Some of Life's Kettle Corn Page 2

  I never made it to Karen’s place. I stayed in heaven and what a glorious get together it was! I don’t think we have words in any language that can explain what heaven is like. You know it in your heart and soul. The sun never set that day. It’s the best party ever! You are welcome and so loved. You see your friends, pets and loved ones again and everyone is deliriously HAPPY! You get to meet and hold beautiful souls you haven’t met yet. You get opportunities to make all your past wrongs right. GOD is there! Imagine that! No stress, no worries, no pain. All the stuff I didn’t really understand was becoming clear. Time takes on another perception. I will be seeing Karen and everyone else who hasn’t arrived yet, soon!

  Keep Trying

  “You can do it! One more now, don’t be a quitter!” My coach in rehab is such a drill instructor. I know she means well but my mouth still cannot pronounce “lemon” (we were going through the letter L that day). I suppressed tears while I worked my tongue and facial muscles to re-learn speech.

  The car wreck totally threw me into a state of shock and depression. A ray of hope was fostered by caring healthcare people. I couldn’t just die like I wanted to because my family would freak. So I resigned to be the guy with the distorted face. I thought, maybe I’ll join the circus when I get out of rehab.

  I can’t complain I thought when they pushed Lora in through the rehab door. She was messed up like nobody’s business. Her arms had atrophied to pencils. Boy did she have a lot of work to do. I admired her attitude. I wished I could say “hello,” but there was my messed up mouth.

  After months of rehab, I was able to say, “I love you” to Lora and she was able to put her arms around me.

  Intuition

  What is this thing this gut like know, that we call intuition?

  It is source, informing force as thoughts come to fruition

  One can know and one can sense

  You feel with true conviction

  Without the proof or evidence

  We practice intuition

  A path to take or to avoid

  As you were unaware

  You changed your path and doubled back

  You needed to be there

  You may not know in your mind’s eye

  But listen to the sounds

  The feel and pull of insight

  Will keep you on the ground

  Tune into this, it is a gift

  Let gut feelings flow

  The best decisions in our midst

  When we are in the know

  Christmas

  Christmas comes around each year

  It brings our loved ones near

  A time to get a special treat

  And memories to keep

  The radio plays songs of snow

  Of getting home the place to go

  There is Santa pulled by deer

  He and Rudolph’s happy cheer

  Jesus Christ is under fire

  His birth seems all the reason

  For stores to have a sale and hire

  Part timers for a season

  “Joy to the World”

  Is what Christmas should be

  Not Frosty, elves, a stylish tree

  Some people do not see

  That Christmas should be felt in heart

  Not what the TV calls it

  It’s all about our Savior’s start

  Not “What’s in your wallet!”

  Hate and It’s Cure

  The word hate is the armpit of language.

  Hate is a reflection in the mirror as you see your bad self.

  Hate chews and feeds on your productivity.

  Hate irritates like too much noise when a little quiet would do.

  Hate blocks good and rational thoughts from surfacing due to dark emotion smothering them.

  Hate can be recognized by the knowing when there is something or someone you just don’t need to be around.

  Hate is a negative energy.

  Hate is a form of judgment.

  Hate is the lid on Pandora’s Box full of all wrong ideas and assumptions.

  Hate leads to revenge. The word revenge is the other armpit of language.

  Hate literally affects your health in a disease way.

  Hate becomes a roach infestation in your soul’s home if you don’t exterminate it at the first sight of the first “hate.”

  There is nothing good about hate.

  The prescription for hate: Forgiveness, a huge pill to swallow (the pill may have to be split up and gradually taken in order to get it all down), but it works.

  You don’t have to forget but you can forgive.

  Get freedom from hate and his cousin, revenge.

  Who is Your Gunga Din?

  Rudyard Kipling’s poem of an Indian man is all inspiring to me. The English were busy fighting a battle in India. Gunga Din did his job. He was the “little guy.” The seemingly insignificant, barefooted and helping resident was actually the best support any soldier could have.

  He did without for the cause. He brought supplies and carried water to the troops. He was reliable, devoted and true. He relayed information. Without the efforts of him, the battle could not be won. His clothes were tattered; he wore no stripes or medals.

  He took a bullet and died wishing well to the men he served.

  I have a “Gunga Din.” His name is Jesus.

  Get Real

  Put your face out in the rain

  Bump your toe and feel the pain

  Tell your body and your brain

  I am human, not insane

  Be the one who sees what’s real

  Don’t deny just what you feel

  Like an onion you can peel

  To deepest feelings you reveal

  Give yourself the human break

  Of understanding risk you take

  The great decision that you make

  To be real and not be fake

  Amy’s Love

  Amy reached for “Barbie,” she put on the other shoe

  Her brother he felt sorry, he sat in clothes of blue

  Jimmy’s eyes began to swell as they were looking down

  Upon his face a tear fell, he couldn’t go to town

  It was Amy’s turn to ride with Dad, who had a business trip

  Her little brother felt so sad, Amy bit her lip

  She talked to Dad and he did hear, she got a special hug

  She whispered words in Jimmy’s ear, avoided being smug

  He packed a bag, his shirttail snug, his tears he wiped away

  He understood that Amy’s love, was why she chose to stay

  Some Stranger

  My mother told me once, “Never talk to strangers!” as if they were lying in wait to hurt or destroy. I can honestly say mother was wrong about that. She was just trying to protect me.

  A few years ago, I delivered a commencement speech for Duke University. For many years of my professional life, I have advocated “proper living.” I’ve written several books encouraging the avoidance of inappropriateness or its very appearance. Some have referred to me as the “Emily Post” of high standard living. My books have been a “must” in circles of high society. Cameras shuttered as the local and national news storied my presence. After the commencement, a standing ovation ensued!

  While returning to the airport in Raleigh, my mind was preoccupied with thoughts of how the speech went and who I may have influenced. I guess I wasn’t paying attention at a city construction site. My Mercedes bounced down an incline sending me flying about my car. I landed slamming into a steel light pole. The street was crowded. I heard someone shout, “Hey! Is that Beverly White?!” I was dazed. I tried to remove disheveled hair from my sticky face. Steam and smoke were bellowing from the crushed hood.

 
; A few seconds passed. I looked down. My legs were spread and snug around the gear shift offering up the most phallic of sights. My skirt was inverted exposing underwear pulling on bulging privates as well. One of my breasts was hanging below my disrupted bra and my shirt was around my neck. I looked at the glass shards all around me. A gift of wine smashed sending its aroma all inside my car. Through the distorted windshield I could vaguely see an ambulance and a news crew (cameras unloading), rapidly approaching.

  The passenger side door opened. A female stranger gathered my unharmed legs together. She quickly assessed I was not seriously hurt. She tucked my breast into my bra and rearranged my clothes restoring me to a state of dignity. I noticed her rough hands and simple clothes. She disappeared after speaking words of calming assurance that I would be OK.

  In those seconds my writing life changed. I stopped encouraging judgment based on appearances. I stopped assuming what “correct living” was. I began to encourage tolerance and love for others. My books still fly off the shelves, to all human beings. Some heavenly stranger taught me to use my place as a writer “properly.”

  Seasons Home for the Aged

  She’d wait ’till they were fast asleep

  She tip toed making not a peep

  Got in their cups and stole their teeth

  Yes Mattie was a denture thief

  The working staff was quite concerned

  A reputation Seasons earned

  Residence at any dawn

  Woke up and found their teeth were gone!

  An old man made an angry scene

  While covering his mouth

  Miss Mattie was the “klepto Queen”

  At Seasons in the South

  Mattie hid her teeth collection

  No one could stop her theft infection

  Her pockets they were filled to brims

  With partials, dentures, old folk’s rims

  So full they tore and to the floor

  Fell all that dentistry

  Right beside the day room door

  Stood her identity

  So now old folks of Seasons Home

  Have all their teeth back in

  But Mattie waits for time to roam

  She has to go Jackin’!

  Danny

  “What are the voices saying to you?” The therapist sits across from Danny. She is going to ask how many voices and about their tone. Danny is frustrated, his eyes caste to the side avoiding eye contact. His eyebrows are bent, his lips quiver. His speech is pressured. To Danny this is a personal question. It’s like an invasion of privacy so to say.

  “They tell me to hurt myself, that I’m a piece of shit anyway.” He wrings his chubby hands. His disheveled curly red hair is flopping over his eyes. His mother sits in the next chair, exasperated. There have been many therapists and attempts to control Danny’s Schizophrenia. The voices started when Danny was eighteen. He is now twenty five.

  After the session and an increase in his dosages, Danny and mother go home.

  No one can tell Danny the voices are not real. They live inside his head. They hate him. They lie to him and reward him when he obeys them. He begins to believe them. He believes the lies they tell of people only wanting to hurt him. They tell him not to sleep. He believes he is just a piece of shit. He believes the voices. It is one against many who bombard him every day telling him why he should just die. They tell him he is the alien supreme ruler of Neptune who needs to return to the goat hoof ship. He can trust no one but the voices. He is tired. He is drugged and follows the commands. He overdoses and dies.

  Were the voices real? They were to Danny.

  Never Find

  Hidden stories of the past live with us like a debtor

  We somehow think we owe them out when silence would be better

  Some of us have secrets that if told would cause us grief

  Truthful memories never told protect like shade from leaf

  There are some who, if they knew, would quickly be surprised

  Give cause to do impulsive things with anger in their eyes

  The truth can be quite hurtful to the ones we love the most

  You may consider silence, delete that FaceBook post!

  Discernment is a forthright word

  A challenge of the mind

  To tell a story never heard

  Or place in “Never Find”

  I’m not saying don’t come out with things that should be said

  Here’s a little point to ponder, heart should rule the head

  Some things should just be filed away into your “Never Find”

  A place to shield some others in the corners of your mind

  Some Dammed Day

  Evil hurt a child today

  He took more than his share

  Narcissism out to play

  For others he don’t care

  Manipulate just to take

  The absence of compassion

  Hearts so full of empty fake

  Hiding selfish passion

  I say to you a warning

  You likely will ignore

  You will soon be mourning

  Payback’s at your door

  California’s burning soon

  The big quake very near

  Asteroids call sonic boom

  Explosions you will hear

  The moon will be confused

  Communications cut

  Aliens accused

  Of chaos fear and such

  Color schemes will change

  The illnesses anew

  Great thirst and hunger pangs

  Death will surround you

  Survival will be rare

  Grief will be there too

  Fear the fiery blare

  It’s here to consume you

  To live in this oppression

  Not where you used to be

  Will force you ask the question

  “Will God Save me!?”

  Will you help a child somehow?

  Protect them from despair

  Will you seek forgiveness now?

  Or will you still not care?

  Our Angel

  She fumbled in the ice tray

  Looking for some food

  She slept in clothes of yesterday

  Confusion is her mood

  She mumbles in her sleep these days

  I can’t make out a word

  Her mind is in a type of haze

  As thoughts are getting blurred

  I think the angels visit her

  Telling her, “It’s time.

  Things are not the way they were.

  Relax, no feat to climb

  I heard it said the other day,

  “Your loved one’s in a boat.

  She gently slowly drifts away

  No thing she needs to tote.”

  We will do all that we can

  While she makes this transition

  On the shore she’ll peaceful land

  Successful angels’ mission

  Greeted by the Son of God

  Friends and family too

  Renewed and perfect, nothing flawed

  She’s bright in skies of blue

  She’ll have wings and glory beams

  With power of our King

  Together we’ll be

  Eventually

  She’ll visit in our dreams

  Refuse To Flock

  I write to let you know your life

  Is not unlike the past

  The soul of man endures its strife

  Conformity will last

  “You must do this and that” they say

  You be strong and proud

  In the path
you take along the way

  Not following the crowd

  Times will come to teach our souls

  If we are rock or sand

  Do we believe in our own goals?

  Will we sit or stand?

  Stand for what is right and good

  Stand for being wise

  Or sit ignoring when we should

  Refuse this evil guise

  I hope your house sits on a rock

  You need for steadfast ground

  Not following the massive flock

  The puppeteers have found

  The Paper Boy

  Back in the day, he stood on the corner, hollering out the front cover

  He made a few bucks

  For marbles and such

  But most he would give to his mother

  Up at dawn and out the door, the boy of barely age ten

  Could sell you the news

  In worn out shoes

  As proud as full grown men

  “Extra! Extra! Read all about it!” Folks wanted to be in the know

  Business plans

  Politician’s stands

  Fashions of day

  Evil at play

  He’d sell wherever he’d go

  Crocodile Flies like Superman

  His mother sits close to his bed

  He says to her, “I’ll soon be dead

  Heaven is to go on only

  I’ll leave you here sad and lonely”

  Mommy says, “We’ll never part!

  Tommy you are in my heart

  Tommy you are Superman!

  Flying to the Promised Land!”

  Tommy’s on the hospice bed

  Remembering what his mother said

  Tommy grinned as he was musing

  Playing with his facial tubing

  “See you later alligator” Tommy says as he jeers

  “After a while crocodile” Mommy says, pushing tears

  The crocodile, his breath gives way

  From mother’s arms he flies away