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DEDICATION


This first book of the trilogy: “The Odyssey of Heart,” first appeared August 28, 2001 online under BeingQuest.com Academy of the Arts, a Minnesota based publication dedicated to the prospect of the reclamation and reformation of the moral world.

We at BeingQuest.com have adopted the proposition to consider, among the many ten-thousand apparently worthy aims we may engage our energies on whether, in fact “…really, only one thing is necessary.” ~Jesus of Nazareth

“The Odyssey of Heart” is our attempt to decipher this enigmatic proposition, and if true, what it may mean for both us individually in our daily lives, and for The People in the birth-pains of their struggle upon this same mission. May the humane and best of our hoped-for future prevail!



Orientation


Not in myself I trust, for I am weak
To noble deeds and proofs of lasting worth
But ever forms of faith and hope poured over us
When meekness, in heart, with love communes.
Better than reason, brighter than the tropes
Wrought by our sager minds who, for all times
Sought to mark down in sign that yet unseen...
Better the just humility of faith
That, from itself, bears truth’s emerging light
Able to steer the golden reins through heights
Of knowing, where the dryer air imbues
Essential manna: food of gods, the mead
Which heroes owning, few dare earn, is sup
Of perfect comfort, ever over-flown
In foment of new life; from pride's decay
To boundless grace, our liberty revealed.

Best Charity, heart of saints and ever true
To faithfulness of hope!  Great care you show
Where there’s no rod of law save principles
Most holy, by the proud unknown; exalting
Sacred sense, beyond surmise; submissive
Tender, patient, always kind with comfort
For the sojourn soul, from tribulation born…
Relieve our cause, pour down your shining balm
As in this world we all must yet forbear
And lead us straight.  Held fast in you we live.

Such faithfulness of care is born Below
Where many hours again we turn aside
Ignoble ways, by empty musings led
Where much is lost of hope, too troubling bound
But helped by love and truth for healing song.

Even the best of faith, not always solved
For clearest virtue, evident in deed
Is made exempt from trial; better to prove
The gold of piety when thorough plied.
Such constancy of soul is sooner known
When, as is judged by some, we're given leave
To go our way when yet is left behind

That care of grace we’d own, born from the heart.
So help my halting verse your work portray
Set down with pain to coax the one in all
And tend the goal of peace our heroes seek.

May then we own consistently our worth
Through mundane laws that, constant, drape the soul
And from the faintest things, secure our truth
Distilled to clarity in care of all.

Always, for grace, this comforting's renewed
Untainted by the loot of rusted gain-
Foul dross!  Many, for this, are bound in chains
Though freedom shunts the petty tyrant’s rule.

We look to sift and ply our souls again
For better ways, to each more kindly given
Though groaning under pride; wretched stain
Of brutal men, too noisy under heaven.
Yet heaven in each we sing for tiding songs
And phantom ways distrust.  In each is all-
That honest faith, for which the brave are strong
And proving glad, the patient cares install.

Great sympathy, the worth of each conjoined
To mirror in the promised, home-felt rest
Our truth and proven love, forever coined
In honor of the victors’ upright quest!


This call upon the wild that springs
To dignities of life, refined
Not of ****** mind-
A secret that has long been kept
Of old, which seers saw and wept;
Yet how shall one so lonely, frail
Train the flashing reins to follow?
Steady now, upon the gates and gap
Defending 'gainst presumption, overflown
To self-conceit, abominable
We glimpse the true and lasting vision
Whose care is no fruitless burden
But for the proper meekness, bidden
And yoke, humility, sure-bound
Not glancing here or there
To fix in heart upon the clear-
New city, famed uncloven stone
That tends azure upon the midnight sun
Out-braving that of brutal minds
By light of faith and the sublime.


Yet can the child's waking care
Through tribulation heroes bear
Overcome the vast depravity
Being only a child?
Resolved upon their sojourn friends
They bide the cornered time among the trees
Whose verdant leaves
Drip honeyed milk from gently swelling hills.
Reclined beside our sacred hearth
They turn aside the mortal strife
For truth in love, assaying peace;
So drinking down their heart’s content
They fortify ‘gainst burdens, bent
By iron rods, waved over the whole-
This world’s proud tyranny.
Some pain to bear, yet worth to lend
Through grace, by ways that flows within
The open gates of honest faith!
Not wielding rule of force, they sway
To ends, the burnished virtue won.
Of such is the vision-
Demeter’s preternatural ones.


Heigh kind upon the sacred fountain
Whose sentiments brought forth upon the fold
Life's faithful brook, more true than what is told
Of bitter waters, flowing pure as gold!

What can put at naught?
As ageless, undaunted abides
The head, by right established
From the heart, just inclined.
No thing in heaven or earth
Thwarts their destined uprightness
But straight through the gates they pass on
With wholly complied intent.

Blessed are those who shall drink
The waters that flow out this throne
As ancient wonders rise on the brink
Of Eleusinian fields, whose hearth is home!


Descending on the heart anew
Anointed by the morning dew
They seek consistently
To own their bright integrity.
With fuller' soap in hand
They wash the inner walls
And scourge away what is not grand
Within the darkened chamber's hall.
Relying on substantial grace
Comes falling on corrupting stains
A foment on the one relation
Love has earned and faith persuades.
Intending for a future, cleansed
Inclined and fixed, the will more pure
Finds out what lasting, perfect friends
Commend as worthy and true.
Thus seeking only to reflect
Their crystal best in every word
They overthrow the world, naught bereft
Of innocence, one mind and heart assured.


Though many cynics traffic in the hour
Barking at the heels of sacred power
Truth kicks the scale of false standards
As light from out the dark more daring spreads
Through the wilderness
A flowering festival of peace, assured
.
Now mythic, seven thunders ring
A promised day of liberty;
A day of freedom for the captive-
Hurrah, the day of Jubilee
Hosanna, arching Sabbath for all times-
Light and life in love’s relation!

The potsherds scoff
Alack! They cry-
Aurum heirs treading down the mountains.
Brad Lambert Dec 2013
Amidst my self-sinkin' a'droppin' down
into involuntary shunts you note:

"Pensive, pensive–
He is always so pensive.
He smokes another cigarette
and takes another bath."


Amidst crossin' o'clawfeet
in clawfoot tubs you repeat:

"Check the water for them words
you were park-wanderin' a'lookin' for
while I was out all last night
a'lookin' only for you."


And as I look,
I do only, for you.

"Sometimes – sometimes I am so in love with you, it's surrealism.
My heart's breaking from the weight, from my romanticism,
a castaway'd castawayer a'makin' memoirs in the morning.
I'm a beach-combing romantic; I'll fall out of love by the morning."


Ponderin' a'wanderin' takes me back to the Fall with leaves, fallen too;
to our breaking point, pointing skywards in the off-season kite flying season.
I kiss the wind washing over my face and curse all the dumb, **** reasons
that I never did kiss you; I never meant to kiss you. I do only, for you.

*"Pensive, dear pensive,
you do this for me:
Go ponderin' for months–
O' sonderin' on o'er me."
Not sure if this is something I'm necessarily proud of, but I felt like I'd share anyways.
Filmore Townsend Jun 2013
with absolute precision of word. perfe-
ction of knowledge, of understanding.
for comprehension of origination and
history likened to something close in
introduction to a new animal. lead-in
to the true worth of a lost train of
thought. with quality of commentary
rare to be made sense of, found pretty
spot on from earlier life. and train of
thought finds unison with subcons-
cious streaming. that, with dreaming
thought, have culminated in child of
analytical mind though allowed to pro-
lapse in priorities. and with such loss
of grip came suffering of progress,
suffering of forward learning. reaching
heights in a lower level of intellect. all-
owed to linger without mental challe
-nge. and contemplated premature, a formed
plan involving no furthuring of positive out-
come. contemplate primordial retaliation.
and left to achieve more than dead, left to be
found in a vacant lot. and more only conc-
erns that of Natural cessation. seen as option
after pinpoint of knowing failure, some
vacant and the rest left to carbon. to return to
the *****, return to the end of procreation
this physical being. and ‘.. fear not
the thorns or the sharp stones on Life’s path’
and both the brambles and shunts are Pride’s
drawing of blood for to deter wisdom from
either being sown or reaped. though being
sees life in spite of ends means with
continuous derangement and isolation of
night, carried through with lack of ful-
mination of soul. and only ******* is
truth in the comment on kindred soul or
shared. remembrance of scribbled table
lost to self-ful faults. ‘Please destroy me’
imbedded in faux veneered black.
and on this day, as in that summer of swea-
ting. time of wasted thought, trading
blood for a bill spot. wasted knowingly
with opinion of perpetual recreation, with
ignoring the scarred body left as image of
******. and heavy are our eyes with the
wine of ages, and ears prevail in under-
standing happenings we wish our
absolute evasion of. heavy in moments
of isolation, we lack self-deprecation in
movements forward without lust for
body or soul. and fifteen with hope to
be infinite of lifetime. with hope for
perfection unobtainable. with words of
‘here lie the remains of him who wrote on
heaven’s face in letters of fire’ echoed forth
man of truth. him beyond we, transcended
thru ages of changed thought. lightening
of the heart and five days out, and
his Prophet portrayed the sails of ships as
coming death. cyclical incarnate and we the
undeniable will to traverse a sea of the poly.
and we the paradisal will to be six days out.
Sia Jane Apr 2015
Paused.

The light in the tunnel is blocked.
A shadow emerges in silence,
& all I smell is death;
the stench of rotting carcass
lingers.

Nearer.

The shadow moves - hunched,
& stumbles towards me.
A penetrating echo
vibrates through the tunnel,
a cane shunts around
puddles.

Paused.

There is no light - only deaths
shadow, me & the putrid water
dripping down walls
covered in mould; graffiti
breathing life into this
concrete jungle.

Arrested.

A man stands - his stare,
holds my attention.
He sways; the wall & cane
prop him up.
A fetid smell, exacerbated by
wet gangrene, pollutes the
air.

Paused.

"Son, forgive me."

© Sia Jane
This was inspired by someone's very raw and honest experiences! It isn't the narrative just my way of trying to step in to another's shoes <3
This abandoned land
Wounded, broken and seeping evil
Crevices, from which it oozes
Crawling across the land
Seeking a foothold

It's not empty
There is just no power
Nowhere exists to help
The people are alone
No magic to stand the balance

People, live
Ragged, sometimes pitiful things
Trying to live, scrape a living
Building, hoping
Fighting back

Creatures of nightmares
Walking and crawling
Darkening the earth, skies
Massive and small
Even the insects, malice

Earthquakes shake with rage
Gods quiver in amusement
This plight, desperation
Ever seeking heroes
To beat back storms

Mountainous terrain
Fencing, create this world
Horrible stonemen hunt
Adventurous travelers
Feasting on bones

Fearsome creatures
Mind boggling porportions
Patrol the seas
Breaking the timbers
Of the most sturdy ships

Dark swamps, poison the air
Misshapen creatures
Banished from the Living Lands
Finding strength in only numbers
Desiring to render flesh

And yet, men still walk
Determined and strong
Grown hard in this land
Living and sometimes thriving
But only for a brief time

Time shunts life here
Wearing down even the strongest
Such is age, such is life
This land is hungry
And it feasts
Terry O'Leary Jan 2019
.              <Once ShallowMan had dared to question>
              <FactoidMan’s sublime suggestion:>
“With a little predigestion
all my Facts compel ingestion
helping shallow decongestion.”

                               “FactoidMan, take no offense,
                               I know your knowledge is immense
                               amidst your store of Facts quite dense,
                               yet still I’m hanging in suspense
                               about your unassumed pretense
                               and if (or not) your Facts make sense.
                               What say you, sage, in your defense?”

“My Facts are self-sustaining views
supported by my mighty muse;
if disbelief is what you choose
just listen to the gull that mews,
eructing fake and faulty news.”

“My Facts are meant for one and all”
              <cried FactoidMan within the stall>
“I plop them out and when they fall
(yes, be they large or be they small)
they leave all witnesses in thrall.”

              <Then FactoidMan informed the crew>
              <(you know the ones, the chosen few,>
              <who try to twist his Facts askew,>
              <subjecting them to peer review>
              <which puts them in the waiting queue>
              <for litter to be hid from view):>
“Well Facts are Facts, yes that is true
so don’t be sad and don’t feel blue
when sitting dazed without a clue;
once more, that’s why I’m here for you.”

“For in my wisdom you may wallow
if you simply seek and follow,
chew my Facts, then gulp and swallow,
stuff your soul, now blank and hollow.”

                               “But FactoidMan, I fail to see
                               the emptiness inside of me”
              <said ShallowMan with modesty>
              <and cert’nly not hyperbole.>
                               “You’ve filled me with a potpourri
                               of concepts bathed in harmony
                               all self-contained and error free
                               (adjudged by you, the referee,
                               with whom no one could disagree
                               and still remain your devotee).”

              <FactoidMan may steal a stride>
              <with Miss Direction at his side>
              <to conquer, baffle or divide;>
              <she sometimes slyly serves to guide>
              <us on a roller coaster ride>
              <through subtle logic simplified>
              <and fuzzy Facts unverified.>

“We’ll make you guys sit back in wonder
stealing all your blood and thunder
when you’ve found you’ve made a blunder,
thrusting you to realms down under
dank defeat, dun dirt and dunder
(pseudo-logic’s would-be plunder,
Miss Direction’s torn asunder).”

                               “Do Miss Direction’s humble graces
                               pivot progress towards new places
                               into which loose logic races
                               (hinged on fundamental bases
                               counter argument outpaces)?
                               And what about the other cases
                               tied with loose ends time unlaces?
                               Just *******, reason soon erases
                               leaving lumps or tiny traces
                               in the gaps and other spaces?”

“Yes, Miss Direction will confirm
my wisdom hides no wily worm,
though simpletons will surely squirm
with Facts they fail to disaffirm
within the short or longer term.”

“She can lecture, you can learn
about the twists at every at every turn
in arguments that you should spurn
when served an ace but can’t return
without disgrace and ego burn
that leaves your ashes in an urn.
(In case you listen, you’ll discern
that winning spins are my concern.)”

              <Well ShallowMan was full of stunts,>
              <posed one more question which confronts:>
                               “Although your data sometimes blunts
                               the points of other’s arguments
                               your reasoning quite oft affronts
                               when based on claims  that logic shunts.
                               Well, won’t this break your covenants?”
              <Then Miss Direction screamed at once>
              <that “ShallowMan’s a silly munce”.>

“But that is neither here nor there”
              <said FactoidMan with scant a care>
“for ShallowMan may often err:
without my Facts, he’s not a prayer,
so should believe and be aware
that truth is mine and never dare
to think new thoughts (and so despair).”

              <Then FactoidMan revealed a frown>
              <in which a pompous smirk could drown:>
“Yes, ShallowMan’s a depthless clown
who must look up for seeing down;
he lives his life in Flatland Town,
his thinking cap’s a dunce’s crown.”

              <But ShallowMan took no offence>
              <though things were getting kind of tense>
              <(with some regrets for being dense)>
               <and answered in his own defense:>
                               “At times credulity replaces
                               rationality in cases
                               where belief in faith’s the basis
                               (filling holes with empty spaces)
                               voiding proofs that logic traces.”

“Does logic really play a role?
It’s certainly not the aim or goal!
Instead, to wheedle or cajole,
while using Facts which I control,
is somewhat simpler on the whole.”

                              “Oh FactoidMan, it’s now so clear
                               the reason why we need you here,
                               protecting from the puppeteer
                               who pulls our strings to interfere
                               with Facts of yours we should revere,
                               and paves our path with morbid fear
                               our straight and narrow bent may veer
                               from certainty you hold so dear,
                               rejecting theories which cohere,
                                ensconced in science, so sincere;
                               and all be ****** should doubts appear.”

“ShallowMan, if you’ve conflictions
owing to your mind’s addictions
to subconscious maledictions,
due to doubt in old convictions;
tell me now of your afflictions.”

                               “FactoidMan, I must confess
                               I understand you more or less
                               though subtleties provoke distress,
                               and even more your fine finesse
                               inclines to make my mind compress.
                               Forgive me now my cheekiness
                               in asking you for some redress;
                               although you’ve certainly gained success
                               convincing others, nonetheless
                               my valuations retrogress
                               to untold depths of shallowness
                               the more your reasons (which impress
                               onlookers with your cleverness
                               at citing Facts, most referenceless)
                               dissolve like dragons in Loch Ness.”

              <Well FactoidMan must simply smile>
              <(and sometimes chuckles for a while)>
              <when ShallowMan acts infantile>
              <and won’t attempt to reconcile>
              <those Facts that rhyme like truth and guile.>

                               “I know that all you say’s legit
                               though oft your Facts sound counterfeit
                               and leave my dawning mind unlit
                               (just feeling like a retrofit).
                               But, on the whole, I must admit,
                               a mental fog’s a benefit;
                               when eyes are closed and hairs are split
                               expressions vague, I might submit
                               although the Facts don’t seem to fit!
                               Please help me once to cope with it.”

“Oh ShallowMan you’re so amusing
when my Facts you find confusing;
you’ve no profit when refusing
simple truths of my own choosing;
bathe in wisdom I’m suffusing
when awake or else while snoozing.”

                               “Oh FactoidMan, ’twould be a sin
                               to mourn for thoughts that might-have-been
                               if you had had more time to spin
                               some arguments to underpin
                               conclusions bringing much chagrin
                               to those who try to do yours in.
                               For yes, it seems your notion’s thin
                               (though acrid, sweetened up within
                               a grain of salt called saccharin).”

“Yes, ShallowMan, you must have known,
I’d find your mindset set-in-stone
when claiming notions underblown
(especially those I call my own)
ignoring all the Facts I’ve shown,
a lapse to which you’re plainly prone.”

                               “No, FactoidMan, I’m not disbanding
                               your contentions so outstanding
                               (even though they need expanding
                               for a thorough understanding);
                               with some polish or else sanding
                               (you know, somewhat less demanding)
                               they might make a model landing,
                               lack of catwalk notwithstanding.”

“To answer you I’ll write a ditty
getting to the nitty-gritty,
oh so lofty, oh so witty,
where the Facts shine, oh so pretty;
if you’re lost, then more’s the pity,
tell it to my subcommittee,
‘Miss Direction’s Detour City’.
Now it’s time to feed the kitty.”

              <Well FactoidMan’s concluding quip>
              <to give advice and hold his grip>
              <(by letting words of wisdom drip)>
              <displayed adroit one-upmanship:>
“Hubba hubba, ching ching ching,
now I’ve taught you everything
without a hook, without  a string;
you needn’t clutch, you needn’t cling,
just bow instead and kiss my ring.”
poetryaccident Dec 2018
Consider the genders as separate
each with a mask set by fate
this would be the funny if it were not
for the horrors set loose once more
roles ascribed to a ***
bending a knee to do their part
though supplication will destroy
when power shunts the outcome’s goal

to save the weak from themselves
monstrous babies without resolve
unable to slake appetites
instead the other must find a way
sacrifice to this goal
placed on an altar with all around
bending heads in a fervent chant
the blood will let to the man

reject these offers of suicide
a living death while alive
saving those who are misled
by the group’s droning lies
while traditional may show bias
ascribing tasks by outward look
this is hardly carved in stone
though society would like it so

consider genders are divorced
from slaughter chutes that serve discord
when both genders are abused
by the dogma of past rules
sacrifice will have its place
alongside love and clayed feed
each *** with pursuing the very best
while being flawed in life’s eyes.

© 2018. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20181202.
The poem “Slaughterhouse Chutes” was written in response to a meme that stated, “the right woman can change a devil.”   My initial response was, “the right devil can destroy a woman.”  I am very much for avoiding the latter, destruction of an individual.    The changing of a single devil is not worth the legion of women destroyed in the attempt.
accursed creepily haunting
phantasmagoria wraiths
vandalize residents psyches
within their sleep induced state

sublimation shunts
slumbering souls
unknowingly held hostage
successfully sacrificing

semi-smothered silent species
snoring simians steadfastly succumb
subsequent sibilant sounds  
woo woebegone wicked transmogrification

dilapidated divested bodies deposited
wizard waves wand
watching whirling wretched lovely bones
whipsawing (in toto) within abyss
  
whooshing whistling wheezing
whets warlocks appetite wakening
brutish nasty nightmare
sinister hulking spirits

steal assorted corporeal essence
monstrous mashing somnambulant
mephistophelian shadowy satanic satyrs  
supremely swallow senior citizen bankers

deep within catacombs
of Highland Manor,
deadened defeated Delphic Oracle  
relegates human husks,

viz spent embodiments
to the under world lay siege
sinisterly seeding, via sinister spirits
one pure evil particularly wicked

witch thy capering
sickening ghastly plot against
unsuspecting spouse snatched
parch trey gnarled warty claws.
There is a train in my head
that shunts from ear to ear
whistling at intervals,
sometimes the train diver
goes high to the top of my skull
and my ears pop.
I was thinking that there
should be clouds this high
I haven't seen any yet.
I haven't seen any eagles either.
Maybe my skull is in the back country
where nothing grows and nothing lives
I will get another train tomorrow
and will bring my own lunch
As long term aspiring
     gurgling (stream of consciousness)
     paperback writer, there doth appear
an imponderable quandary

     most likely experienced
     by fellow neophyte authors,
     one pesky bugbear
that just dawned, (within the mind

     of this former tony
     MainLiner) crystal clear,
i would bet mine
     bottom dollar and declare

unequivocally established writers
     mentally tussled (or still do),
     how to accrue “Art of the book writing deal”
     contract subsequently endear

an increasing number of people,
     that definitely feel drawn
     to thy unique flavinoid flair
with words this scrivener displays,

     where oft times decrypting
     (mine block chain) dost jam
     at least one cerebral cog and gear
no matter how far away from me,

     this mind can telepathically hear,
colorful epithets, thus
     seriously considering donning,
     summoning, and trumpeting

     his swiftly tailored,
     harried styled interlinear
difficult to interpret ma Bella cos
     mean mien, thus ready

     (lock, stock and barrel)
     to ship me on a one way junketeer
attired in a combination
     all force he zen,

     (and Caesar) knitwear
and (thrift special red tag sale) leisurewear
oh...preferably gender neutral,

or specifically frilly pink menswear
which could be either
     day or nightwear

yet absolutely non gaudily
     outlandish most unlike
thine convoluted other worldly
     unfairly punishing stentorian

     verb hose noun sense sic cull
     idiomatic ling goo whist tricks
     driven by a harsh grammatical taskmaster,
     (nonetheless one

     gentle non-slavish overseer)
summoning positive
     feedback to reap peer
burgeoning my popularity,

     yet without being queer
yule us, yes...of course retaining rear
penchant inventively steer
ring an unsuspecting reeder

agonizingly testing their
pay shunts, perhaps inducing her/him
to race out the door like a a mad person
     clad with (impeach 45) underwear

calling for men/women in white coats
     to lock up Matthew Scott Harris
     possibly commuting his
     long runonsentence tea
     ching fellow inmates without ten year!
Sam Lawrence Feb 2021
There it groans again,
The voice:
A tone steeped in gravel.
It speaks from below
And chimes above,
Through a solemn
Here I am.
Awkward in my body.
Steering the poetry
As it appears:
Always too controlled.
I'm stood waiting,
The boy in the Thai restaurant
At the dark end of my street
Shunts
Toy trains along the table,
Surrounded by big
White buckets
Of prawn crackers:
Sagging in their cellophane bags.
Heading
Towards
Collapse:
Like a star pointing inwards.
Dimitrios Sarris Jun 2021
Sparkly eyes like a starry night  sweet like a summer's first sunrise.
She smiles and the sun shines brighter she laughs and the wind sings of mirth.
Her hug speaks no language but only matters and means the world's rejoice.
I almost gave up but her company makes
my chest feel lighter and now i want to try more.
My efforts filled with meaning of happiness and hope i write.
I stand stronger now and my humble embrace will always be given free for her delight.
Gratitude, like a vast ocean overwhelms my heart and sorrow slowly shunts aside.
I will always be there to take her fears.
I will always be there to comfort her tears.
to hear her dreams in wonder.
I will always be there for her to rest her thoughts.
I will always be there for her to lie her soul whose
beauty is that of an angel.
I will always be there in case she forgets
how amazing human being she is.
If my love was time i would give her eternity.
My humble love and care always hers.
Universe Poems Feb 2022
The Memz pose,
by a great man,
who knows
******* in front,
of the chest
He never shunts,
only his best
A pose,
that only,
Memz knows

© 2022 Carol Natasha Diviney
#memz #pose #awareness #day #men #holistic #health #feeling #good #expression © 2022 Carol Natasha Diviney

I wanted to create awareness of men feeling good, taking care of themselves, doing something good for themselves.
Knowing men are valued in life and, self expression is important.

I have created the International Awareness Day of Memz Pose. Details to follow in the coming weeks.

Holistic health is paramount and, important for everyone. However men quite often don't express themselves as they should.

© 2022 Carol Natasha Diviney
fabs May 2018
3 month too early , two and a half pound at birth it was a struggle to even enter this earth . It was november 29th the day that i came , who knew mum and dads life would never be the same. Too small to push too weak could bearly breath. Rushed to critical care for those babies at the edge of life, could doctors really play god and give the gift of life? Poked and prodded and hooked to heart monitoring machines it was like a horror movie scene. As hours and days turn to weeks my tiny heart with a hole at its core turns weak along with my future being so bleak. Open heart surgery on a baby as small as the surgeons hand , the hole even smaller like a grain of sand. Using stitchs the size and width of the surgeons hair breaths held as they make a delicate heart repair. A newborn heart repaired seeps with love at its stitched seems . Like a knife in the back and a bullet through the mind the doctors said their baby girl could go blind. At 72 hours of life i had already been under the knife in attempts to save my sight. 3 weeks had passed with no sign of life mummy and daddys baby was losing her fight for life. Mummy and daddy i need you to see it was not you it was me i needed time to rest and heal. Prayers said and answered and out the coma i came with my sight maraculously regained . A surgery that saved my sight almost cost me my life. So small and thin you could see through my wather thin skin to what lay within , something as simple as taking off a bandaid caused pain. Doctors said menangitis and water on the brain. Brain surgery comenced to fit an internal drain to save my fragile  damadged brain. Menangitis came and went but now its back again. Two more shunts were placed. A third one now tucked away in its place to keep my brain safe. The size of mum and dads hand weighed as much as a bag of sugar in your hand. Doctors called me mericle child cos all that could of killed me i concored and survived. 8 months in critical care giving mummy and daddy quite the scare but at least i had my life to spare. I was able to finally go home a poorly baby no more. Its now 16 and a half years later and i survived i am a angel in disguise.
sandra wyllie Nov 2022
when the leaves all fallen
in autumn
when she hit the bottom of a bottle
sunk like dottle in the old man's pipe
he couldn't wipe the pain
of the man that left the stain

He came
on the coldest day
when ice crystals of glass ****
danced in the air
on every garbled breath

He came
with smiles and blooms
on shirtless afternoons
swinging like crochet hammocks
melting like rocky road ice-cream
till they puddled in the grass
shunts in a bypass

— The End —