Is the theory of relativity really relative?

Root Beer Barrels, Lugies, and PaPaw

My PaPaw was the kind of man who could correct me, and the whole while make me feel as though I'd made a wonderful, new, and amazing discovery that no one else had ever come across.

I remember one time when he had taken me fishing at the old Butler's pond back where I grew up near Smithfield, Illinois. It was a tiny little farming town, population three hundred and fifty-four, with two churches, a hardware store, a post office, a little red brick schoolhouse, a gas station, and a grocery store. The town was surrounded by woods and cattle pastures and my fondest memories are of spending time, sometimes days, alone in the woods with nothing but the sky, the animals, the creeks, and the trees as my constant companions.

I grew up unlike most other children. My days were filled with hunting, fishing, trapping, gathering eggs, slaughtering chickens, rabbits, and hogs, and milking goats. Not that we were a backwoods family but rather we were a poor minister’s family that depended on the land for our food as well as the kindness of the parishioners of the church. I learned to clean fish before I was five and could field dress a deer by the time I was seven. I learned to brain tan a hide and make my own winter boots and how to plant corn or set chicken eggs by the phases of the moon.

Ironically, I didn’t know we were poor, I just thought it was the way things were for everyone. It was the only life I knew and to this day I despise the city and long for the quiet and serenity that the country never fails to provide.
While I have many fond memories of my childhood and growing up with the land as my playmate, it was a childhood filled with bitter and painful physical, emotional, mental, and spiritual neglect and abuse at the hands of my adoptive father Ron and his wife Betty.

The one saving grace in my life, other than the woods, was Ron’s father, my PaPaw. So anytime a fishing trip was in order, it was a special treat and this day would turn out to be one I would never forget. Of course Ron and his other kids were there too, but my PaPaw sat with me on the far end of the pond where no one would bother us and it would be our time.

I must have been about 8 or 9 years old, considering the constant chatter that I was putting forth, and my PaPaw, as always, just sat and listened, never saying a word. But of course, he was reeling in fish right and left and poor little me never caught a thing.

I finally asked him what made him such a great fisherman and he smiled his PaPaw smile that said I was in for a "reel" treat. First, he had me reach in his shirt pocket and take out a root beer barrel (this was our "ritual," so to speak; he always kept them there just for me) and as soon as I popped it in my mouth, he knew he had center stage with me. After all, one cannot correctly slurp their tongue around a juicy root beer barrel whilst talking, you see.

He gently reeled in both of our lines and had me bait mine and his both. As usual, the fish had sucked the bait right off mine. They do that you know, when you're not paying attention and just yakking your head off about whatever comes to mind. He took the old worm off of his hook, and when I think back now, I realize that it was a perfectly good worm. But at least the birds got a snack that day. I was a tomboy (still am), and had no qualms about skewering a worm onto my hook... skewer, wrap, skewer wrap, but leave enough of it dangling to entice the fish.

Then my PaPaw did something I'd never seen him do before. He popped a root beer barrel into his mouth! He swished and swirled it around and how he talked while doing this I'll never know. But he explained to me that fish just love a root beer barrel flavored worm.

Hey, I was a kid and PaPaw's word was law. After all, he was ancient and he knew everything! He lifted up his hook, with the still wiggling worm, and hocked the biggest lugie I'd ever seen right onto the worm. He grinned, then instructed me to follow suit. Now mind you, even as a major tomboy I was never allowed to spit. And here I was not only allowed to do so, but encouraged to spit like there was no tomorrow! And so I did. I hacked and I hocked and of course, dribbled most of it down my chin. And my PaPaw, being the outdoorsman and wonderful companion that he was, reached over, wiped my chin and flung it onto the worm. Gross, sure, but still a fond, warm memory that still brings a smile to my face.

We threw our lines into the water, and with my mouth full of root beer barrel saliva, I was finally quiet. Focused on my line, I watched and within minutes, my bobber jerked and suddenly submerged and I felt the pull on my line. PaPaw tossed his line down, and jumped behind me, making all the fuss in the world as I pulled and fought to reel in my catch. He put his arms around me holding my line with me, yelling and hollering about “what a whopper” I had and how if we weren't careful, it was going to pull us both in!!! I remember shouting out, "Help me, PaPaw, help me!" And he did.

Together, we reeled in the tiniest, most pitiful looking bluegill that might have weighed a quarter of a pound. But in his wisdom, my PaPaw fussed over it, saying it was the biggest fish he'd ever seen and what a great fisherman I was!

Then he peered closely at it, studied it, and examined it with great care and said, "Oh my, I can’t believe it! This will never do!"

Worried, I asked him what was wrong. Had I caught a bad fish? He smiled at me and told me that no, my fish was not bad, but rather I had caught the most wonderful fish in the world. In his great experience as a fisherman, he could tell that this fish was very, very special. It was a teacher fish, and God had put it in the water to teach the other fish how to swim and eat and avoid great fisherman such as his Granddaughter.

He showed me little markings on the fish that he explained were “fisherman marks,” where this little fish had been caught time and time again, so he could teach the other fish how not to be caught. He explained that we must throw it back in, lest the other fish never have the chance to learn the important lessons of fish life and how to grow up to be happy, healthy pond fish.

Of course I believed him and, of course, it wasn't true. He had protected me from realizing at the time that I had caught a baby fish and that it was too small to keep. But in the event, had also made me feel like I was the greatest fisherman on the face of the earth because I had caught the one and only teacher fish in the whole pond!

We spent the rest of the day eating root beer barrels and hocking lugies onto worms. I didn't catch another fish, but I got to listen to my PaPaw tell me wonderful stories about nature and listen to him singing old time hymns and children's songs.

I also learned the beauty of keeping quiet and listening not only to my PaPaw, but hearing all of God's creation around me. He would point out the sounds that the quail made and the grasshoppers as they jumped from grass blade to grass blade spewing their disgusting tobacco juice through the air. We would listen quietly and could hear the snakes slithering and sliding into the water and quickly ducking under the waves looking for food. We could hear the flutter of bird's wings flying over us, and the nestlings chirping in anticipation of their mothers returning with their lunch.

After awhile, we put our poles down and he would point out different clouds, explaining what they meant for the upcoming weather (and he was never wrong). He taught me to tell time by the position of the sun and how to recognize the smell of rain in the air.

Days like that were few and far between, but my Grandfather taught me so much about life in those simplest of times and situations. His favorite saying was, “Don’t let a little life get in the way of living.” I’ve lived by that statement for as long as I can remember. No matter what has happened in life and no matter what choices I have made, I’ve learned from them and have used his teachings in every aspect that I can think of. He taught me to love life and to look at things in a different, logical, yet simple manner, and see things for what they are, not for what I’d like them to be.

I could go on and on about my PaPaw. I sincerely believe if it weren't for him, I would be so bitter and angry with Christianity and with those who profess to be
Christians. But he was a true Christian, one who took the message of Jesus to heart. And he didn't just talk the talk. He walked the walk. When he died, I wasn’t able to go to his funeral and it took me nearly twelve years to finally visit his grave.

He always called me “My girl.” I don't remember him ever calling me by my name; it was always "My Girl." And in a world full of pain and uncertainly, filled with abuse and neglect, he made me feel as though I was the only girl in the world and that as long as I believed in myself, I could do anything and be anything.

He was right. And he did it all with a simple root beer barrel and a mouthful of spit.

Discovery

The road is over, I guess it's time to fly;
The only reason is to be, the only unspeakable is the question why.
I found myself at this road's end, even though I ran away;
And the blackness that I created, gave me the gift of clay.
I guess it's time to fly my friend, I know now it never mattered;
A new beginning is at the end, fresh dreams arise from the shattered.
My feet no longer affixed to the earth, a prisoner of passion;
My prison took the way of all flesh, but in your eyes I witnessed my birth.
So if you walk your path my friend, I know it's dark and long;
Trade the dagger at your heart, for your self-discovered song.


Copyright 1988-2008

The Service

A beaming morning ray, yawns through the silent opaque windows.
Stained glass prisms glistening upon the pews,
await the awakening of souls.
Whispers of times long past, songs of praise, and prayers of peace,
still linger upon the minute particles of dust.

Giggles of gleeful children, shushing mothers,
scents of grandmothers and sleepy old men.
Shadows falter, anticipating the Presence,
seeking peace, and longing for warmth.

A weathered shingle, a battered door, a moment of rest,
welcoming those who will come.
Sleepy eyes, frigid cheeks, mittened hands, and bonnets bound.
Jackets and ties, a pat on the back,
hands grasped in ancient love and friendship.

A single note bellows from the old pipe organ,
heads bow in reverence and joy, fellowship has begun.
As the wind blows softly, voices are raised,
as the ashes slowly settle to the ground.

Voices from long ago, hearts tied dear,
fellowship, worship and praise, strong ties that bind.
On a still winter day, from centuries long gone,
the congregation again joins as one.


Copyright 2004-2008 CZF

Life

Don’t let a little life get in the way of living.
Mortality’s certain, time cruel, unforgiving.
Sure as the winter comes due before spring,
The essence of being is your song to sing.

Stagnated or boisterous, the balance is frail,
The memories you leave long narrate your tale.
Follow the paths if you fear the unknown,
Or follow the wind that will always lead home.

An overturned pebble or leaf on the breeze,
Behold the soft daring embrace of the trees.
A lullaby’s daring clandestine device,
Steadfast but a moment so quick to entice.

But what of the many who drone on the way,
Deny the adventure, too frightened to stray.
A mundane survival, no chances no cost,
Each moment the same, each likely memory lost.

Life’s dream is but fleeting in one moment gone,
Awakening visions too precious to pawn.
Choices to make between life and existing,
Just drudging along or mightily persisting.

Eternity beckons with each blink of an eye,
The path or the wind, each dance ‘til you die.
So don’t let a little life get in the way of living,
For mortality’s certain, time cruel, unforgiving.

Copyright 2007-2008 CZF

How can an angel bargain with God?

Then again, maybe I’m not really an angel. Maybe I’m a fiend in disguise and my whole existence is a just a joke. Either way, I despise my existence. I despise the lack of control over what I have to do. And I despise what I do.
To watch an innocent child surrender to the atrocities and idiocies of the ignorant adults who are sworn to protect her takes strength and ambiguity that only a being with no soul could possibly bear. But I’ll tell you this much; if I had a soul, if I had a heart, I would gladly give her mine and take her place.

So how do I stand in the shadows and merely watch as this gullible little flower wilts in my presence while I wait like a vulture for her to take her last breath? Watching her frail chest rise and fall with each labored breath; listening for the hoarse pleading from her lungs. Just waiting.

How is it that I can creep closer and closer while I feel the fading beat of her heart within my own empty lifeless shell? Lub dub, lub dub, lub dub. Slower, weaker, indistinctively begging for relief, until finally it’s electrical pulses can give no more and I steal in to seize her soul and carry her away.

It is not an easy thing to do, to be sure, but it must be done and I must be the one to embrace the guilt for not stepping in. Yes, even those of us without souls still feel.
With Rubenstein’s Melody in F playing softly in the background, I watch as tiny beads of sweat began to pool into streams that pour down her pale blond hair onto the starched white sheet beneath her. Streaks of crimson began to swell as the crusty leather strap that binds her forehead starts to bite into her delicate flesh and an angry cyan hue adorns the space between her terrified blue eyes and the wispy bangs of her sweat soaked hair.

And those hands. Perfect miniature hands sporting perfect miniature fingers, with perfect pink polish garnishing the perfect little tips of her perfect little fingernails. Hands that should someday comfort a child, caress a loving husband, or create a masterpiece of paint or clay. A tiny silver ring that she had begged to wear until the last minute sits beside her on the vague gray blanket that’s covering her soon-to-be urine soaked body. Little do they know, it is the last minute.

Her pitiful wrists pulled against the strong leather cuffs that mercilessly pinned her hands to her sides as the fragile skin on her wrists began to stretch and tear. Old scars from other visits like this catch the droplets of blood that begin to seep towards the gurney. She knows it will do no good to try, but she pulls and twists until the floor below becomes decorated with snowflake spatters of blood mingled with sweat and tears. Falling so gently, yet with each drop another moment of life lost, surrendered to the elements of science and well-being.

Oh how it would break my heart, if only I had one, each time I see her cerulean blue eyes open wide in fear. Each time I hear her scream out, “Mommy, please don’t! I’ll be good, I’ll be quiet, I promise!” And how angry it should make me each time I see that ***** just standing there emotionless, looking down at the child she claims to love, with blank eyes and tight lips, a woman who doesn’t know the meaning of love. A woman afraid to find out. And I’m the one with no heart, no soul, and yet I wish I could cry for her. I wish I could take her mother instead. I wish…

Forever’s a long time, but each time I’m forced to watch this, it feels like forever all over again. Even though I have existed since the beginning of time, eternity begins again with each child’s soul I am compelled to take. This time is no different, but this time won’t be the same.
She knows what’s coming next. The nurse swabs her little arm with alcohol and ruthlessly shoves a needle full of sedative into her quivering muscle, what little there is of it anyway. Too much though, but she doesn’t know that. A little whisper in the ear to distract her was all it took, a little nudge to her psyche and an adult dose flows into a child’s waiting bloodstream. It won’t be long now.

How many times I’ve stood here and watched her, trying to put myself in her place, wondering if I’m even capable of thinking on her level. Don’t get me wrong; not that her thinking is any lower than mine, it’s just different. Less experienced. Innocent. I’ve often wondered what it must be like, playing with toys, running in the yard barefoot, feeling the grass and mud between my non-existent toes. To hug a kitten or catch a frog, to actually lay there at night and wonder what the stars are saying to each other. To actually wonder and not know…

How I wish I had hands to pull her from them. To take her away to a place where no one could ever hurt her again. But I can’t, that’s not my job. My job is simply to take her.
And so here I stay until the time arrives. Her time. My time. Her mother crosses her arms. It’s always the same. The doctor in his lifeless looking white coat steps to the side of the gurney and smooths her drenched locks. With his fake smile and his smelly breath, he leans close and tells her to relax and in a few minutes, it will be all over and she won’t remember a thing. If only he knew. He looks at the snaky b!tch in her bandanna and horn-rimmed glasses and gives her a nod. I’d like to break her neck for each nod she’s given him in return; but I can’t, it’s not my job.
Muffled sobs become screams of terror as the sound of the machine grows closer. The crescendos and diminuendos clash bitterly as the music becomes louder in a pathetically vain attempt to cover her shrieks. But it is my opus and I will ultimately cause the encore between life and death and it will be me who stands as the sole conductor of this symphony of destiny.

I drift closer as the doctor cleans her temples and attaches the small white electrodes to her pale skin. Anger begins to flood me as the devilish machine begins to whir and sputter to life. I can feel her heart pounding, the blood coursing through her veins; her fear feeds my hatred and I long to unleash it… but I can’t, not yet.

Helpless, I watch as she tries hard to clamp her teeth shut, but the nurse’s strong hands pry her jaws open, just far enough for the hard plastic plate to slip in where the straps hold it tightly in place. It’s times like this, I question if God really does exist.

Her eyes grow heavy and a dull film takes the place of the blue that I’ve come to love over the months. The sedative is working; soon she won’t feel much at all and my work will be done.

I can hear her heart slowing and I watch as her chest evenly rises and falls. Closer. Closer. The switch is thrown and her delicate little body tenses with each current that is forced through her weakened brain. All because she didn’t behave the way her mother thought she should.

Slower. Almost there. Her hands clenched in hardened fists, her body convulsing uncontrollably, tears from her unconscious eyes, still seeping to the sheets below. Closer.
I can smell her sweet breath as I bend to kiss her with my unseen lips. The kiss of death? Not for her. Not this time. Cast me to hell but I can’t stand it another second.
Every moment of anger from thousands of millennia break the surface of my consciousness and unspeakable power bursts into the room. No more children. No more watching them cower and whimper while they are brutalized into conforming into what someone else wants them to be. No more pain. No more blood. No more tears.

If I am evil, then so be it. I don’t think I’ve ever smiled so much as the surge of my power flows into the minds of the adults surrounding her. The machine goes dead, but it won’t be the only thing that dies today. There will be more blood, but it won’t be hers. There will be more screams, but they won’t be hers. And there will be more tears, but they won’t be hers.

How I did it, I may never know but I laughed as three sets of eyes flew open wide with unimaginable fear. Every nightmare, every campfire horror story, every evil wish. Here I stand before their eyes in all my ghastly, cold-blooded glory. Taking the form of whatever frightens them the most; such power, such freedom.

Cringing on her knees, I watched as the blood began to pour from mother’s eyes. Screaming, begging for mercy, as the putrid life spilled from her onto the floor, washing away the snowflakes of torture that had since dried to the cold tile beneath her daughter. With such great satisfaction, I reached down and grabbed her soul, chucking it to the bowels of the earth where some demon would more than certainly claim it for it’s own. Her lifeless body, broken on the tile, such a fitting end for such a frigid, heartless b!tch.

But something deep within me cautioned that my time was short and that my actions were wrong. Care? Never! My thoughts and anger turned to towards the doctor and nurse. Sworn to help, protect, and heal. Untrue to their Hippocratic Oath to do no harm. Pleading for compassion, begging for escape, crying as they made her cry so many times before. But I am not a merciful being nor am I one to feel compassion. Forget that they are redeemable, forget that they have helped others. In the dim atmosphere that surrounded them, they clung to one another as if by combining their strength, they could avoid the inevitable.
And then a small whimper, a gurgle of life or perhaps the gagging of death. She’s awake and struggling to breath, I can hear her heart slowly tick-tocking away and as I turn to her, I know now why those such as I are not given hearts.
Rivers of blood flowed from her ears and mix with her mother’s on the floor below.

In all my hatred and self-righteousness, in my attempts to cause pain and suffering to those who hurt her, it is I who have hurt her the most. Through the sedative’s darkness she watched me slay her mother. And through my inadequate attempts to save her, I have doomed her, for the machine continues to pulsate with charges of electricity that I fought so desperately to stop.

I do not have a voice to demand that the machine be turned off. I do not have the hands to pull the horrible pads from her head and I do not have the strength to kill again.
So how do I stand in the shadows, weak and unmoving, watching the child I tried to protect, wilt and fade before me? How do I stand and watch the doctor and the nurse, still clinging to one another, knowing they will more than certainly do this to another child? How do I stand and watch the lifeless body of the mother as it lay on the floor, as her tortured child silently screams for her? How do I die, when I have no life?

And so I linger and wait. Not to regain strength, but for my own trial and judgment. I wish I could weep, but I can’t. I watch her as she watches me through her tears. Tears for me? She nods as if she can hear me then slowly closes her eyes. One last beat of her heart, one last breath, and one last shudder as one last burst of electricity surges through her lifeless body.

Too feeble to collect her soul, like I should have done in the first place, I watch helplessly as it rises from her broken flesh and stands to face me. Afraid to meet her eyes, I look away only to have her reach out for me, the spirit she can’t touch yet her love and compassion more than touch, they give life and I know somehow, that she understands and forgives me for what I’ve done.

Destiny has a strange way of making you see things differently. As I watched her fade into obscurity that even I couldn’t imagine, a small voice whispered, “Come home, your work is done.”


Copyright 2007-2008 CZF

Heathen

As a child, I heard my grandfather whisper to me through the wind.

I felt my mother's kiss on the gentle blades of grass.

I heard my grandmother singing in the ripples of the stream.

I heard my father's laugh, in thunder from the storm.

As a young woman, I heard my children's songs in the birds that flew above me.

I smelled my mother's sweet breath, from the flower at my feet.

I felt my father's arms about me from the sun's strong rays.

I felt my grandfather's love, in the air that caressed my cheeks.

As an old woman, I heard the laughter of my grandchildren, in each pebble thrown into the pond.

I saw my mother's breasts in the hills around me and long to hear her heartbeat once more.

I saw the twinkle of my father's eyes in each moonlit night.

I felt my ancestors' presence in each tiny movement of the wind.

As I lay to die, I remember my life and those who have given me cause to live.

And in each moment, I felt Creator's gifts of love, humility, peace, and even pain.

For every moment, I gave thanks.

And as I cross, one thing confounds me yet...

For these things in my life, I am called "heathen."

2003

Copyright 2003-2008 CZF

I wrote this many years ago, before Steven King's infamous book and movie. My brother, JD Nash, changed it a bit and recorded it as a song on his last CD. Needless to say, I was very proud that he included my work!


Tommy Knockers

1, 2, 3, 4 Tommyknockers at my door.
Knocking softly can't you hear,
Mama says there's no one near.

5, 6, 7, 8 Home alone 'cause Daddy's late.
Knocking, knocking listen close,
They say there's no such thing as ghosts.

9, 10 Let them in,
Mama, please don't let them in.

Bedtime's here the nightlight's on, I'm still scared of the dark.
Mary Poppins took a walk and got mugged in the park.
Footsteps coming down the hall, Mama is that you?
The ugly duckling swam too close and go caught in a noose.

Mama says to go to sleep, there's no one in my room,
Mary had a little lamb and ate it after school.
Tommyknockers at my door, coming after me,
The wolf ate up Red Riding Hood 'cause she would not believe.

Ring around the rosy, your little sister's nosey,
Wish her away to goblin land, a bloody vase of posies.
Daddy's home but he don't care, make a coat from Baby Bear.
Mother Goose for Christmas Day, Mama help me, I'm so scared.

Tommyknockers at my door, now they're coming in,
Jack and Jill went up the hill and guess who pushed them in?
Now I'm gone and no one cares, Mama come and see,
Tom Thumb's dead, they stepped on him, why wouldn't you believe?

1, 2, 3, 4 Tommyknockers at my door.
5,6, 7, 8 Home alone 'cause Daddy's late.
9, 10 Let them in,
Mama why'd you let them in?

8, 7, 6, 5 Tommyknockers they're alive.
4, 3, 2, 1 Out to get another one.

Copyright 1986-2008 CZF

Midnight Sonata

Ought the sunlight touch thee, 'ere breath of life escapes;
from whither come the forward pace, 'ore dusk's dark mantled breast.

'Tis on the grave horizon, love lingers there for thee;
yet whilst thou moral conscious weeps, behold the crimson crest!

A victory awaits thee, apart from thine own soul;
and slumber doth escape thee, as the ground berates thine feet.

Abroad the hills the shadows call, 'tis time for thee to come;
The wind doth whisper, beckon's, pleads, forget that which thou seek.

Aye, there upon the mountainous ridge, a lark betrays his song;
drawing deep, the night surrounds, embrace the ancient desire.

The hours gone, thy brow inclined, drenched in pity's woe;
To stand alone not realized, thy love is what thou longs.

Atop the foreign peak thou stands, awaiting dawn's caress;
when midnight strokes the strings of night, creation seizes thy soul;

Beauty all around thee glows, cascades to heights unknown;
the last midnight sonata, thine heart's true love doth hold.

Copyright 2004-2008 CZF

I wrote this in response to John Donne's "Death, Be Not Proud..."


Death’s Retort To John Donne

So thou tell me, be not proud, for 'tis I have been called,
Might and dreadful thou claimest not, 'til thou shalt feel mine scald.
For 'tis thine life I overthrow, wilt one day thou be mine,
Die not will I, though thou shalt fall, thy soul beneath my brine.
No rest, nor sleep, no mercy then, from me to thee wilt flow,
The best of men, include with thou, for all to me shalt go.
Thou laugh to beg deliverance, no bones shall rest for thee,
And thou to be my slave for'ere, eternity with me.
With poison, war, and sickness strike, thou prayers to go unheard,
Disdainful poppies, charms, or butterflies, vile bitterness unfurled.
Take task for thine embezzeled soul, that swellest now with ire,
Deny thou may, for when thou wakes, 'tis death shalt thee desire.
Short sleep past, eternal wake, in peace thou shalt not lie,
For death dear one, shall always be, 'tis thou o' mortal shalt die.

Copyright 2004-2008 CZF

And this was in response to my poem, "Death's Retort to John Donne."


Death, For Thou Hast Died

Pitiful death, confusion doth taunt thee;
can'st thou not comprehend the spirit realm?

Should thou banter with thine own fear;
for knowest thou not, this soothing balm.

Tho' thy sickness gnarls and pains, flesh may wither and weep;
and thy wings of dark doth frail body embrace.

Apart mine soul from rotting birth, thy poison cannot grasp;
for'ere doth breathe this breath of life, death's nectar ne'er to taste.

Death I do but pity thee, for power o're me hast not;
'tis love, pure love that beckons me, and touch me thou cannot.

Copyright 2004-2008 CZF

Still Waters

Glistening with promise, the water lies still; as dew on the dusky night wanes;
Seductively whispering, the time has drawn near, with dawn down the heartache has lain.
Crimson crescendos dance softly upon, the surface as ripples deny;
The mirrored reflection of solace and then, the nighthawk bequeaths his last cry.
An opus of crickets lull the nightlife to sleep, as the killdeer arise to the dawn;
While new life stirs timidly 'neath covers of hedge, soft nuzzles to comfort while gone.
Caressing with hope, the gentle breeze sways and prairie grass bends o're the plains;
With visions of laughter the morning dove sings, a sonata soft like evening rain.
When suddenly bursting with radiant gold, the heavens in harmony collide;
As a heart once thought wounded beyond destiny's reach, awakens in still water's tides.

Copyright 2005-2008 CZF

If Death Were To Visit Again

Glistening flecks of crimson warmth, waver in dusk’s soft glow;
Whispers of sanctuary ‘neath the gracious oak, its leaves like tears softly fall.
A haunting opus, the air trembles dim, evening’s cloak reminds me once more;
The haven I cling to beyond distant hill, hails laughter at death’s final call.

Soft in the coldness, yet shadows do cast, the clouds hide the scars in fragile smiles;
Grandfather’s smile like the sun gone astray, oh to hold his strong hand once again.
Shimmers of hazel, brown, and pale blue, in each tiny eye I once saw;
Hope for the future, unquestioning love, never knowing the ache kept within.

Seeking the past to make sense of tomorrow, sweet lies in the promise of love;
Unable to reconcile anger unknown, relationships cast by the way.
A lost mother found all too soon death’s kiss calls, and my soul cringes further behind;
The façade I’ve created to bury my tears, ‘til a mask hides the part that I play.

From the steel of a gun and a razor’s quick edge, from a stitch here and there I’ve long healed;
But the words and the loneliness, strike to the soul, leaving deep wounds left unseen.
Broken bones mend and walls become strong, impenetrable indigence prevails;
Protecting the vulnerable indiscernible child, who hides in a silent scream.

Beyond the drink and the powders that numb, beyond the pills and the pain;
An infantile being flutters to life; love is exhumed as hope grows.
Though children are lost and loves gone before, destiny looms on morning’s first star;
Thus an Autobahn life rounds the corner to greet, a daisy in place of the rose.

One day at a time, the past soon gives way, and moments are lived for today;
Weeping to heal, laughing to love, a voice for the child lost long ago.
A heart to share, a life to live full, once imprisoned by fate, chains fall fast;
A lakeside to listen to newfound ambitions, a universe of complexity slows.

A glance now and then to what once held me tight, a wonder of what might have been;
An abyss of chances to go back and find, what I could have chosen to pass by.
But the who and what I’ve grown to today, holds firm and reminds me what was;
Is how I became the woman I am, it’s not worth the risk to deny.

As the poet once penned, “I’ve taken the road less traveled,” and by far that’s true;
For without who I was and without where I’ve been, without the choices I’ve made,
Would I have the loves in my life and the spirit, would I have the children who died?
Would I? Could I? Not questions for me, for I have and I can and I’ve paid.

So as time continues to weaken the flesh, time also strengthens the soul;
Yesterday but a memory, though lessons have been cruel and still sting.
No regrets we lay down by looking behind, no power by looking ahead;
For today is beholding and passing us by, today is the song we must sing.

So long as breaths draw and so long as hearts beat, this day demands to be lived;
The circle of love stands the test of time, overcomes the doubt and the sorrow.
Let death sing its song for this child sings her own, no longer a silent victim in chains;
I’ll live for sanctity of only today and death you may kiss me tomorrow.

Copyright 2005-2008 CZF

Very well put together! I imagine many of my patients really would understand and appreciate this!

Apathy

Blood on fire,
Choose your sin.
Acid rain,
Betray your twin.
Universal hatred now,
Murder for the ultimate power.

Where's the love we used to see,
When all I see is the blind man bleed?
Lying on the street in pain,
Walk away and know no shame.

Do you feel the atmosphere,
Bitter, growing cold?
Extinction for the knowing grace,
The greatest conflict of your soul.

Playing games of truth or dare,
Watch the sparrow fly.
Round and round, the sky comes down,
Now set the dial on live or die.

Will the consciousness of man,
Sit back and start to fade?
Will we realize the price,
Of threats and vows we've made?

Is the end sometime near,
Or will we even know?
There's nowhere left to run or hide,
Sit back and watch it blow.

Copyright 1985-2008 CZF

Path of Lies

The road goes on, in never ends, give up before it's too late;
Turn around and walk away, don't try to give, just take.

You can't find what you're looking for, until you close your eyes;
Blacken out the world around, and walk the path of lies.

Search on, search on, down the deadly trail,
seeing things that don't exist, never win you fail.

Search on, search on, the fire inside you dies;
You're on the road that never ends, you're on the path of lies.

You sit and wait for day to break, but darkness grows so strong;
Voice speak but no one's there, what must be right is wrong.

There is no choice of where to go, there are no reasons why;
You've gone too far, you can't turn back, you live the path of lies.

Search on, search on, down the fatal path;
Dreams of things to never be, suffer your own wrath;

Search on, search on, the nightmare never dies;
Face your soul and realize, you are the path of lies.

1990

Thank you.

Voices of your Tears

Silence can be deadly, but words can kill as fast;
You can't escape your sentence, when you're bound by your own grasp.
Emotions you can't bear to feel, a face that you can't see;
A company of solitude, you beg to be set free.

You open your eyes wide with fear, as you start to fall asleep;
Watch the sparrow fly away, with the soul that you can't keep.
Look up to the sky at night, and wish upon a star;
The key is placed inside your hand, but you're afraid to reach that far.

A sentence placed upon you, but you can't remember why;
A lifetime if you'll write your name, but you would rather die.
Voices in the dead of night, listening to them bleed;
Reach into the well of souls, your crime will set you free.

You've locked yourself away so far, time doesn't mean a thing;
Survival of the living dead, now you can hear them sing.
Calling out your name with blood, you try so hard to hear;
Are they songs of deadly freedom, or the voices of your tears?

1986

Thank you