Humanity is a precious thing,
Bound by instinct true;
Also present is so much more,
Leading to something high,
Or the low road leading to chaos,
Destruction sought like a man in delirium.
The man who makes love,
Can also rape,
The arms that cradle a child in tenderness,
Also can turn to abuse,
Love can turn to hate,
Nurture at times lead to murder,
Such is our walk,
The struggle we face
The war between good and evi
Writing allows the soul to speak,
Bringing to consciousness,
Letter by letter, word by word,
What lies beneath,
The joy unspoken,
That would remain hidden forever,
Without this divine gift.
Both giving glory
To the true artist Eternal,
Lavish in giving gifts.
Racial memory runs deep
Branded into the psyche,
A festering wound of the collective soul
With rage often its only outlet,
Though it may hide,
Or be forgotten for a time.
The monad swallowed up
Sinking into the chaotic,
The desire to destroy and kill
Shattering any pretense of humanity,
Personal freedom chained
By the rising of that irrationality
Deeply buried in the unconscious of its people.
Good and evil reversed
With God’s voice or word
Used as the fue
Mankind lies in a bed racked with fever,
Temperature rising out of control,
Twisting and turning,
Lasing out at those trying to help,
To bring some cooling ointment,
The sickness only gets worse,
Mankind’s soul racked with pain,
The desire for blood and revenge
An addiction sweet,
Easy to partake of such a sumptuous feast,
So many to hurt, rape, and kill,
Satiation never achieved
The hunger bottomless,
Its thirst without end,
The god of war’s stomach
Linear, clear, beautiful,
Drowns in hatred,
Snuffed out as if it never was,
Gagged and bound,
Leading too chaos,
Cyclic in its progress,
The eternal return,
Until only silence remains,
Since thought is no more,
Nothingness the winner.
Some days are filled with emptiness,
Swimming in a void,
Neither hot, nor cold, or lukewarm,
Going through motions
With nothing underneath,
Like a soul trapped in the nether world.
Floating in the chill of lightlessness,
Just being there,
Feeling neither dead nor alive………
Then ever so slowly,
Its pace cannot be hastened,
Again the void recedes,
Joy breaks through;
Such is the wheel of life.
Wisdoms learns this lesson
No longer restless,
Seeking for things to do,
His mind seems to be at peace,
Amidst a sleep deep,
Held gently in it soothing embrace,
The body relaxed without movement,
Waiting for the call home.
A life well lived
Filled with love, laughter, and friends,
Good works the fruit of a loving heart,
Will soon cease,
His lonely exit entering,
Into the waiting arms of his beloved.
Unbidden it comes,
Often unexpected in its appearance,
Softly it comes upon its prey,
Who is interested only in what is before it,
Swiftly it embraces from behind
Filling its victim with its gift,
Given when least expected,
The fruit of an open loving heart.
Over the last few years, Edmund has led us to believe that he would soon be leaving this world, and proved us wrong. Now however he has entered a phase that I think points that this time his leave is soon in coming. His Alzheimer’s has over the years of course been worsening, and now he is in its late stages, though he can still communicate with us some. He will respond to my calling him by name, and when I pray with him he also is attentive. He still loves it when I pray the Psalms with him
People run for cover,
Looking fearfully into the sky,
Naked before death,
That rains from the heavens.
Hearts that love, also hate,
Kind people turned into killers,
Love of family, and country,
Belief in ones faith,
Leads to hatred of those outside the circle.
For the aggressors
No one is innocent in time of war,
The key to ending of killing, and hatred,
Is the knowledge,
Hard to accept,
That when looking into the enemies eyes,
Jorge (not his real name) came to see me yesterday, a friend that I have known since around 1990. He is Cuban, and from a well to do family, who have ventures in land, farming, and rental properties. Jorge is a very intelligent man, highly educated, and I presume that he is also good in handling the family business that he helps out in, though his father is still able to run it himself.
Jorge has a full plate when it comes to some of the issues that he is dealing with in his life. He has a
As I was watching CNN yesterday, feeling hopeless about the escalating situation between Hezbollah, and Israel; an image was suddenly thrown onto the screen, an image violent in its portrayal of a tragedy not yet hours old. It showed 20 men, perhaps a few more or less, the exact number I don’t remember; dead, lined up on the side of the road. They were of all ages; young to some who seemed old enough to be Grand-fathers. The horror of the image came from the silent presence of all these bodie
Mankind is weary of war.
The weak, and lowly,
Those who have no one to protect them,
Women, Children, the old, without a shield,
Waiting for ‘it’ to happen,
A sudden explosion,
Ripping apart lives and bodies without mercy,
Young men and women in their prime,
Full of life and vigor,
Strong and brave,
Those who take up arms,
Each thinking their cause is right,
Committing acts unheard in times of peace,
Tortured, and torturer, dancing in perfect sync,
I often wonder why it is so easy to write about pain, sorrow, struggle, and strife. I know that there is much of the above in the world, and I would suppose most of us, if perhaps not all, are often part of this drama, that makes up the pain of the world. Its weight is heavy, burdensome, to the point were death is longed for by those who get the brunt of its crushing power. No one is free from this; even the so called rich, the carefree, have an inner burden that they also must carry, it is j
For whatever reason, Clarence’s driver, the one who takes him to dialysis did not show up on Thursday morning. So I was called to take him in for his appointment. The trip is not a long one, it takes about 25 minutes to get him there, so I got the caravan, and off we went. I called ahead to let the head nurse know that we would be about a half hour late. Luckily the traffic was light; it was after rush hour, and we made good time. Clarence was in a talkative mood, and excited, since he was
Dialysis waiting room
I came in and sat down in the small waiting room,
The people there were waiting their turn to be called in.
Quiet, low key, perhaps tired,
Some are better at dialysis than others,
Many give it up since it is so hard on their bodies
I sat down with my book and started to read,
Then ever so softly I heard a soft humming,
Gentle it is sound,
Haunting in its unknown melody
That touched me deeply.
She was a small woman with a round face,
Beautiful, with her skin blac
Sometimes when I awake in the middle of night, and can’t go back to sleep, memories often rise to the surface, that I usually don’t revert to in my normal waking life. I guess when just awakening, and lying there doing nothing, allows thoughts from the unconscious to present themselves to my waking mind, and perhaps are asking to be dealt with, or to just simply be remembered. They are often very powerful, surprisingly so, since like I said I do not often revert to them.
I started to think a
In the depths of all souls,
Hidden often by life's rough paths,
Even forgotten by some,
Or perhaps unfelt by many,
Is a deep reservoir,
Fathomless in its depth,
Unlimited by time or space,
Coolness for a soul afire with rage,
Or numb from pain,
Rest for the weary,
Hope for the downtrodden,
Or for those who simply have given up.
This hidden-ness waits to be called
For it to be able to surface in many lives.
It can be called by many names,
But joy is its gift,
Last Friday, I noticed that Jerome’s left leg was starting to develop some blisters, and his right leg had a small wound that looked like he bumped into something. Since he has diabetes, we keep a close watch to forestall any future trouble. Wound care is always a priority with someone with that disease, since they can be very difficult to heal, and in some instances can lead to amputation. Luckily we have been able to keep his problem in check thus far.
There is a wound clinic that we ta
Fred, and his son Mike, came over for another visit yesterday. I could sense that Mike needed some time to himself, so Fred and I decided to take a little walk. So we started off. It was early in the day, so the heat was still bearable, in fact there was a slight breeze, and also a hint of rain in the air; something sorely needed here at this time. I suppose this is one of the hottest summers I have experienced since I have been here in Georgia. Dog days started in June this year, instead
The sound of soft thunder woke me this morning at about 2 AM. I can tell now when I will not be able to go back to sleep, so I decided to get up and go for one of my early morning walks. The early morning hours are the best, the mind is calm, the body rested, well relatively speaking it is, a good time for mediation, prayer and reading.
I am trying to cut back on my coffee and to simply drink more water, since I know from experience I feel better when I do this, however I still have my ritual
An old friend came to visit me last night with his son Mike. I have known Fred for over 30 years, 33 to be exact. He was a coach, a very good one from what I have heard, and he also did some writing on the subject. I have read some of his articles, and he was also good at that as well. I have always experienced Fred as a man of depth and intelligence, with a dry sense of humor, and who also speaks his mind if something is not to his liking.
He used to visit me around Christmas every year,
The soft distant thunder gently sounded,
As the clouds low became dark,
With the gentle wind gaining force,
Causing the trees to dance wildly,
Movements uninhibited branches waving,
The rain began at first softly
The wind joined the dance sent the rain flying.
Branches crashing unheedful of what lies below
Lightening flashing furious with power
Thunder booming in its crackling
Peaceful to the ears no more
Coolness replaced unrelenting heat,
Dry soil drinking i
The year was 1969, and it was a typical lovely evening at Whiting Field,a Naval
Air Station situated near the town of Milton, Florida, about an hours drive more or less from Pensacola. I was on my way to the enlisted men’s club to see some friends and have a drink with them. It was a weekday, so it would be a nice quiet place to spend some time just talking about things. I had no idea that on this short walk I was going to take a fork in the road that would both enrich my life, and also
The stone wall wound gracefully near the path,
Old, cracked, deeply weathered its years showing,
Claiming it space,
Marking boundaries easy to see,
Its sleep never disturbed by the tumult surrounding it
Oblivious to its own existence,
Of the struggle that natures lives out,
The cycle continues
Amid the restful silence of the stone wall
Untouched by the defeat or victory of the battle eternal.