Life Post

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Tomorrow my time of babysitting a grandson and puppy (both avid attention seekers and prime mess makers) not to mention a lizard and two hamsters will be over. No more clearing the debris of a rapid New York departure or overhauling toys and boys clothes in an effort to get things ready for school again, parents and teachers will once more take the reins. While they’ve been fun (and very affectionate) after a week also stuffed with urgent business it will feel so good to get back to my writing (and reading) again, my quiet, clean and tidy little “ivory tower” beckons.

I Remember.

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50s

I remember writing laboriously with pen nibs and ink, their pattern of blotches decorating my spidery drawl and blue blotting paper limiting the damage. I remember evenings in the sitting room gathered around the piano before TVs usurped the family hearth, my mother playing as we tried to sing along.
I remember watching as my father guided their waltzing steps round the dance floor amidst a ruffle of organza petticoats, his getting up before us all to light the coal fire, and carving beautiful furniture from wooden egg boxes.
I remember helping my mother pluck chickens and shell peas, her superb baking, and how she made our clothes on the little Singer sewing machine. Life was simpler then still in touch with its roots.
Now food comes ready made in packages, entertainment is available at the touch of a button, and central heating means I can snuggle in bed while the house warms, but while making life easier we seem to have lost something.
The easy neighborhood camaraderie of post war London has evaporated leaving a nation of strangers. In a time when everyone was thankful to have a roof over their heads and food on the table all were in the same boat. Even the remaining upper-classes seemed to have a respect for the laboring class who had fought at their side in the war, divisions closed by a common enemy.
Now, rich or poor, everyone competes on the rungs of their various ladders and I would look in vain for a man who can grow vegetables, make furniture, fix our shoes, wall paper the house and fight for us if needed, or a woman who cooks and cleans, makes jam and pickles, clothes and books, who can make a meal from nothing and made our house a home, folks solid in their foundations standing united no matter what fate brings against them. I fear in loosing our roots we have lost much of our strength also.

Moments.

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Brief moments of time glimmer in the darkness as pearls upon a string, savored one by one, each a complete entity.
Linked by strings of events, like twining DNA they weave their patterns from beginning to end, each strand diverse in length and radiance.
Will we set radiant jewels and pearls upon our thread of life or worthless stones, pebbles, even garbage? We must choose wisely each day those things we seek, for all to soon the moment has passed set forever in the pattern of the chain.

Ode to Atlantis.

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atlantis

Down where the silver fishes play
Sunk down deep in its decay
Where once the proud like peacocks stood
Lies shattered stone like shards of wood.

It’s peaceful there now down in the depths, no more slaves, no more evil, earth and water washed it all away, this once “thriving” civilization. It thrived on hate and greed, on privilege and slaughter, using its knowledge to enslave the souls of men, trapped in the treadmill of its habitation.
Once the tumult of voices filled the streets, but no more. Now all is silent as the grave, and bones, picked clean, line the confines, earth and water conspiring to eradicate their evil lest it spread, contaminating the earth.
Now sharks bask in scattered sunshine that filters through the waves, like sentinels guarding the city hidden deep below. Coral adorns its sunken walls, shadows its depths. The trinkets and gold it sought long scattered by the waves, sunk beneath encroaching sands.
A lesson lies here, hidden, unknown, all glory brought to naught in a single day. Its vast armies unable to intervene, its technology of no avail against the powers that over threw it. They thought themselves invincible upon the earth, securing its resources to their will, enslaving “lower species” of men. Standing in the height of their power they were consumed in an instant. Now the fish inherit all.

Atlantian Legends.

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Down where the silver fishes play
Sunk down deep in its decay
Where once the proud like peacocks stood

Lies shattered stone like shards of wood

atlantis

It’s peaceful there now down in the depths, no more slaves, no more evil, earth and water washed it all away, this once “thriving” civilization. It thrived on hate and greed, on privilege and slaughter, using its knowledge to enslave the souls of men, trapped in the treadmill of its habitation.

Once the tumult of voices filled the streets, but no more. Now all is silent as the grave, and bones, picked clean, line the confines, earth and water conspiring to eradicate their evil lest it spread, contaminating the earth.
Now sharks bask in scattered sunshine that filters through the waves, like sentinels guarding the city hidden deep below. Coral adorns its sunken walls, shadows its depths. The trinkets and gold it sought long scattered by the waves, sunk beneath encroaching sands.
A lesson lies here, hidden, unknown, all glory brought to naught in a single day. Its vast armies unable to intervene, its technology of no avail against the powers that over threw it. They thought themselves invincible upon the earth, securing its resources to their will, enslaving “lower species” of men. Standing in the height of their power they were consumed in an instant. Now the fish inherit all.

Frost.

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frost 2

Frozen leaves crunched beneath her sneakers. She shifted the backpack spreading the weight. Behind the lights of “home” shone dimly through the darkness, a reminder of days, when summer dreams blossomed.
Now there was the road. She never stayed long, it always ended this way. Revving the motor gently, she steered the bike onto the road. She’d leave it in town with a note, he had the car. Bracing against the cold invading her heart she picked up speed, the wind in her hair, freedom! It was just how she was, commitment frightened her. She pictured his face when he woke to see her gone, the sleepy brown eyes and tousled hair. He’d been good to her she had no complaints… She’d just been here too long…
Rounding a corner into darkness she never saw the ice. The bike twisted careening into the ditch as she was thrown clear. Agony shot up her leg. Shadows swam and span…
Sometime later she came to, the pain subdued to a numb ache. Her gloves felt sticky. Raising hands to her face she sniffed – blood. She yelled into the darkness, but there was no one to hear…
She must stay awake, try to keep warm, but movement was agony. She pulled her hat down over her ears, remembering the warmth of his body beside her, the protective arm resting across her waist as he slept…
Lights swam in the darkness, twin beams glaring, delirious with pain she thought he was there; lifting her in his arms, but pain eclipsed her dreams in agony.
She felt warm and comfortable, didn’t want to wake. He was beside her holding her hand, telling her he loved her. It didn’t matter, it was just a dream. She could let him say the words…
It was afternoon when she woke from the sedation. Lights gleamed on tacky hospital walls. Her leg was encased in plaster from the hip down but the pain had receded. Someone must have found her. She looked around.
“Why you’s awake!” A cheery voice piped. “We was worried about you, came in half frozen, but you’s gonna be OK now. Thank God he found ya when he did!”
“Who found me?”
“The guy that’s been sitting here all day long. That’s who! Guy with a leather jacket with an eagle!” It was then she knew.
“Where is he now?”
“Went to get some food, hadn’t eaten all day. You’ll be wanting something yourself soon.” The nurse continued on her way.
She didn’t feel like eating, she felt sick, released by her dark ordeal emotions escaped the cage in which she’d kept them bound, dreams melted into reality yelling their message.
The door opened. He stood, his face contorted with remorse.
“I’m sorry, so sorry,” he cracked out. “I heard you rev the bike. I had a feeling you’d run for it. Ain’t no way I could make a woman like you happy. I followed you but the darned car wouldn’t start. I looked all over town but you weren’t there. I just wanted to say goodbye and make sure you were OK, but I couldn’t find you…”
“You’re not mad?”
“Me, no. I always knew what kind of woman you were. I jus’ wanted to keep you safe.”
“So you came looking.”
“Yeh.” Reaching out her arms she held him tight.
“I realized something out there on the road,” she murmured. “I realized I need someone to look out for me, someone who’ll come looking.”

The Package.

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parcel

(The beautiful true story of an “old flame”.)
It was an ordinary 1963 day when it arrived, a bulky parcel wrapped in mundane, brown paper and string. He turned it over examining the post mark, Germany? His girlfriend looked up from her hot, buttered toast.
“Aren’t you going to open it?”
Hesitantly he pulled off the stiff paper. Inside the mystery continued – bundles of letters? He sat down an odd prickling sensation at the nape of his neck. Though intensely curious she left him alone. Whatever it was he needed space…
They’d met at a jumble sale, impoverished students looking for bargains, an unpretentious place to start a love affair. The art and music departments of their college, with their counter affiliations of rebellion and conformity, didn’t mix, but he was different. He’d introduced her to the world of classical music, charming her with the haunting notes of his flute. She’d introduced him to more earthy pleasures and beats.
From a rich and privileged background he’d long been at odds with his overbearing, violent father, finally running away, to work many years as a gardener, letting fresh air, hard work and greenery cleanse him of the past. Now he was free to follow his passion – music.
She watched as he scanned page after page, tears beginning to seep down his cheeks. Moving quietly behind his chair she linked her arms around his neck, laying her face along side his.
“What is it?” she asked. “Is something wrong?”
“I was always afraid I’d turn out like … like him,” he stammered, the long withheld confession wrenching forth. She knew who he meant.
“But he’s not my father. My mother married him because she was pregnant … and scared. The letters are from my father… My real father…” He passed a tear stained page for her to examine.
“He kept a copy of every one he sent, begging her to come to Germany. He wanted me, and he wanted to marry her, but he’d been a prisoner of war. Germany was in chaos, his mother living on the street. He had nothing to offer her and she was afraid, afraid to leave her privileged life and live in the home of her countries enemies, above all afraid to face poverty.”
“He’s successful now,” he continued. “He owns a photography business, married and has two daughters. He kept the letters till I was twenty five, the age he was when he met my mother. Now I’m a man, he felt I could handle the truth. He wants us to come to Germany; he’ll even help us settle there if we want…
A few weeks later they found themselves in a big, friendly old house, hand built of oak and stone, secure and comfy as its occupants. The two little girls looked hesitantly at their new brother as their mother enfolded him in apple arms of welcome.
The father? He was all that a father should be, as they say, like father like son.

Infinity.

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sea sunset

She stepped into the surf, skirts gripping her legs in a fatal embrace like the problems that overwhelmed her. They say drowning is one of the easier ways and this way no one need know. They’d put it down to youthful recklessness, ignorance of the underlying rip tides.
Stepping deeper she looked out over the endless ocean, the waves beating timeless rhythms against her chest. Death embraced her in its folds encompassing her in comforting swells. The sun was setting, like her life. She paused to take in the blood red of its reflection as it painted bands of pink on a cerulean sky.
It had a beauty all its own. Troubles and torments melted away as she stood face to face with infinity. What lay beyond? She knew the landscape. Beyond the rolling Pacific waves lay tiny islands of hope and a whole unexplored continent, the mysteries of the Orient, but what of that other ocean she was about to cross, what lay there? Doubt seized her for a moment.
There was no hurry, she told herself. She had all the time in the universe. How strange a concept that seemed in her turgid, frantic life. She took in the flickering lights dancing on the waves, rested in the infinite blue of sky and sea. Laying back in the waves she yielded to their gentle rocking like a child in mother’s arms as the waters cleansed and relaxed her. She felt oddly at peace, tranquil, at one with the ocean.
Tentatively she reached down hesitant toes; the earth was still there beneath her. She realized, she did not want to die leaving this world of wonder unexplored. Some things she wanted to end, the endless cycle of the rat race, the fruitless love affair that left her stained and dirty, but not life. She had yet to embrace life. With heart beating she stood among the waves letting them wash away the past, taking in their gentle power, their persistence, she yielded to a new perspective. The sea had healed her.

A Lover’s Plea.

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Forged long ago, silken strands wrought hard upon earth’s iron anvil, heated within a furnace of trial and pain they yet forge a bridge between our worlds, a veiled link so thin and sheer it cannot be seen by human eye; only hands of faith take hold and dare cross the chasm below.
I wrought it of My blood and sinews, I who had no blood, who knew naught of pain or travail till earthly hands seized and drove in nails. I was pierced long ere that by the hate, envy and strife, searing My spirit like the pain tore through My flesh … they still do.
I left behind a trail of blood for others to follow, not in sadness but in joy. The silken cords remain, as lifelines they dangle just within reach.
Love was always there from the beginning and shall be there also when time closes and all that you know here ends. Love is a part of Us, part of Our being. When We made man in Our image We made him to love, to watch over, to care for creation. Man was born to love.

Watch a child, how it seeks to love and be loved. Yet they strive against it, they fear the pain, the humbling; but did I not humble Myself to become a man? Did I not hang naked upon a cross for all to see and jeer at? Did I not pay the price of humility?
Without humility there can be no love, the heart cannot be bared. The unprotected beating heart must unveil its secrets to another or there can be no love, no intimacy. There can be lust, but not love. Love lays itself open to ridicule, to hurt, to pain – as did I. Yet without love life is an empty shell, a husk. Anything worth something costs and the price of love is often pride, to trust another into those hidden secret parts.