On Oceans of Blue

Dear Random Lady,

because you are ALWAYS a lady, never a man

I did not have cancer. I do not have cancer. I do not care about your husband, your brother, your father, your best friend’s husband’s father’s brother who is a survivor. I am bald. I was sick. Now I’m not. My life is not stalled. I am a normal chick. Like yours, my blood can clot. Except that I learned that value of life and the lack of value in medicine at an early age, I am the same as you. So what if I wear a hat or a scarf. So what if my hair is only a few inches long. One foot at a time, I put my shoes on. That’s nice that you think you know. It’s nice that you try to empathize. But when I’m out with my friends, on a normal weekend, while we’re joking and eating and having a good ole time, please, I beg you, please: Do not interrupt to remind. I know that I look different but that’s not who I am. Just leave me alone, Madam! Your life is not mine. You do not understand. I may be bald, but my life is grand. My friends are swell, my family is great, my fiance is the best mate! I don’t know what you’ve been through, Lady, but it’s different than me. Please, stop randomly reminding me that I’m bald.

Sincerly,

The Bald Lady of a Halfway Normal Lifestyle

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My writing assignment for this class I’m in was to take verses from various chapters in Psalms, and put them together and try to make it sound right. It’s easy really. This is what Ive got

-Rachel

Psalm 59:3

See how they lie in wait for me!

Fierce men conspire against me,

For no offense or sin of mine, O Lord

Psalm 41:9

Even my close friend, whom I trusted,

He who shared my bread,

Has lifted up his heel against me.

Psalm 39:7

But now, Lord, what do I hope for?
My hope is in you.

Psalm 31:5

Into your hands I commit my spirit;

Redeem me, O Lord, the God of truth.

Psalm 61:1

From the ends of the earth I call to you,

I call as my heart grows faint;

Lead me to the rock that is higher than I.

Psalm 29:10

Hear, O Lord, and be merciful to me;

O Lord, be my help.

You may find them beautiful

And feel all warm and fuzzy inside

And as is usual

My feelings don’t hide

The sunflower, lets you know

That it’s you I adore

Through life as we go

Of this, you can be sure

The tulip, my declaration

Of love awesome^2

I send you my ovation

And love shared

The iris, my expression

Of wisdom to grow

Now my confession

I love you so

A yellow rose at the heart

With long slender stem

And now the best part

You are my best friend

-Jason Palermo

I love you
Not only for what you are,
But for what I am
When I am with you.

I love you,
Not only for what
You have made of yourself,
But for what
You are making of me.

I love you
For the part of me
That you bring out;

I love you
For putting your hand
Into my heaped-up heart
And passing over
All the foolish, weak things
That you can’t help
Dimly seeing there,

And for drawing out
Into the light
All the beautiful belongings
That no one else had looked
Quite far enough to find

I love you because you
Are helping me to make
Of the lumber of my life
Not a tavern
But a temple.

Out of the works
Of my every day
Not a reproach
But a song.

I love you
Because you have done
More than any creed
Could have done
To make me good.
And more than any fate
Could have done
To make me happy.

You have done it
Without a touch,
Without a word,
Without a sign.

You have done it
By being yourself.
Perhaps that is what
Being a friend means,
After all.

by Roy Croft

I am weary of the Garden,
Said the Rose;
For the winter winds are sighing,
All my playmates round me dying,
And my leaves will soon be lying
‘Neath the snows.

But I hear my Mistress coming,
Said the Rose;
She will take me to her chamber,
Where the honeysuckles clamber,
And I’ll bloom there all December
Spite the snows.

Sweeter fell her lily finger
Than the bee!
Ah, how feebly I resisted,
Smoothed my thorns, and e’en assisted
As all blushing I was twisted
Off my tree.

And she fixed me in her bosom
Like a star;
And I flashed there all the morning,
Jasmin, honeysuckle scorning
Parasites forever fawning
That they are.

And when evening came she set me
In a vase
All of rare and radiant metal,
And I felt her red lips settle
On my leaves til each proud petal
Touched her face.

And I shone about her slumbers
Like a light
And, I said, instead of weeping,
In the garden vigil keeping,
Here I’ll watch my Mistress sleeping
Every night.

But when morning with its sunbeams
Softly shone,
In the mirror where she braided
Her brown hair I saw how jaded,
Old and colorless and faded,
I had grown.

Not a drop of dew was on me,
Never one;
From my leaves no odors started,
All my perfume had departed,
I lay pale and broken-hearted
In the sun.

Still I said, her smile is better
Than the rain;
Though my fragrance may forsake me,
To her bosom she will take me,
And with crimson kisses make me
Young again.

So she took me . . . gazed a second . . .
Half a sigh . . .
Then, alas, can hearts so harden?
Without ever asking pardon,
Threw me back into the garden,
There to die.

How the jealous garden gloried
In my fall!
How the honeysuckle chid me,
How the sneering jasmins bid me
Light the long gray grass that hid me
Like a pall.

There I lay beneath her window
In a swoon,
Till the earthworm o’er me trailing
Woke me just at twilight’s failing,
As the whip-poor-will was wailing
To the moon

But I hear the storm-winds stirring
In their lair;
And I know they soon will lift me
In their giant arms and sift me
Into ashes as they drift me
Through the air.

So I pray them in their mercy
Just to take
From my heart of hearts, or near it,
The last living leaf, and bear it
To her feet, and bid her wear it
For my sake.

–George H. Miles

Two vases stood on the Shelf of Life
As Love came by to look,
One was of priceless cloisonne,
The other of solid common clay.
Which do you think Love took?

He took them both from the Shelf of Life,
He took them both with a smile;
He clasped them both with his finger tips,
And touched them both with caressing lips,
And held them both for a while.

From tired hands Love let them fall,
And never a word was spoken.
One was of priceless cloisonne,
The other of solid common clay.
Which do you think was broken?

-Nan Terrell Reed

as i slept last night

things ran through my mind

i needed to say them

to write them

to read them

so i told my dearest friend

to bounce these ideas around

"life is like a bumper car game,"

i told him

"you’re either causing the wrecks

or avoiding them"

then i thought for a moment

and finally said

"life is like a carousel

lots of pretty colors and music

that never goes anywhere"

i had to pause again

thoughts may run quickly through the mind

but slowly through the mouth

otherwise they are misconstrued

"life is like a roller coaster

ups and downs and loop de loops

you know physics keeps you in

and you cant help but scream"

i had just one more

"life is like a ferris wheel

long lines, short rides, and cold, bitter wind

most definitely not worth the tickets"

i said all of this in a matter of minutes

he gave me no reply

i asked him, in a quick, anxious voice

"what do you think it all means?

should we cause wrecks or avoid them?

should we ride a pointless ride?

should we hush and trust the rails?

should we skip the ferris wheel?"

still, he remained silent

whether in thought about my words or the road

i could not tell

then he said this,

"avoid the wrecks but learn from the ones you cant get away from.

the beauty of the animals and the music is well worth a short ride,

however meaningless it may seem.

scream as loud as you can on any roller coaster.

throw your arms in the air,

let your hair blow in the wind.

the more twists, the more fun.

one more thing,

you may never attend a fair without riding the ferris wheel.

some things just have to be done."

we sat in silence for a while

watching the houses and trees go by

until he asked what i thought.

"i think we just finished my thoughts.

now i write so i can read."

so i wrote

and now i’ll read

so i can clear my head

of county fair games

and possibly get back to real life

Good folks ever will have their way.
Good folks ever for it must pay.

But we, who are here and everywhere,
The burden of their faults must bear.

We must shoulder others’ shame,
Fight their follies, and take their blame:

Purge the body, and humor the mind;
Doctor the eyes when the soul is blind;

Build the column of health erect
On the quicksands of neglect:

Always shouldering others’ shame-
Bearing their faults and taking the blame!

Deacon Rogers, he came to me;
"Wife is a-goin’ to die," said he.

‘Doctors great, an’ doctors small,
Haven’t improved her any at all.

‘Physic and blister, powders and pills,
And nothing sure but the doctors’ bills!

"Twenty women, with remedies new,
Bother my wife the whole day through.

‘Sweet as honey, or bitter as gall
Poor old woman, she takes ‘em all.

‘Sour or sweet, whatever they choose;
Poor old woman, she daren’t refuse.

‘So she pleases whoe’er may call,
An’ Death is suited the best of all.

‘Physic and blister, powder an’ pill
Bound to conquer, and sure to kill!"

Mrs. Rogers lay in her bed,
Bandaged and blistered from foot to head.

Blistered and bandaged from head to toe,
Mrs. Rogers was very low.

Bottle and saucer, spoon and cup,
On the table stood bravely up;

Physics of high and low degree;
Calomel, catnip, boneset tea;

Everything a body could bear,
Excepting light and water and air.

I opened the blinds; the day was bright,
And God gave Mrs. Rogers some light.

I opened the window; the day was fair,
And God gave Mrs. Rogers some air.

Bottles and blisters, powders and pills,
Catnip, boneset, sirups and squills;

Drugs and medicines, high and low,
I threw them as far as I could throw.

"What are you doing?" my patient cried;
"Frightening Death," I coolly replied.

"You are crazy!" a visitor said:
I flung a bottle at his head.

Deacon Rogers he came to me,
‘Wife is a-gettin’ her health," said he.

"I really think she will worry through;
She scolds me just as she used to do.

‘All the people have poohed an’ slurred,
All the neighbors have had their word;

"’Twere better to perish, some of ‘em say,
Than be cured in such an irregular way."

"Your wife," said I, "had God’s good care,
And His remedies, light and water and air.

"All of the doctors, beyond a doubt,
Couldn’t have cured Mrs. Rogers without.’

Tle deacon smiled and bowed his head;
Then your bill is nothing," he said.

"God’s be the glory, as you say!
God bless you, Doctor! Good day! Good day!"

If ever I doctor that woman again,
I’ll give her medicine made by men.

- Will M. Carleton

the head of a bull
the will of an ass
the gall of an eagle
the smarts of a fox
i hit my head against a wall
my stubborn self
my field tripping self
i intended to find my own way
my ornery self
my single minded self
i fought the good fight
or whichever one i could pick
until my knees were bloody
and my cuts had cuts
until my knuckles bared
and my teeth fell out
i knew i was a fool
i knew when i was wrong
but i could never admit it
i could never stray from my wandering path
call it pride
call it foolishness
call it whatever you please
but most of all
it was pure rebellion
i rebelled
why?
why not?

the heart of a dove
the will of an ocean
the love of a mother
the faith of a child
i turned away from my wall
my stubborn self
my field tripping self
i finally found The Way
my ornery self
my single minded self
i fight the good fight
now that i know what it is
until my heart shines
and my love has love
until my mind is pure
and my sin has fallen
i know i was a fool
i know when i was wrong
and He forgave me
although i strayed from His righteous path
call it pride
call it foolishness
call it whatever you please
but most of all
it was pure rebellion
i rebelled
now?
now i am His.

its the cooking that counts
not the recipe or the meal
or the drink or the table
its the journey that gets me there
its the winding road
and the dust at my foot
its the cooking that counts
its the mixing and the cracking
its the baking and the whisking
its the smell of the garlic being crushed
and the feel of the knife in my hand
its the anticipation in his eyes
when his nose notices
its the cooking that counts
not the place mats or the company
not the ingredients or the utensils
its the journey that gets me there
its the winding road
and the dust at my foot