Whatever's Page
My Thoughts © 2005




Saturday, December 3, 2005
10:15:29 PM EST

Poem about Childhood


(this one is about remembering a childhood)

In my dark woods

I am so happy.

I own the sun, the trees,

the cold, wet grass beneath my feet.

I am so free,

with my thoughts, alone,

I am complete.

My friends are the deep purple

and forest green of violets,

the grey squirrels who bark their greeting

from the safety of high branches

And all the creatures

I meet along the way

whom I would never harm,

and who do not harm me.

In my dark woods,

I am so happy.


I better run home now,

someone will notice I am gone.

They will be so angry.

Momma, why are you so sad?

Momma, I tried to clean my room

the best I can.

I even made you bed for you,

to make you happy.

I cleaned the toilets,

shiny white,

just the way you said.

I'm sorry it wasn't good enough..

I'm sorry. I'll try harder.

Please, don't Momma!

Momma! Please stop!

Momma! Momma! Ple-e-e-ase!

I'm afraid!


I'm sorry, Momma,

I'm so sorry

that I made you so angry

that you broke my arm.

I'm sorry you are so sad.

I wish that I could die.


Monday, November 28, 2005
8:19:33 PM EST


DARKENED (To Reginald)


Darkening sky,

blue-grey world covering everything.

Forest rains outside and in,

inside my chest, my throat, my eyes

Imploding, condensing, crushing pain;

this deafening scream,

disembodied existence

that permeates every cell

of my mortal being

To where even this encasement

I see myself in; this face, this skin

seems as unreal

as everything else around me


I used to welcome summer storms,

Myst World of dreams,

melancholy, yet blissful, moods.

Reggie died,

lost in a storm.

Now, nothing mellow,

nothing true.

The tangible world dissolved,

No feeling, no sense of touch,

Sensory overload

of pain, only that,

that which I can't scrape off,

can't run from, no escape.


Each day a darkening night,

this different new realm, new world

I realize now,

the only world existing in my 'Now',

the only reality I understand,

where the air is so much thinner,

and I feel so weighted

as I sink slowly down into my mattress.

as I dissolve.


My world transposed

in a split second of time

I have nothing but time,

an eternity,

living among the living dead.

And no one else is here.


Friday, November 25, 2005
5:00:48 PM EST
Feeling Anxious
Hearing All Things Considered War Poem

A Mother Trying to Tell Us

She writes of family, her sons, her daughter,
she wants them close, and free.
She writes of food, and laughter,
and seeing friends, or longing to.
And she writes of fear, of sounds too close for comfort,
of always looking,
watching for the next explosion.

she tells us who she is
she is who we are,
how she wants what we want,
the hopes and dreams are all the same.
She writes how the world has gone mad;
who does not see that?
she writes of other's who tell her
she should be 'grateful'.

she knows better.

4:26:41 PM EST
Feeling Anxious
Hearing NPR News about colleges not wanting recruiters; like Yale, doesn't allow them, and they get away w/it Love is a tangible thing...

Love is a tangible thing...

...physicalized in
the glistening eyes
which come of a bright,
light heart.
Love holds dimension

and mass,
for it touches
your very soul,
your very being.
Without love,
the soul dies;
metaphorically, physically,
tangibly dies.
Love is mercy and forgiveness,
these acts that
can be felt,
(therefore, solid),
which give breath back
to those constricted
in spirit.
Love is the ripple
expanding from the
smallest pebble
that is dropped
into the pond,
and as the circles
widen out, into far reaches unseen,
they can encompass
the whole,
earth wide,
til love 'becomes'
the garden that turns
into a paradise.
Seen, felt, and heard,
Love is a tangible thing.

Edited by: jelapi at: 9/21/02 11:50:51 am

4:16:56 PM EST

In the Name of Religion

Or "Christian-Militia??"



U.S. and Britain's dual conspire,



How many more to mention.

I remember hearing often,

on evening's nightly horror show

of all the hate in Lebanon,

of those called

"Christian" and "Militia"??
Now, where's George Carlin's
on Oxy-Morons
when we need it?

Israeli/Arab, Sunni/Sikh,
Protestant/Catholic Eire,
Whose side is God on,

How we make such a show
of praying
to the "Prince of Peace"

While we 'worship'
the self-serving
self-aggrandizing 'god of war',
and we sacrifice our sons
in the fire.

We have turned God into
an 'object'
for our own desires,
the 'god of our bellies'
so to speak,
(And he comes in cloths
of many colors)

Could you picture
Christ Jesus,
(or even Buddha or Gandhi, or any other
'holy man')
armed to the teeth

with ammo belt,
and with an Uzi
in his hand?
Remember, it was said

by one who preached peace
"He who lives
by the sword,
will perish
by the sword"?

"We reap what we sow"

3:49:37 PM EST
Feeling Frustrated
Hearing NPR News For my Two Girls, (Cats) who died

1 Gypsy

She had eyes like you had never seen

Trusting and questioning at the same time

The softest sea-green, like opaque gems

Her gypsy -scraggly, yet silky soft fluff,

of every beautiful shade of brown and chocolate,

fit her name so well.

How could I have let her go?

She was my 'girl',

everyone's favorite

The one all the children asked

"What a pretty kitty, could we pick her up, please"

when they would see her.

How could I have ever let her go?


Big black round trusting eyes
look up from in front of my feet
each morning to greet me.
knowing that she,
the owner of these expressive marble eyes,
was my 'pet', my mahogany beauty.
From her perch on my shoulder,
she rode through the day,
At night she was my heart,
Her purrs became the beats
and filled its holes.
So frail like air she was.
The ghost of her remains.

Sunday, November 20, 2005
1:47:39 AM EST
Feeling Anxious
Hearing BBC Newsxv A very Short Story I wrote a few years ago

Let Me Dream/Revised

(Insert dream here).. But when she awoke the emptiness she felt cut
so deeply into her, there are no words to describe it; the total aloneness and coldness that hit her as soon as reality was realized, as that dream-sleep-waking moment cleared, and she looked around her. The same as it hit her every single day now for years since everything dissolved, (exploded apart all at once, actually), and was gone. Only she was left, alone.
Now her life is lived only in her mind, in the past. Where else is there? What else is there? The only satisfaction of living she wanted or ever knew was with her children, and her youth. And now they are gone.
A son, her firstborn, with whom she had been so enchanted when she would feel his tiny fingers grip hers, or watch his peaceful sleeping face. A son, who now has been estranged for so many years, fifteen, and who will never be that thirteen-year-old again, that skinny little boy who asked once if he would ever get muscles in his arms, or facial hair. Late puberty, but when it came it came with a vengeance in him, and anger replaced wonderment.
A second child, brought into this world in a time of her mother's life that was in great upheaval and disarray. A daughter, who turned out to be the level-headed one, much more mature and wise at the young age of eight than even her own mother.
Now, who, a mother herself after so many years of hoping to be and waiting, is also gone, in a sense.
The sense that the little girl with bright red braids, (that she braided herself) is no longer that giggly little sprite her mother could keep by her side, to talk to, and laugh with. That eager student who loved to play her practice piece "Fluffy and Duffy" over and over whenever she could get to a piano. That little girl is grown and gone, and will never 'be' again.
And the last of the woman's progeny, the wonderful surprise; the baby who came along eight years after the others. The 'baby' who is now 6'2", and also gone, and a story all his own.
This is what is left of her life; the memories, only what she sees in her dreams, the reels that play over and over again in her head. Other than that, empty rooms; with such pretty things, and pretty books, and that old Bible on the shelf, that was taken out and randomly looked at once in a while, but not read nearly enough. And now there is no one left to read it to. Can't make up for things not finished, or never started. "Good intentions", as someone has coined, but 'good intentions' weighed against life's distractions didn't get the job done.
How many times her heart constricts in her now, she wants so badly to gather her children to her in her arms, and make them small again. To hug them tightly, and never let go! How many times. But her arms are empty, like everything else. "Maybe," she thinks, "Maybe I wouldn't feel this way if I "had only" hugged them enough to be able to let them go. But I must not have or else I wouldn't feel this way, right?" She wonders if everyone else feels like this, but somehow deep inside she knows they don't. She knows her secrets are so much worse than other's. The regrets! The regrets that make her paralyzed. Sleep is the best thing she owns now.
Sleep, and dreaming.
"If only there was a way to stay in that dream state at least for, Oh, let's say, 23 hours a day! Then, I could live in the world I remember, or the ones we make up. I could have such strange
but intriguing and fun adventures all the time! Of course, I'd have to come around once in awhile for sustenance, I don't think imaginary food would do for very long. And anyway, did you ever notice that the food you dream up always looks so appetizing and colorful, but you never get to actually eat it? Most of the time anyway? You can picture in your
mind how good it will taste, sort of like when you smell some wonderful aroma, but that is the only sensation you are usually allowed, as far as food, in dreams. Must be a 'dream' rule or something." (Women talk strange to themselves when their is no one else around.)
She has her cats, of course, to talk to now. That's sort of another rule; the 'rule' of lonely women, isn't it?
But, somehow, that's not enough.

Edited by: jelapi at: 9/17/02 11:41:58 am

12:10:37 AM EST
Feeling Anxious
Hearing nothing poetry about a young woman I knew


We, in our temporal, narrow
state of being, cling
to whatever arms are near
to hold,
as we watch in disbelief
the scarlet tongues lash out
from shattering windows,
as they spew their smoke and ash
charcoal venom medium
to color day into unnatural night;

to lap up the sky
as if in irreverent defiance
of the blue.

Oh gentle, sweet lady,
our Sweet Lady Jen,
as that which only consumes
the material
closes in around you,
you sit quiet within,
with serenity your stronghold,
your faith, your gift.

We will see you, always,
in evening's forgiving quiet,
as we always knew you,
there, in your boudoir
of fine jeweled treasures,
scarves of silk and lace adorned
(you said you loved

the way they felt,
like smooth, soft skin),
We see you, now,
in opaque amber visions,
how you danced to your own
heart's music,
in your mystic garden
of lit candles
where, many times,
we took asylum.

A hushed breath
in the wind now,
of ashes, and dust.
A whisper in fair breezes
brushing past our sighing breasts.
We loved you so,
you loved us all,
All frail creatures sheltered safe,
in your hand.
You were not of this world,
we knew,
You couldn't stay long
in this hardened day.
Now we hold you always
in everlasting communion,
And, all that is good,
all ineffable knowledge,
is what you have given.

November, 13 2005
8:57:27 PM EST
Feeling Sad
Hearing Really mellow music on World Cafe, NPR

Sweet Poetry

The Peeking Children

"Are you sure she'll see it?"
"Yes, I put them right there
on that table. See?"
"Look, look, here she comes!"
"Don't let her see you!"
The rushed, hushed voices
went silent.
The elderly lady, the one
everyone calls "crazy,"
the old woman who has lived alone
in that huge old Victorian
so many, many years,
walks, grudgingly,
from the front room
to the parlor.
She had thought she heard a noise.
(Not that walking was not
a pleasure still,
it was just not as easy
as it once was)
When, there
on the small, round cherry wood table,
the one she used as a desk,
with papers strewn and piled high
from lack of attention,
she noticed a simple bunch
of wildflowers, carefully arranged,
in a mayonnaise jar,
dandelions, and violets,
and bluebells,
well, you get the picture.
She looked all around,
and for a second,
from a quick glance
toward her window,
thought she saw something,
but it was hard to see
through time-and-dust-dinged glass
But she was certain of this;
a stirring in her,
a memory
of laughter, and children,
and past bouquets presented
to 'Mother' from little hands,
a 'stirring' that moved her heart
..to tears.

Saturday November 12, 2005
10:35:05 PM EST

Feeling Anxious
Hearing nothing at all Poetry


I wish I could vomit it all out!

I wish that I could

reach my hand down inside of me

and pull out the

rotting poison

of this decade of my

debauched wantonness,

(the sour taste would still remain)

If only I could slice deep

into my skin

and cut out the twisted knot

from the pit of my stomach,

that makes it hard to breathe.

I wish I could shoot myself

in the head,

20 times,

or maybe, a lobotomy,

to completely destroy

this all-encompassing terror,

the fear of the recompense,

the incomprehensible reality

of what I've done,

that will forever be

my self-inflicted nemesis,

my self-imposed torment

that makes me want to...


Wednesday, November 9, 2005
3:12:14 PM EST

Feeling Chillin'
Hearing Talk of the Nation Poetry

A 'Liberation'

Mahogany hued masses,
(my crowning 'glory')
Seven years my tunnel vision.
Symbolic completeness,
yet anything but holy,
Strewn in shreds
and flung away
like shackles sprung.
(Freedom at a price.)
I am begun anew
as one I did not know before.
Death, of a sort,
begets death, and then,
life again.
Now a bondage has been thrown off
like a cocoon discarded when no longer of use,
a weight, which for a time
kept focus grounded
to earthly matters.
The butterfly emerges,
a lightness, a spirit of the essence
of a nature divine, freed.
The old semblance of 'self'
now lying on the floor,
beauty of another sort, which once
was frame to a face
some had called 'beguiling',
but, in reality,
was only extraneous refuse,
and vanity.
Those who would love,
loved only the packaging;
(its pretty ribbons).
I see now.
I see with eyes true,

breathless, and all.... again"

Sunday, November 6, 2005
12:01:41 PM EST

Feeling Quiet A Poem of Childhood


Her hair, a long and
tangled jungle,
sanctuary in thickets
of black tresses,
Covering, protecting
the fearful child
of hurtful images.
Her eyes peer out
through the darkness
of the secret place
in which she dwells,
...(once, she almost cleared a path
through that jungle,
but it proved
to be
too risky)
She's looking, searching,
for other eyes to know,
without being seen,
being known herself,
So she stays inside
the security
of the loneliness,
behind a fragile shell,
protected by the jungle,
...And all her secrets
are her own.

No longer a child,
but always still
a child,
she is like
the rain forest,
whose mysteries
have been exploited
by those who
will never know beauty.
It's lush foliage
stripped and bared
for selfish greed,
And now, like she,
can no longer hold
its secrets safe.

She was sheltered so long inside her dark jungle
she cannot bear the light
...And now will be exposed
There's nowhere left
to hide.

Did the puff of smoke
of her
dissipate into nothingness
through her fragile
cracked shell,
Or did she just retreat
further down ,
to be dissolved into
the blackness within?
Her eyes reflect
nothing now,
because there's
no one left

Did someone ever live
behind those eyes?
Or was it only
a fleeting image?
... I'm afraid
that they will know.

11:57:07 AM EST

Feeling Quiet
Hearing Prairie Home Companion Depression poetry

A Fitful Slumber

Aware of things to come,

I awoke one night

to the sound of soulful dirges

coming from inside my head.

"I always knew you would be my muse,"

I said,

"born of heart's pain,

and time's regret.."

"Do we start on this road tonight?

Couldn't I sleep just awhile longer?"

(Yet I was fully awake,

only afraid to face it)

But the words were coming ,

the pain and passion,

I had to let them in,

to get them out.

No more thinking, only action.

The dirge, he cried, and took my hand

and led me down into the pit

of  deep darkness and snakes,

snakes which recoiled against the walls

ready to strike.

I groped along blindly searching

for some sort of light to interject,

but there was none yet,

no light hit the paper

upon which the words spilled

from my fingers'

The pain and the passion ,

such a close connection,

I'll take the passion,

I've already had the pain.

11:53:15 AM EST

Feeling Sad
Hearing nothing Love poetry

Times Shadow

Times shadow falls

across the measure

of our distance.

We were lovers

in a far-off land,

Worlds removed from Now,

from this mere earthly, mortal scope,

this eternal prison sentence.

Sorrow World, I will call it,

sorrow-filled, ruled by cruel gods

of change, and death.

Cold, rocky sphere,

void of any sort of light

across its expanse,

surrounded, as it is,

by black holes.

Morbid World, I will call it,

filled with lifeless corpses

fallen from skies above,

where, with me, they lived with you

in flesh smooth, sinewy,

and blood pulsed.

Their names were Hope, Worth,

and Future

Silent World, I will call it,

for nothing lives here

Saturday, October 29, 2005
6:28:58 PM EDT

Feeling Loopy
Hearing Prairie Home Companion Poetry

To Amelia

Crescent moons, and cows,

and spoons,

chain around the borders

of her little room.

Dreamland sleepy resting place

for my sweet Amelia.

Freight train rumbles

off in the distance,

cognizant reminder of life's continuing motion

that interrupts this strangely placid stillness.

Wooden boxcars,

thoughts trail off...

Wooden bear in my father's truck,

meticulously hand-rubbed

with the very best linseed oil,

for he will need to brave weather

harsh, and fair.

He was carved especially

for my Amelia

in the form of her favorite teddy,

named Hershey,

who will forever lie

beneath the granite symbol

of enduring love,

a constant companion

for my sweet Amelia.

Such a sticky day, today,

for a funeral procession.

Sunday, October 23, 2005
3:54:05 PM EDT 

Feeling Frustrated
Hearing What Do U know, NPR Poetry

DARKENED (To Reginald)

Darkening sky,

blue-grey world covering everything.

Forest rains outside and in,

inside my chest, my throat, my eyes

Imploding, condensing, crushing pain;

this deafening scream,

disembodied existence

that permeates every cell

of my mortal being

To where even this encasement

I see myself in; this face, this skin

seems as unreal

as everything else around me.

I used to welcome summer storms,

Myst World of dreams,

melancholy, blissful moods.

Reggie died,

lost in a storm.

Now, nothing mellow,

nothing true.

The tangible world dissolved,

No feeling, no sense of touch,

Sensory overload

only that,

that which I can't scrape off,

can't run from, no escape.

Each day a darkening night,

this different new realm, new world

I realize now,

the only world existing in my 'Now',

the only reality I understand,

where the air is so much thinner,

and I feel so weighted

as I sink slowly down into my mattress.

as I dissolve.

My world transposed

in a split second of time

I have nothing but time,

an eternity,

living among the living dead.

And no one else is here.

Wednesday, October 19, 2005
8:12:18 PM EDT

Feeling Quiet
Hearing Jimmy Hendrix Poetry


Everything's already been written,

How do I say how only I am feeling?

For how I'm feeling, only I can say.

"Oh, for the solitude of solitude!"

No man may be an island, so they say,

still, it would be nice to break off from the shore


And drift peacefully away,

upon the waves,

into solitary oblivion,

.... and never know you anymore

Sunday, October 16, 2005
8:14:04 PM EDT

Hearing U2 War Poems

The Grave at Dasht-e Leili

“Parched, desolate expanse;”

Apt description

Of the final resting place

For those whose lives

Had torturously been

Sucked out of them.

Stuffed like waste

In sealed canisters

given originally

For their ’relief’.


Strings of prayer beads,

(Yes, they were taught,

much like you, to pray)

A woolen skull cap, shoes,

Scattered tibia, pelvic bone,

And ribs

Someone’s being,

Only the day before.

The enemy, who once was ally,

Used until not needed.

So turn, and look the other way.


A happy wedding party,

A hospital of mercy,

Semblance of daily life among the ruins,

Then ‘Poof’, in an instant,

Shattered shreds of death.

“Oh, sorry ‘bout that,”

Collateral damage.

Might makes right, right?

If the happenstance of being born

In one part of the earth or the other

Gives you the advantage,

Then use it for the good only.

Killing only begets killing

You kill me, so I kill you,

Then you kill me,

So I kill you more,

(The mentality of gangs)

And mothers still cry for the children.

Do you think by retribution

You can bring one victim back?

Killing only begets killing,

Just you wait and see

The girl in the orange and gold dress

.. Lying in the arms of her father.

both dead.

i didn't know them,

but my imaginings, after the fact,

after I saw them,

compel me to connect to what came before,

to what had been their lives.

I had killed them.

Money was bursting

from the pocket of the man's shirt,

as his body lay in the hot sun

and the dusty road.

Blood soaked scattered money,

probably the sum of all his worldly goods.

Money that couldn't save him.

The little child had been dressed for travel,

in what was probably her very prettiest dress.

She could have been my child.

Maybe they had planned to meet relatives

somewhere over the border.

Somewhere safe,

away from here.

I think she was four, or maybe five.

A sweet, round face, at least what was left of it.

I wonder if she had been afraid.

I can see her father telling her, "It will be alright darling one.

These men will help us."

I had been afraid.

I didn't know why I was there,

who was enemy or who was not.

We were told "Shoot anything that moves."

Was that little innocent child an enemy?

Was her freedom worth her life?

Was all she was suppose to see of it

these few short years only?

Are these the 'sacrifices' we should be proud of?

How will I live with this now?

8:03:20 PM EDT

Hearing World Cafe poetry

In the Meadow Grasses

Another time...

Another place in time,

when we ran as children

embraced by laughter

and the freedom

of open-ended possibilities,

and the wonders

of our glorious bodies,

so young and so innocent.

When we danced with all our might,

under the watchful eye

of the yellow sun shining

upon browned skin,

out in the grassy lea.

The open-ended wonder

of time eternal held before us.

Now you sit there,

that same child-like wonder in your eyes.

The weight of time and circumstance

has crippled only me.

In a moment of lightness,

I put down the gloom

held between my fingers

as its embers still burned

from one last puff,

and I took your hands in mine

in a sudden urge for you to race with me,

in mind and body,

toward breathable, open air

out into the cushiony blanket

of the meadow grasses,

still there after all the years left along the wayside,

waiting for us as they had always been.

All at once resolved was I

to relive joyous times

unfettered by doubts.

We left the way trailed along by shirt,

pants, and shoes,

all encumbrances of spirit,

and we ran free,

with you in my arms,

You felt like you were on wings, you said.

and when I placed you back

into your wheelchair

you were laughing so hard.

We were new, we were children once again.

and you were healed, and I was healed.

Time, in the moment,

a child's time, we had.

And I love you as purely now

as I did then.


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