I’ve never known supportive women

and I’ve met a lot of girls

I‘ve never heard a compliment given

that didn’t fade and swirl

I‘ve never sat a table with true linen

the edges always unfurl

I’ve never seen a smile risen

that didn’t sickly curl

I‘ve never ever been forgiven

by this ugly, filthy world

I donate clothes to thrift stores & pass pieces of me

on to someone else. Am I making less of myself?

I don’t know, but I wear two shades of bright dresses

in case someone compliments the top layer,

& I can gift it to them right off my chest.

If my bedroom’s a mess it’s because my heart’s

stamped on too many of my things, & I can’t decide

who should own the quilted throws of me. PSAs always say

that giving away prized possessions is a sign

for suicide but every time I’ve passed down my best

belongings, they’ve been material stand-ins for my soft

chirrups of misremember me if you want, but you could use this.

When I want to die, the wren in me searches for high places

& considers eating soap. I’ve lifted my bones to ledges

of buildings & turned back around. I’ve called my mother

& told her of the water, how all along my life

there’s been a river & a dive I’ve never followed down

& we’ve both agreed, alright, then. We’ll look somewhere else.

I like an ax. I like the heft of the head, and the smooth ergonomics of it’s shaped hickory haft. I like the power conveyed when one is cocked overhead, lightly balanced, playing you like a fulcrum. I like the speed with which one falls, the weighted head using gravity for assistance.

An oddly shaped knife is all it is, forged for chopping. A billet of iron, or dense steel shaped and forge welded to a sharpened steel bit for penetration, and an eye pushed and punched through hot metal by a leathery-skinned artisan wielding a ball-peened hammer.

And with it the iconic images of Honest Abe building a cabin, George Washington owning up to the Cherry Tree fiasco, or even Lizzy Borden, who might have just been a crazy woman, or whose Poppa might have been a mean, mean man… history has left us uncertain as to which.

Either way, Lizzy undoubtedly shared mine and Abe’s love for the versatility and practicality of a good, old fashioned ax. Her daddy must have gained a newfound respect for it’s abilities too, right there at the end.

Panic

and the mind dies

or

Under static pressure

resist the urge

to crack

Pressed beyond kinetic stress

refuse to diffuse back

to nothingness

To be is to desire to be?

No.

To be is to be.

I desire to be

electrified,

alive and wired,

Lightning mind!

Still,

Rebirth

relies on stillness.

I rely on pure potential energy

Reality flips the switch

And truth tears through

nerves like arteries,

only: Wisdom

rushes in like oxygen

Trust enlivened mind

for the love of Guru

Hear her hum? The words

like blood

The thrumming heart

and pumping lungs

the cry that builds

from stillness

and only this

Full-blown mind

bursts forth

A hero sworn,

not by battle horn

to be,

but to be,

nonetheless

To be

is not the choice

The choice is peace

Photo by Sunguk Kim on Unsplash

#Peace #Meditation #StreamofConsciousness #Mind

Faith is that believing. Knowing that we walk by it not by sight. It is what our belief system is built on. It is so important in every moment and every aspect of my life.

Hopes, wishes, dreams and goals are what we place or hold for ourselves and others. These are good and wonderful things. We can hope something works out well. We can wish something will happen. We can dream about it happening and we can set a goal to make something happen. Also, we know that through faith all things are possible.

I like Facebook. It helps keep me in touch with family and friends. That’s a plus. I even like those annoying pop-ups—the ones that remind you of special events. Handy. But today FB poked me in the eye, though not intentionally: It reminded me that it's my Mother’s birthday. One problem, though . . . she died some years back.

My Mom and I didn’t have the best relationship. I’m sure it was my fault. I was a dumb kid (easily distracted) with poor people skills who giggled at the wrong times and asked a bunch of silly questions.

Though we didn’t get always along, I respected her. She survived the Great Depression, World War Two—and raising four rambunctious boys.

Mom grew up near Windber, Pennsylvania, a coal town named after the Berwind Coal Company. Her Dad (Joseph Cassanese) was born in Italy. He worked in the mines for 20 years. Retired. Then worked 20 years in construction. In both cases, he advanced to foreman. Not bad for a man who came to America with only a third-grade education and couldn’t speak English.

I respected Mom—and her family . . . hard-workers, all.

Mom wanted me to be a lawyer or a doctor. That wasn’t going to happen. Why? The sight of blood made me sick—especially my own—and I always thought of lawyers as bottom-feeders who cheated widows out of their money. Who wanted to do that? Not me.

But back to Mom . . .

She was a great cook, devoted Christian, loyal friend, confidante to many, enemy to few—but if you got on her bad side, “fuh-ged-da-boud-it.” She was, after all, Calabrese.

Anyway, I’ve wished many times I could step in a time-machine and make things right with my Mom. That’ll never happen—and not just because time-travel isn’t possible. I think I’d just make different mistakes and mess things up all over again.

Let’s end on a positive note.

Mom had one of the best funerals I’ve ever been to. That may sound morbid, but it’s not. I think funerals are better than the day you’re born. Why? Because when a child’s born, you’ve no idea how he or she will turn out. Birth celebrations are joyful but shallow. At a funeral, you know what you’ve got. There’s a legacy to follow.

Mom’s memorial service was standing-room-only. There were family, friends, neighbors, and (as I recall) at least four pastors and a couple of choir directors.

That was no accident. During Mom’s life, she helped many people: She was a greeter at First Baptist Church of New Port Richey. She visited people at hospitals, nursing homes, and hospice. She remembered birthdays. Sent get-well cards. Opened her home to visitors when people from out-of-state came to Florida. Plus, she was stylish, smart, kind, and memorable.

That was Mom.

So, I guess I can forgive Facebook for the faux pas of reminding me it was Mom’s birthday. In fact, if it hadn’t, I might not have written this tribute. After all, Mom is one of those people who deserves to be remembered.

Happy birthday, Mom.

Video tribute to Mom: https://youtu.be/i8FOlFtzB_4

1. I need to tell you something look at 5

2. The answer is look at 11

3. Don't get mad look at 15

4. Calm down don't be mad and look at 13

5. First look at 2

6. Don't be angry look at 12

7. All I wanted to say was hi

8. What I wanted to tell you was look at number 14

9. Just be patient look at number 4

10. This is the last time look at 7

11. I hope you're not mad when I say look at 6

12. Sorry look at 8

13. Just have a look at 10

14. I don't really know how to say this but look at 3

15. You really need to look at nine

"Participation is entirely voluntary."

In other words: "Only the outgoing kids who are willing to put themselves out there instead of wishing they could shrink into the wall behind them every time they're called on have to participate, because they want to and don't see it as a death sentence."