Tag Archives: friends

My friend

When I needed a strong,
warm shoulder to lie upon,
my head resting
for just a moment,
to spill forth the fear
and rage lying captive within,
you were there . . .
holding me in comfortable
silence and understanding.

If pain became your source
of pleasure or your mind
a raging of bitter strife . . .
I was allowed the honor
of listening to those
jumbled up, tumbled out feelings
so you could have time
to sort the jigsaw pieces
and put the puzzle
back in shape.

Long have I sought a friendship
such as you give . . .
where I don’t fear to lie
exposed to your gaze.
Where I seek the warmth
of your company, rather
than hiding behind those
barriers holding me prisoner.
Where saying “I love you”
carries no threat, no fear,
only a happy glow of finally
knowing a friendship not
bound by conditions.

A Teddy’s Story

Once there was a little brown bear,
given by a little girl’s mother
who had never had a bear
or any other toy in her childhood.

Teddy (not imaginative, just precise)
was precious beyond all else.
From babyhood to almost adulthood
Teddy slept with the girl every night.
He knew every secret, the deepest,
darkest, most remote,
close to the surface or
tucked so deep within, the girl
couldn’t even know them for herself.

His fur had been pulled in places
chewed on as the girl ruminated,
like a boy in the country
might chew on a straw.
She’d tried the replace the fur
with green thread and stitches
close to where Teddy’s heart was.

As she got older, she knew
she’d sleep with him
until a man replaced his spot,
and worried about that comfort
being gone but would
never share all her feelings,
and certainly not all her secrets.

Then came the time her family moved
and all the girl’s toys, books, linens,
memorabilia from high school,
was gone, fallen from a moving van
into the mover’s hands
for his little girl.

But Teddy, he was so worn –
how would anyone else ever know
his life, his history,
how he kept the little girl
glued together in times of trouble,
sorrow and joy? Where did he go?
She became so upset
just thinking about it.
of all she lost
he was what mattered most.
Thinking he was in a landfill somewhere
tore her heart.

All these many years later,
she still has distant remembrances,
wishing he was still here
to listen to the stories,
hear the secrets, and
be the best friend she’d ever had.

The Question

So love is where its at Baby,
and my, my how we all run
from body to body
in desperate yearning
for that one person
beyond all others
that can reach deeply
into the soul’s dark corners
and pull forth
that gift carefully hidden.

Frantically we search
for the special someone
to fill our empty places,
making a shell become whole
because so little belief
is set in our own capacity
to make ourselves complete.

Love, baby, love –
the solitary key
passed from one hand to another’s
thoughtlessly dropped
by hungry feet
that in riotous panic
throng toward gathering places –

To get lost in the crowd
but fearfully hoping
for one night of love
before the illusion is shattered
and we stand naked
before empty souls
who had too little to give
and no time to give it –
desperate and despairing –
because love wasn’t the answer anymore
but just another question.

 

Struck Deaf

Struck Deaf by confusion.
Your lips are moving
yet come voiceless to my ears.
Words rich with portent,
holding the essences of
what I need to understand,
fall short of intent,
fluttering in the breeze
only to drop at my feet
before their meaning
is understood . . .
It seems I must sift through
each thought carefully,
weighing its worth,
slowly digesting its content,
before a day may come,
long after the truism is spoken,
when I might think the words my own
and proudly display new found knowledge
to those who first sought to enlighten
now nodding with irritation or amusement,
and hopefully some compassion.
Always the student I must be,
but like an unruly child,
I learn at a pace of my own keeping,
comprehending only when comfortable
to do  so . . .
and my teachers’ continue
to wave scarlet banners before me
trying to catch the attention
of ears too often deaf.

 

 

In the Dungeon

Deep in the hole I lie
Far down and deeper still
The light is but glimmer
A pinhole from in the distance

The hard, sharp rocks beneath me
Tear at raw flesh
As I peer over the ledge
Clinging in terror
Fearful of the abyss

These days I piece together
One rough, sharp edge at a time
Discomfort has its own reward
while I await rescue

I call to people who comfort me
Those who help lift me from the hole
For now is a time
I am a burden to myself

The frailness of body, mind, and spirit
Want to define me.
But with help, I am more than that.

If Only I Had My Dream Job

First, and this has nothing to do with the prompt, every time I sit down with my laptop, my cat, Spike, jumps up on my chest, sticks his face two inches from mine, then settles in.  As he is 26 pounds, it is a little hard to see around him and continue to work.  He can ignore me all day but the laptop is Pavlov’s dog to my one and only.

Now for the prompt:

Since I was thirteen, I wanted to be a missionary.  Even when I was exploring other religions, I wanted to be … only I called it a humanitarian.  I envy those who have the money and health to pursue this need.  I am working on the health (although it often works on me) but money is still a major factor.

My minister’s husband has gone on an annual mission for the past 17 years.  He is taking this year off but as he is the minister of a wealthy church, he is taking me on his next trip.  I am thrilled!  My daughter went on a two year mission to Malawi and I envied her so much.  I lived, as much as she would let me and telecommunications would allow, live vicariously through her experiences.

Now it’s going to be my turn!  I’m not sure where we are going – it doesn’t matter.  I just want to be of service.  I am also developing programs (if the Church Council and Board of Trustees give me the go ahead) to do this year and longer as interest allows.  I also want to re-establish a Women’s Club with the intent of drawing in the few middle-aged women we have. (But at 60, can I really call myself middle-aged?  I’m entering the next phase already) So much of my church is elderly.

I have done acts of service all my life, but on a one-on-one level primarily.  This is my heart . . . and I so want it to be so. So pray for me, all you so inclined, that these mission and service works take wings and fly!

Oh, and the second part of this is for an article on each of these be published and paid for so I can keep paying it forward.  Getting better skilled and getting paid for what I love to do anyway would be the icing on the cake or should I say nourishing food for hungry stomachs.

 

 

 

Prime Time

Sometimes words need to be spoken.
Not for posterity or fame
but to be one voice in the vast wilderness
of the cacophony of noise.

Perhaps I’m so shell-shocked
because of my traumatic brain injury
and bipolar issues . . .
the need for silence, surcease of pain.

Still, I need to be with people,
ones who understand,
who don’t question me
or condemn my behavior.
Perhaps in limited doses –
but it is essential to me.

Prime Time gives me that.
No judgment, no shame.
Friends and guides . . .
ones to help me down my path
to remind me there is one
and I have a necessary place on it.