Looking Out the Rear Window

The funeral rite concluded
With the pastor shaking hands,
Offering words of comfort
I didn't quite understand.

The undertakers came forth
And summoned pallbearers' four.
They marched beside the coffin
Carrying it steady toward the door.

I didn't cry or whimper
As I followed right behind.
But deep within I screamed
Don't leave O Mother of mine.

Please don't go to the grave;
Let's chat just one more time.
Let's talk about the 'good old days'
Don't leave, O Mother of mine."

But onward moved the casket
Down the stairs to the limousine;
With Mother laying incognizant
Of my agonizing scream.

As we rode toward the ossuary
Thoughts were swimming in my head;
Why didn't the whole world stop?
Didn't it know my Mother was dead?

But the world kept 'bout its business
And within I felt so sad,
'Cause my Mother didn't get the honor
I thought she should have had.

As we drove into the cemetery
I knew it wouldn't be long,
Before I had to sing at last
My final farewell song.

I stood at the gravesite
Grief festering in my breast:
Scriptures read, prayers prayed,
Mother committed to eternal rest.

Looking out the car's rear window
As we mutely drove away;
I saw a heavenly angel fly
To where my Mother lay.

Then I knew that all was well,
That Mother was just fine.
That I would live and grow and serve
Until, alas, my time.

Thank you Lord for reassuring me
That the grave is not the end.
That Mother is patiently waiting for me
Just around life's toilsome bend.

But now there's work I must perform
That no one else can do;
Some hurting, aching souls to soothe,
Broken dreams to help renew.

And in the process of reaching out
To brighten someone's day;
I sense way deep within myself,
That I too will be okay.

By Saundra L. Washington

Tsunami Day

A Poem - By Lorraine Kember

It was a day like any other and mother, father, sister, brother, were carrying out the customs of their land. When suddenly without warning, Mother Nature came calling, shook the earth and stole the ocean from the sand.

Many gazed in wonder before their world was torn asunder, when the massive wall of water reached the shore. They, uncomprehending that the life they knew was ending and that this day would change the world for ever more.

Frantic now and running; they joined the fleeing throng, many drowned along the way, but the water bore them on. Nature showed no favorites on that fateful day, countrymen and tourists, fell victim to her spray. The young, the old, the meek the bold, caught up in its deadly swirls; along with the houses boats and cars, floated men, women, boys and girls.

The aftermath was destruction as far as the eye could see, babies torn from mothers arms were found in the debris. Bodies floated everywhere, and survivors called the name of a loved one who had disappeared and would never be seen again.

We watch these images on TV and it's hard to comprehend the magnitude of this disaster and where the result of it will end. The Tsunami devastation has touched the hearts of Nations and we mourn for the thousands who have died. Our thoughts are with the survivors, knowing the millions of tears they have cried.

As well as the aid and the funds we give; we also hope and pray, that something positive can be gained, from the tragedy of this day. No matter our gender, colour or creed or the country of our birth, we are after all fellow humans living on this Earth.

World peace should be our ultimate goal, its price not too high to pay, in remembrance of all who died on Tsunami day.

Caught in the Arms of ED

YOU MIGHT THINK I AM STRONG

I THINK YOU GOT IT WRONG

I LIVE LIFE DAY TO DAY

HOPING IT WILL GO MY WAY

I HAVE MY FRIENDS AND MY FOOD PLAN

MY THERAPIST AND MY THOUGHTS

MY EXERCISE AND MY EXCITEMENT

THEN SOMETHING HAPPENS AND I GET CAUGHT

CAUGHT IN THE ARMS OF ED

TURNING MY EYES AWAY

FROM MY FOCUS TO WIN THE FIGHT

THAT I THOUGHT WAS GOING TO STAY.

HE TELLS ME THAT I AM SELFISH

THAT I SHOULD DOUBT MY EVERY MOVE

ONE MINUTE I AM HAPPY

DO I HAVE A RIGHT TO FEEL THIS GOOD?

DOUBTING MY STRENGTH AND CONFIDENCE

AS ED ALWAYS KNEW I WOULD

I AM LOSING INCHES AROUND MY WAIST

AND MY PANTS ARE FALLING OFF

I SEE THE FACE OF ED IN MY HEAD

AS HE BEGINS TO LAUGH AND SCOFF

YOU THINK YOU ARE GOING STRONG

YOU THINK YOU GOT ME BEAT

LET ME SEE YOU LOSE EVEN MORE

YOU WILL SEE THAT YOU WERE WRONG.

THE LITTLE VOICE IS ALWAYS THERE

CHATTERING AWAY

CAN'T I SEND HIM TO DETENTION

OR KILL HIM FOR GOOD TODAY?

EVERY ONCE IN A WHILE I GET CAUGHT UP IN MY LIFE

AND REALIZE THAT I AM HAPPY AND STRONG

AND FORGET TO FOCUS ON THE FIGHT

PLEASE TELL ME THAT YOU CARE

DON'T LET ED BE RIGHT.

By Mary Pat

Welcome to the Town of Feeling

Happy, Sad, Mad and Glad,
Moved in down the street

Cautious watched them, from her window,
Wondering, which one should I meet?

Confused came in with overwhelmed and said,
"The Panics have come to town"

Then Hopeful called the carefulls,
And said that Happy was a clown.

Anxious came in with the news,
Confident had called a town meeting

To take a vote for Mayor,
And to Welcome the new neighbors to Feeling.

Feeling was a busy town,
Always on the go

Happy was voted as Feeling's Mayor,
While Confident decided to go.

Happy took the Mayors Job and took it seriously.

Thinking the town,
Would be so much better off,

If everyone were Happy.

Now Happy asked for their suggestions,
Saying yes to everyone.

Soon, Happy was out and Chaos was in,
Chaos was on the run.

Gathering the folks from Feeling,
Chaos ran from house to house,

While Bored and Lonely ran into town,
And were quiet as a mouse.

While Chaos was running with Crazy,
Happy called Confident and Calm,

They knew that Lazy was out of the question,
For it was nearly dawn.

When the two groups came together,
They wondered "Who will it ever be?"

Who would watch over the town of Feeling,
and keep it rodent free?

Happy, Sad, Mad and Glad,
Were chosen on the spot

Then balanced and joyful came to town,
They were the best house on the lot.

The people that lived in Feeling,
Well, they came and then they went

The time they had with neighbors and friends,
Was definitely time well spent.

When you find yourself in Feeling,
Remember to take it slow,

Making friends in this wonderful place,
Is the only way to go.

By Mary Pat

A Case of The Fears

Chicken Soup is good for a cold

Sleep is good for the Flu

When I get a case of the Fears

What is a person to do?

It is not bacteria

Although it can eat away my soul

It is not a virus

Yet, it can keep me from feeling whole

I know what will do the trick,

What will put me back on top,

A great big bowl of Ice Cream

Will really hit the spot

That was great and now I am done

One bowl just won't do

If one is good, then more is great

And now I have eaten two.

Bowls three, four, five and six

Came and then they went

I think my case of the fears are fixed

Look at how my time was spent

I am getting sleepy

It is time to go to bed

My fears are no longer in my stomach

Now they are in my head

I close my eyes and I can see

The Fears I want to kill

I will do, whatever it takes

To keep the monsters still.

When I rise to greet the day

My fears are rising too

I know I need a friend right now

Whatever will I do?

I walk into the kitchen

And Open the freezer door

I stop myself and think real hard

I have been here once before.

I grab a seat in my comfy chair

And reach over for the phone

What will I say, if you are there?

I can hear a dial tone.

I enter all your numbers

You answer right away

You sit and listen, as I speak

You said I would be ok.

We say good-bye and I start my day

I knew I had been wrong

I start to read and then to pray

To keep me feeling strong.

If you are like me then you will see

That the fears, they come and go

Be the person you were meant to be

Let your feelings show.

I Hate The Wait (Weight)

I get up in the morning

And want to stay in bed

Oh, so nice and warm

Like fresh from the oven bread.

My day is oh so busy

I wish that I could stay

In the quiet of my house

If only I could play.

Relax and play like Children do

No matter where they are

Never worried about being late

Or looking ahead too far

My body won't sit quietly

I need to get there now

No time to chat, I now must go

All I can say is Chow

I hate to wait

For time to pass

Time to eat

To get some gas

Tick Tock of the clock

I look into the sky

The numbers move so slowly

I wish that they would fly

The weight won't move at all today

And the wait is way too long

I am doing the best I can

To help move time along.

I can not control the numbers

On the clock or on the scale

I need to remember that they are things

And that I will never fail.

Time will pass without my help,

The scale gets thrown away

I will learn to breathe these words,

I will to learn to say to say:

Say the words that matter

In soul, In Heart and Voice

I have enough, I do enough, I am enough

For each day is a choice.

Kafka Re-Trial

Kafka lands resurrected in Crewe deposited by a silvery alien craft, And whilst he is wondering what to do He is asked to show his pass Or pay an instant one off fine At a cash dispenser of his choice And they are checking all the time On his irises face and voice.

And of course they find that he is not, They discover he just cannot be there, Although he seems as if he is visible, And has hands and toes and hair, If he is not on the Great Data Bank, He plainly and simply cannot be, He is not listed and he is not ranked He is surely not like you and me.

So they cant detain him in custody But they do not have to let him go He never ever happened, period So who can ever tell, or know. So on a lonely bench in quiet shade He sits alone and unremarked, Wondering what games they play, Against the backdrop of the park.

And so, are we just the opposite, Are we all consigned to hidden files, Are machines deciding who we are, Where we live, and when we smile, Is nothing a certain and real fact, Unless computer correlated true, And should your dossier go into error, How can you prove, you are really you.

How do you verify yourself for a loan, If your ranking gets compromised, How do you overturn all their data, Making you a pariah in others eyes, You may hold letters of validity, They may grudgingly know its you, Unless their system grants absolution, There is nothing they can say or do.

So unless we are verifiable as sound, And our image assuages Superhal, No one will ever trust us again, No one will ever want to be our pal, But this is not like yesteryear, When a quick query cleared your name, Your questions are merely registered, And you just get told how to complain.

Complaints are collated and quantified, They are cross filed and referenced, You must never lose this number, And you must never take offence, You are continually adjourned, Or moved to yet another floor, In the hope that you will falter, From all that has gone before.

Meanwhile youre mugged, not statistically, Contract MRSA, but its not on file, Your children cannot read or write, But their qualifications raise a smile, You always hit potholes that dont exist, To save waiting on trains that dont arrive, But whose flexitimes prove you missed, The only one late out of fifty five.

You cry out to be heard aloud, But the echoes mock your voice, You cannot afford the telephone, Cant bypass enforced menus of choice, Cannot contact a single human being, By department, name or reason, All this evolved like a dripping tap, Season upon big brother season.

Then one day walking in solitude, Your will to try nearly quenched, There is the quiet of the shady park, There is the man upon the bench, Who looks at you knowingly, And asks you if you ever read, And says Then I am Kafka, You Must Tell Me What You Need.

So He went up to their doors, The Nameless Man with Faceless Face, And bearded them in their hallowed den, Their plush revered and holy place, And caused unmitigated consternation, As he either was not really there, Or indeed actually physically existed, Solidly sitting silent in his chair.

So they asked him what he would want, If he were real and not mere illusion, For his appearance was so inopportune, His face and features causing confusion, His DNA was an embarrassment, Never born, nor listed, nor created, Never taxed, treated, nor arrested, Never receiving a non education.

So he stood up to his full height, And drew up his deepest breath, That made him seem immortal, And made them all fear death, And his mighty voice resounded, So much the walls retained his words, We want to be individuals again We want to speak and to be heard, We want our voice to really matter, And we want to hear no more lies, We want illusion swept away, Replaced by council of the wise, We want common sense to prevail, And not statistical subterfuge, Which tries to tell us its all ok, When we know it must improve, We want you to abdicate and take, Your machines and Mandarins away, And we want it done immediately, Oh Yes, we want it done today.

Or else I will shine in prime time, And then all will see its me, The man who is not Kafka, The man who simply cannot be, Then where will your credibility go, Will they ever listen to your pleas. No, far better for you to go now, And leave reality to me.

And they went away in disarray, Whilst he heralded a new era, No one knew who the hell he was, But yet everything seemed clearer, Everything was as it appeared, Nothing hidden, no more of the lies, And no one filed his disappearance, When he finally left our skies.

They can media us its always fine, Statistic prove what cannot be true, They can try to justify their lies, Attempt to airbrush history in two, They may perceive us all as fools, Force fed on false soap opera goals, But cannot forever control our minds, Nor assume they own our souls, For Long term lies have multiplied, And now are ringing empty and hollow, What seemed so reasonable yesterday Will be disproved upon the morrow, And with these endless lies surfacing, Just Like The Man Who Could Not Be, The truth will slowly become visible, And the truth will set us free.

Ex systems programmer living in England

Tsunami -a Poem Dedicated To Help Aid and Awareness and Encourage Future Harmony. Make Peace Not War

Real Power.

One Tsunami, and all our armies,
Seem belittled by their wars,
What Animals fled, and tribesmen read,
Finally Arrives with crushing roar,
Wholesale slaughter, purely by water,
Makes us seem an irrelevance,
Concepts of power, change by the hour,
Faced with primal elements.
Natures dice, thrown in a trice,
In a grotesque game of craps,
Whose final score, is real shock and awe,
And rewriting global maps.
Political reputation, seen by a nation,
Hiding in its cosy hole of choice,
Who promises braille, whilst the real mail,
is delivered via the peoples voice.
And the aftermath is all in its path,
Is gone in waste and grief,
Why does it take disasters wake,
To unite us all in relief.
No discrimination here, just abject fear,
No religion or class escapes unscathed,
No riches or show cheat the undertow,
All submerged beneath the waves.
In modern times, our greatest crime,
Is to have lost feelings and lost touch,
It takes catastrophe, to make you with me,
To make everyone into us.
Faced with apocalypse our planes and ships,
Seem meaningful when not at war,
But as our memory of disaster slips,
Will we revert to squabbling like before.
Maybe we should try, to all get by,
And harmonise more from this date,
Who knows when next the globe is vexed,
Who knows the twists of fate.

By Malcolm James Pugh

The Power of Eating Disorders

I want to get close

I am afraid.

Afraid of what you might see.

My eyes.

My thoughts.

My dreams.

My heart.

My soul.

Everything that makes me who I am.

My feelings.

My emotions.

The truth of my own reality.

The reality that I am scared.

Every second.

Every minute.

Every hour.

Every day.

Scared of not being perfect.

Scared of looking stupid.

Scared of being in the way.

Scared of getting comfortable.

Getting comfortable means stability,

Stability means forever.

I dread forever.

So, I am ready,

to move on,

to continue my journey,

To continue my life....

I AM READY!

Mary Pat uses her gift of poetry in hopes to help others find their own special gifts

Writing Innovative Poetry

Writing innovative poetry, the kind of poetry that reputable literary journals publish, entails knowing exactly what each word of a poem does to the reader. A good poem should be evocative, skillful, and cohesive, but before attempting to hone these attributes, a potential poet should be knowledgeable of the various forms and attributes of contemporary poetry. A good way to become familiar with the aspects of contemporary poetry is to take classes, join writing workshops, and subscribe to contemporary literary journals. Reading and understanding good poetry is vital to being able to write good poetry.

The first phase of writing a good poem includes a process of brainstorming. There are various ways to approach this process, but after a good deal of experimentation, the poet will find the one that works best for his or her personal style. Some poets will begin this process by actually writing a poem. Other poets will write prose or notes until he or she spots something that could be developed into a poem. The most important concept to consider with regard to this first phase is to write fearlessly. Write without trying to sound poetic, avoid abstractions, and be as detailed as possible. Write what is on your mind without worrying too much about grammar, literary devices, and line breaks. Often, when a person engages is this type of free writing, he or she will naturally write in some sort of rhythm or pattern. It is in the next phase of writing that these natural literary finesses are smoothed out and heightened.

The next stage of writing involves looking for a shape within the words that have been freely written. Read the words out loud, paying careful attention to phrases and words that leave an indelible impression. Then, prune some of the language by omitting unnecessary lines and hackneyed expressions, such as "I walk this lonely path," or, "My heart cries out." A good poem is going to have fresh images and is going to offer unique perspectives. If you find hackneyed or overly abstract expressions in your writing that are pertinent to the overall theme of your piece, try rewriting them using language that has never been used before to describe these situations or feelings. Also, pay attention to whether your poem is telling its message to the reader or if it is showing the message through unique images. An example of telling would be, "I am sad and lonely." An example of showing would be, "I fall into his empty chair, listlessly holding his photograph?"

Once you have found the shape of your poem and reworked the language to include fresh images, you will need to read it out loud. Listen to the line breaks. Listen to the actual language. Ask yourself whether the line breaks are appropriate. Are there abrupt words dangling at the ends of any lines? Do you have conjunctions or prepositions trailing at the ends of your lines? If so, you might need to rework the lines, and at times, you may need to reword entire lines. This stage also includes getting constructive criticism from writers or poetry enthusiasts who will be objective with their feedback. You can look for or start a poetry critique group in your local area, or you can join one of the many critique forums and workshops online. This part of the process can be the most difficult for new poets who are not accustomed to having someone digging around in their creative endeavors with a scalpel. Understand that even incredibly well crafted poems will get their fair share of comments from the critics. Also, adhere to your intentions. If a critic misreads your piece, it could very well mean that you need to rework your piece within your own aim.

Finally, after having written your poetry with the knowledge and understanding you have gained through classes and reading, and after having reworked and submitted your piece for critique, you are ready for your final draft. Your final draft is not a final product. Your final draft is what all your hard work so far has produced, but you will need to read it again, possibly a day, a month, sometimes even years after you've written it.

When there is nothing more to prune, add, or change to the poem, you may consider submitting it to one of the literary journals you have subscribed to when you first began your journey as a good poet.

By Devrie Paradowski

The Valley Of Pain

We were exiled from the Garden of Eden.
Its sinless wonders nevermore to regain.
So every man on life's toilsome journey,
Must enter the valley of pain.

We don't enter because of desire
And it's certainly not a voluntary fare.
But, rather, it's a matter of destiny
Compelling and forcing us there.

Eden's garden; its beauty so magnificent,
Can't be reclaimed; it is a lost paradise.
Trees of knowledge and life gone forever,
We are now paying consequences price.

The valley of pain is bleak and lonely,
And all heartache must be suffered alone.
The petty and trite ceases to matter.
When facing hurt as never before known.

In pain's valley, no restaurants exist.
Shopping malls can't be found anywhere.
There's no joy to be had from entertainment.
There are no parks, for it is no picnic there.

There are no banks in the valley of pain,
No theaters, no lounges, no beach.
In this valley, we have no lofty aspirations,
Surviving the only goal we hope to reach.

Pain's valley in not a poor man's haven;
We'll find no comfort, or ease or rest.
Nor will we encounter family or friends
For this valley is one's own personal test.

Bitter anguish is experienced in this valley,
A site of conflict on a titanic scale.
A place of failing and spiritual torture,
Of deficiency and interminable travail.

When we enter the valley of pain,
We no longer worry about unpaid bills.
We don't fret about outstanding car notes,
We don't care about acquiring new skills.

When we enter the valley of pain,
We don't dabble in vain vanity.
For this valley inevitably drives us,
To the very brink of human sanity.

When we enter the valley of pain
Family prayer just will not do.
Praying in the church is insufficient,
And social prayer is inadequate too.

We must find our own secret hideaway
Close the door to the world and all its strife.
We must surrender ourselves to our God
And let Him work a miracle in our life.

By Saundra L. Washington

Passion and Poetry, and Life

Ironically, the passion that can neutralize the repulsion for difficulties depends on the effort to overcome these difficulties. The irony resides in the circularity of this principle - which applies to all areas of activity, including poetry: One must make the effort to overcome difficulties to achieve success and feel capable, and one needs this achievement and feeling to have a passion for making this effort.
How can one enter this circle without this passion? In other words, how does one resolve the quasi-contradiction according to which one cannot passionately start the effort to overcome difficulties before it has ended successfully?
If difficulties are deemed insurmountable, mistakenly or not, the repulsion for them is absolute. In that case, nothing will motivate the effort to succeed, except an outside authority that can dictate this effort, or an outside influence that can generate faith and stimulate courage. In every other case where the seriousness of the difficulties is open to doubt, one may try one's luck with mixed feelings.
Assuming one tries, the result of this effort will constitute additional self-knowledge that will inform one's future choices. A positive outcome will act as a positive reinforcement that emboldens one to try again, with increased confidence and reduced hesitation; a negative outcome will do the opposite.
Should one refuse to try one's luck, this would slow one's progress, but not necessarily stop it. Confidence can be increased and hesitation reduced by degrees, through a series of baby steps that can eventually lead to triumph. All in all, people have more than one trick up their sleeve to succeed in life, though they cannot escape the necessity of achieving success to develop a passion for the difficult task of living.
As regards poetry, success may be achieved in a roundabout and gradual way. Take a young educated man who has a sense of imagery and a desire to express himself. While his education has prepared him for the written expression of his feelings and thoughts, this sense and this desire together drive him to write poetically, though he has no pretensions to composing a poem.
This first step is a manner of kickoff that gets the ball rolling. He becomes aware of his poetic ability within the limits of his poetic writing. What is more, he catches a glimpse of the poetry that is a blur in this writing and could emerge from the prose like a landscape from the fog. His potential as a future poet is thus faintly discernible. It assumes the form of an inkling whose haziness will progressively dissipate as further poetic efforts are made successfully. In the end the young man sees himself as a young poet. He is eager to grapple with the difficulties of writing poetry because he is confident that he will overcome them and delight in this achievement.
Laurent Grenier's writing career spans over twenty years. During this time he has broadened and deepened his worldview, by dint of much reflection and study, and in the end has crafted "A Reason for Living," his best work to date.