Lamplight

Lamplight

There is nothing so comforting as the quiet glow of the lamplight,

On a night stand while the world outside is asleep,

It is a warm presence; not too bright and not too dim,

But the exact disposition of light to calm my thoughts at the end of the day;

A beacon guiding souls to distant lands hidden between the lines of a bedtime story,

During the day’s earliest and latest hours it is a reminder that you are never truly alone

A Time To Dream

A Time to Dream

I love the rich earthy smell right after a storm

The flavor of heartaches washed away with the rain

I love to feel the wind dance around me as I walk barefoot in tall damp grass

It is the best time for dreaming then,

With rainbows and a pale sun in the distant sky

And an orange glow to light your way back home.

The Birds

The Birds

In a neighborhood much like any other, there lived two families. The Jones Family was in every sense a normal, well to do family. They never did anything foolish. Their yard was always immaculate. Their house was always spotless, and they always knew the right thing to say. Everyone was always trying to keep up with the Jones’. Everyone except for their next door neighbors the Finklesteins.

If there is an opposite to everything in this world, the opposite of a Jones was a Finklestein. They had a yard where splattered patches of grass had grown to an amazing height of three feet and eleven inches standing. Since there were only spots of grass in the land surrounding the Finklestein home; walking through it gave you the impression of adventuring in a rainforest. You could never be sure what wild creature would pop out at you next. A creature you were sure to find for there existed a large variety at this house. There was a dog, three cats, two rabbits, a turtle, fish in a pond, ducks, and last but not least the twelve Finklestein children. It was the belief of their parents that the children’s innocent views of life as well as their imagination needed as much encouragement as possible.

There was an ongoing bet between the townsfolk of Charlottesville about who would win the daily Jones/Finklestein battles. There is only one way to describe the goings on between the two families, WAR. The whole town was divided because of it. Only one man had the privilege of claiming neutrality; a man called Herman Q. Bumblecommings.

Mr. Bumblecommings was the only human being both families loved. The Finklesteins loved him because he was great with children and could teach them many wonderful things. The Jones’ loved him because he had four PhD’s, a large house, and had won the garden magazine’s vegetable contest for ten years in a row. So, it fell to Mr. Bumblecommings to be the go between for the Jones and Finklesteins.

Certain occasions arose when one family or the other felt the need to tell the “People next door” just what they thought of them. Of course Mr. Bumblecommings felt obliged to comply rather than risk the wrath of one family or the other.

One fine day in September, Mrs. Jones was peeping through the window blinds to catch a glimpse of what “that woman” was up to.

“Frederick!” she called to her husband. “The Finklesteins have just put in a new birdbath. How come we don’t have a birdbath? Heaven knows theirs is hideous, but if Gertrude McGregor Finklestein has one, then Lucinda Marie Jones should have one a million times better.”

“Oh Lucinda,” sighed Mr. Jones. “Don’t you see?  A birdbath is below us. The things are such an eyesore. Plus, are you willing to go out and clean up all the feathers and bird droppings? I’m certainly never going to do it. But their getting one is fantastic for us. Those muddle heads aren’t likely to clean anything. And, I’ll tell you what we will do.  We’ll go and get us a little birdie’s dream house just to spite them. Now, you figure out something clever to say while I fetch Mr. Bumblecommings.

A knock sounded at the door. “Come in Mr. Bumblecommings. I’ve been expecting you.” called Mrs. Gertrude Finklestein in her best musical voice. The door creaked open and the poor man walked in.

“G-Good day Mistress Jo… I mean Finklestein. I- I’ve come with a message from the goo- I mean the lady next door.  Mistress Fink… Jones would have me tell you that your lovely little bird palace is grotesque. No, no, I mean that little bathturd of birds. No, oh Mistress Finklejones, please forgive my shortcomings, but Mistress Jones despises. No, glories in your despicable birdbath, and is putting up a bird’s dream home so the poor things won’t die embarrassment from that thing in your yard.”  With this Mr. Bumblecommings gave a sigh of sighs and slumped into the nearest chair.

“When you are done here, you may go over and thank ‘That woman’ because every disgrace in her eyes is the highest complement to be given, and her approval is a disgrace.  Tell her I missed her at church on Sunday, I do hope she is feeling well, and is she in need of any help at all?”

By the end of the day a very perplexed and confused Mr. Bumblecommings had crossed the path between the two houses a record of fifty-two times. Of course, he botched every message he was given. By seven o’clock that evening the understanding of all parties involved was thus. Mrs. Finklestein thought that Mrs. Jones was as unfeeling as the state senators, and was pretty worried about this special birdhouse Lucinda, or more likely her husband, had thought up.

Mrs. Jones was obsessing about the bird house being perfect, and thinking up new ways to insult Mrs. Finklestein’s birdbath, (which in her heart she thought was absolutely adorable). Mr. Bumblecommings meanwhile had a very big headache.

Within a week the petty remarks and cheap shots turned into downright slander and lies. It was reported that a Mr. Frederick Jones and a Mr. Billy Bob Finklestein were seen trading punches on their children’s school grounds, Sally Jo Finklestein switched the sandwich in Jennifer Jones’s lunch with a mud pie, and Norman Finklestein beat up Jonathan Jones because he called him an ignoramus. The whole town was in an uproar over it. It was finally decided by the mayor that an arrangement must me made to stop the insanity of it all.

Mrs. Wilmington, the town’s beloved Grandma, talked with both ladies at the weekly quilting bee until her voice was gone and she was blue in the face but to no avail. The aforesaid women wouldn’t even recognize that the other was present let alone talk together. Bishop Brown talked about the possibility of one family relocating to the other side of town, and he was rejected so badly that he took a year’s sabbatical for therapy.

After countless attempts, the solution was discovered by Charlie Gibbons, a five-year old who was sick and tired of his parents talking about that dumb stuff. He stood up during dinner and asked,

“Why don’t they just bet on it like we do at school?”  It was decided that there would be a contest. Whichever yard had the most birds visit it after a week won.  The winner could stay, and the loser would have to move across town.  In order to be fair a computer would be set up with cameras to count the birds. At the end of the week everything would be totaled up.

The Finklestein children wasted no time in strewing bird seed all over their yard, especially around the birdbath, and a bird palace and all kinds of bird toys were tastefully hung about the Jones yard.

About two o’clock the first day the birds started to arrive, Hundreds of them. There were Robins, Blue Jays. Cardinals, Sparrows, Finches, Seagulls, and every other bird you could think of. And, all of them flew straight into the Jones Yard.

Mrs. Finklestein blanched.  How could so many birds live in that asylum to the heartless?  But there they were setting up their nests and homes chirping happily away.  Mrs. Jones was beside herself with joy.  There wasn’t a single bird in her neighbor’s yard, not even a feather until about eleven o’clock the next day.

Around eleven o’clock all the birds who were finished with their morning chores went and migrated over to the Finklestein’s.  Every last one of the unpredictable beasts was playing in the tall grass, pond, trees, and birdbath.  The toys at the Jones’s were brought along. It was Lucinda Jones’s turn to get a little worried. The birds stayed there until about dusk. Then they just hopped right back on over to their nest sites.

It continued like this for the entire week.  It gave the ladies of the two families something to think about.  They wondered how something like this could happen.  Everybody knows that birds would never hang out at an unworthy household.  Then each woman realized that maybe her worst enemy wasn’t so awful after all. They were just different.

Then each woman considered what living without the other next door would really mean to them, and tears filled their eyes.  Though they didn’t show it, they had grown to love one another.  I think their own words say it best. As they were hugging Mrs. Finklestein said,

“Oh, who cares if you’re a nosy, glorified mosquito?  At least you have good taste in birds.”

“And who cares if you’re an ignorant pig with too many children? At least you have a cute birdbath.” They knew of each other’s well meant intentions if they didn’t show it, and they were the best of friends for a while.

It was a miracle.  The Jones and Finklesteins were getting along, and even more than that, they were actually complimenting each other.  When asked about it the only answer that was given was that you don’t have to be alike to be friends, and even more important, you don’t have to be enemies because you’re different.  The whole town was overjoyed, though none as much as Mr. Bumblecommings. A huge party was thrown. Everybody came, even the Pastor Brown who was home from his sabbatical.

From that time on there were no more wars in Charlottesville. Until one day a shrill voice was heard calling,

“Frederick! Those people have gone and bought a motor home.  Go fetch Mr. Bumblecommings quick!”

P’s & Q’s

P’s & Q’s

Sing when you’re happy,

Smile when you’re sad,

Remember to be thankful,

Hold your breath when you’re mad.

Laugh if it’s Funny,

Understand when its not,

Cry with the low in heart,

Help those who are lost,

Fight for justice,

Have mercy on the weak,

Educate the clueless,

Adventure always seek,

Pray for those who hurt you,

Serve those who have a need,

Find joy in other’s gladness,

Love all by word and deed.

Flower Power

I think it’s impossible for any writer to avoid writing about flowers. They encompass so much of what we want to capture in writing: beauty, creativity, diversity. They are natural allegories of life. Today I decided to share two pieces of my writing that focus on flowers.

Like the Rose

Sometimes the heart must ache
So the soul can find its way
There is no measure of pleasure
Without experiencing pain

The rose would be less perfect
If there weren’t any thorns
And nothing is as graceful
As a trial patiently borne

Lighthearted Lily

I sat once in the garden swing enjoying a sunshiny day,
When on the breeze I heard the talk of flower sprites underway.

“Come and sing a song with me,” said the Lily to the Rose with sport.
“I’m much too dignified for all of that,” was the Red Flower’s stuffy retort.

So to the Daisy the Lily asked, “Won’t you join in my fun?”
But the Little Bud was busy, soaking up the sun.

She continued with effort to find a friend, but with no luck it came,
That the Lighthearted Lily decided on her own to play a game.

She sang a song pure, simple, and sweet with a voice born in the dew,
It made me forget the troubles of life bringing joy and energy renewed.

I too began to sing with the lily on the wind,
The song that all the lilies sing of how to be a friend.

And one by one the song was joined by other garden dwellers,
Such a chorus I’ve never heard like that of all the flowers.

The Park Bench

Today I sat on a park bench watching and waiting
People passed by on the street without looking up
I wondered why the ground was so interesting.
One child dared glance up at my gaze
A smile was in her eyes

The breeze blew a crumpled paper to my feet.
I almost didn’t look to see what was hidden there
Smoothing the battered sheet displayed
A beautiful drawing… too imperfect for its mortal maker

Later I walked down the street
A man was sitting on a park bench watching and waiting
I looked up at him with a smile in my eyes
His eyes smiled back

Driving On a Gravel Road

Driving On a Gravel Road

I remember how it was to drive in gravel; hot and dusty on a summer’s day. We called it the rocky road, bumping along to the rhythm of the car as we drove into my father’s past.  We knew when we came to that road that we were finally getting close to Grandma’s house. Visiting your grandparents is always exciting when you are a child, but having them live on a farm is a double blessing.

There is something about life on the farm that never changes; a constant sanctuary in an unstable world. There are smells of “real food” in the kitchen, rich clean dirt, and grease from the farm machinery. There is the sight of millions of stars on a clear night unclouded by city lights. Warm breezes in summer and biting winds in winter both ruffle your hair in their respective seasons. Birds can be heard singing, bees buzzing, and the cycle of life marches on.

There is a solemn quiet that comes from the respect of life and growing things, but also a joy in the air that makes you feel you could laugh at any moment. In my twenties everything seems the same as it did when I was  five;  this place probably still had the same simple truthful presence as it did when my father was a child years before I was even thought of.

It’s comforting to know that there are still places left like this in the world; when there are wars and the crimes of selfish people, and morals are getting lost in the midst of people seeking power, pleasure, or just giving in to complacency. It’s nice to come to a place where it is easy to find the simple yet profound relationship between ourselves and God. Where we rely on him to send us all of the necessities of life, and we reap what we sow. Where children can find pleasure in a bumpy ride down a gravel road on the way to visit their grandparents, and not have another care in the world.

When I Opened My Mouth to Sing

When I Opened My Mouth to Sing

The light was bright and the room was quiet. Hundreds of faces, some familiar and some not, were turned towards a small girl who stood on the stage. She wore a blue dress, simple and elegant, and her caramel colored hair was smooth and straight down to her shoulders. She was not beautiful, but she had a kind face and there were hints of laughter in her eyes.

Somewhere in the back of the stage someone started to play the piano. The melody was sweet but became sweeter at the sound of her voice as she suddenly started to sing. She had a child’s voice, but was beyond the talent of many more experienced singers.

She sang a high note here and a low note there. She sang of Winter that turned into Spring, and of the love that a child can bring. She sang a song of hope and a song of sadness. She sang about courage and showing gladness.

And as she sang suddenly I stood. I felt her song within my heart. When I opened my mouth to sing I found my voice, though not as accomplished, could accompany hers without shame. She smiled at me and we sang together in simple harmony. Then others were standing around me and joining the chorus. Not a voice was unworthy to the song, but all added to the spirit of the words of the little girl. I have never heard such a beautiful sound before; the voices of many coming together as one.

Suddenly, it was over. The song ended. The girl smiled, curtseyed, and left the stage. There was no applause. Everyone was caught up in the moment. Then one by one we left the room and went back to our individual lives.

Rainy Writings

Today has been somewhat rainy, and I have always felt strongly affected by rain. Rain has crept into my writing many times, so I guess I’ll share some of those ideas with you today.

Friendly Rain

In the earliest moments of morning,
Long before day decides to dawn.
I lie awake in my bed.
Drinking in the drizzle as it
Tap dances upon my open window
Inhaling the wet breeze as it slowly drifts into my room.
Cool night air quietly comes to rest above the warmth of my blanket.
Dark.
Shadows creeping across the walls.
In this small moment
Comforted by the
Rare, simple
friendly kind of
rain.

Rain Dances

A million tiny blue droplets water the morning. A woman with brown hair and kind eyes looks up from the Times crossword puzzle she has finished.  She gazes out beyond the glow of her kitchen window. She has experienced a multitude of wet days just like today. Watching the water trickle down the window pane takes her mind back to a simpler time, and a younger version of herself.

She is sixteen years old.  Frank Sinatra sings on Dad’s worn out record player.  The rain keeps time with the music. They are in his bookstore.  He peruses the rare books section while she does inventory. This is their Friday night ritual. Suddenly, a hand is on her shoulder.  She looks into her Father’s smiling eyes.  He takes her out to the middle of the store’s faded wood floor.  They dance.  He sings, “Don’t know why there’s no sun up in the sky…Stormy Weather. Since my gal and I ain’t together…”  She laughs softly.  Everything is just as it should be; just the two of them suspended in that moment in time. No one can dance like Dad; not even Fred Astaire.

Thunder takes the woman back further. The clouds are darker now, and the rain unfriendly. She is brought back to the summer after high school. A knock at the door interrupts the musical she is watching on TV.  The Policeman’s face is stern, but his eyes are pained. Her only brother is gone, while a drunk driver sleeps unharmed at the hospital. Grief overwhelms her being.  She gazes through the open doorway, up at the black clouds above. The TV is still on.  Judy Garland sings, “Somewhere over the rainbow…bluebirds fly… if happy little bluebirds fly… beyond the rainbow, why can’t I?”  The young woman thinks of her brothers love filled life. She is comforted.

Outside her window the rain hastens down and suddenly she is twenty-four, about to graduate college. She walks home from a dance with the blue-eyed guitar player who sits across from her in English.  The sky turns from blue to gray in a matter of seconds. Water pours from the sky.  She starts to run.  He pulls her back. For them the dance is not over. He swings her from left to right; twirling and swirling with the wind. They are drenched.  He serenades her, “And I wanna know…. Have you ever seen the rain?” She laughs as his voice cracks. They are meant for each other.

The skies start to clear, and she is brought back to the comfort of the small kitchen. Today she is thirty-five.  Her little brown haired boy with kind eyes is dancing on the front lawn; slipping and sliding on the wet grass.  He smiles at her and shouts loudly, “It’s raining, it’s pouring. The old man is snoring…” She laughs and goes out to him. She joins in, “He went to bed, and bumped his head, and couldn’t get up till morning.”

Around The Bend

Around the Bend

traveling life’s bumpy road
i’ve found turns around the bend
unexpected ups and downs
acquaintances and friends
at times the path leads to a mountain
and i struggle with the climb
but when i look down from the top
i see a grand design
how all things in this world connect
each person is part of a plan
to teach and stretch and strengthen
to press forward hand in hand
we need each other to reach our goals
who knows what’s round the next bend
in helping others we help ourselves
and we always need more friends

* Note:

I wrote this poem a few years ago in 2004.  I had just graduated High School and was away at college. Since then I’ve come to realize that I feel this way about every stage in my life. It never ends. I entered this poem into a contest from Poetry.com and it was actually published in a small book of poetry, and you can still find it if you search for it on the poetry.com website.  So far this is the one thing I have published.  I aim to change that soon.