Description: Sam's not at all who people think he is. He might be quiet, he might be shy, but he also was diagnosed with cancer. When Briar moves to town, she catches Sam's eye. What will happen once the two get closer? Will Briar light a spark in Sam's heart?

-

Distant Memory

Dedicated to my cousin, Blake, who is currently fighting a horrific battle of Lymphoma.



You're probably thinking this is just some clichè love story, one about a girl having a crush on her best friend's brother, or how two people fall madly in love, but it's anything but. This is my story, with a twist unlike any other.

~

It all started in our Junior year of high school. You were new to Wakefield High, just moving here the previous year from New York City. On the first day of school, you were so unsure of yourself, not knowing what to do or where to go. I watched as you made your way through the halls, nudging your way through the crowded bodies as students made their way to class. Even though the halls were tremendously over-crowded, you were easy to spot. Your blonde hair and strikingly blue eyes stood out by the school's bland beige walls. You were more radiant, more powerful and glowing, than anything or anyone in the whole school.

Eventually, you made friends in all the clubs you'd joined - culinary club, photography club, and ASL. I don't know what made you stand out from all the other girls at Wakefield High, but whatever it was, it was strong. I felt drawn to you, like we shared a connection deeper than either of us knew. And it was then when I made it my goal to get to know you.

For the first few weeks, I'd tried bulking up the courage to speak to you. I had planned it all out in my mind. I would talk to you at lunch, right as you gathered your food and headed off to the library like you do every day. That was my chance, and I was determined to stick with it.

On that day, I was behind you in the lunch line. Once you got up there, you ordered a chicken empanada, then headed off to the library in the West wing. I quickly grabbed my lunch, a light Cesar salad, and trailed behind you.

You were walking faster than expected, and I was just too weak. I stopped, holding my knees as I gasped for breath. That was my chance to talk to you, to finally hear your beautiful voice, and I blew it.

It wasn't because of what you think. I couldn't keep up because I was lazy or out of shape, because I was neither of those.

I was diagnosed with Leukemia last October, and after tons of treatment, my doctor said I could try going back to school. I decided it would probably be best for me to live a normal life - as much as normal can get for a boy with cancer. Knowing that I was going to die soon - my doctor predicted I would only last for another year, tops - made me want to get to know you more.

After many wasted days of trying - but failing - to get your attention, I gave up. You were too wrapped up in your new life to even acknowledge my existence. Too busy maintaining your new found reputation, too busy dating a new guy every week. I always thought you were a ***** because of it, that you took advantage of different guys and then left them to crumble to pieces, but all of that changed on that faithful day.

I had gotten dropped off late to school because I had to get tests run at the hospital that morning. I tried to get to class on time, running as fast as I could. Only that didn't work because before you knew it, I was out of breath once again.

I headed over to the restroom, hoping a cool splash of water on my face would do the trick, when I heard wailing in the girls bathroom. I looked over my shoulder before entering, just to be safe. As I closed the door, I locked it behind me.

You were leaning against the wall, knees drawn to your chest as you cried. Noticing a presence, you looked up at me, thick black mascara running down your rosy cheeks. Your eyes were puffy, and I could tell you'd been crying for quite a while.

I didn't know what to say or do at that point, so I did what my heart told me I should do. I held you.

I sat next to you and wrapped my arms around you. Your body seemed small and weak, heaving in my arms. You cradled your head into my neck as tears fell from your bright blue eyes. I didn't bother asking what was wrong. Figured I would at a better time.

Just then, you looked up at me, face flushed and blotchy, and grabbed my hand. It seemed to fit perfectly within yours, our frail fingers intertwined in each others.

I tucked a few of your light blonde strands behind your ears as your cries dwindled. Even after you'd finished crying, you sat with me.

"What's your name?" Your eyes shone with curiosity.

"Sam."

"I'm Briar."

Briar. What a beautiful name. I smiled in your tangled hair. I never in a million years thought I would ever talk to you, and even if I had, I never would have expected it to be quite like this.

"You like Ed Sheeran too?" You asked, your eyes widening in delight as you scanned my shirt. I watched a smile creep to your face, lighting up your gorgeous eyes.

"Yeah, he's my favorite singer," I smile shyly. I can feel the heat rushing to my cheeks, and I feel embarrassed for acting this way.

Ever since then, we began talking. The more we talked, the more I knew how wrong I was about you. You weren't a ***** at all; all the guys you've dated broke up with you, but blamed it on you every time. That's how you got the title as biggest ***** of the school. I felt bad because you were one of the sweetest people I'd ever met, portraying someone you weren't.

I felt like that Ed Sheeran shirt brought me luck. It was the start to our budding friendship.

After a while, you completely changed. You stopped hanging out with the populars, claiming they were never into you anyway. And I found you enjoyed yourself more. I ended up joining the photography club later that year. Whenever we would go out on weekends, I was always taking pictures of you, catching the memories within a moment of time.

You always loved my pictures. As we sat in my bedroom, I'd let you pick out your favorites for you to keep, writing little notes on the back of each picture. Your absolute favorite one was that one of the two of us.

We were in a huge field, smiling as I held you in my arms wedding style. Your blonde hair flew around in all different directions and your eyes held happiness and joy. That was my favorite one too.

I had always had feelings for you, ever since that day in the bathroom, but I'd never have the chance to show you how I really feel. Even if I did, why would you love me back? I have no hair anymore since going through chemotherapy. My body's frail and weak, barely able to stand up on my own.

I had went to the doctors two days ago for more tests, and the doctor found that the tumor in my brain was growing more and more rapidly by the second. Therefore, I would be dying sooner than expected. I only had four days left. My mother held me in her arms as she cried, her wet tears staning my t-shirt.

That night, I called you and told you the news. You cried into the phone, and I wish I was there to hold you, tell you that everything would be okay, that I would be better soon. It was a lie, but I didn't want to hear you sad. I felt bad for being the cause of it.

The next day, I was rushed to the hospital after my mother found my collapsed in my room.

It was then I knew my life was coming to a close. I grabbed a pen and piece of paper, and wrote you a letter.

~

Dear Briar,

If you're reading this, I'm probably gone by now. I just woke up to the dimly lit lights flooding into my room, tubes and needles inside of me. My heart monitor is beeping weakly next to me, and I feel very frail. Cold, frail, and in tremendous pain. You're alseep on the couch right next to my bed and I watch you, take in your beauty for the last time. Your blonde hair is flowing around your head like a halo, your lips look like delicate red rosebuds. Even though I am weak, getting skinnier by the second, I make my way over to your side, kissing you lightly on the forehead.

I never told you about my cancer, and I'm sorry for that. I'm sorry for causing you the pain of me leaving you. I never meant for it to be this way. All I wanted was to live a normal life, and you showed me that there's happiness even in the smallest of places.

When you miss me, look at the pictures of us, pinned to a board on your bedrooom wall. Remember the memories we've had together. Remember the way you always made me smile, the dozens of laughs you filled me with. You showed me how to enjoy life, Briar. And I could never ask for anything more.

You filled my gloomy days with so much laughter I could barely contain myself. Remember me like that, Briar. Remember me happy.

I never realized it before, but I've fallen in love with you; your glowing smile, eyes the color of the raging ocean. I'd never known what love felt like, but I found it with you.

I love you so much, Briar. Never forget that. And remember I'll always be with you.

Love forever and always,

Sam

~

Briar's POV

I woke up to Sam's heart monitor, constantly beeping.Looking at the monitor, I noticed his breaths were slowing.

I made my way over to his bedside, rubbing my thumb gently across his cheek. His eyes were closed as his chest rose every so often.

"If only you knew how much I love you, Sam," I whispered, a single tear falling from my eyes. I watched him smile as he dwindled away.

"Sam? Sam?" My eyes filled with panic as I shook him lightly. "Sam?" My voice rose as I looked at the monitor, seeing the thin red line.

"Help! Somebody help!" I cried. As soon as those words escaped my lips, his hospital room flooded with doctors and nurses. They surrounded him, pushing me away to see what had happened. But they didn't need to. I already knew.

A doctor with black curly hair came rushing over to me. "I'm sorry, but he's gone.."

He's gone... He's gone... He's gone...

Those words rung in my ears, filling my head. I ran over to your bedside, crying my eyes out and practically screaming your name, hoping you'd come back to me.

I lay my head on your unmoving chest, letting my tears soak into your shirt. I noticed a small white envelope on the table next to you, To my sweet love, Briar, was written on it in your handwriting. I stuck it in the back pocket of my jeans before heading out of the hospital, feeling numb and empty.

I reread the letter over and over, tears staining the white lined paper.

"I love you, Sammy," I said, looking up at the bright blue sky. Even though the world seemed empty without you, I know I had to be strong. For you.

On days where I feel I can't bear your absence, I look at the pictures you took, just like you'd asked. I never knew you would change my life in such a drastic way.

Cattle**

In the photo
she’s striding across the yard
following Blossom and her procession of cows,
from the stack yard to the Home Field
twice a day
after we fed them from bales of hay
untied and thrown in chunks to the manger.
 
They wheeze and munch,
shuffle and ****,
never to be hurried,
their patience exemplary.

Kings**

As choristers we saw them
Regularly in their black
Limousines, their aides
Carrying gifts for display
In the royal apartments.
 
Kings, whose gait spoke
Of the heavy matters of state,
bent grey heads
To converse with the Majesty,
A small woman in a pale green coat
Carrying a large handbag

Mary**
 
It was her sandelled foot
and bared calf I noticed.
She was kneeling.
 
A strong young woman
convinced in truth,
a plain flawless face
hair spilling out
under the required scarf.
In stone.
Larger than life-size.
Niched in the Chapter House.
 
Now I know her touch,
her attentive gaze,
her restless mind.

Star**

Viewed from the pilgrims’ path  
As it turns inland
Fields of stars cross
The heavens, a roof
above the chequered pasture
from Anelog to Rhiw.
 
Such cloud-depths
of constellations
pulsating into infinity.
 
The eyes wide-open
shut in the biting wind,
fill with tears of wonder.

The Shepherds**
 
There’s a lot of standing about
and shouting at dogs.
Meg and I tried it once
with ****, young and impetuous,
though trained since a puppy.
 
December
in the pale sunshine of
Carrig’s fields,
One shepherd, two dogs,
sort and partition
their multi-coloured flock.
 
**** can’t help himself.
He knows his role
and plays it way back
in the outfield.
Deep extra cover.

Visitors**

Coming together as friends
we usher ourselves into his presence.
He’s waiting there, ready for us
in stillness and silence:
to place our lives, our gloves
our car keys, under the chair
and face him;
a baby,
a child in the temple,
a young adult at the river’s edge,
a thirty-something who cared;
for those who’d failed,
and had been failed.
Failing in our so different ways
we come as visitors to tell him so.

The Family**
 
When we were three
(there was a fourth on the way)
he discovered this summer place
in mid-September.
 
(there were brambles in the hedgerows
and it was windy and cold)
 
Later when we were four
and then (an accident) five,
we returned (regularly)
to remind ourselves
who we were,
who we are.

You are commanding the presence of an audience of children
Who do not, for a couple of hours, feel like children.
They feel like lightning bolts, and lovers,
Congregates of "The Broken Axe Handle",
Even if they hardly show it.
You’re telling them their own story
For which they haven’t yet learned how to form the words.

And after it all,
The crowd moving in a waking dream cloud,
You come into my focus,
And you practically whisper, “Seeing you there, you made me feel
Centered”
And I felt humbled by the honesty.
What a surprise to have such a weighted job!  
How impossible it is to take crumb of credit
For the beauty of your poetry!
I, entirely teenaged with endogenous anonymity,
Someone’s fulcrum!  

In a decade since,
I, (un)entirely grown and still ontologically unknown,
Still live your language,
Still aim to be the rock or
The hook on which to hang a hat.
Even when I don’t think I can
Even when I don’t know I am,
You make me feel daily that
In just receiving someone’s truth,
Eyes up,
I can make the return to be
Someone’s somebody.

I catch the rapido train from Milano and edge slowly westward through the stops and starts of frozen points and village stations. The heating fails and an offer of warmer seats in another compartment. I decide to stay here. I put on my coat, scarf, hat and gloves and sit alone. In my grieving time, I feel closer to the cold world outside as it moves past me, intermittently. Falling snow in window-framed landscapes.            

Sky gun metal grey
shot through
with sunset ribbons.
                                                                                                          
Dusk eases into black-cornered night. After Maghera, the train seems to race to the sea. It rumbles onto the Ponte della Ferrovia, stretching out across the Laguna Veneta. Suddenly, a jonquil circle moon pulls the winter clouds back and shines a lemony silver torch across the inky waters. Crazed and cracked sheets of ice lie across the depthless lagoon. The train slows again and slides into Santa Lucia. I walk into the night.                                                                                               
Bleak midwinter      
sea-iced night wind
bites bitter.
                                                                                                      
No. 2 Diretto winding down the Canal Grande.  The foggy night muffles the guttural throb of the engine and turns mundane sounds into mysteries. Through the window of the vaporetto stop, the lights of Piazza San Marco are an empty auditorium of an opera house. Walking to Corte Barozzi, I hear the doleful tolling of midnight bells; the slapping of water and the *****-***** of the gondolas’ mooring chains. Faraway a busker sings Orfeo lamenting his lost Eurydice, left in Hades.
I wake to La Serenissima, bejewelled.                                                                                                                           
Weak winter sunshine
Istrian stone walls
flushed rosy.
                                                                                                          
Rooftops glowing. Sun streaming golden between the neck and wings of the masted Lion. Mist has lifted, the sky cloudless; I look across the sparkling Guidecca canal and beyond to the shimmering horizon.          
Molten mud
bittersweetness demi-tasse
Florian’s hot chocolate                    

I walk the maze of streets, squares and bridges; passing marble well-heads and fountains, places of assignation. I walk on stones sculpted by hands, feet and the breath of the sea. Secrets and melancholy are cast in these stones.                                                                  

At Fondamente Nuove, I take Vaporetto no.41 to Cimitero. We chug across the laguna, arriving at  the western wall of San Michele.  I thread through the dead, along pathways and between gravestones. At the furthest end of the Cemetery island, Vera and Igor Stravinsky lie in parallel graves like two single beds in an hotel room. Names at the head, a simple cross at the foot of the white stone slab. Nearby, his flamboyant mentor Serge Diaghalev. His grave, a gothic birdbath for ravens, has a Russian inscription; straggly pink carnations, a red votive candle and a pair of ragged ballet shoes with flounces of black and aquamarine tulle tied to their the ribbons. So many dead in mausoleums; demure plots; curious walled filing cabinets, marble drawer ossuaries.
                                                                                                      
Bare, whispering Poplars
swaying swirling shadows
graves rest beneath          

I walk to the other end of the island and frame Venezia in the central arch of the Byzantine gateway.  I see that sketchy horizontal strip of rusty brick, with strong verticals of campaniles and domes. It is here, before 4 o’clock closing time, I throw your ashes to the sea and run to catch the last boat.                                                                                          

Beacon light orange
glittering ripples
on the dove grey lagoon.

© M.L.Emmett
First published in New Poets 14: Snatching Time, 2007, Wakefield Press, Kent Town SA.
To view with Images: Poems for Poodles https://magicpoet01.wordpress.com

The Child**
 
After five of these miracles
you’d think
you were prepared for that moment
the child greets your waiting arms.
 
For some months
you’ve slept together,
even come
so really close
in the act of love.
 
Now her eyes look up for food
you cannot give.
You place her next the gentle curve
of the waiting breast.
 
Her presence dominates your waking self
and now it’s your turn to carry her.
This gift from God,
this wonder of innocence and truth,
she will become everything you are not,
and much more besides.
 
 
©  Nigel Morgan 2010

you’re not an addict if you don’t enjoy it.
i’ve only done it
once or twice. last night
i awoke from a dream
in which you were playing johnny cash
and i was reading the buddy wakefield poem
that goes a little like ‘forgive me’
and ‘every day is one day less.’
we were staying in an airbnb
and the room reeked of gasoline
and blown-out candles and paper-mâché
and i was thinking about how you told me
you didn’t have as many freckles
as you wished you did
as i peeled the sticker
from the front of the book.
tell me you have enough
to pay for what you want in life
and tell me you’re not an addict
cause you’ve only done it
once or twice
and let me tell you about mountain lions
and how the chlorine in the swimming baths
used to taste like cider and cough syrup
like ginger ale and painkillers
that dissolve on your tongue
before you swallow them down.
i whisper to you that my mother
used to lick matchboxes
(speak louder, love, come on)
before her daddy left her too
not because he didn’t love her
but because it hurt too much
to love her in the way
only he could understand.
last night i awoke from a dream
in which we filled our suitcases
with shampoo and sugar packets
and i recited the final lines
of my favourite shakespeare play
as you sat up on the windowsill
and lit yourself a cigarette
and said: don’t look at me like that.
you know i don’t enjoy it. i’ve only done it
once or twice.
i’m staring at you from the carpet
and i can still hear you saying:
‘i never think about love’
and suddenly i’m crying
because i know you’re crying too
and the world makes less sense now
than it ever has before.
i used to say that some cynics die
and that i don’t need that stuff
to be happy
cause i’ve only done it once or twice
and i’ve only told you
a thousand times
and i was reading the buddy wakefield poem
that goes a little like ‘forgive me’
when i thought about what i’d done to her
and what i’d tried to do
to myself.
last night i awoke from a nightmare
in which the walls were
bleeding red
and then the trees had broken arms
and i got my ankles caught
in the mud
and i’ve been crying more
than i know i should
because i hate the way it burns
but god, i don’t enjoy it. i’ve only done it
once or twice.
so let me tell you about mountain lions
and people who no longer think of me
and who will never think
about me again
and how that’s the kind of thing
that reeks of gasoline
and blown-out candles and paper-mâché
and ‘i never think about love, you know
i never think about—’
how some cynics die
but they often die so young
and suddenly i’m crying
because i know you’re crying too
and ‘every day is one day less’
and every breath
is one breath less
and that’s what tastes like chlorine
and that’s what tastes
like cough syrup
when you haven’t even
got a cough
but you’re not an addict if you don’t enjoy it
and i’ve only done it
once or twice.
i wanted to tell you
in the way i always do
(pieces of paper between my teeth)
that my prayers are just nicotine
and the man hasn’t touched a cig
for as long as my parents
haven’t each other
but that’s just gasoline
and blown-out candles and paper-mâché
and i don’t need that stuff
to be happy
like you don’t need as many freckles
or as many mountain lions.
i’m staring at you through the phone screen
and i can still hear you saying:
‘i never think about love’
and suddenly i’m crying
because i know you’re crying too
and the world makes less sense now
than it ever has before
because last night
i awoke from a dream
and i didn’t remember a thing.

Choir**

It’s whom you stand
Next to
That makes it so
Special,
Someone who knows
The next note
And when to sing it.
 
The trick is to let yourself go:
To float on others voices;
To be carried aloft on
A cushion of sound
And joy.

Joseph**
 
He’s afraid of her basically.
 
She organises everything,
his food, his clothes
his children, their time together.
 
She wasn’t prepared;
it happened.
She made it work.
 
but . . .
 
She belongs to someone else,
and ponders this mystery
in her heart.
 
He shuts himself
in his workshop.
A good and gentle man.

I found my voice in a pocket of oxygen buried in my gut,
it was a hot air balloon
backlit by the aura of my lungs,
my chest was the sky that coughed it up.

Knowing that we are water-based creations
spread thin
like the last spoon of pancake batter,
I wear my impermanence like Jupiter wears her red spot.
I wear my fears like continents wear mountains,
pointing them toward the sky,
hoping to someday adhere a sticker to my chest that reads,
THIS CAR CLIMBED MT. COMMITMENT

I have the scars to prove it.

My mother carried me like the last drop of water in a desert canteen,
there was no need for a soft spot; I was headstrong.

I brought the kitchen to the gun fight.
Held my hands to the stove top
turned my back to the knife rack
kept one foot in the door jam and my mouth to the bedpan,
just in case these words washed my mouth out.

Most people never get close enough to recognize
that the smile on my face is written in Braille--
but you've always been there with a blind eye
reading my innuendos
and holding me to my words.

When your marathon feet hit the pavement
it's a lot like Buddy Wakefield at a typewriter
striking the first letter of the word benevolence--

You taught me how to b b b b b in the moment.

Even at my most negative
when my body is a hearse,
this heart is a corpse
and this life is a road-trip from funeral parlor to graveyard,
so that I may have spent my entire life in the company of mourners,
who loved me.

Even at my most positive
when my body is a universe,
this heart is Hatch Shell located on the south bank of the Charles River
swelling with the sounds of the Boston Pops
and this life is everything leading up to the Big Bang,
so that I may have spent the entirety of my life in the company of creation.

Even on the night we met—same night I found my voice
we stayed up to watch Lake Michigan come to life in a pocket of oxygen
under a Chicago sunrise so inescapably underwhelming
it was covered by clouds.

But we were not disappointed.

Even though all of our rainbows have been stitched into flags,
draped over coffins
and buried by the same people who taught us to believe
in optical illusions.
Our hearts were not drawn by Jeremy Fish,
we're not weighted in fiction,
we did not have heartstrings rigged by Geppetto.

No, we were not disappointed,
this was nothing like (I still remember) when we learned
that we couldn't all be Mouseketeers.

Disappointment is a pastime that we reconciled
when we laid our grandmothers to rest
and recognized that their tombs did not believe in resurrections.

The past is a hot air balloon hoisting us up to a sky we'll never see.
I get it.
I'm not lookin' down.

We are old enough to know the truth.

The light at the end of the tunnel is behind us,
that's where we came from.
We are not running from it.
There's no looking back.

i'm going to wake up tomorrow.
i'm going to wake up and i'm going to go into my bathroom and shave. i am going to look in the mirror. i'm going to look in the mirror and i'm going to tell myself a story about who i am.

i'm going to say, "i am Patrick Wakefield. i am 25 years old. i am Patrick Wakefield, i am 25 years old, in the winter my hands get dry and crack around the knuckles and bleed. i am 25 years old, and one summer i fell in love. one summer i spent a hot week in a small room. it was hot, and i was in love. and i don't drink normally but i got drunk on plum wine. i got drunk on plum wine, it was hot, and i am 25 years old. in the winter my hands get dry and crack around the knuckles, and bleed."

Elizabeth and Mary*

You wait and wait
for the moment (they say)
you can’t face milk in tea.
Long past caring it happens,
and the inevitability of it all
propels you into discomfort and pain
. . . then this girl you taught last year
smiles at you in the street.
You suddenly know she is *enceinte,
and so surprised by her passion,
a dream no less: innocence blessed.

Gospel Heirs  

This unique clan of gospel workers consisted of a father a mother and son and daughter the origins
Reach back to Plymouth the first settlers are their forbears and from this tough stock in these end times
The lion of Judea would give birth to a lion cub his head of red fiery hair suited him well it was a mane
That pronounced to the enemy war was at hand to long the bleating of lambs had not been answered
Now all would be different Bruce Wakefield was quarried from rare marble he had hardness for battle
But inner gentleness that could sway crowds of men and women show them his heart reveled was one
Of combustible fire in the cold a world where people didn’t matter as much as the bottom line their
Frailty their inherit need of being protected an guided came to complete and utter fruition in his life it
Came from a soul that stole away in to private encounters with spiritual magnificence he brimmed he
Glowed from the inner soul that had been much with the father he gathered the residue of life made it
Of no value in so doing he was the rich depository of what was real and true it resonated among those
That wondered and were confused it was like being on a long journey arduous and moments of great
Despair but at a cross roads you met in this single life a man of autumn austerity like the season also
He brought glories colors out of darkened glens and shadowed harshness leaves would fall in the
Dooryard of the hurting they breathed in the customary silent grandeur that lay on the now brown
Grasses it was a colorful display it meant the end in one sense but a beginning in another he didn’t just
Walk about the church platform he charged forward into Hells gate keepers he put them on notice the
Way things usually are had come to an end he spoke of love but he advanced it this way through the
Building blocks of creation not just simple but the essential God repeated what he did at the beginning
Of our worlds creation in one instance he shows the breadth and depth of He who makes everything
Then nurtures it carries it on to perfection a barren piece of land to start then his greatest creation in my
Opinion he joins two through romantic drama and dreams and a little thing called love you take
Infatuation the pleasing pleasure of thoughts and smite the heart in that cosmic moment the planets do
Collide two worlds are being redefined and made into one this will be the essence of their whole lives
They build relationships they build a dwelling and then the most gorgeous ribbon of all sets it off when
their love makes a little one in distant time not believing it possible this is out done when the first
Grandbaby comes that infancy that extended love at first now gives the gift that has cherish written all
Over it and your fully awake dreams do come true when they speak to you your heart melts it’s the
Greatest trick you are this adult and in seconds you are a marshmallow if we could package and sell it
There would be no more conflicts just tell the opponent to bite smell this and in moments all would be
Fun and joy so not to leave you to sad that this can’t be the day is coming when the lion will lie down
With the lamb you’re just living its precursor you set and live among miniature wonders maybe you even
Were involved in picking out their names Bruce uses this to great effect in this swirl and hoopla you find
Your center and know the ideal of life and then the shift must occur not is all sweetness the barrister of
The wind makes the argument that this great structure this family has fissures and brokenness a young
Father told of the great pain he suffered when is son was abducted and taking into another country
By other family members he since has created a international program that visits this issue and gives
Hope to people that are helpless against governments of other nations Bruce explains this is Gods
Predicament and oh how so many more of His children are missing taking into a world that subtly woos
Them by every artifice that plays on their weakness and in those areas they have a tendency to fail the
Dark Part of a painting in art greatly needed for contrast and mood sensibility but disaster in following
And living a Godly life there are restrictions in normal living all manner of give and take that make
For happier more successful living he ends with this ultimate truth I am the way and the life all of this
Is factored in and it is of gravest concern that we act on it when we hear it and that night a goodly
Number heard and responded to the very changing of their eternal destiny Bruce had words he used to
Say my morning sky used to only hold dread without question I knew my soul so precious was truly
Dead but then He spoon fed to my feeble lips Himself as the word it told in detail the darkness that is to
Everyone a plague he stole deep within captured my heart and soul changed this man alone into a
blessed vessel that cared only for His children so fare made me fearless in pursuit of them gave me the
Ability to allow them to see dreams that were their own lives after the tender mending done with hands
That bare the nail prints and imprinted on tender children the expressed love of the father that started
At the beginning and will never cease please we bid thee come to him lost ones

Can we go back...to where life met laughter. To when love had more value than fame. To how we used to respect those who came before us. And family extend far beyond the limits of your doorsteps. Can I get back to a gap toothed smile and fill em in puzzles. To puff bread and pecan candy. To walking my hanging with the homies at Dunbar. Who want to go back to walking from Oak St to Wakefield. Playing ball at Centennial Park, East end community center and MLK Elementary. Somehow I've wipped away a lot of my memory, however, I'll never forget my homies playing their makeshift drum set and me winking at their sister behind their back. Childhood crushes right. I have erased dates and events but the way you all have influenced me is engraved in me like the chiseled details on Donatello sculptures. I just want to go.....

Written with Nannette Wakefield and I :

Rose petals in the tub
are waiting for you and
I to jump in. Waiting
desperately to caress
our skin.
The night has come and
door bell never rang. Your
phone turns me to voice
mail. I'm all alone crying
on the bathroom floor.
Minutes after I get a
text that your with
someone else.
I cried as I took a few pills.
In the tub I went with my
night gown. The water
covered my every inch.
as I planned to drown. To
drown my sorrow to drown
my misery and shame.
As I was feeling low and
cheap I wanted to shut my
eyes under the running
water and sleep. So much
pain had filled my heart
and lungs. So much hurt
flowed along the blood in
my veins.
I heard echoes under water
of your name. I heard the
promises you've once told
me while I was in your bed.

How could a human heart
be so cold. How could you
kiss one's innocent lips and
play them like a magic trick ?
How could you fake love just
to please yourself and sin ?
How could you expect me
to cope with all of this ?
As I begin to sink slowly
down into the tepid water
I feel so disappointed to
have put my trust in you.
I feel so betrayed and
isolated and alone.
I start to feel the affects
of the pills I had carelessly
taken and then I start to
reawaken.
Who the hell are you to
make me want to end my
life when its you that chose
to cut me deeply with that
sharp knife.
You will not win.  And as I
see a petal float across
my face my heart seems
to be brought back to life
and race.
I sit up still groggy with
the effects of the pills but
with a new sense of my life
my purpose my will.
So don't come begging
me once more. Because
the girl you once knew
and loved does not live
at this door ~

The dribbling Head in That Hideous Strength
A man behind a curtain, pulling cords
How many fingers, Winston, six or five?
Mrs. Wilson holding the president’s pen

Doctor Wakefield will see your children now
Sender Gleiwitz is very clear tonight
Reporting North Vietnamese attack boats
Sailing in crop circles to Area 51

A child abused upon The People’s throne

Go to the rostrum

We will tell you what to say

Terrible Scenes of Death and Misery in Minnesota. Five Hundred Whites Supposed to be Murdered. The Sioux Bands United Against the Whites. FORT RIDGELEY IN DANGER.
Published: August 24, 1862
ST. PAUL, Minn., Saturday, Aug. 23.
Parties from the Minnesota River reached here last sight. They state that scouts estimate the number of whites already killed by the Sioux at 500.
This opinion is based on the number of bodies discovered strewn along the road and by trails of blood.
It is believed that all the missionaries have been killed.
The civilized Indians exceeded their savage brethren in atrocities.
Mr. FRENIER, an interpreter who has spent most of his life among the Indians, volunteered to go alone among them, trusting to his knowledge of them and his disguise, to escape detection. He dressed himself to Indian costume and started on his journey. He arrived at the Upper Agency at night.
The place was literally the habitation of death.
He visited all the houses, and found their former occupants all lying dead, some on the door-steps and some inside their habitations. Others were scattered in the yards and in the roads.
He went to the house of Hon. J.R. BROWN, and recognized every member of the family. They numbered eighteen in all, and every one of them had been brutally murdered.
At ****** Creek he found that fifty families had been killed outright. At every house he went into he recognized the dead bodies of nearly all the former inhabitants of the place.
Among the dead bodies he recognized at the Agency were the following:
N. GOVERUS and family.
Dr. WAKEFIELD and family.
JOHN TODDENS and family.
JOHN MOYNER.
EDWARD MOYNER.
Rev. Dr. WILLIAMS.
Rev. Mr. BRIGGS, and two missionaries.
Ex-Gov. SIBLEY is now marching to the relief of Fort Ridgley.
He reports that the Sioux bands are united together to carry out a concentrated and desperate scheme, and says that he will be only too happy to find that the powerful upper bands of Yanktons and other tribes have not united with them.
Mr. FRENIER writes to Gov. RAMSEY, on the 21st inst., saying that he left Fort Ridgley at 2 o'clock on that morning. There were then over two thousand Indians at the fort, and all the wooden buildings there had been set on fire, and were burning.
Mr. FRENIER thinks that other tribes are joining the Sloux, and that they will present a very formidable array.
A reliable letter, dated Glencoe, 21st inst., says that the injury done by the stampede of the settlers is immense, and that such another scene of woe can hardly be found in the South as in McLeod, Meaker, and the northern part of Sibley and other counties to Minnesota.
In St. Paul and the adjoining country all the available horses are being gathered together, and all sorts of weapons will be used by willing hands for immediate and summary vengeance upon these blood-thirsty Indians.
CHICAGO, Saturday, Aug. 23.
The St. Paul (Minn.) Pioneer, of the 20th inst., says, it is thought that the Indians have been induced to commit these outrages by Indians from Missouri and secession traitors of that State, and that when Maj. GALBRAITH left the agency on Friday everything was quiet. The Indians had received their goods and had all disappeared apparently satisfied with the Major's promise to send for them as soon as the money arrived to pay them their annuities.
The first attack of the Indians was made on the house of Mr. BAKER, on Sunday last, near the town of Acton, and 30 miles from Forest City, in which three white men and one woman were killed.
On Monday morning an attack was made on Redwood, and at the time the messenger left there, a number of persons had been killed.
After the messenger had crossed the river, he saw the Indians firing into traders' stores and other buildings. He estimated the number of Indians engaged in this firing at 150. He also stated that messengers had arrived at Fort Ridgley with money to pay off the Indians the sums due them.
The St. Paul Press, of the 21st instant, says that several loads of panic-stricken people, from Currer and Sibley Counties, arrived in town last night, principally women and children. They were greatly excited, and give exaggerated accounts of the Indians, who were marching on Shasta County. They also say that the towns of St. Peter, Henderson and Glencoe have been burned.
A private letter received in this city, to-day, from St. Paul, dated the 20th instant, says, that it seems to be the general opinion among the best informed of our citizens that these Indian troubles originated with the cursed Secessionists of Missouri.
Major GALBRAITH was told by one of the Indians that there are now in arms ten thousand of the Sioux tribe, besides other tribes from Northern Missouri.
ST. PAUL, Minn., Saturday, Aug. 23 -- 9 P.M.
ANTOINE FRENIER, the disguised Indian scout, got through the Indian lines into Fort Ridgeley and brought back the following to Gov. RAMSEY:
FORT RIDGELEY, Thursday, Aug. 21 -- 2 P.M.
We can hold this position but little longer unless we are reinforced. We are being attacked almost every hour, and unless assistance is rendered us we cannot hold out much longer. Our little band is becoming exhausted and decimated. We had hoped to be reinforced to-day, but as yet can hear of no one coming.
T.G. SHEHAN, of Company C, Fifth Minnesota Volunteers, commands the post.
Gov. SIBLEY cannot reach here with his twelve hundred troops until to-morrow, when a day of reckoning for the Indians will be at hand.

If New Zealand is God's
Zone and Christchurch,
obviously the religious
capital, then, why should
a muslim mosque survive
the most recent earthquake?


Ps.

The Wakefield plan for
New Zealand, was, that
no Irish Catholics should
ever be permitted into the
country. Kiwi's are WASP's.