I never made it to Karen’s place. I stayed in heaven and what a glorious get together it was! I don’t think we have words in any language that can explain what heaven is like. You know it in your heart and soul. The sun never set that day. It’s the best party ever! You are welcome and so loved. You see your friends, pets and loved ones again and everyone is deliriously HAPPY! You get to meet and hold beautiful souls you haven’t met yet. You get opportunities to make all your past wrongs right. GOD is there! Imagine that! No stress, no worries, no pain. All the stuff I didn’t really understand was becoming clear. Time takes on another perception. I will be seeing Karen and everyone else who hasn’t arrived yet, soon!
Keep Trying
“You can do it! One more now, don’t be a quitter!” My coach in rehab is such a drill instructor. I know she means well but my mouth still cannot pronounce “lemon” (we were going through the letter L that day). I suppressed tears while I worked my tongue and facial muscles to re-learn speech.
The car wreck totally threw me into a state of shock and depression. A ray of hope was fostered by caring healthcare people. I couldn’t just die like I wanted to because my family would freak. So I resigned to be the guy with the distorted face. I thought, maybe I’ll join the circus when I get out of rehab.
I can’t complain I thought when they pushed Lora in through the rehab door. She was messed up like nobody’s business. Her arms had atrophied to pencils. Boy did she have a lot of work to do. I admired her attitude. I wished I could say “hello,” but there was my messed up mouth.
After months of rehab, I was able to say, “I love you” to Lora and she was able to put her arms around me.
Intuition
What is this thing this gut like know, that we call intuition?
It is source, informing force as thoughts come to fruition
One can know and one can sense
You feel with true conviction
Without the proof or evidence
We practice intuition
A path to take or to avoid
As you were unaware
You changed your path and doubled back
You needed to be there
You may not know in your mind’s eye
But listen to the sounds
The feel and pull of insight
Will keep you on the ground
Tune into this, it is a gift
Let gut feelings flow
The best decisions in our midst
When we are in the know
Christmas
Christmas comes around each year
It brings our loved ones near
A time to get a special treat
And memories to keep
The radio plays songs of snow
Of getting home the place to go
There is Santa pulled by deer
He and Rudolph’s happy cheer
Jesus Christ is under fire
His birth seems all the reason
For stores to have a sale and hire
Part timers for a season
“Joy to the World”
Is what Christmas should be
Not Frosty, elves, a stylish tree
Some people do not see
That Christmas should be felt in heart
Not what the TV calls it
It’s all about our Savior’s start
Not “What’s in your wallet!”
Hate and It’s Cure
The word hate is the armpit of language.
Hate is a reflection in the mirror as you see your bad self.
Hate chews and feeds on your productivity.
Hate irritates like too much noise when a little quiet would do.
Hate blocks good and rational thoughts from surfacing due to dark emotion smothering them.
Hate can be recognized by the knowing when there is something or someone you just don’t need to be around.
Hate is a negative energy.
Hate is a form of judgment.
Hate is the lid on Pandora’s Box full of all wrong ideas and assumptions.
Hate leads to revenge. The word revenge is the other armpit of language.
Hate literally affects your health in a disease way.
Hate becomes a roach infestation in your soul’s home if you don’t exterminate it at the first sight of the first “hate.”
There is nothing good about hate.
The prescription for hate: Forgiveness, a huge pill to swallow (the pill may have to be split up and gradually taken in order to get it all down), but it works.
You don’t have to forget but you can forgive.
Get freedom from hate and his cousin, revenge.
Who is Your Gunga Din?
Rudyard Kipling’s poem of an Indian man is all inspiring to me. The English were busy fighting a battle in India. Gunga Din did his job. He was the “little guy.” The seemingly insignificant, barefooted and helping resident was actually the best support any soldier could have.
He did without for the cause. He brought supplies and carried water to the troops. He was reliable, devoted and true. He relayed information. Without the efforts of him, the battle could not be won. His clothes were tattered; he wore no stripes or medals.
He took a bullet and died wishing well to the men he served.
I have a “Gunga Din.” His name is Jesus.
Get Real
Put your face out in the rain
Bump your toe and feel the pain
Tell your body and your brain
I am human, not insane
Be the one who sees what’s real
Don’t deny just what you feel
Like an onion you can peel
To deepest feelings you reveal
Give yourself the human break
Of understanding risk you take
The great decision that you make
To be real and not be fake
Amy’s Love
Amy reached for “Barbie,” she put on the other shoe
Her brother he felt sorry, he sat in clothes of blue
Jimmy’s eyes began to swell as they were looking down
Upon his face a tear fell, he couldn’t go to town
It was Amy’s turn to ride with Dad, who had a business trip
Her little brother felt so sad, Amy bit her lip
She talked to Dad and he did hear, she got a special hug
She whispered words in Jimmy’s ear, avoided being smug
He packed a bag, his shirttail snug, his tears he wiped away
He understood that Amy’s love, was why she chose to stay
Some Stranger
My mother told me once, “Never talk to strangers!” as if they were lying in wait to hurt or destroy. I can honestly say mother was wrong about that. She was just trying to protect me.
A few years ago, I delivered a commencement speech for Duke University. For many years of my professional life, I have advocated “proper living.” I’ve written several books encouraging the avoidance of inappropriateness or its very appearance. Some have referred to me as the “Emily Post” of high standard living. My books have been a “must” in circles of high society. Cameras shuttered as the local and national news storied my presence. After the commencement, a standing ovation ensued!
While returning to the airport in Raleigh, my mind was preoccupied with thoughts of how the speech went and who I may have influenced. I guess I wasn’t paying attention at a city construction site. My Mercedes bounced down an incline sending me flying about my car. I landed slamming into a steel light pole. The street was crowded. I heard someone shout, “Hey! Is that Beverly White?!” I was dazed. I tried to remove disheveled hair from my sticky face. Steam and smoke were bellowing from the crushed hood.
 
; A few seconds passed. I looked down. My legs were spread and snug around the gear shift offering up the most phallic of sights. My skirt was inverted exposing underwear pulling on bulging privates as well. One of my breasts was hanging below my disrupted bra and my shirt was around my neck. I looked at the glass shards all around me. A gift of wine smashed sending its aroma all inside my car. Through the distorted windshield I could vaguely see an ambulance and a news crew (cameras unloading), rapidly approaching.
The passenger side door opened. A female stranger gathered my unharmed legs together. She quickly assessed I was not seriously hurt. She tucked my breast into my bra and rearranged my clothes restoring me to a state of dignity. I noticed her rough hands and simple clothes. She disappeared after speaking words of calming assurance that I would be OK.
In those seconds my writing life changed. I stopped encouraging judgment based on appearances. I stopped assuming what “correct living” was. I began to encourage tolerance and love for others. My books still fly off the shelves, to all human beings. Some heavenly stranger taught me to use my place as a writer “properly.”
Seasons Home for the Aged
She’d wait ’till they were fast asleep
She tip toed making not a peep
Got in their cups and stole their teeth
Yes Mattie was a denture thief
The working staff was quite concerned
A reputation Seasons earned
Residence at any dawn
Woke up and found their teeth were gone!
An old man made an angry scene
While covering his mouth
Miss Mattie was the “klepto Queen”
At Seasons in the South
Mattie hid her teeth collection
No one could stop her theft infection
Her pockets they were filled to brims
With partials, dentures, old folk’s rims
So full they tore and to the floor
Fell all that dentistry
Right beside the day room door
Stood her identity
So now old folks of Seasons Home
Have all their teeth back in
But Mattie waits for time to roam
She has to go Jackin’!
Danny
“What are the voices saying to you?” The therapist sits across from Danny. She is going to ask how many voices and about their tone. Danny is frustrated, his eyes caste to the side avoiding eye contact. His eyebrows are bent, his lips quiver. His speech is pressured. To Danny this is a personal question. It’s like an invasion of privacy so to say.
“They tell me to hurt myself, that I’m a piece of shit anyway.” He wrings his chubby hands. His disheveled curly red hair is flopping over his eyes. His mother sits in the next chair, exasperated. There have been many therapists and attempts to control Danny’s Schizophrenia. The voices started when Danny was eighteen. He is now twenty five.
After the session and an increase in his dosages, Danny and mother go home.
No one can tell Danny the voices are not real. They live inside his head. They hate him. They lie to him and reward him when he obeys them. He begins to believe them. He believes the lies they tell of people only wanting to hurt him. They tell him not to sleep. He believes he is just a piece of shit. He believes the voices. It is one against many who bombard him every day telling him why he should just die. They tell him he is the alien supreme ruler of Neptune who needs to return to the goat hoof ship. He can trust no one but the voices. He is tired. He is drugged and follows the commands. He overdoses and dies.
Were the voices real? They were to Danny.
Never Find
Hidden stories of the past live with us like a debtor
We somehow think we owe them out when silence would be better
Some of us have secrets that if told would cause us grief
Truthful memories never told protect like shade from leaf
There are some who, if they knew, would quickly be surprised
Give cause to do impulsive things with anger in their eyes
The truth can be quite hurtful to the ones we love the most
You may consider silence, delete that FaceBook post!
Discernment is a forthright word
A challenge of the mind
To tell a story never heard
Or place in “Never Find”
I’m not saying don’t come out with things that should be said
Here’s a little point to ponder, heart should rule the head
Some things should just be filed away into your “Never Find”
A place to shield some others in the corners of your mind
Some Dammed Day
Evil hurt a child today
He took more than his share
Narcissism out to play
For others he don’t care
Manipulate just to take
The absence of compassion
Hearts so full of empty fake
Hiding selfish passion
I say to you a warning
You likely will ignore
You will soon be mourning
Payback’s at your door
California’s burning soon
The big quake very near
Asteroids call sonic boom
Explosions you will hear
The moon will be confused
Communications cut
Aliens accused
Of chaos fear and such
Color schemes will change
The illnesses anew
Great thirst and hunger pangs
Death will surround you
Survival will be rare
Grief will be there too
Fear the fiery blare
It’s here to consume you
To live in this oppression
Not where you used to be
Will force you ask the question
“Will God Save me!?”
Will you help a child somehow?
Protect them from despair
Will you seek forgiveness now?
Or will you still not care?
Our Angel
She fumbled in the ice tray
Looking for some food
She slept in clothes of yesterday
Confusion is her mood
She mumbles in her sleep these days
I can’t make out a word
Her mind is in a type of haze
As thoughts are getting blurred
I think the angels visit her
Telling her, “It’s time.
Things are not the way they were.
Relax, no feat to climb
I heard it said the other day,
“Your loved one’s in a boat.
She gently slowly drifts away
No thing she needs to tote.”
We will do all that we can
While she makes this transition
On the shore she’ll peaceful land
Successful angels’ mission
Greeted by the Son of God
Friends and family too
Renewed and perfect, nothing flawed
She’s bright in skies of blue
She’ll have wings and glory beams
With power of our King
Together we’ll be
Eventually
She’ll visit in our dreams
Refuse To Flock
I write to let you know your life
Is not unlike the past
The soul of man endures its strife
Conformity will last
“You must do this and that” they say
You be strong and proud
In the path
you take along the way
Not following the crowd
Times will come to teach our souls
If we are rock or sand
Do we believe in our own goals?
Will we sit or stand?
Stand for what is right and good
Stand for being wise
Or sit ignoring when we should
Refuse this evil guise
I hope your house sits on a rock
You need for steadfast ground
Not following the massive flock
The puppeteers have found
The Paper Boy
Back in the day, he stood on the corner, hollering out the front cover
He made a few bucks
For marbles and such
But most he would give to his mother
Up at dawn and out the door, the boy of barely age ten
Could sell you the news
In worn out shoes
As proud as full grown men
“Extra! Extra! Read all about it!” Folks wanted to be in the know
Business plans
Politician’s stands
Fashions of day
Evil at play
He’d sell wherever he’d go
Crocodile Flies like Superman
His mother sits close to his bed
He says to her, “I’ll soon be dead
Heaven is to go on only
I’ll leave you here sad and lonely”
Mommy says, “We’ll never part!
Tommy you are in my heart
Tommy you are Superman!
Flying to the Promised Land!”
Tommy’s on the hospice bed
Remembering what his mother said
Tommy grinned as he was musing
Playing with his facial tubing
“See you later alligator” Tommy says as he jeers
“After a while crocodile” Mommy says, pushing tears
The crocodile, his breath gives way
From mother’s arms he flies away
Some of Life's Kettle Corn Page 2