have it made?
Dorothy A Apr 2023
Rule #1

Don't write to please by writing something so above the ordinary and grandiose, yet at the same time writing something that's not even believable to yourself.
Dorothy A Jun 2012
All the human race
Tear stained cheeks before laughter
Newborn's first response
Dorothy A Jul 2010
He dealt me a hand
that was sure to lose
Slick and quick
wih the trick of his fingers,
shuffling fifty-three cards
in a tainted deck

Jacks and Kings
with a nasty wink
A queen of red hearts
that was really pink

Not your usual poker
I was the joker
He was the ace of spades,
a devious cheat
Never could I beat
him at his own game

Until one day
I called his bluff
Enough was enough!
And I threw in my chips

All or nothing
In or out
His hand was loser
I had a full house

The gospel of Christ
My hand, life
The devil's, death,
designed to draw
my last breath

So the *** was mine
but it looked like hell
I left it behind
My soul is not for sale!
Dorothy A Jul 2010
Open the windows,
part the curtains
Bring light into this house,
natural and soft and sweet
Smell the morning air,
an air that is special to this hour

Hear the low activity
of the Saturday morning
Saturate yourself in the tranquility
of a new day
See the humble beginnings
of a fresh start
and be ever so thankful

Adopt its ways
Own the light inside
Fill your lungs to abundance
with the cool air
Get intimate with the late summer,
approaching autumn
kind of inbetween season.

Satisify your ears with the post-dawn hum
Sense the day that will bring life,
that allows you the gift of yet
another day of a beating heart
Give back to what it has given you
by living your life
Dorothy A Jan 2015
Some people say it with ease. I hear it when people talk to, let's say,  a child or a parent on phone after conversation—or in person.  I wished it were that easy for me.

I am quite sure my parents did not hear it as children. That is why I never heard it growing up. My parents were not affection-less people, though. It was just that the words were foreign to them.

When my grandma was dying of heart disease in 1985—my mom's mom—my mom told her on the phone that she loved her. I think my grandmother said it first, and my mom echoed it. But it was such an unusual three-word saying that my mom choked up and got quite emotional. I think it was more the words spoken, than the realization that her mom would die, that tore my mom up.

Well, my grandmother probably never heard it from her parents. Her father was supposed to be a very compassionate man, but her mother was a funny one. Her dad kept my maternal grandparents afloat. They had thirteen children—my mom being the oldest— and he gave his daughter his old house when he moved out. My mom also remembers him coming over the house with vegetables from his garden to help feed her big family.

My grandma's mom, on the other hand, was unforgiving. Her mother died back in Alsace—in Germany— in an air attack back in World War I. From then on, she despised Italians--even her own Italian son-in-law and the children she would avoid. She remained angry at my grandma for marrying my grandpa—because it must have seemed a foolish move—and from then on my grandma didn't see much of her.

My dad didn't get to hear, "I love you", either, from his folks. I'd bet the farm on that.  One of his female cousins had a tale about my grandmother's mom. The cousin's mother was the youngest surviving sibling that my grandmother had. This sister, the cousin's mother,  had a friend who came from a very loving and demonstrative family. They said they loved each other all the time, so my great aunt said it to her mother one day. My great grandmother was told to have given her such a look—not  saying it back—that this aunt never said it, again. So when her children probably wanted her to say it, saying it wasn't easy.

In 1998, when my brother died of suicide, I was having a hard time with it afterwards. My dad told me I was dwelling on too much. Probably not even a month later, that was news to me. I let him have it.

"You never even told me that you loved me!"

Well, for a while we said it to each other. It was weird, and it didn't last too long, but we said it. It is a shame I had to demand it, though.

Well, saying, "I love you" is still not easy. I say it, but it still doesn't seem natural. I'm all for it, because many people don't hear it enough. It is a foreign language that just needs to be learned.

After all, don't we all crave it? Don't we all need it? No, not the contrived stuff—but we all need to know that we matter and we deserve to be here.
Dorothy A Aug 2022
I'm a pupil  
Of the school
Of hard knocks
Very few aren't
Acquainted with
Such education

I just wish that I
Ended my apprenticeship
In other words,
Once a learner
I soon became
Much too skilled
Dorothy A Jan 2015
Shane Page made a quick call to his daughter, LeAnn, as he waited in the hospital lounge. “Hey, Dad, what’s up? You sound kind of upset.”

“LeAnn, Grandpa had a heart attack…”

LeAnn’s dark brown eyes grew large. “Is Grandpa dead?”, she asked. She was fourteen years old, and a wise, sensitive girl who cared a lot about her grandpa.

“No, not that, hon. The doctor says he will recover, but he had some blockages and he needs some fixing up.  He’s resting right now, pretty comfortably. I just wanted you to know where I was and that I’m okay—so don’t you worry. Look out after your brother…” He sighed in exhaustion and ran his fingers through the top of his dark hair. “It’s going to be a while before I’m home.”

“Well, wait a minute!” she protested.  “Why can’t Trevor and I go with you? Maybe Mom can drive us up there.”

Shane started to raise his voice, “Leave your mom out of this!” Then he realized his tone was a bit harsh and said more calmly, “You two got school tomorrow and there’s no need for you to be here now. Anyway, I don’t want to involve Mom.”

Shane and his wife, Megan, have been separated for four months now. It would be more than likely that they would be getting divorced. LeAnn, and her brother, Trevor—who was eleven-years-old—were staying with their father. It worked out that they remain in their home.  

“Dad”, LeAnn insisted. “She’s still our mom…”

“Just look out for Trevor. Ok?”

Shane got off the phone, and just sat there staring at the television but having no real desire to even pay any attention. That was the farthest thing from his mind. Around him were a few other tired people, looking about as frustrated, tired or worried as he was.

It has been a trying year for him. Still struggling with his marriage issues and now he was dealing with his father’s health problems. At age thirty-six, Shane was a young father when he married Megan. He felt it was the right thing to do considering she was pregnant at the time. The odds were against them remaining married, but they made if farther than anyone would have expected.  He certainly remained married longer than his parents—who were married for seven years—but he blamed his parent’s divorce on his womanizing, cheating father, a man he did not want to follow in his footsteps.

Dr. Bakkal had spoken to Shane, earlier. “Your father’s fortunate he made it in when he did. He was in requirement of two stents, and he was resistant to having them put in. I told him if he wants to continue to live, he’d be wise to get them. Otherwise, he’ll be in the same boat, but now we can prolong his life.”

“So he’s refusing?” Shane asked. That was his father, alright, stubbornly pigheaded to the bitter end.

“Thankfully, he signed for consent and he’s allowing you to be included in conversation over his medical issues. But really it is a good idea for him to have a power of attorney. You are his only son? ”

“Right.—I’m it”, Shane responded. “Well, that’s my dad for you. He thinks he’s got it all under control. Anyway, I’d be okay with being power of attorney, but who knows if he’d even have me. I don’t need to tell you he’s a stubborn man. He’s a proud man—too proud.”

“That he is”, Dr Bakkal agreed. “He doesn’t have a wife who can step up to the plate?”

Shane laughed a little. “He’s had four wives. My mom was the first. The lady he has been seeing now I’m sure saved his life. She was the one who demanded he go to the hospital and she drove him here. But she called me up and says she’s done with him.” The strain was obvious, as it was written all over Shane’s face. “He’s a headache, Doctor. He drinks too much. He smokes. He has yet to meet a vegetable…”

The doctor stated, “But things don’t sink in until we are forced to face them, sometimes. And he thinks because he looks alright on the outside, he’s okay on the inside—a fairly handsome man—a ladies man—who is, one used to being his own boss.”  

Shane agreed, but his face was grimaced. “That he is, Doctor. That he is. Yeah, but when the ladies get wind that he ends up treating them pretty shabbily—well, I’m not going to fill in the details. Four wives should tell you the answer.”

Dr. Bakkal put his hand on Shane’s shoulder. “Ah, but you seem to have a good head on your shoulders. I’ve no doubt you have some sense.”

Shane nodded.

Nodding his head—drifting in and out of sleep—Shane continued to wait in the lounge. Soon, Shane’s dad, Carl, had been able to get into his own room. Shane was able to go in and see him. Like Carl had told one of the nurses, he was “all wires, tubes and coils” and he had “enough numbers lighting up on fancy gadgets to keep the place busy” as his vitals were constantly monitored. Soundly sleeping, he seemed much smaller in his hospital bed with his face half shielded by an oxygen mask. What a strange sight it was. He hadn’t seen his dad in the hospital since his gall bladder surgery several years ago.  It was a bit unsettling for Shane to see him this way.

He didn’t want to wake his dad, so Shane just grabbed up a chair and sat by the foot of the bed. Before long, he had fallen asleep, too. When his phone range, he was entirely confused as to the time, even to what day it was.

“Hey, Dad, how’s grandpa doing?”

Looking at his watch and then peering out into the darkness out the window, he answered, “What’s that I hear…in the background? LeAnn, is that your mother there?”

“Yeah, Dad, I told her. She felt like we needed her and she’s making dinner for us.” Megan could be heard in the background talking with Trevor.

Shane frowned. “Oh, great! Didn’t I tell you not to involve Mom? You are perfectly capable of cooking, LeAnn. You do a good job, and—“

LeAnn abruptly handed her mother the phone. “Shane”, Megan said. “You can shut me out from helping you, but you can’t shut me out from helping my kids. Don’t act like you couldn’t use a hand.”

“I’ll be home soon”, he insisted. “It’s really not necessary. I’m not trying to be a **** about it…”

“You stay there as long as you need to. I can call Uncle Sal and tell him you might not be into work tomorrow.”

Shane worked as a manager and mechanic in his maternal uncle’s car repair shop. “Megan, I am quite capable of doing this kind of stuff, you know!” He hesitated and gave in to what he saw as interference.  Perhaps, guilt compelled her to come over. After all, she was the one who walked away. She was the one who was unfaithful, the one who strayed.  He added, “You want to look after the kids—then fine. I’ll worry about me”.  

“Well, you got it! I won’t interfere too much in your life, Shane. You’re just a chip off the old block,” she remarked, referring to his stubborn father. “The kids and I are doing just fine. I got it covered! Okay?”

“Hi, Dad! Love you!” Trevor boomed out from the background.

Megan laughed. “You caught that, didn’t you? I think the whole neighborhood did”.

There was no use trying to resist Megan’s help. “Tell the kids that their grandpa is comfortable, sleeping like a log. They can see him soon enough.” He stopped as a nurse came into the room to check in on his father. They briefly smiled at each other.

“Give them each a kiss and a hug for me”, he said, lastly, almost choking up. He wished it was like it was before—the four of them under one roof. But that was not going to happen.    

Shane met Megan at a party. She was a college student learning to be a teacher. He was working for his uncle in his auto repair shop. The plans were set for Shane to take over that shop one day. Uncle Sal had three daughters, none of them the least bit interested in taking over the business. When he met Megan, he was doing well for himself.

It was love at first sight for him. He was attracted to her fun loving personality, as well as her beauty. Her blue-green eyes would light up the room. At first, Megan wasn’t feeling the same way. Shane did slowly grow on her, this “grease monkey” with his serious nature and beyond his years. They would talk about their future together, for they really did enjoy each other’s company. But then reality hit them in the face when Megan became pregnant with LeAnn, and they married very soon. He wanted to marry her anyway, but now it was a matter of integrity. Shane wanted his child to have parents who were married and for his kid to know him better than he knew his dad.  

Megan gave up on her schooling, not becoming the teacher that she dreamed of. Shane often wondered if she resented him for this—like it was entirely his fault—though Megan never expressed that to him. A few years later and Trevor came. Plans to go back to school were put on hold. That light in those eyes seemed to grow dim, but he didn’t really notice that she was unhappy. He seemed to lose focus.

Such thoughts were punishing at this time, and he tried to bury them deep down. It was amazing that he was able to have a sound sleep in the hospital, resting in the chair in his father’s room. Next time he opened his eyes, the sun was shining. He looked up, disoriented a bit, as he noticed his dad looking at him, a small smile on his face and no more oxygen masks.

“Hell, Son”, Carl said in a gruff voice.. “You look worse than I do”. Carl’s thick head of grey hair was disheveled, and his usually, neatly trimmed mustache was invaded by surrounding ****** stubble.  

Shane got up and stretched and said back, “Thanks, Dad. Good morning to you, too.”   He looked at his watch and added, “Glad you’re alive. You scared the hell out me. You got your grandkids worried.”

“Well…get me out of this ****** hospital and I’ll show you I can get around just fine”.

“Whoa! Whoa! Superman—you are not! Just lay back, relax a while, and do what the doctors tell you.”

“Like what?” Carl asked with a furrowed brow.

Shane was careful not to lose his temper. “Well, for one, you can quit smoking. Two, you can give up the *****. Three—take your cholesterol medicine…”

“Ok….ok….you sound like your mother now”.

Shane knew it would go in one ear and out the other. He stood by the window looking down in the parking lot. “Yeah, Dad, Maybe I do sound like Mom, but someone’s got to tell it to you straight. Put some sense into you. Stop just for once and think of someone else besides you. If no one else, think of LeAnn and Trevor.” He paused and added, “Think about me for once.”

Carl laughed and mocked him, “Poor, little Shane’s got it so bad. I’m not against you, Son, okay? You’re a big boy, so man up! I’m sixty-nine years old! My old man was gone by fifty.” He started having one of his coughing spells, his cough like an old smoker’s cough.

Shane shot him a sharp look. “I guess I’m a fool to expect any better. Can’t make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear—as mom always says. Obviously, just wasting my time here!” He went to grab his jacket to leave.

Carl boomed, cheerfully, “Well speak of the devil!”

“What?” Shane asked, unaware of what was going on. He turned around and there was his mother standing in the doorway. He smirked and said, “Mom, I’m surprised to see you! LeAnn, right? ”

Rosina smiled and nodded as she entered the room. With salt and pepper hair, and an olive complexion, she commanded the room with her presence. Carl always referred to her as “Queen Bee”, for she had that quality—regal like a Roman statue when he first laid eyes on her—though she was down-to-earth in reality.

Carl groaned at the thought of her coming. “Is it safe for a person to be in here?” she asked, in her grand entrance.   She whipped Carl a stern glance. I’m not here for you!” Then she gave a look of concern her son, and told him, “I’m here because I’m supporting you, my dear. And yes, LeAnn called me.” She gave him a kiss on the cheek, and a quick hug, and he returned the loving gesture.


“Mom, you didn’t need to drive over an hour to come up here. But since you are—have a seat.”

“You sure as hell didn’t, Rosie”, Carl echoed.

“Oh be quiet!” she ordered Carl, putting him in his place. She dismissed the offer of the seat, and told her ex- husband. “I’m worried about my only son, but I also am interested in how you’re doing…if my grandchildren will still have a grandfather. Take better care of yourself and maybe they will.”

Shane comments were sardonic. “Maybe miracles still happen…like quitting smoking, boozing, and maybe doing some walking and healthier eating…but since when has Dad ever listened to you or me?”

Carl attempted to sit up and get out of bed, but the effort was ridiculous. He groaned in pain. “Give a poor guy some rest, already! You two are just a couple of nags!”

Rosina sneered. “Old nag—old hag—*******—say what you want about me, but you know I’m right! Anyway, you are outnumbered. Or am I, Shane, and the nurses and doctors all talking out their rear ends?”

Carl made a face. If only he could just get out of here.

“Honey”, she said to Shane. I’ll be downstairs in the cafeteria. I’d like some coffee. You can join me down there if you’d like and we can talk.”

“In a little while, Mom, thanks”, he replied.

Rosina walked up closer to Carl and put her hand lovingly upon his chest. “I really do want you to get well, old man. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t care.”

“I know you do”, Carl admitted. “That is one of your faults. You don’t stay ****** forever.”

Carl was more scared than he would let on. He hated hospitals. He would do anything to just be back home in his recliner, watching a football game and having a few beers. What he wouldn’t do for just one puff on a smoke, too. Anxious, he tried to hide his fear, but it was just a smoke screen. He didn’t want anyone to know how he truly felt, nor did he want anyone to feel sorry for him.

There was silence for several minutes. Shane had said all that he should say. After all, he knew his dad probably wouldn’t listen. “Hey, Dad”, he finally said. “LeAnn’s going to her school dance. There’s a boy that likes her, but I’m really not ready for that.”

Carl grinned. “She’s a pretty girl, alright. Takes after her grandma when she was something else—way back, you know. The girl looks more like your ma than you do, though always felt you took after her look instead of me”. Carl’s background was English, Scottish and Welsh, and Rosina was full Italian. To Carl’s side of the family, he looked like his dad. To his mother’s side, he resembled her. Trevor took very much after Megan, with light brown hair and those blue-green eyes.

“Yeah, she is growing into quite a beautiful young lady”, Shane agreed “I got to still go dress shopping with her…and, oh, let the fun begin!  Can’t think of anything more enjoyable than a day of running her all around the malls.”

“Well, let Megan take her, for God’s sake! Or let your mother do it.”

“Dad”, “It’s fine. It may not be my thing, but all the stuff I do with Trevor—going to his baseball games, soccer, to karate. Well LeAnn was more into that stuff but she’s getting more into girly things.”

Soon, a young woman came in with Carl’s lunch, and placed the tray in front of him on his table. “Cute, huh?” Carl remarked about her after she left. Shane did not say a word.

“You need to get back out there. Get out and meet a nice girl”, Carl said, picking over his food. Jell-O, apple sauce, broth, a roll and juice—he wanted a hamburger. But how could he get a good one here? There were too many “spies” as he called them watching over him.

At the moment, Shane seemed miles away from his dad. Whatever he was saying made no impact. He made it a point not to speak of his problems with Megan to his father, and he liked it that way.  By Shane’s expression, he felt his son was holding back on something. But the truth was, so was he hiding something.

“I got myself into this mess, I know”, Carl declared about his heart attack. “I came close to saying, ‘Sayonara—that’s all, folks!’” His remarks were typical—just blow everything off. He joked as if he wasn’t fazed by it all.

Shane had now closed his eyes, and kicked back a little, “Uh huh”, he agreed, though he was simply responding without thinking about what Carl really said.

Carl didn’t want to be tuned out. He had something to get off his chest. He said, “ Well, all that’s done and said, maybe this is the right time to tell you. Got plenty of time here with my own thoughts.” He hesitated, for it wasn’t easy for him to say it. “ It’s bout time you know”, he said. “I think with me almost bitin
Dorothy A May 2023
I don't want to sow any weeds
There's already plenty of them in the world
They do nothing but choke out
And crowd out all that's trying to thrive
So I'll scatter some seeds here
And I'll spread some over there
Actually, anywhere and everywhere
Will do the job

Only the best will work
The quality of excellence
Seeds of Faith
Seeds of Hope
Seeds of Love
That comes from the Father
The ultimate Cultivator
The original Gardener

Some of these little life givers
Will do their task and take root
Not in the dirt but in the heart
Let your heart be fertile ground
Nurture those infant seedlings
Make way for their production  
And let them mature to size

And when they reproduce
Seeds of their own
Become a copycat
Become a seed planter, too
That's how gardens grow and spread
They fill the void with meaning
People are like plants
When continually tended to,
We can grow well and thrive
And become what we are meant to be
Dorothy A Nov 2009
I will seek Your face
I will run the race
Weary and tired,
but awe inspired,
I will seek Your face
Dorothy A Sep 2011
Fingers pointing
like you're a disgrace
You want to run
and hide your face

Have you ever
felt so shamed
that you wished
you had no name?

Many of you knew dysfunction
Many of you knew a house of pain
You may never have measured up
When all you felt was shame

You got it from all angles
This ugly thing of blame
Parents, teachers, bullying peers
This terrible thing called shame

You wanted to be anyone else
But you did not want to be you
For being in your own skin
Felt too wrong to be true

You're much older now
You're much wiser, too
But sometimes memories stab
And shame the core of you

Everyone has potential and value
Realize it not, and you continue in the same
Believing in the old lies about yourself
Don't settle for a life of shame
Dorothy A Feb 2014
I am a thinking person, a logical person. Yes, that is true, but with that said, I am also a feeling person, with emotions intact, yet I am well able to reason and come to solid conclusions when emotions need that counterbalance. Sometimes, I succumb to the emotional side, but I always try to keep that in check with my logic based thoughts.

That said, deep inside somewhere, apart from my intellect and ability to think properly, is an insidious, dark hole that I don't want anyone to penetrate. For if it is penetrated, it takes shape and form to reveal a monster in its lair, like a fire breathing dragon, one that cannot be reasoned with. I know well of its dangerous effects.

That monster is shame. It has been tapped into before. It has been pervasive. It roars its wounded, angry bellow and wishes to take over everything that is about who I am.  It overpowers logic and tells me that I am no good, that I am a failure, that I should just hide away from everyone.  Shame tells me that I am hopeless, helpless and of no value whatsoever.  It doesn't want anyone to come in and cleanse those wounds, for it knows no trust, knows no compassion. So it licks its own sores, soothing its own pain, has opted for self-preservation.

I want to slay that wounded dragon within, to bring it out of that dark, stinking den that it lurks in. I want to seal up the hole and cleanse away the infection, hopefully for good. I want to overcome that battle, to destroy the fierce fire breathing animal that took root early in life, from an ugly childhood, from school bullying, from life experiences that were ungodly.

But I am tired, and feel almost completely defeated. Yet I just exposed that secret to you, and ugly secrets revealed and exposed to the light can and do set us free.

So the battle continues, because I want to win and won't give up until I have.
Dorothy A Dec 2012
When she was a little girl, she said she wanted to be an author. She didn't want to be a ballerina or cow girl. Maybe an actress would do, for she had quite a flair for the dramatic.

But to the world, she was so shy, cripplingly shy, and she had very low, self-esteem. She didn't dare to dream too much, for she couldn't imagine really doing anything that could draw attention to herself. She often just wanted to hide, and her imagination accompanied her in her world.

She remembered her grade school teacher reading to her class about Abraham Lincoln. She came home that day, and somehow she wrote it just as well as she could remembrer it, with her own pictures, too. Her mother was so impressed that she bragged to everyone that her daughter wrote it all on her own, out of her own head. It must have looked that convincing to her mother.

But as she grew older, the girl didn't ever give herself permission to write something, even when it was required in school to write a poem. It was daring. She could be made fun of.

How could someone like you do that?

She wasn't unintelligent. She had a good command of the English language. She even went to college and earned a degree, the only one out of three children. But she had her heart set on psychology.

When she moved away from home in her twenties, she suddenly flourished. She took community education classes in painting, and had no idea she really could pull of what she did. Painting felt so free, like such an accomplishment. It felt good to create, to work with her hands.

And then she was on a roll. She began to write, and you just couldn't stop her. Most of her writing was pretty good, and some of her work was not to her liking. Years later she would read them again, and she could see that some so-so ones could be salvaged, or the better ones could even be better yet by fixing some of them up. She once thought she had reached her peak, but when the roller coaster of life brought her new thoughts, she was on another roll.

She wanted to be a published author, but she learned that it really wasn't about being well-known. She tried to publish some poems, but she learned that no matter what she did, she was still an author. Whether she was doing it for living, or for the love of writing, she was still a writer. She was what that little girl wanted to be, but who was terrified it could happen more than she was terrified that it wouldn't come true.

Her ultimate dream was to write a novel. Her uncle, very close in age, was angry at her for writing what he thought was a fantastic draft of a novel. She tore it up, for it was way over her head. And did this all without the help of a computer, scribbling away in notebooks. and haphazard means, that she could even barely read. Her penmanship was never very good.

Imagination has always been a good guide, fueling her with scenerios in her head about people that she had invented, that she had created, with bits and peaces of real life experiences and observations. But translating her thoughts to paper were often a challenge, not always easy to portray as she had thought of them. She surely had a gift, and she didn't think she really deserved it. She took one writing class, and she seemed to do well. But she didn't pursue it much further than a single class, and a few poetry readings.

Someone she knew from her church had got on her case for not writing every day.

You have a gift, and you aren't using it. God gave you that gift".    

"Well, let Him take it away", she retorted to the accusation.

But it would not be taken away. Writing was a catharsis, when life got too heavy. It was an escape, a place she could design her own world--at least on paper.  It was a way to feel freedom and expression that did not come so easily in life. It brought her such satisfaction when done to her approval, when good feedback came.

No, she would not write everyday. She was not a machine, but she knew she would never want writing to be taken away or denied her. That, scared, little girl that once declared that she wanted to be an author never really went away, for her desires were not fickle, not a passing fancy.  

So even if she did not have anything published, sitting on a store bookshelf. thanks to the internet, she has been able to share her thoughts, her fears, her hopes, her dreams, her disappointments--her words on display.

She knows she is in good company.
Dorothy A Jun 2010
She sees her beauty
in His eyes.
She feels younger
than a budding blossom in May.
Taller she walks these days.
Smaller are her concerns.
Soft is her lofty brow.
There is sunshine in her hair
and an apple in her eye.
Somehow there is a vision
that she keeps on following
and a road never ending to an utopian time.

She sees truth
in His eyes.
She feels stronger
than a red hawk in autumn flight.
So courageous, she senses her might.
More contagious is her laughter.
Strong are the days and long the evenings,
for the logical clock is her generous friend,
and the humble breeze is her patient guide
that keeps propelling her forward.

She longs to hold Him close,
and envelop Him in her arms,
and so she walks on.
1990s...can be applied to God or to men
Dorothy A Dec 2014
On this plant, surviving
Sometimes dying, sometimes thriving
Not always clear,
What's my next step, here
But, so far it's been a privilege
Dorothy A Aug 2022
I'm just a lowly butterfly
Crawling on the ground.
But look. Quickly!
Now I'm a magnificent butterfly
And I'm skyward bound

Cocoon disintegration
Unexpected transformation
Fascinating!

I like this new look!
Can't believe my own eyes!
A brand-new "me" with wings
Off to heights, imagined
Where gravity is defied!

Cocoon disintegration
Unexpected transformation
Fascinating!
Dorothy A Nov 2009
Soldier Boy in Iraq,
sleeping with your gun
nestled by your side,
pimples on your face,
a foreign place
to rest your head,
and your bed
is as harsh and unforgiving
as the desert sands.

You fear maybe the next bullet
may be for you,
nothing new
in your mind.
You've seen your kind
fall before.

Iraqi faces,
some grateful,
some hateful,
give you odd and curious glances.
Women and girls in veils,
tales of woe,
tales of fear.
Men and boys draw near,
captivated by the Yanks
who dare to be here.

Soldier boy in Iraq,
say your prayers.
Draw close to God,
and He will draw near
to you.
Your mom is looking forward
to your letter
and you think it's better
to waste no time
and write it now.
Dorothy A Nov 2010
NOTHING

By itself,
It is a stark word
It is utter darkness
A bottomless abyss
A blank void
It has no part in anything
And matters to no one

But...
If God could take
A formless concept
And turn it into the universe--
The earth, separating the sky from the waters,
Creating the planets, our moon,
The air, the seas,
The animals and vegetation,
and certainly all of us,
Nothing now seems
To have tremendous value

When my faith has felt
Like a pile of rubble,
reduced to ruin from heartache,
From sin--all ways around
I am reminded of
The simple mustard seed,
A seed so small it seems
Nothing will come of it,
But in time it grows and rises
Beyond all expectations
To multiply itself beyond
Its humble beginnings,
And the birds of the air rest in it
To create a symphony of song

And so is our faith compared
For all it takes is that bitty spark
To ignite our faith,
Or to regenerate it once more,
Into something
Out of practically nothing

Before you and I  
Had existed on this earth
We, too, were like that seed
Conceived, soon a microscopic fetus
Developing from the oneness
Of our mother and father
And now we are here
Inhabiting this earth
From one, tiny spark
We became something
Out of practically nothing

So I dare not waste
Such a precious gift
Though life has been far from easy
Taking my pen in my hand
And sitting before a blank screen
Or an empty piece of paper,
And suddenly something comes
Out of practically nothing

And so let us all realize
What wonderful things
Are yet to be done
That have yet to come
Into existence
Looking unto God with thanks
For those capabilities
Dorothy A Jan 2014
Something to offer
Born on earth to be a part
Reach out beyond you
Dorothy A Dec 2012
Sometimes, I wish I had a heart of stone
So I wouldn't have to feel the pain
But if I am to feel at all
I have to feel it all
The joy, the hurt, and the mundane
Dorothy A Jan 2011
Sometimes
I could just babble on and on
I am seldom found left
without words
I suppose it is
a way to drown out
the silence

But when I have
a divine encounter
with You, Lord,
I find my parched throat is quenched,
the yearning to see Your beauty
sweetly satisified
For I am instantly struck with awe

Your Spirit fills the rushing void
as You surround me
with warm, caressing light
like a flame of hope
and illumination

Your passion
and mercy
and love so overflowing,
as a mysterious fragrance
of passionate peace
overtakes my
quivering being

And suddenly
no words are sufffice
to what I now behold
before me

For suddenly
I am

speechless
Dorothy A Jul 2011
Between the extreme realm
of bitter cold
and sweltering heat
lies within my soul
a wellspring
of minute beginnings

Like a newborn babe,
out from the earth
come tiny sprouts,
the innocent infancy
of Spring's bounty

On this big, round ball,
this aged, weathered world
that we live upon,
comes the newness
of rebirth
of renaissance
of resurrection

So I dare not take for granted
any of this life.
crazy or not

Witnessing the heat parching the ground
But the snow caressing it with white jewels
And the Spring showering it with liquid love
I am in awe
Wisely soaking all of this into my being
So I can view
the reaping of Heaven
Dorothy A Jun 2010
In the park
I saw you
And how could I resist?
I was always a pushover
for a sweet face
Squirrel!
Persistent, little thing,
aren't you?
That innocent look
Big, bright eyes
and a bushy tail,
twitching your nose
as you scurry about me...
You beg for a peanut,
knowing very well
what a sucker I am
for a sob story
Dorothy A Oct 2013
Stumble
Struggle
Strain
But
Stand

From the little bird breaking forth from its shell
The fragile, newborn lamb
The wobbly walking baby

To the world-weary
Poor in body and spirit
The one losing stature

Oh, stand!

Can't do it on your own?
Grab a hand

Legs don't work?
I surely understand

For I do pray
That someone may
Get on up on his or her feet
Right there for your sake
In your place
And will
Stand
Dorothy A Nov 2009
I danced and danced
and danced away
until the sun
turned into the moon
A curious sliver,
a faint silver
was it
I cried out to the darkness.
"Show your face again!"

But no answer

So I shouted out
"Never again will a light shine
that beams warmly on mine!"
The clouds could scatter
with the blowing of my breath,
but the call of night
was as cold as death

Yet, oddly, dots of light
peeped out from the curtain
of velvet black,
like a celestial pact
were stars upon stars
as rays of hope
from afar

Gathering as glowing jewels,
fireflies dancing the skies
in shimmering pools!
I shouted out in triumph,
"I win! I win!
Never again
shall light end!
All but lost
if not for God's gems!"

Alive with wonder,
I cried out once again,
"Shine! Shine!
Rebels, all of you!
You sea of painted pearls!
Don't you know it's a dark
and lonely world?"
Dorothy A Nov 2010
Sticks and stones
can break bones
And words can hurt
Words one blurts

Ugly words, razor sharp
Bruise the soul, rip the heart
I've felt their stabbing ache
Worse than bones that break

Yet I confess my tongue could lash
Careless words that now seem rash
Words like weapons meant to inflict
Bones heal--the heart's not an easy fix
Dorothy A Jun 2010
Storms!
The weather vanes twirl about
in mass hysteria
North!
South!
East!
West!
Lightning crowds the skies
with white gold
Instantaneous rods of crooked steel
pierce the horizon
Booming, clamorous crunching
clap throughout the hushed heavens
quaking the frames and foundations,
making cats and dogs
rush under the beds for protection
The young ones peek out of windows
and defy their nervousness
The adults slam the windows closed
to shut out the savage elements

Blustery winds work their way
through each crack and crevice
as looming, ominous clouds
hanging low in readiness
finally burst forth like a breaking dam

People run for cover
running for their very lives
from the rods of steel
that slice the sky
ducking drops so wild and wet
that they make the very soul
shake and shiver
drenching each victim to the bone

Flowers and grasses drown deliriously
in the quenching drink
Worms migrate for safer territory
to find little comfort at all

Until the deluge is done
and the skies have decided
they have bore enough
will they subside
yet only to blow their way through
to trespass another town
their violent wrath satisfied
for now

Because they provide us with
needed sustenance
we can be obliging to them
these storms that strike us
usually against our will
Because they amaze us
educate our thoughts
and entertain our imaginations
we can be forgiving of their tempers
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