The Angels

Posted on by
10

The angels up in heaven guide every thing we do
They watch us and support us and gently help us through
All that life has for us, the unexpected and the planned
From the moment that we’re born, until next to God we stand

Some stand watch above us as when we just can’t sleep
Others give us comfort for the times we weep
Some angels gather up the dreams that come during the night
So when our eyes are open their sisters get the details right

There are angels whose voices whisper in our ear
at just the right moment to conquer all our fear
They are sisters of the voices that guide you when you stray
From the His path, they help set you back on the right way

There are unique angels who help keep friendships whole
should we hurt the ones we love when we lose control
There are angels for our hearts and we give them plenty to do
As we go through all the wrong ones, for our soul mates true

Season Angels guide not our earthly clime,
but rather our earthly time
From the Spring angels trumpeting our birth,
until the Winter angels’ last bells chime

Granted some Angels paths are shorter,
while other have a longer phase
But each in turn guide through
the Summer and the Autumn of our days

From the moment that we’re born, until next to God we stand
All that life has for us, the unexpected and the planned
They watch us and support us and gently help us through
The angels up in heaven guide every thing we do

<>==========<>==========<>
dVerse ~Poets Pub | The Mind of a Child–dVerse Poetics

Friday 55: Sweet Dreams

Posted on by
12

Christ! You know what it is – just open the damn thing already!

I hold the daunting package in my white knuckled grip a few moments longer. Everything changes with this.

Carefully, I pull the seal, empty the contents and hold the book in my hands, officially going from dreamer to writer to…

Published author.

<>==========<>==========<>

Haven’t done this in a while – Friday Flash 55

I’ve Been Here Before

Posted on by
10

.

I ride the dusk
Streaking across the infinite horizon
Clouds tinted in lines rubicund and indigo guide me
Into the deep, into the dark, the eventide of my heart
I don’t fret, I’ve been here before

I know this darkness, know it well
When it consumed more than the rays of daylight
When it consumed my hopes and dreams
When it consumed me
And then regurgitated
An empty shell back into the world

But this? This dark is different
I don’t fret, I’ve been here before

This time I am the consumer,
I enter into this willingly, knowingly
That this blackness has an end
That this blackness is indeed finite
That there is an other side

I don’t fret, I’ve been here before
The erstwhile hollowness
Restocking itself to whole
Into the dawn, into the sunrise, the reemergence of my soul
Horizon tinted in lines tawny and cerulean guide me
I disembark as dawn streaks across the infinite horizon

My trip done, my voyage beginning
I don’t fret…

<>==========<>==========<>

dVerse ~ Poets Pub | Meeting The Bar – The Beat Poets and their Poetry

Sadomasochism

Posted on by
30

Spine Poem - book stackSadomasochism,
the right mistake.

Beauty’s punishment.

The girl who played with fire,
catching fire.

What you pay for, under a velvet cloak

The subtle knife

The golden ass

Twinkie, deconstructed

<>==========<>==========<>

dVerse ~ Poets Pub | Form for All: The Hidden Poetry in Books

This is a new form (for me) called Sorted-book, or Spine poetry. In essence, a sorted-book or spine poem is a poem found or created from book titles from the spines of books. A photograph of the books is a part of the form itself.*

As I will not have time to go to a library to find/create something more comprehensive, the above is from a set of books I am donating to a local LBGT Center. That they were easily accessible by being right next to my computer helped.

And for those who may be confused by the placement of the last book/line in the poem here’s Urban Dictionary to help: Twink

I’ve since lost the photo, not sure how, and donated the books as stated. *Apologies.

I See Your True Colors Shining Through

Posted on by
Reply

So last night  this happened…

Miss America 2014

Miss New York –YAY TO MY HOME STATE, TWO WINS IN A ROW!-,  Nina Davuluri, was crowned the winner of the 2014 Miss America Pageant.  The 24-year-old is the first contestant of Indian heritage to become Miss America.

And the racists go wild!

twitter_racists_2
 twitter_starnes_1The new Miss America 2014 barely had the first hair pin in to secure the crown on her head when the backlash started.

twitter_racists_5

twitter_racists_3

Being that this is Twitter, and we all know what a rainbows and lollipop filled space that is, I am not in the surprised by the nasty vitriol the spewed by these lesser informed Americans.  As usual along with their hate, their ignorance is shown at an all time high.

twitter_racists_4
I’m willing to bet a good majority of these ignoramuses against Miss Davuluri being chosen to represent the nation, were also upset that Marc Anthony sang the national anthem at MLB’s All Star game this past July because he wasn’t an American either. And we know how well that turned out for them.

If you’re born here in the US or in a recognized US  territory you’re American. If you immigrate here and become a citizen, guess what? you’re American. And American melting pot has a hell of a lot more colors in it these days.  Like it, and apparently quite a few do not, Nina Davuluri is an American citizen and is fully worthy of wearing the crown.

It galls me to no end how immigrants of color “are welcomed” to have anything they want, but -to quote Guns’N’Roses- “you better not take it from me”.  Immigrants of color are an asset to the country until they cross that invisible line and achieve -read as “take”- something deemed should be an American -read as “white”- ideal. Then it’s a problem and one of the first thing out of the complainer’s mouth usually is “They’re not from here”. If they would take their respective feet out of their mouth and extrapolate on that theory a bit, they might remember neither are they and the majority of us living here.

And I am sure all those of Native-American heritage justifiably nod their heads in agreement every single time they read something like this.

I find it appalling and yet “same old/same old” that ones spewing the most hatred were mostly Caucasians and the one shocked at that very same hatred are mostly Caucasians. As a minority I live with this on the daily. It’s fucked up, but not in the least surprising. The new Miss America is of Indian descent – it is a huge step forward in diversity.  Unfortunately, all those in the Twitterverse who feel otherwise about her win sends us two steps back in maintaining that divisiveness.

If I Read One More Thing About Weight Loss I’m Going To Throw Up!

Posted on by
5

Do you know how sometimes you and/or your friends come across something so WTF?, so  – I don’t even know what to call it – that it must be shared just so the burden of knowing this exists is not yours bear alone.

This is one of those times….

The Device
To begin Aspiration Therapy, a specially designed tube, known as the A-Tube™, is placed in the stomach. The A-Tube is a thin silicone rubber tube that connects the inside of the stomach directly to a discreet, poker-chip sized Skin-Port on the outside of the abdomen. The Skin-Port has a valve that can be opened or closed to control the flow of stomach contents. The patient empties a portion of stomach contents into the toilet after each meal through this tube by connecting a small, handheld device to the Skin-Port. The emptying process is called “aspiration”.
http://www.aspirebariatrics.com/how-it-works.html

Where a standard catheter processes food removal after digestion. Here, the person has a type of catheter attached to his/her stomach that allows a portion of  food to be removed from the body before digestion is complete. This medically sanctioned bulimia is calories in, calories out without having to stick one’s fingers down one’s throat. Good, because I imagine that must be murder on one’s manicure.

Now, as a medical procedure for those who would need to do such to save their lives, I understand. I fully understand that there are those who can’t, and I do mean cannot, make use of the socially accepted methods of weight loss – dieting-exercise-Weight Loss Surgery.  However, let’s be honest. Never mind all the verbiage on the website that this “therapy” is used to assist in one’s “lifestyle modification”, and requires careful monitoring by one’s doctor.  We know a good portion of those who will volunteer to use this are going to be the ones who won’t (not can’t – won’t) be so bothered with those sociallyaccepted methods.

Considering the ‘aromas’ involved during a normal body waste removal and/or auto purge response. Never mind what’s involved scent wise with the use of catheters when things go wrong – and they occasionally do go very wrong.  I do not want to even think about what charm would emanate should that valve and/or pump ever fail.

And So…

  • If it comes down the front tube it’s urination.
  • If it comes down the back tube it’s defecation.
  • If it comes up the esophageal tube, though not necessarily out the mouth, it’s regurgitation.
  • And if it’s sucked out the inserted plastic tube on the side it’s aspiration.

They liken the process of expelling the contents of one’s stomach to the process of drawing one’s breath.  I know aspiration is the technical name for that part of the process medically speaking, the drawing of air or liquids through suction. Still, I’m betting, if the standard definition of the word were a person, s/he would be appalled and highly insulted by such.

And ooh, when it comes to sexy time, I bet that ‘poker chip’ must be so lovely to kiss to lick to gaze upon. Talk about redefining let me stick it in your port baby, ugh!I don’t know about you, but this is not something I will ever aspire to.

9/11 Twelve Years Later — Six of One / Half Dozen of the Other…

Posted on by
6

.
.
Six of one –lest we forget– and half-dozen of the other –let us remember– still totals twelve years.

Today marks the 12th anniversary of the attacks of September 11th.  On that beautiful sunny day in 2001, it seemed that nothing would ever be the same again. That we would never get over it.  The collected we of the stunned free world, the collective we of my heart-broken fellow Americans, but specifically the collective soul-shattering we of myself and my fellow New Yorkers, who survived through it then and live with it now.

If I could pack my things and move back home per se, perhaps I would be a little more nonchalant about it, as some are all this time later. But I am not a transplant, I have nowhere to go to and ‘get over it’ as I’ve heard/read over the past few years.  New York City is my home, where I was born and raised. The Twin Towers were as much a given in my social and physical landscape as The Statue of Liberty, The Empire State Building and hell, even Madison Square Garden.

The destruction of the Twin Towers changed not just our geographical landscape of the city, but of our very psyches.  What we went through as a City, as a people along with our kins-of-circumstance in Somerset County, Pennsylvania and the Pentagon in Washington, DC was something we will never forget.  Or will we?

We grossly underestimate the human capacity to forget. Not the overall event itself, that simply cannot be done. Not the individual stories of horror and of hope, as those who went through them deserve to honor or dismiss such as their souls can bear. I mean the necessity to resume our daily habits, the need to return to as close to our day-to-day existence pre September 11th as possible.  And other than our annual remembrance, or the accepted inconveniences now related to travel, this collective selective amnesia was actually encouraged in the first few crazy years after the attacks.

It is a cold reality, yet cruelly disconcerting fact to know that for most of us, in such a very short amount of time, the enormity that was September 11th has pretty much been reduced to conversational trivia. In the 70’s the curious question was ‘where were you when Kennedy was shot’? Now it’s ‘where were you on 9/11’? And I cannot remember the last time it was asked of me.

It has stopped being a part of the collective daily conversation, but it does crop up from time-to-time.  In my case, it also does not help that my working career for the past twenty plus years have been within viewing and often walking distance of the old and the new.

I remember this rush of pride, of honor, for the nation in general, but especially for my City the day I took this picture in January of 2012:

tower_1

click for full picture

When I saw it that day, I was reminded so much of the original towers, when low clouds and fog would shroud the upper levels of the buildings in this same manner. Caught in the bittersweetness of the old and the new, I  had to take the picture. When I posted it to my Facebook I quoted Maya Angelou giving it the caption of “And still I rise…” Because yes, we did and still are rising as the rest of the construction that will comprise the new World Trade Center continues.

I was on a cruise on the Hudson River this summer (July 2013), and took this picture of 1 World Trade Center and the beginnings of what will be 2 World Trade Center:

704791_10201668187571686_799239903_o

click for full picture

This past May, there was a cheer that arose across the City when it was announced the final spiral of the Freedom Tower was up, officially making it 1 World Trade Center. Now all 1776 feet of remembrance, national perseverance and home town pride is up for display. To quote Donnie McClurkin, “We fall down, but we get up…” Yes, yes we do.

To those who think we’ve “milked” this long enough and prefer that we forget it – I ask you to remember Pearl Harbor and think about it. We still honor the fallen at Pearl Harbor and that was how many years ago?  This is our new Pearl Harbor. The building of the World Trade Center and the National September 11 Memorial & Museum located in the footprints of the Twin Towers, is our new USS Arizona Memorial. Let those who want to forget about Tuesday, September 11, 2001, go ahead and do so.

The rest of us? We will remember.

Weekly Writing Challenge: Writing Backward – Old Man

Posted on by
7

“Good bye old man.”

Hand still on the headstone; Delilah lifts her face to the light rain that has fallen intermittently all day. She has as umbrella, but does not want to use it. Well aware she will likely pay for this by catching one heck of a cold as she is slowly soaked, she does not care right now. It feels oddly soothing. The cool rain mixing in with the hot tears that continue to run down her face try as she might to stop its flow.  They all knew the old man was in his final days, still knowing Death is coming does very little to lessen the blow of the final strike of his scythe once he arrives.

It is fitting, she thinks. It is fitting that it has rained most of this day; it matches her mood as she opens the car door, when they pull up to the cemetery.  Taking her hand as she exits the vehicle, her husband Henri gives her a reassuring hug. A gentle reminder of his presence though he is otherwise silent, leaving her to her thoughts.  She knows he understands, she needs this visit to the old man’s grave.

The rain damped lawn yields gently as they walk back over the grass to the waiting car. A bittersweet smile crosses her face as she remembers how the old man walked her down the aisle on her wedding day.  Showing signs of his advancing age, he was just starting to become unpredictable in his behavior. She had let family convince her that it was perhaps better if she walked down the grassy aisle on her own. But in the end how could she deny him this? She was happy she stuck to her guns, having faith in him knowing how important this was to her. That he would do his very best.  And he was what he had always been, regal, charming and such the perfect gentleman.

The same gentleman he was when Henri, in front of the entire family, showed him the engagement ring and asked his permission to marry Delilah.  The old man gave a good-natured protective growl, but then his playful bark of approval, soon followed. Even her own father laughed hard at that, as Henri then inquired the same of him, fully knowing Henri had asked permission in the correct order.  Eventually, he got around to actually asking Delilah herself to the delight of everyone.

The old man was sitting by her side as always the day she met Henri at the outdoor café.  New to the city, he was lost. He placed a map in front of Delilah asking directions, without really looking at her nor the old man. She smiled removing her shades as she pointed to the then not so old man and teased that Henri was better off showing the map to him. Only then did Henri notice the harness, realized Delilah was blind and began to apologize profusely at his “oversight”. Delilah laughed at his use of oversight and introduced Henri to Oberon, her fourteen year old, canine service companion.  Delilah smiled as she heard Henri squat down and give the dog a friendly scratch behind the ear.

“Well hello there, old man.”

<>==========<>=========<>
Weekly Writing Challenge: Writing Backward

Daily Prompt | What A Twist!

Verbal Diarrhea Diaries: Halo? Hell No!

Posted on by
1

Verbal Diarrhea Diaries (a.k.a. the shit that comes out of my mouth):

Lyn:  Well, I already knew you’re beautiful inside and out, but this makes you positively angelic. Now stop sticking out your tongue and continue to straighten out your halo.

Me:  Straighten out my halo? Are you kidding? That thing needs a forge, an anvil and one hell of a beat down to get in any kind of usable shape.

Grateful

Posted on by
7

Yesterday morning was one of those “I just can’t get my act together” morns. I was just arriving to the train station I should have been at some thirty minutes ago. That kind of morning.

At the foot of the escalator to the train station, I notice a fellow commuter put something in the hand of a young man  standing there. He is asking for money for breakfast.  Emphasizing that it really was for food, he was hungry.

By the time I reach him three others with their heads averted have blown past him in the typical New Yorker “invisible beggars are invisible” fashion.  Normally, I would be among them, but something about the kid, he could not have been more than thirteen, reaches out to me. Before he starts asking, I have stepped to he side, reaching for my wallet. As I dig in my bag a woman just shy of flies between us, ducking away as though the boy had leprosy. It was beyond rude how she did it.  His hurt expression said it all.  He clearly didn’t want to be there and she must have been the last straw for him. Head down he started to turn to walk away.

I don’t know what came over me.

“He is still a human being you know!” I yelled up the woman, “May you continue to be blessed in your life so you may never learn what it must take to do this.” The boy and the woman both stopped and looked at me. She was on the escalator, but her expression was murderous as it lifted her away.

“Thank you, miss.” he said, still hurt, accepting the bill I held out without looking at it.

“Enjoy your breakfast honey. You’ll be alright.” I stepped onto the escalator and waited for it…

“THANK YOU MISS! Now I don’t have to share half a McDonald’s with my little sister. I can get cereal and milk and she can have her own. Thank yoooooooou!” I hear him yell, the gratitude in his voice totally free of the hurt.

I look out of the windows as the escalator rose and sure enough he ran across the street to the grocery store. I was already late for work, but once I reach the top, I wait at the side windows. A few minutes later he came out carrying grocery bags with a gallon of milk and what looked like two boxes of cereal, half running up the block. I smile.

“How much did you give him?!” I hear a voice right behind me. I turn and it is the woman I yelled at minutes before.

“Just $5, not enough for all of that. He must have been there for a few minutes asking.  You couldn’t even be so bothered as to even look at the child. Did you even realize that was a child? What do you care?” I ask annoyed.

“You reminded me, that I haven’t always been this ‘blessed’. I was coming back to see if he was still here to give him some money.”  She takes three dollars out of her purse and hands it to me. “Split what you gave him?”

“Keep it. You’re getting on the subway, there will be other someones who needs it. Give it to them.” I say walking away, but then I stop. “Just do yourself a favor and look the person begging. You may still choose to dismiss 99% of them – just as I know I will, but at least look at them for a moment so you don’t miss the chance of the 1% who will be truly be grateful for it. And you feeling grateful for having to chance to do it.”

As I say the word grateful, I realize I am just as grateful that I took a chance with him. I think about the boy -and the little sister I didn’t know existed until he mentioned her- about to sit down and have some cereal. I don’t know their story, I just know that instead of one split meal, at least for the next couple of days they have breakfast.  I am grateful for my small part in that.

I just have one question now: Who the hell is this nice person I am turning into? Ugh!