Our love was made in China,
Outta of the sparks rose a fire,
Now we're all burning,
For that love we've been yearning,
That love that started the fire.

Who can call it love,
If we've only got a taste.
The words on the tip of my tongue,
In my ears that laugh stays rung.
In opposite directions we race.

Didn't push me off,
Seemed it enjoy it all.
But at least we have that day,
Where you and I played.
No one can break that wall.

Our love was made in China,
Outta of the sparks rose a cloud of ash,
Now we're all cold,
From that love we've been told,
That love that stayed dead at the site of the crash.

Odd zoo animal,
Let him in my house.
I was only trying not to be a ***** *****,
Now he wants to get hitched.
Such a creepy craving mouse.

Gave to him a gift,
I was his first kiss,
He was fine but I wanted more,
So awkward he couldn't handle a *****.
But please go on insist.

Our love was made in China,
Outta of the sparks rose a column of black,
Now we're all empty,
From that love we've held gently,
That love that stayed at her house and won't ever come back.

Lord, I give You this day.
Help me to seek Your face,
and walk in Your ways.
Let me ever seek Your guidance,
in every step I take.
And to Your Presence,
let me be fully awake.

When guilt and regret
fill my heart with grief,
and when fears of the future
give me no relief,
Let me find You in the quiet moments.
And find rest of soul.
Remembering that only in You,
can I ever be whole.

Lord, I give You this day.
You are the Potter,
and I am the clay.
I give You myself.
I give You my will.
I give You my heart.
I give you...
my life.
Lord, I give You this day.

I won't be on site for some time. I'm writing the story of my father's life. He's 91 years old. In a power chair due to severe arthritis. Almost completely deaf and going blind. He can't read properly now and, being a very bright man, is filled with ennui. He doesn't know what to do with his time. I want to find out about his life. I know parts which I will put in this poem you are about to read...

My father's not a nobleman
Born a farmer's son
He has not the title Prince
In my heart he's surely one

My father is not tall of build
He's not a rugged man
But on his shoulders as a child
I saw the Earth's full span

My father is not wealthy
Has no Goods to share
But in my heart I know his worth
He is a billionaire
He is not a Wise Man
Has not those gifts to share
But he has a high IQ
Is bright beyond compare

Raised in the Great Depression
He ate the slop for pigs
Now he's a survivor
His grave cancer didn't dig!

He saw Okinawa
Eniwetok's grim atoll
Code named "Ivy Mike"
The Bomb landed on it's shoal

He went to MIT
Far 'above his station'
And he did it with a handicap
A 7th grade education

He is not a saint
He is far from 'pure'
But in my mind he's worth it
His tale should endure

So I will write his story
I believe it should be told
He is a curmudgeon

But he has a heart of gold


♡ Catherine

I was once convinced
Everything would
work itself out.

Every problem had a solution
Every fixation, an axis
Every point? purposeful.

Certainly time was an equation.
Solving the question of final age
was merely the addition of years
and the subtraction of moments
our vices swallowed.

Everything was orderly.
Numbers in a row.
Empty boxes, waiting to be checked.

DNA strands coiled ceremoniously
into my exact composure
worried about me so I wouldn't have to.

Days flaking off like dandruff,
unsightly flecks of fragility,
floating toward irreversible fate.


I would live until I wouldn’t.

I would teeter
        ...skid
                   ....careen
through hours, anxiously awaiting
never taking a breath to rest and reflect.


Death was algebra.
I was subtracted from morality,
added it back as fatality.

Evening out- solving for X,
My many quaking days
having lost their grip.
            ~
Life is not math.
Life is trash recycled into sporadic moments that won't last.

Simplicity was never synonymous
To consciousness.
Sentient beings will always suffer.

Words will never suffice
When the feelings are out of place.
Attempts at descriptive narrative
only feel like a forced hand,
a poor play.

My slippery fingers are arthritic,
clutching at the vapors
of moments before mistakes.

I've never kept anything I loved.
I have ****** out of hate
more than I have out of lust.

I was always what I wanted to be
never was what I needed to be
And when desire ran dry
I always settled in the dust of desolate decisions.

The bell curve never helped with my grades
And this learning curve can’t help me find my place.


C.e.M. Aug. 11, 2016

The sun went to bed angry.
It sliced itself on the razor's edge of the mountains. Bleeding all over the sky. Rivulets of blood seeping down into the dry River beds. Mars couldn't even soothe it. He glowed red in the sky. Its fury made the moon blood.

Then the sun woke up on the wrong side of the sheets. Dawn was depressed and looked like sludge. Morose clouds muffle my breath. Weakened my lungs cry out for air... And find only fog. The kind of fog that gives you asthma. I have COPD in my emotions, and dust has seeped into my brain.

I call out to the only relief I know. My words bounce off the sky. But later that day a single sunbeam burst through the clouds,  highlighting a pair of butterflies dancing together.

God moves in mysterious ways his wonders to perform...


SoulSurvivor
(C) 8/15/2016

Along the journey
Along the laughs and the tears
Along the sleepless nights and restless days
Along the fights and the makeups
Along the fake smiles and hurtful words
Along the reconciliations and comprises
Along the backstabbing and heartbreaking
Along the hidden phone calls and texts
Along the long breaks and short conversations
Along the doubted trust and vile behavior
Along the alcohol shots and cigar smokes...

...*I forgot love was supposed to be beautiful

It is not great men who change the world, but weak men in the hands of a great God...

Oswald Chambers