Tag Archives: flowers

Flowers and Toys

Is the pattern
instilled within so long ago
to begin again –
running, constantly running
from one wild flower to another
longing for a sweeter scent
or more vivid, delicate petals?
And who, this time,
is the fleer to be –
you or I?
Each fear entrapment,
a seeping of the soul
subtly transferred to the possession
of the other.
Both have sought through
countless meadows,
seeking that rare blossom,
headier in fragrance
than all the rest.
Like children at Christmas
we grab one toy to our breasts,
proclaiming it our favorite,
our most precious treasure,
only to cast it aside
in favor of another –
stuffing memories into small places
squeezing stuffing from edges frayed
only to leave a soiled vestige
of childhood fancy
lying half off the shelf,
to tumble down forgotten.
Is the pattern to begin again –
if so, which of us is the toy?

Beginnings

picture by Marty
Spring has announced its presence,
birds are pecking pungent soil,
sniffing air – content the remain
until the changing tides of autumn’s
gusty, chill bidden breezes.
Flowers are poking their heads
through moist, fragrant earth,
beginning to make their presence known,
butterflies begin unravelling cocoons.

All this is to let you know
the time has come
to vacate those dark corners
and seek light breezes
and cozy, sunny places
in the glistening morn.

For gloomy thoughts
and reluctant bodies have no place
in the glorious melodies of Spring.
So cast off those Winter chains
and break those bonds . . .
become as free as the winds.

A happy mind makes a happy worker
be she drone or queen.
And content people are more apt
to be productive, accepting of their lot
and enthusiastic regarding
their performance.

This is a general service announcement
for the disheartened, disgruntled,
disillusioned, discombobulated,
and thoroughly disheveled
Winter rung philistines.

Spring’s emotions

It’s one of those bitter Spring days. One of rain and a chill that seeps into your marrow. The leaves are unfurling, flowers are everywhere, but I’m not about to go appreciate them. This is an essential rite of passage (April showers bring . . . ) and our water tables need every drop, but I’d like to go out and play and doing so with an umbrella just doesn’t cut it. I vaguely remember a time when I enjoyed the rain but the key word is vaguely. Times have changed.

With Fibromyalgia and Arthritis, my body is screaming out in pain. It is a sorry state to be in and so many of us have it. The weather hurls its dispensations down on you. You are at the mercy of your body. When I go out, I watch people walking in the rain, umbrella-less, as if they hadn’t a care in the world. My nose glued to the windows, taking in the bounty of Spring through the drops sliding down the windows. Poor, pitiful me.

It’s Spring! I can see the beauty of the world resurrecting itself. Be grateful we still have the cycle of seasons even if they aren’t as in the past. The flowers are magnificently vibrant this year. They sparkle in vivid hues I don’t remember seeing so strongly in some time. I moan and groan in disrespect for God’s creation. I’m inside, my cat lying next to me, having the time to write and read for a change. I have every reason to be grateful and have I mentioned . . . It’s Spring!

General Service Message

Spring is just around the corner,
the birds are peeking about,
sniffing the air – intent to remain
until autumn’s gusty breezes.
Flowers are poking their heads
through moist, pungent earth
beginning to make their presence known
and butterflies are beginning
to unravel their cocoons.

All this is to let you know
that the time has come
to vacate those dark corners
and seek the light breezes
and warm, sunny places
of the glistening morn.

For gloomy thoughts and
reluctant bodies have no place
in the glorious melodies of Spring.
So cast off those winter chains
and break those bonds. . .
become as free as the winds.

A happy mind, makes a happy worker –
be she drone or queen.
And happy people are far more apt
to be productive, content
with their lot, and enthusiastic
regarding their performance.

This is a general service message
for the disheartened, disgruntled,
dismayed, disillusioned, discombobulated
and thoroughly disheveled
peoples of the planet.

Image courtesy of Marty Dugan

The Right To Choose Suicide

THE RIGHT TO CHOOSE SUICIDE

Suicide evokes such a rash of feelings and jumble of thoughts in me. Nothing is easy in this arena. I have always been a firm believer in a person’s right to choose the time of their death, and in the past couple of years, I have been examining those values as my personal health issues have made me increasingly aware of my mortality.

When I was in college, my parents owned a residential home for the elderly. One of the women in the home, Marjorie, was a quiet woman, someone who held her own counsel. She shared the bedroom with another woman and we rarely heard her speak. It wasn’t that she was shy necessarily; just that she had an economy of language. She had been in the home for several years when she found out she had inherited a disease from her mother. The disease caused a slow and very painful death. Marjorie refused to accept those terms. She waited until she had a full prescription of her sleeping medication. During the two days before, she quietly went to each person in the home and let them know how much they meant to her. Then, she swallowed the entire bottle. When we woke the next morning she was gone, but she looked peaceful and had the trace of a smile on her face. We all respected her decision.

I fear I may develop dementia as my father had. I have no qualms about choosing to end my life before it gets too bad or I become a burden to my family. My children have a right to their own lives and having worked in Memory Care units and private duty care of people in the early, mid, and late stages of dementia, I know I don’t want a life like that. It’s a very hard, often long, way to go. I want my family to know me in better ways even though, as my daughter said, God will not except me in Heaven. To which I replied – then I will fertilize flowers right down here.

The Mask of Reality

A kaleidoscope of colors,
brilliant and beautiful,
adorning her majestic countenance,
she flickers her rainbow
of glorious delight, catches
the breezes . . . and flies.

Those watching from lowly places,
bow in reverence to her
stunning splendor, failing
to realize her abundance
of colors covers an aching heart
weeping for the safety
of a silken cocoon.

Never understanding for they
don’t reach past beauty,
content to remain
in superficialities,
wanting what they see
to be what they know,
and n more – they
speak in hushed tones – –
of loveliness and gentleness –
as they watch her
fluttering among the petals.

One day she no longer
will grace the garden flowers
and forget they will –
later, when other
lovelies pass in sight,
they’ll exclaim of
beauty again,
failing to remember
a day in the past
when a beautiful butterfly
with head held low,
looked with despair
into vacant eyes –
then quietly flew away.

In the end … We only want not to be forgotten

https://TheCommons.wordpress.com/writeanythingwednesdays.

Lately, whether I’ve been feeling sorrow at the huge holes in parts of my life or the fact I’ll be 60 this year, I’ve thought, off and on again, about the likelihood of my being remembered when I am gone. I’ve moved about 15 times in my life. Most I knew have forgotten me, of that I am sure, even when I have not them.

I have lived alone for the past 20 years and am a private person. Who will remember me? With a gentle spirit, one who doesn’t waves, do I have a presence? Does a pond, clear as glass, with nary a ripple to mar it’s surface, have a presence?  Unless the fishing is really great, will others choose

We all want to think we have made a difference in those we knew and hence, the world, in ever expanding ripples. My mother was a fiercesome, generous, loving, gregarious woman whose death filled our large church. My Dad,a quiet,gentle soul, had fewer people even though he had been a beloved pastor there in years back. My mother died at her desk of a massive heart attack. Believe me, she could give people heart attacks, me so on a regular basis. But she was also generous, pro-active, and a self-starter who created her own businesses, one of which still runs through my sister. My Dad drifted away into demensia for the last 12 or so years of his life, loosing his presence word by word – a sin for such a smart, wise person. But who do you think I have thought so much more of? The person I had the most issues to work through … Mother.

My children are fabulous people who have been achieving successful, happy, fulfilling lives. But it is their Father they will remember more. Not only is he nearby, but he can do the most for them. I love them with every breathe I take but in the end, it won’t matter. I am the passive pond, 3,000 miles away, with nothing to leave them when I go.

There is no real end to this piece. Only the future can answer these questions. A homeless, mentally impaired, nonviolent person will likely be forgotten before he even dies. I’ve worked with the elderly, in these later years, within Memory Care units and I can tell you, most of them are obligatory marks to be checked off the calendar on certain holidays or birthdays. And many have been warehoused there and forgotten. Nursing homes are even worse.  People can be mere chattel there.

I once knew a wonderful woman who died at 104. She lived in my mother’s residential home for the elderly. Her many progeny lived all over the valley she lived in. In the years I knew her, I knew of 2 people who visited, extremely rarely. That was over a 17 year period. She was gentle, Godly, and kind .. . and forgotten.  Another woman I knew had been placed in a mental hospital with a nervous breakdown. Her husband died, she couldn’t be released unless to family but all her family was in Sweden.  Although fully lucid, gentle, Godly, she was forgotten in a ward of 40 women – all stark raving lunatics and forgotten as well.

So in the end, are we forgotten? Most of us, yes. The detestable or the famous ones who created much good in the world, theirs are the lives which will go on with a resounding ring. We push our heads out of the earth, blossom, and provide our smell and beauty. And then die. But, like a single blossom, quickly forgotten. I guess the world and its people must always be future facing for our race and the world to continue. So cheers to the forgotten ones. May many blossoms grow where they lie. https://TheCommons.wordpress.com/writeanythingwednesdays