At my window the wind is shrilling,

great boughs on the pines strain,

dripping water, weeping in the rain.


Leaves wild, wet, flying, seeking,

sighing, it is fall, the season has

become old, the night moon is

silver, the days drenched with

sunlight of gold.


The emptiness looms around

me, the fireplace, a monster

with fangs of flames leaping;

the autumn chill brings seasons



Winter will soon be here, it invites

us to rest awhile, be idle, and let

our minds stray, dream of warm

beaches, blue waters and white

foamy bays.


The willful chimes of our memories

are like melancholy bells, echoing

the past, the lingering sweetness of

time; of valleys, we have walked

through and mountains we have



Remember all the lovely things

beloved in days gone by; embrace

life, accept trials and tribulations,

be grateful for whom and where

you are today; smile.





Pray for the Children…

There is a scar upon the land,

a mutilation caused by fear,

sorrow dwells in the heart of

mothers and fathers, teachers,

society, the turmoil within the

minds of children rages, a storm

rising from the unknown; robbing

them of their childhood.


Slowly a wailing wind pulls innocent

souls away from the aching hearts

left behind, lost forever, a sorrowful

fog settles upon the land; it is grief.


When will the carnage stop, the

guiltless have no place to flee, the

troubled die, storms out of control;

those left behind clutch together in

a vigil of mourning.


God must be weeping…





Chasing Destiny…

A red-wine sun

laced with ginger

clouds dips in the

western sky while

darkness invades

a sleeping land; a

cold moon pierces

through the shadows

of night, the world

will now wait patiently

for another morning

light.  The destiny of the

spirit, life events and

the passion of time lies

suspended within the

walls of the conscience

inhabitants of earth; as

the dust of yesterday

settles behind the winds

of tomorrow.



One of the Hardest Things To Hear

Please, if you pray keep Terry close to your thoughts, if not, think of her, compassion travels through space and time melding all of us together as one. Thank you, Ann

Who I am

I am not going to make this long. I will just say that Al has not felt good for a few days. In his words, he says he fills funky. He has not eaten well for a few days. Today at his Day Program he blacked out and fell forward.

The Hospice Nurse just left our house. I want to take her simple and polite words and dissect them to death but I have to remain sane. I knew something wasn’t right when she made me leave Al’s room to talk to me.

I can still hear her words exact. ” Has he been talking about dead people? Has he mentioned anything about not being here long or taking a trip? I couldn’t find a pulse but did find a weak one in his feet. He may sleep a lot now. If he doesn’t want to eat or take his…

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God Lives Hear…

In grief sorrow gathers

memories into clusters

of time; they hideaway

deep within the mind,

spirit and soul pray; yet

the heartache never goes


A black bell tolls upon

silent ears, the soul tries

to protect the human

spirit from fear, this is the

hour of mourning, a mist

of idle breath, and tears

fall upon the brow of


Kneel beneath the heavenly

crown, remembering the

love as the eyes cast down;

loss, pain and tears battle

evil and good throughout

the years, wounds that

cannot heal; demons within

are soon revealed.

Love must dwell in a special

place, life must be lived with

grace; raise the voice to

heavens and sing, think only

of the joys the memories


Go into the future with a grateful

song; let the tears disappear, rid

life from unwanted fears, because

God lives here.



Seize the Hour…


Passion, the pulse of being,

pain and power of human

claim, desires of the mind

and heart; needs coursing

through veins.

Desolate souls, bewildered,

climbing through a pearly

haze, rise toward the wonders

of tomorrow, sweet, dew-wet

searching day-by-day.

Hours once slow go quickly,

flowers dying, cold is the

ground; the sky grows pale;

a weak wind wakes…life,

takes, takes, takes.





eBooks on…


In the distant sky brooding

clouds roll, like boulders

between our souls, mine

trapped in human form;

yours in heaven gracefully


A tear, a prayer, is that your

light flickering from afar, my

eyes are dim I can no longer

cry; still I cannot say good-bye.

I had no power to save you,

weakness lies within me,

bitterness follows me in my

dreams; nothing will ever be

the same, nothing is truly, as

it seems.



Happy Birthday Daddy…

I am going to reblog a poem that I wrote for my daddy, but first a bit of his life story, I hope you enjoy it, his adventures in life were many, as were the heartaches and pain.

It is my father’s birthday, although I wish he were here with me, he would have been “110 years-old” He had just turned eight years old when his mother died, he went to live with his Native American grandmother, as his mother and father were divorced after his father left them sitting in an empty weathered house after he removed everything.

Unfortunately at the age of ten, his father came after him, he lived with his father, slept in the barn, ate on the back porch; treated as a farm laborer.  Not allowed to visit his beloved grandmother, he dreamed of running away.  When he was twelve, his father put him to work in a Tin Mill, so small in stature he stood on a stool to reach the cutting machine, however he was strong and without help lifted the rippled tin that was stacked next to the machine.  He would walk to the Mill early each morning and back at night accept on the end of the workweek; his father would be standing at the “pay window”.  Each Friday handed what few pennies that he earned over to his father.

When he would tell the story he eyes would sparkle at the mention of a man he call “Big Ed”.  Big Ed brought him his quota of tin each morning; and it was on such a morning that he asks my father if he wanted to get away from his father whom was known as a lazy drunk by everyone in the county.  The answer, yes, Big Ed help plan his escape!  The day finally arrived, my father placed his “other” set of clothes in a feed sack and went to work.  At the end of the day, he stood in line to collect his “pay”, Big Ed stood behind him.  My father held out a nervous hand to receive his money, when his father reached for it Big Ed grabbed him by the wrist saying, “Not today, this boy is going away and he needs his money”.

My father told of the railroad hiring water boys, jumped the nearby freight train heading south, he would forever be grateful to his friend, Big Ed.  Hired as a water boy, given a place to sleep in a tent, two hot meals a day and a few cents pay each week.  This life would continue for the next six years.  When he turned eighteen he begin riding the rail, yes, hobo style; finally returned to his grandmother’s when he was twenty.  It was during his visit to Birmingham that he met in a local Roadhouse a man by the name of “Pretty Boy Floyd” who connected him with an organization running whiskey throughout the south and as far north as Chicago.  It was in the Tennessee Mountains that he was chased by local authorities, his car shot-up and nearly lost his own life.

Hearing of this his grandmother sent him to stay with her cousin who owned a farm in the northern part of the state.  It was there that he met and married my mother, had two children and would remain on this farm for years.  This is where I grew up, with the most wonderful father in the world, a kind and gentle man that everyone called the Chickasaw Farmer.  Below is the poem I wrote about his farming days and the people who loved him.

“Happy Birthday Daddy”


The Chickasaw Farmer…

“A tribute to my Daddy”

Rickety ole man stood on the cotton
Wagon a tin of yellow salve in his

Rickety ole wagon
Rickety ole man
A hot southern sun hides behind

the Willows on muddy Flint Creek,

cotton Pickers sweat falling on

parched lips Taste like salty brine

while they wait For the ole man to

call “quitting time”.

Rickety ole wagon
Rickety ole man

Young, old, children, women and men
Bloody fingers cut by the barbs of the
Cotton boll dig into the old yellow salve


Rickety ole wagon
Rickety ole man

Tar bottom sacks filled with soft white
Gold weary feet follow two old sway
Back mules down a rutted road.

Rickety ole wagon
Rickety ole man

Crimson clouds from wagon wheels
Whirl around tired bodies and drained
Minds; feels like pickers been

Working in the cotton fields since the

Beginning of time.

Rickety ole wagon
Rickety ole man

Mules stop at the fork of the road as the
Cotton pickers walked into the dark of the
Night the Ole man’s heart filled with

Appreciation; cause he’s just an old

Chickasaw farmer trying to
Survive inside a “White Nation”.


Rickety ole wagon

Rickety ole man


Old-World or New,

errors, wrongs and

lies, do we live under

falling skies, is there

anyone that understands


King and Court of this

hostage land, it does not

belong to you, your

language is dumb; many

tire from the beating of

your power drums.

You have created an ominous

atmosphere, your ranks grow

larger, your resentment runs

deep; you have brought

carnage upon the minds of the

people and they live in fear.

You speak of gloom and doom,

you put panic in the hearts of

free people ; be aware that your

decisions are destroying what

has been built over hundreds of




In the Minds-Eye…

Imagine being on the edge

of eternity where hours have

no end, is there day and night,

are the stars close and bright.


Does the moon hang below

Heavens invisible veil; do the

stars hang by silvery threads,

and are the clouds soft like

feathery beds.


Are there beings living on planets

scattered throughout the Universe,

are their lives better or worse; do

they have a God like ours, do they

have greater powers.


Is there actually a Heaven and Hell,

are these places fiction or fact; only

time will tell, in truth one must die…

to find if paradise exist or if it was

all just a lie.


Imagine being without sorrow or pain,

if it is all true, we have nothing to lose

and everything to gain; we can allow

our imagination to wander away; but

remember to live life day-by-day.