Poetess Jo Dowling, A Psychiatric Nurse Who Writes Poetry of The Dark Side

 

It is with great pleasure that I introduce you to a fellow poetess who is also a psychiatric nurse, like myself.

 

 

It is because the mind of a mental health nurse sees the world, reported by others, from a down to earth approach and also from a surreal sublime often bizarre experience,  that I’m thrilled with Jo Dowling’s poetry. In a way, because we are so down to earth, we are also somewhat of skeptics, realists and also expect the weird from the world, at the same time.

We may write about “fairies” and fables, but under that fantasy is dirt truth… You must read between the lines that often have allegories, metaphors, parables and messages hidden in the gray areas of life, and from that we express the unexplainable in poetry.

If you live and move in these areas, then  you too, understand the minds of psychiatric nurses… We are the eyes of doctors and therapists. We watch and never have to listen because we see and understand the unspoken language of the human spirit.

We are the Watchers, not exactly the listeners of words, because body language speaks louder volumes than spoken conversations, and psychiatric nurses see and realize the unspoken and that is why I love Jo’s poetry. She sees the reflections of the dark side of life and explains some secrets found inside closets and under beds in her poetry. The child that hurts, the person that still experiences the “boogyman” syndrome, Jo understands.

It is the human psyche and the sixth dimension that her poetry reflects. The empathetic observer that she is, who feels and deeply understands fears, horrors, paranoias and the sadness’ of many who experience mental illness or just simple fears and depression. Jo writes from their persona or perhaps she writes from her own experiences.

I love your poetry Jo. I understand and I relate to well. I know those demons thwarting our living day to day … So often those tormentors get away with robbing innocent victims.

I appreciate your poetry because you are truthful about what you’ve witnessed, and you have come to tell others, to alert them, and to touch them in away, through your poetry. Those whom read your lines, verse and choices of words, know that you do understand because you hit the demon on the head (just an expression) and expose those dark forces, so well.

Jo’s poetry is heartfelt spiritualality, but is not pie in the sky fairies and pixies, but it is about real life forces that have wounded many, and affect many daily;

So, thank you Jo.

Here is one of many of Jo’s poems.

 

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Jo’s Bio

Childhood was spent in China, Korea, and Baghdad. Attended college at the University of Arkansas, Henderson State University, and Texarkana College, obtaining a degree in Nursing. Became Specialized and Certified in Psychiatry and worked as a Registered Nurse at Baptist Health and Pinnacle Pointe Hospital in Little Rock, Arkansas. Served in the United States Marine Corps, Intelligence Division. Retired early and returned to hometown of Foreman, Arkansas to write full time.
jodowling514

 

 


 

 

Poem 1

Sometimes we turn from the fire so quickly we stumble and fall in the flames and are burned
And sometimes we medicate painful mistakes with elixers of poison or  promises made
We watch as the children grow taller and stronger and cover our eyes when they break down the door
We are of thunder and rainbows, and cyclones, and northeastern winds without warning or form
We are of time and celestial planets, and volatile poisons and critical mass
We explain meaning without understanding- our senses perceive only what we believe
Humanity, fling back the sheet from the mirror–
Focus your sight and define what you see
Quiet your mind and acknowledge your senses
Cry for humanity, tend to the bleed

jodowling514



Poem 2

Gold turns to blackness like fossil rock veins- meanings ingrained and embedded 

Sadness strikes suddenly, point piercing through, wickedly splitting existance in two 

Shaking from force of the violent blow- the meaning burns inward and down to the bone  

The sound lasts for only one second of time, but the echo will last for an entire life


jodowling514



Poem 3


Biddable river shines bright in the Autumn

Dance with me under the river rock cliffs

Voluptuous evergreen lips kiss the sky

Come to the river

Swim through your mind

Grape vines entwine, hiding footprints behind us

Time cannot find this oasis

Tedious urgency does not exist

Prisms refract where the river falls spray

Wade in the wonder

Bathe and create

jodowling514


You can find Jo Dowling on FB. She has several poetry groups and you might want to follow her and learn more about the dark side of our mind….

I live there at times and relate to the closets hidden from the world of facade and often irreverent.

https://www.facebook.com/jo.dowling.37?fref=ts


Thank you Jo for sharing your poetry and a part of yourself. Thank you for the work that you  do and write about.  It is because you relate so well to the human spirit.

Jo is a realist.

Thank you deeply and sincerely.

 

 

Remembering Robert Frost

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Investigating the road noticed

A set of tracks singularly left

Perhaps a motorcycle or a sled

The icy coverage maybe slick

Deciding if the path needed me

To venture the trail leading where

I’d never been but seemed foreboding

Oh but the brush and thickets held

Could be rabbits or deers or who knows what

The road invited me ~ so I pondered 

Remembering Robert Frost, I questioned

Is this the way, or perhaps not

It looked so innocent in the beginning part

Considering the icy surface and a mishap

But the other way held no assurances either

And each would take me to where I belong

Just different routes to meander through life

Standing looked as far as my sight grasped

The other way, was not envisioned 

So, I decided to keep moving through

Neigh the other would be traveled blindly 

Thus I went where I could vaguely see

And perhaps, I ask myself ~

 Did this decision make the difference

Is this the road, I should have travelled

 

 


 

BJ K♣️©2016 Bonnie Jennings. All Rights Reserved

 

Image from Pinterest

Gabriel Watches The Seas

 

A fast river flowed
A mind that perceived and not in overload
All knowing, all seeing, all being ~ to all
An oracle, her majesty, the watcher of walls
She bore the tears of other’s tending waters
Swells of oceans from turbulent troubles
And as she reflected on this chaotic disorder
She considered Earth and all it’s living matter
Embracing the tearful whirlpools ~ seen splattered
The pain and sorrows of all living ~ who’re battered
Scolding Saturn’s returns that rapes the fallen left tattered
Casting the attacker’s troubles down the river of sorrows
Flushing the toilet of madder patterns that’ve saddened
Taking on all flying daggers and smacking all the stabbers
Trying to Free all souls bound on Earth ~ as ordered
Gabriel, the angel who is the watchman mother
Her sword drawn to defend, we common
From demons, lawless lawmen, and loving the forgotten
Defending mankind and animals causing circles of water
Arguing devils, their disdain and silencing their disappointment
Loosing the kingdom once enslaving the living
And Gabriel watches the seas and rivers movements
Sweet bergamot permeates, when all the living are freed
Until then, she executes Gods ordinances on those venomous vipers
And the polluted waters flow, in her mind, back to the prince of darkness
 
 
 
K♣️
 
12/25/2016 © Bonnie Jennings ♎️♐️ All Rights Reserved

Thank you GIF maker… Your name was not included and I wish that I could give an attribution to your art….

A Gentleman Silhouette

 

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Damp leaves fallen everywhere 
Silently he who stands in prayer
Somewhere ~ pondering, “Elsewhere?
Could I have come from?” In despair,
He looks thinking, “is this a nightmare?”
Unrecognizing the odors and the auras
Alone, by the park bench now worn
Etched in wood were cursive initials
Swollen wet wood had but erased them
And there he stands, once debonaire
Only now, merely a ghost carrying an umbrella
The parallel alliance, the romantic bond
Passed into independent realms
Perhaps, time and measurements
Will lock into the same grid
But, until then, he just stands
Silently pondering the else-wheres.
Haunting the bench 
Amidst fallen wet leaves
Stands a gentleman silhouette

 

 

BJ K♣️©2016 Bonnie Jennings. All Rights Reserved

 

Image from A Poets Haven

“Oh, that thing dangling from your nose,”

 

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I’m taking you off my alter 

It was there ~ I placed you ~ so lofty

However ~ there’s something dangling from your nose

And because of that ~

I see you’re just a common man

 


 

 

It’s hard to find the right words to say

Actually ~ I’ve nothing to say

Where once I fumbled like a girl

Uttering silly mindless stuff

Now, you’re off my alter

I’ve nothing to say

 


 

 

No, I can’t praise you as before

It’s not because of the bugger

Really ~ thats not it

It’s simply, you don’t measure up to a god

 

And I’ve taken you from my alter

And put your memories away

 

I can breath again

 

 

BJ

 

 

 

Passages: Time is a Thief 🌹

William Wordsworth, 1770 – 1850 (an excerpt)

“What though the radiance which was once so bright Be now for ever taken from my sight, Though nothing can bring back the hour Of splendor in the grass, of glory in the flower; We will grieve not, rather find Strength in what remains behind.”

Reflections on Family

 

My Family/families are my Valentines. ❤️

 

 

Ode on Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood

William Wordsworth1770 – 1850 (an excerpt)

 

“What though the radiance which was once so bright Be now for ever taken from my sight, Though nothing can bring back the hour Of splendor in the grass, of glory in the flower; We will grieve not, rather find Strength in what remains behind.”

 

 

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Time is a Thief

 
 
 

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Fleeting ~ Time

Left are memories of the children voices
 Left are the visions of sand castles

Time is a thief ~ so subtly it steals
 The moments thought unimportant and harried

If only for a moment ~ my mother and father
 We could gather at the playground together

Instead of doing my own thing
 Would look only at you and carefully listen

Because truly ~ Time is a thief

BJ

 

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Hidden from sight the old trees still protect
 As if intruders enter out of disrespect 
 Inside the castle tucked deeply far away
 Is a beating heart who yearns for their play
 When they visit again and all will be restored
 To the time and place where the children roared
 The dogs barked when visitors approached
 And all was well, once upon a day
BJ

 

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The laughter of voices of children are still heard
 Looking at the image seeing what once was
 And nothing will bring back the innocent days
 Moving time forward, can never return



And the cycle of voices of children presently heard
  Are the ones who'll whisper in future playgrounds
  And the cycle goes on and on and on perpetually turning

Making the maddening cycle stop
  Takes fortitude, strength, courage and truth
  That the voices of children stay presently in your heart

BJ

 

 

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 Her Mysteries

 
 

Ascending an abandoned staircase stood once gloried and adored

 Still remains inside a crumbling castle’s walls ~ yet still lovely
She held secrets no one had explored, she waited to share
The mysteries, now ghosts, of people who once were
Back, caught in time, and the twirling vacuum of memories

Went ~ Swept away. But the antique staircase could bring them back ~

If only a wandering visitor came to stay.

 
 
 
BJ
 
 
 
 
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“Please, whisper. As you enter a sacred place, be reverent. It is the granite that shields her heart, and the only way to enter is in quiet solitude.”







Thank you for reading

 

 

 

K♣️

©2016 Bonnie Jennings. All Rights Reserved

 

 

 

The Art of Writing Query Letters for Writers; Chatting

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My official copyright and number for my novel…. I received it yesterday and I filed for it in June of 2016.

What I realize now, and will be of interest to you if your also writing a novel or books of poetry, is this fact. They, the copyright officials, go through every word and sentence that you’ve written to make certain that you didn’t plagiarize anyone else. So when you apply for a copyright, they will ask if you have quoted anyone or used any sources other than your own. In my case, I used The Bible, The Gnostic Gospels, The Book of Enoch, and Simon and Garfunkel lyrics (one line). So, I had to include any sources and cite them.

Now, please understand, this process takes time, but it is inexpensive. My novel is roughly 140,000 words give or take a couple of thousand on either side. It costs $35.00. Not bad. I think a poem is around $7.00 and If you love some of your work and want t keep it your work, then please, go ahead and file for a copyright.

For example, and I will use my dear friend Susan Joyner-Stumpf as an example.

Lets say, Susan has her own copyright all over her work, but if she hasn’t officially filed for the rights, then I (and I wouldn’t do this), could copy and paste her work onto my own work and submit it to the copyright officers and Susan would have to sue me. That would take more money than the $7.00’s for her poem, had she just simply filed with the official copyright office.

I urge you to file your best and most favorite work. Keep it safe because there are thieves unfortunately. Save yourself a heartache. Copyright your favorite work…

Recently, I saw that a fellow poet, had taken my words and used them. The words were twisted a little, but I knew, that was my work. I got mad, I got upset, I tried to be flattered, and then I dropped it. There was nothing that I could’ve done at that point. Once it’s on the internet, it’s published (yes thats right) and going to court over a little poem is useless…

There is also the poor mans copyright we’ve spoken of before on here and that is to print out your written work and mail it to yourself. It will have an official time and date stamped on the envelope and for heaven’s sake, do not open the envelope. A judge will do that in a courtroom should you have to take your written work to court and file for plagiarism against someone… However, should your house burn down, like mine did, and you have not placed your poor mans copyrights in a safe somewhere else, guess what? Yep, thats right…. You have no official stamp or retrievable work… Gone…

By the way, students search the net for work they can turn in as there own… They perhaps are the major culprits of thievery of un-copyrighted poetry and short stories… Yep… They’re trying to pass college English with an unsuspecting writer’s work….

Well, I hope you have a great day no matter where you are in our great world… 

The Art of Writing Query Letters for Writers; Chatting,,, The link on FB below:

https://www.facebook.com/The-Art-of-Writing-Query-Letters-for-Writers-Chatting-1803609986545421/?hc_ref=PAGES_TIMELINE&fref=nf

 

Paper Rater has a free site to check your work. It also has a plagiarizer within the program. So, you can test your own work to see if you’ve plagiarized. It’s interesting also to check your older material that you put on the internet. The plagiarizer should bring up the original written work and perhaps a date and name… So, check your work to see if your published on the WWW…. 

Link: https://www.paperrater.com/plagiarism_checker

And now… drum roll please… 

 

An Excerpt from my novel… The Introduction and Chapter One… 

The Lives of Fairy Godmothers,

Angels, and Witches 

(The intro and chapter one excerpt)

by BoJenn

THE LIVES OF FAIRY GODMOTHERS, ANGELS AND WITCHES

All rights reserved. Published by BookBaby

© 2015 BoJenn Books, LLC

All photos copyright © 2015 BoJenn Books, LLC

or as credited, individually, on photographs herein contained. All illustrations and paintings by Bonnie Jennings; Tyler, TX,

some inspired by Itzchak Tarkay, Yugoslavian/Israeli artist, 1935-2012

This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any reproduction or other unauthorized use of the material or artwork herein

is prohibited without the express written permission of the author.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form

First Printing: December, 2015

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

First Edition: December, 2015

ISBN # 978-x-xx-xxxxxx-x

Printed by BookBaby

Pennsauken, NJ 08110

Design and Production by MASON Communications

Edited by Sarah Harricharan, Johnson City, TN; Elysia Warne Elrod, Tyler, TX;

and Ky E.S. Mason; Shreveport, LA

Look for “The Lives of Fairy Godmothers, Angels and Witches” on Facebook!


The Introduction

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“A scream was heard that summer day. Four-year-old Catherine’s screams echoed into

the mystical wind. She told the wind to find Thomas. Bellowing into the breeze, her

little heart begged, with vigorous might. The current carried her voice. It never ceased,

until one day, I heard it. The zephyr had carried the message in search of Thomas. It

had traveled lifetimes, into where memories dwell. In the dark space of matter, it moved,

seeking the answer to the child’s petition. It did not stop, until it found accountability.

It had echoed, in and out of woven petitions, spirits and prayers, asking, “Have you

seen, the child, Thomas?”



I’m so excited and would love for you to continue reading through chapter one on the link below in the correct formatting created by

Ky E.S. Mason; Shreveport, LA

MASON Communications

The link:

lives-v8-81-page-i-to-page-30-single-pages

Or you may read it below.

Introduction“A scream was heard that summer day. Four-year-old Catherine’s screams echoed into the mystical wind. She told the wind to find Thomas. Bellowing into the breeze, her little heart begged, with vigorous might. The current carried her voice. It never ceased, until one day, I heard it. The zephyr had carried the message in search of Thomas. It had traveled lifetimes, into where memories dwell. In the dark space of matter, it moved, seeking the answer to the child’s petition. It did not stop, until it found accountability. It had echoed, in and out of woven petitions, spirits and prayers, asking, “Have you seen, the child, Thomas?”

Even as an older woman, Catherine could not stop the determination of the inquiring storm – to find the answer to her childhood question. The mission of the wind was to solve that petition. A request by prayer was sent that day, long ago; and then I came riding in on the wind.

Tadhg Harding enters the story, wearing a warm angelic smile and kilt. Tadhg recited the letter for Catherine. “Eleanor wrote it,” he added.

Catherine delightfully accepted the magic of an answered prayer. “At last!”

Tadhg welcomes you to journey inside this story about a woman named Elizabeth Catherine Dubois: “Everyone needs help – the supernatural kind – right?” Well, this tale is about when, where, why and how angels, or fairy godmothers, answer prayers.

Welcome! Thank you for stopping by for a cup of orange and cinnamon tea. Please, enjoy yourself

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as you settle in to a cozy chair and hear a story about the magic of love, the dignity of grace bestowed from God, and the power of deliverance from oppressive spirits on an older woman who was once her parents’ little fairy princess.

Like so many older humans, Cat Dubois almost lost her happiness to ill-fated happenstances which couldn’t be avoided. The only difference between Cat and others who seem to dissipate by death in the vagueness of their pain and sorrow? The young girl cried out a prayer that found a way to God’s ears and heart.

So, He responded; He sent Eleanor, who came riding in the wind.

This story is about the struggle of life and the resolutions that come to Cat many, many years later; but nonetheless, answers come, just in time, in a magical way.

So, allow me to introduce myself. My name is Tadhg Harding, and I’m the keeper of stories and poetry. That is the meaning of Tadhg, and this is what I do. I am both the story teller and an active participant in this tale, and I am also related to Eleanor, an oh-so integral character in this story. We are related by spiritual order and virtue. We travel through time, space and the world together. Come in, let us draw near. There is nothing to fear; this tale is an active adventure.

Humans, at times, question the fairness of a loving god. Life can feel like a test of human endurance. Why are some people fortunate or “blessed,” while others ache with despair and tragedy? Why is the innocence in children’s beautiful faces often lost within hardships, over a lifetime? Why are some untouched by horrors and deep valleys of sorrow and hatred? Lastly, why are some on a non-ending roller coaster of frights and thrills?

In order to understand and appreciate goodness, the darkness must be known, as it’s been taught many times before this story. Behold, the light of God shall shine upon the paths of danger, for our own good, and lead us, instead, to the way of enlightenment for our spirit’s development.

We shall lie down in those green pastures, and there our souls will be restored. We will one day act like God.

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“Could it be in a different dimension or lifetime?”which, of course, is an age-old debate pontificated in sanctuaries and bars across a world of speculators from the righteous to the sinners. And, should we choose to accept the calling to a higher self, our assignment, or our journey into the syllabus He has prepared for each of us individually, must be eventually travelled. If so, it surely is then that we shall be like Him, and see Him, in the splendor of His love; because in human living, love, mercy and grace are the traits of the Father who has come down from the lights and resides in our souls.

Unique, are we. Good and evil will be known, but few will defeat dragons in one’s lifetime. ”Dragons are real,” many will say, but I ask you, “Are they real today?” Are not dragons, real or imagined, just our conduits to godliness? For within the very best of us, and the very least of us masterpieces, lie imprisoned spirits which are trapped by the flesh of mankind, or Adam. Adam was from the dirt of this planet Earth. Adam nor his seed will not live forever. But the Spirit of God will survive forever; spirit is infinity. We are not.

Then, there is the soul – the ego. The dual nature which longs for the earth or the “Adamic” nature. It begins innocently, then falls into God’s grace. The quest – our mission or lesson – is to defeat the opponent, the enemy of ourselves, our egos. So, this story is about defeating the challenger of God using the voices of the accuser. It is the strong one of this earth who whispers to the accepting Adamic humans all the reasons that failure is the final destiny.

The devil within is conquered metaphorically in isolated forests; deep-flooding valleys; on rocky hillsides; in snake-filled pits; in vast oceans where a single lifeboat drifts eternally; in lonely, locked cells; in cold hospital rooms; in the loss of a child or loved one; in burning towers; crashing planes; bombshelled cities; in an orphaned child; in unwed mothers; in life-changing events; until kingdom comes. The devil is appointed an unending reserve of trials.

The test’s purpose is to stretch ego and character into a form of divine inspiration. Sometimes it works and never fails. Perhaps, it is not determined in one lifetime, but in many. The soul determines the result for the lap. The soul steers the course. It develops; and graduation of a lesson occurs as we

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become more and more like God.

Our story begins now. It is the story of a woman’s journey from innocence, to enslavement, and then to freedom, within a lifetime. You might share the sorrow and pain of her battles, and relate to her innocence during childhood, which is magically experienced by Cat. Seemingly, you might experience and share her rejection from the fellowship of those with whom she grew up. You might feel her hurt, her loneliness, her isolation; and know her addictions as your own. And, just when you think there is no hope for her – or maybe even you – you may find yourself cheering because there is magic and goodness in a dark world. There are fairy godmothers, angels, and guides who do help us just when we need them the most.

I welcome you into the story of Elizabeth Catherine Dubois.

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Chapter 1

Now, Elizabeth Catherine Dubois, or “Cat”, as she prefers, lives in a lonely house in the Appalachian Mountains, in a place known as Glory Town. She is young; growing up is upon her.

As you sip your tea, I will tell you all about it. Hers is a tale of loss, troubles, enchantments, delights and the magic of God’s angels, fairy godmothers and other divine interveners. These divine creatures – angels, guardians, fairy godmothers, or your choice of moniker for those who carry goodness on their wings – came to Glory Town for the sole purpose of restoring Cat Dubois.

Now, Glory Town is nestled between two old mountains in The Appalachians, the picture-perfect quaint village of 11,000 residents, which is not quite as perfectly round a number as 12,000, but purposely maintained at approximately 11,000. Furthermore, the municipality is never allowed a population exceeding 12,000. This was written in the foundations of Glory Town’s “secret codes” and governed by the town’s three founders.

These three are: David Finks, whose wife is Hannah Finks, with whom they have three sons, Warwick, Winston and Chad. Next in the hierarchy is Robert Fletcher-Snutgrass, with his wife, Jessica, and their four children: eldest daughter, Emily; middle son, Taylor; Claire, the next girl; and then, baby, Suzanne. The third family led by a founding father of Glory Town are the Thornton- Henchmens with their tribe: patriarch, Theodore or “Teddy”, for short, and Selma, his wife, and Hector, Molly and Thorpe Thornton-Henchmen.

Also of notable importance are the Reverend Davis (Daniel Davis’s father) and the preacher’s wife, Rebecca Palmer Davis. Other families, though less impressive, include: The Bartons – Henry, Ruth and their 3 daughters, Priscilla, Patsy and Daphne; the Johnsons – Larry, the town mechanic,

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his wife Mary, and daughter Tammy; then are the Millers and their two infamous sons – Dillinger and Cooper. Finally, the immigrants from France and England are the Dubois family, comprising Philippe and Catherine Harrington-Dubois, and their daughter, Elizabeth Catherine, around whom this story revolves.

“Joy to the world! The Lord has come.” The crowning attraction of Glory Town is its famous claim as THE Christmas town most photographed and visited by tourist families with the delighted eyes of imaginative children and their parents, who still wonder, like children themselves, at the warmth of the holy season. Glory Town enlivens their memories like a picturesque scene on a vintage postcard, assuredly giving Christmas lovers warm fuzzies.

When approaching Glory Town from either mountain’s winding road, it appears like a Norman Rockwell painting that everyone wants, but only a few truly experience in a lifetime.

White snow, white picket fences, gently billowing smoke from the home fireplaces burning warm, and sidewalks, along which passersby smile endearingly while wishing all “Merry Christmas!” signal the revelry. Carolers beckon from the sanctuary, donning red choir robes and halo-white satin collars, heralding the music of pleasant voices in perfect a cappella, lifting up Gregorian hymns as the gothic organ opens with Bach’s “Passacaglia in C Minor”.

The Carolers, in a procession of holiday finery, continue their serenade to the corners in front of Victorian homes prominently, proudly, situated within what area, over many Christmases past, would become the town’s spiritual epicenter.

“Hark! The herald angels sing, ‘Glory to the newborn king…’”. Everyone in Glory Town is expected to play roles demonstrating angelic behaviors at all times – and especially when guests are afoot. This whole town is a “Christian town”, hastening one back, in a heartbeat, to a Charles Dickens setting. Good behavior as far as one can see has been dreamed of, desired by, and lusted after, by those who have ever read or heard of the charm found only here, only now, this magical time of year.

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The reputation of this little whistle-stop snowballed, bigger with every winter. Glowing reviews, and enough money to publish and mail pamphlets far and wide, made the traditions of these townspeople turn into the regular place of pilgrimage it is today. When visiting Glory Town, no tourist expects anything less than perfection. Who wouldn’t want to make this place home?

The improvements of puritanical whitewashing for the holiday productions begins each summer, with “summer” rehearsals starting directly after New Year’s. These practice runs include all residents – young and old – and require them to play their parts so well they’re second nature. By August, all the families congregate and begin re-teaching manners they’ve been teaching exactly as written and executed in the1800s. The women sew new costumes each year. They rehearse with their children so everyone is in step: how to act, how to talk and how to dress as if they still lived in the 1800s.

Making money by entertaining tourists has always been a major source of income for the town. Aside from that revenue, each business is small – and there aren’t many – and their bottom lines are nil to nothing. They like it this way; that’s why the law exists that the town will grow no larger. No corporate world exists here – in yesteryear. Everyone depends on the gratuities offered; they come in all year long, now that even the tourists have been courted to remember tithing so the traditions can continue. Little other real employment is available in Glory Town.

The acting, the manner of dress and everything else has become such a way of life that sometimes neighbors have to remind each other what is real and what are now magnificently drummed up vocations. “‘Come,’ they tell the tourists. ‘Pa-rum-pa-pum-pum.’”

It has become so confusing that some townsfolk, especially the older ones, just stay in their assigned role all year, shifting from season to season, talking in a dialect privy to Glory Town from nearly two hundred years ago. As they grew into their roles, they became them…except for some of the women who serve on the community boards. They dress in their finest “other” attire most of the time.

The locals take tremendous pride in the natural beauty of their town; and that goes right with

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giving thanks that they are governed by strict Biblical standards. The town is theirs – God seems to have made it and them just the way they are. Surely, it is a blessing for their piety, the elders say. And, though they welcome the tourists who marvel at their magical village, they are happy when the visitors depart. They certainly appreciate the economical gratuities. They benefit from the applause of the audiences they entertain; however they do wallow in the esteem. Glory Town is exclusive to their chosen few.

The tourists are the ones who now provide all the necessary income to maintain the town’s old architecture, the roads and the restorations to every utility, but the natives are very, very fussy about who comes to live, who seeks to stay, who stays too long after the stockings come down from the mantles. The visitors make them uncomfortable – way over their comfort level.

In the old days, they had strong persuasive men who determined when it was time that someone should leave Glory Town as soon after Christmas as possible. They would escort the interloper to the city limits, tip their hats and say, “Never show your face here again. Ya, understand?” But a few things had to change, as reticent as these Glory Town people are. They know who feeds them, and, now, people want to come visit throughout the year. So riding people out of town on a rail, so to speak, had to go. And with it went their smiles, now grown shallow, their Christmas greetings super- ficial, but their acting rivals the best of Broadway. The more charming the experience they provide the marveling visitors, the better the pay. “Oh, little town of Bethlehem how still we see thee lie…”

The steeple of the old wooden white-framed church is first seen when driving down from the mountain roads. It seems to welcome all from the winding path. But looks are deceiving, and the whitewashed paint is just that – whitewashed. And the winding path, it’s the most winding in the minds of those who live in Glory Town.

If anyone comes to visit outside the season of giving, the townsfolk know who they are, where they came from, what their intentions are…and when they should leave. The gossip trail is fierce; if one knows something new, they all do.

Of course, everyone attends church, and since there is only one church building in Glory Town,

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the Catholics have the evenings, the Baptists take the 10:00 AM every Sunday, while the Methodists have the 11:10 AM slot, and the Episcopalians secure the earliest services at 8:00 AM sharp, ending promptly forty-five minutes later. The Presbyterians are at 9:00 AM, and the Pentecostals, which include the Assemblies of God and so forth, occupy most of Sunday afternoons.

Church bells ring throughout the day, calling each congregation to their appointed time of wor- ship. The church bells sound rich and deep, reverberating with man’s spirit and soul, ringing to the heavens to be one with his Maker.

However, when fellowship time comes, they congregate all denominations together, eating, singing, dancing and any socializing hoopla at the time. Otherwise, there wouldn’t be many fellows to the ship.

Mountain clogging and square dancing are two celebrated happenings that many in Glory Town excitedly gather for during the fall and spring months. Their fiddlers and steel guitarists are some of the finest in the country. There is a young vocalist competition, and a clog dancer contest, which also includes a beauty event.

These festivals bring in neighboring county folks. A good healthy county competition is exhilarating, and the town is always hoping for new talent who can bring celebrity status to the area, as well as keep the faithful tourists geared up for another visit. After all, the nearby state of Tennessee has quite a reputation for talented artists. Glory Town wants to reap some of that glory, too.

Glory Town has one hotel with eleven rooms which, during Christmas, never has any vacancies; and the two private bed and breakfast facilities tend to be booked up an entire year, or even two, in advance.

Hotel residents are rarely invited to the church social functions any time of year. During the holiday season, the hotel’s guests are provided an open kitchen and usually celebrate together because the town closes on Christmas Eve at 3:00 PM sharp. There isn’t a movie theater, or any

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other venue for entertainment. The tourists resort to entertaining themselves, and they accept that for all the “unbelievable” goodness showered upon them the next day.

The grocery store is a small market that transitions to an open-air fresh fruit and goat-swapping center during summer. Nearby are ruby and diamond mines that have shovels and sifters for rent in summer, too, but it doesn’t take many people on staff to run them, so, again, the job market for Glory Town is slim to none. The coal mines employ about 42 of the working class of Glory Town. Logging is protected, but where it is allowed some of the men of the town work in that capacity. There is a double-sided clinic that tends to people on one side, while a country veterinarian utilizes the other. If the regular doctor is incapacitated, the country vet works both sides. That vet has delivered babies of every breed and stitched up minor lacerations on both humans and animals. But, all victims of major incidents are flown by helicopter to the nearest open emergency room.

The roads leading to and within Glory Town are treacherous during winter. Many people coming or going lose their lives trying to drive up or down the two-lane mountain roads. For safety’s sake, most of the grocery shopping is done in monthly installments, especially during the winters, and particularly if the individual lives on Downy Mountain Ridge Road leading into Glory Town. This road is where Cat Dubois lives.

The majority of the residents were all born in Glory Town – almost every single family has been a part of this whole scenario since its founding, except the doctor and the veterinarian. But, eighty- some-odd years ago there had been just one other outsider who came to live among them – Cat’s late uncle, her mother’s oldest brother.

François Nicolle, who visited the town frequently in the years that followed Black Tuesday, was eventually, and, surprisingly, by the old ways, allowed to purchase the manor and land on Downy Mountain Ridge – mostly because he was unintrusive; he was isolative; and he came with significant wealth. Uncle François had immigrated from Rouen, France where he had honed his skills in the agricultural art of growing the finest tobacco. He had brought those skills to the fertile soil of Virginia and grew a fortune in the most unlikely time of prosperity between the Great War and the

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Great Depression. Along with his wealth built in years when most are mere boys, Nicolle was almost idolized as “the” man’s man. He introduced the lush-hungry males of the town to tobacco and Bordeaux. With his keen mind for scientific advancements and business, and at only about twenty- three years old, the young industrialist offered to to help build the economy of Glory Town if he was allowed purchase of the estate. By all historical accounts, François had been the only newcomer who had ever been allowed to stay.

When François met his untimely death in 1939, Cat’s mother and father came to assume responsibility for the manor, and began employing locals seeking work. The Depression lingered longer there in Glory Town. So, for the next fifty-one years, it became their home. After the death of her mother and father, twenty-five years gone now, Cat has lived there alone. She is 61, and her story must be told.

“Since I, Tadhg, am the keeper of poetry, I know many poems for many occasions. Right now, I have one written for Cat Dubois. It was written for her to ease and lend strength for the journey she experiences.” Tadhg smiles warmly, “Perhaps her journey is one that has a familiar ring to you?”

Though, I’m as parched as the desert, and my skin is brown and wrinkled by the scorching sun, you have never left me.

I have known you are my friend and will never let me wither. If the night had no light from the moon, if the ocean’s waves consumed the shores, and if I had no friends, you would always be by my side.

You would lead me with your sweet tender voice, you would send angels to hold my hand. You would place the eternal light before my feet and I will not fall nor fail.

While I sleep, your angels will sing lullabies and say, ‘Sleep. child. sleep’.

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What makes Cat’s story unique is her gift. You see, Cat has faith, and it has made all the difference. Faith is her gift, and it will be put to the test to see if it is real, and to strengthen the measure given her for later use.

Before we can start this story in earnest, I must tell you some things beforehand:

First, the hard part. You must understand the reason’s behind Cat’s wilting, and angry spirit, for she was not always that way. You see, after many years of trying to be a good Christian like her mother and father, trying to live her life in their footsteps from the shadows of all they had done economically and spiritually for Glory Town, Cat shook her arms facing the sky and screamed up at the ears of God, as if He were there. Filled with rejections caused by believing those “good” people of Glory Town who claimed to be God’s children, Cat finally threw in her towel and lived in the singleness of her own mind.

Community, sisterly love and congregating with them was, well, truly, out of the question. She vowed to cut every relationship and denounce all spiritual ties with “those idiots” of her scorn. The last accusations against her, had been the final straw. “Calling me ‘a witch’, how dare they!” Cat rebuked their slurs as if God listened anymore. Her scowl said it all; and from then on, she no longer congregated with anyone in Glory Town unless it was absolutely necessary.

Cat cried into the brandy snifter.

She sat alone reminiscing about people and her vanishing past while lounging on the 19th century velvet olive-green couch in the manor’s library. Holding the brandy snifter in her right hand, she swirled the amber liquid at the bottom of the crystal glass. The movement was hypnotizing.

She watched it twirl for an hour or more, while memories played like a movie in her waking dreams all afternoon. She saw deeply, examining the past. The candles on the fireplace mantle flickered as the light faded in the room. The tears that befell her glass turned to droplets of self- discovery. As she cried, she saw something. A face! It frightened her for a moment, drawing a gasp. Somehow she had transcended; the year was 1999, and Catherine’s age, 45. This was

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not a young woman’s overactive imagination.

She stared at her brandy. There, in the glass, a face appeared again. It was a boy, looking at her from within the mirror of the liquor. He had sandy hair and his skin was fair with sunburned pink cheeks. In less than a second, the boy’s image disappeared.

Cat jumped back momentarily, then back again, eying deeper yet into the liquid, trying to see the anomaly. As quickly as she imagined the image she saw, nothing but brandy looked back at her. She looked behind her, thinking the boy would be standing there. How did he get there? “Who is he?” A chill passed through her. The air was thick, and the room smelled of sea water on a hot summer’s day, but it was freezing outside.

“I’ve had too much brandy,” she muttered to herself. She thought about that, and set the snifter down for the night on the table beside her.

She remained on the couch, thinking. After a while, forgetting the boy’s face, she dismissed the foolish delusion, She flashed back to the beginning of her anger – frustration – rages, regarding these “good, kind” people of Glory Town.

Ruminating, her mind ran away from the pain, way back in time. She saw herself – perhaps, she was four or five, maybe; she couldn’t remember. But the time was when she met her best friend, Daniel Davis, who was slightly older than she; and, it was a haunting memory, a mystery she would never forget.

Daniel was the minister’s son. From kindergarten until teenage years they were bosom buddies. He was a handsome boy who grew into a gorgeous young man. Always shy around others, young Cat was the one that made him laugh. Daniel trusted her.

It was if she had always known him – even before they met. Confidences and secrets were hidden in their hearts. Their families wanted them to marry when they were older. From Cat’s sweet smile anyone could tell she wanted nothing more than this, but, in her heart, she knew it would never happen.

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With all the hopes surrounding them, she went along with the idea that their marriage event would occur, anyway. She knew that Daniel loved her, but the dark secrets he’d shared when they were teenagers, made such wishes impossible.

He loved to cook and garden. He worked around the house and never wanted to go hunting with the men. He had strong shoulders because he chopped wood for the townsfolk. At the high school dances, he performed the latest moves like they were second nature. So, he was popular, too – every girl’s best friend, sweet, kind and intellectual, and mindful of the teachings of the elders. But, he litened to the forbidden radio to hear the latest news about world events and fashion. He snuck away from his father’s hellfire and brimstone messages to learn all he could of the outside world.

That which compelled him to quest far beyond the oak-lined alleys of Glory Town, was as second nature to him as dancing. Daniel loved men. Glory Town would never allow him to live there, if they knew. And, he didn’t want to live a lie.

Cat loved him unconditionally and would hide his secret forever, but she knew she would never be his wife no matter how hard anyone, and she, wished. It was easy to visualize her entire life with Daniel, but she would have to settle for being his best friend. There would be no romance or physical penetration when two souls meet, embrace and unite as one. She knew this would never happen. It made her sad; she wanted what lovers have; she wanted matrimony – with him. She loved him and adored him more than can fill a heart and mind and soul. But because she loved him so, she was willing to sacrifice that precious union, the whole man and wife magic, that blessed sacrament. He was Daniel; he was hers and she was his; it was just a different kind of wonderful than anyone could know.

Daniel revered Cat’s willingness to sacrifice her future for him, honoring his dark secret. But, he couldn’t bear allowing her to live a life with him devoid of physical engagement. He would hold her heart, but there would be no joining of their two spirits. There would be no conjugations; there could be no true marriage. As much as he, too, prayed he could compensate with the purest of love, Daniel could not ask Cat to throw so much of herself away, for him.

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Cat DuBois was just too special. It was he who bragged about her extraordinary gifts to
everyone – her gift of healing animals, her gift of of healing all living creatures. He stood in amazement every time they were together. She could heal people of so many ills, if they would just let her. The blessing of healing she manifested from within her were far too precious not to scream it from the mountaintops. He told everyone.

Assuredly, that is how jealousy took root in a family, and then spread like a forest fire in a drought. Because Cat had these gifts, amidst her shining star character and brilliance, she upstaged the pillars of the town, the respected elders and queens of the clans of Glory Town.

One family in particular began lambasting Cat at every turn, The Bartons’ three daughters, Priscilla, Patsy and Daphne, were this community’s beauties beyond compare. They also won the majority of scholastic awards – but, of course, their mother, Ruth, taught at their school.

Patsy was Cat’s age, and she desperately tried to provoke Cat into any competition that presented itself. But there was one area she had to dismiss. Patsy couldn’t carry a tune in choir practice, and Cat had perfect pitch. But Cat was never allowed a solo. Mrs. Barton made certain of it. The girls’ mother graded Cat on a curve Mozart couldn’t master – all because she thought Daniel would be a better match for Daphne.

Every time the Barton women could make a negative slur about Cat, they dug a slanderous ditch for her. Silently, they listened and gritted their teeth at Daniel’s accolades of Cat; they wanted to believe he was delusional. Like sour grapes, they imagined if he married this little insignificant girlfriend, Cat Dubois, he would one day discover that she was just like all the other dreadfully boring women of the town.

Surely Daniel was making a mistake! Clearly he was bewitched by this common girl and could not see Priscilla, Patsy or Daphne because of the enchantment with which the little trollop Cat blinded him.

The pressure grew on Daniel to ask for Cat’s hand in marriage. The entire town – except Ruth and

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her three girls – wanted to know, “When?” Were they going to have their wedding ceremony as soon as high school was finished? “When is the big day?”

Constantly pushing their agendas, engagement ideas and wedding plans upon him, Daniel finally broke under the strain and screamed the truth at his father, the Reverend Davis. One fine afternoon, he admitted his secret truth. He had to be honest. He confessed under emotional duress, but it was still the truth. “Father, I am gay! Don’t you see it? I’ve been this way for a long time.”

Those words changed his life forever – just as he’d thought. Daniel was expunged from Glory Town by his own father and mother. He was given a knapsack of food, water in a thermos, and allowed to keep only the clothes on his back.

He traveled on foot up the winding road, making the curve out of town on Downy Park Ridge Road. His younger siblings watched him leave until he was out of sight. They were unsure of the reason why he had to go; their parents and everyone who saw stood silent; but, they all knew something bad had happened.

“Mama. Mama, where is Daniel going?”, they pleaded, crying and pulling on her flowered cotton dress. One held onto her dirty apron. Daniel’s home, the day before his announcement, was now a place in his past.

One confession changed his world – that first sentence was all it took. It changed his mother’s and father’s lives, and those of his siblings; it changed Cat’s life.

The sky became grayer. The light of day dimmed to darkness. The brilliance of some special charm in that town lost its shimmer; no, it was gone altogether. An artist left and took all the colors with him. Enchantment with the hope a new young couple would bring such delightful children to sing in their choir – what was to be a slice of the magical life of Glory Town was erased in an instant – all because Daniel didn’t fit the mold. The pretty picture they had painted in their minds didn’t match God’s unique creation – the young man who had just hiked out of Glory Town.

Mrs. Davis stood looking down the street that Daniel walked on his way up the hill. The road

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looked long and lonesome. She thought to herself with caution, “Daniel soon will pass the Dubois estate.” In fact, her husband had yelled at him as he walked, “Better not go that way.” His demeaning tone rang loudly inside Daniel’s head, but Daniel had to go that way. He must. Still, even louder, his father screamed, “Don’t you think the Dubois family will want you to stop. Go on! You’re not my son anymore. Nobody wants you.”

Daniel’s mother stood like a lone tree in the desert. Her husband had scurried their other children inside. She was alone. Was she embarrassed or sad? Perhaps, a little of both but she knew she wanted her Daniel back. Would she ever see him again?

Word traveled before Daniel even made the first curve in the road. Some gossiped that his mother was so ashamed she couldn’t even move. Cat later knew that his mother was just broken-hearted. She knew that his mother would never heal; she knew that she, herself, wouldn’t.

The sun was blazing hot ‘though it would soon be dark. Sweat began to trickle down his head. Daniel was afraid, but free, at the same time. No longer would he have to live a lie though his immediate thoughts were, “Where will I go? Where will I sleep tonight?” He pressed onward.

Finally, going inside to look out the kitchen window, Mrs. Davis strained to see her last glimpse of her son. Her finger tips pressed the window trying to pull herself closer. She wanted to run after him.

“If you go after him, then you might as well pack your bags. You better not even think about it.”, Rev. Davis barked. After gruffly preaching this to her, she stayed motionless at the window. He hit the wall beside her, putting a hole in it, then he marched upstairs and slammed the door. The good Reverend never spoke to his wife again, unless he had to. She didn’t care. She hated him for this. She almost hated his God that he preached about on Sundays.

As Daniel passed the Dubois manor, he did stop – only to say goodbye. He hoped he could just see Cat one more time. Pausing in front of her home, he wished only for a hug and then a wave, “Goodbye.”

But news had already traveled to her parents; even as Cat tried to gain permission to take the car

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to drive him to the next town, her father refused.

“Papa, please! It’s not right and you know it!”

“Catherine, you go to your room right now!” her father said angrily, his French accent making the words sound so much more foreign.

“You loved him this morning! Now? Now, you hate him? How dare you! You call yourself a Christian? You’re not Christlike at all! I despise you!”

Cat ran to the top of the stairs. There on the table next to the banister, she caught a glimpse of a roll of money – money on top of her mother’s purse.

Cat grabbed the cash and ran the rest of the way up to her room. She hurried to the window and looked out, waiting until Daniel walked by.

“Daniel? Here!” She called out, throwing the money down below so he would be able to catch it. She watched as it blew away from the manor, and she waved goodbye, knowing her father would be going outside any minute to chase him away. Warm tears passed her soft, pink cheeks. “Bye, Daniel,” she hollered. “I love you! I’ll love you forever.”

Daniel waved back and blew her a kiss before he scrambled to pick up the money he could in a hurry. He stared back, seeing Cat’s mother looking out the front living room window. She gave a wave, too – a fragile, weak kind of wave.

Mrs. Dubois prayed as he turned and walked away. “Oh, Lord, please protect him. Send your angels to comfort him. Keep him safe. Please. Thank you.” Then, she went upstairs. She went straight to Cat, putting her arms around her tightly. Together, they cried.

“What will happen to him, Mama?” Cat asked, wiping the tears on her face.

“I don’t know, Cat, honey, but we will pray that God will be with him.”, Mrs. Dubois said.

Cat bit her lip. “Mama, may I please give him a ride to the next town? Please? Just let me sneak the car out this once?”

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“No, Catherine, your father will kill us both.” Mrs. Dubois said, sadly. “I’m sorry.”

“Mama?” Cat began, tentatively. “I took money from your wallet. $25.00. I gave it to Daniel.”

“I know. I left it there on purpose. You’ve a great heart, Elizabeth Catherine Dubois. I’m glad you did that for him; it was the least we could do for that sweet young man. I know how much he means to you.” They held each other as they watched Daniel walk up the road until he was no longer visible.

“Mama, will I ever see him again?” Cat asked.

“I don’t know,” Mrs. Dubois said, softly. “I don’t know.”

She hesitated before leaving the room, putting a hand into her apron pocket. She had a second thought. She changed her mind. Without looking at Cat, she placed the keys to the old Impala on the dresser, tucking a credit card beneath it. Under her breath she whispered, “Be careful. Pay for two nights at a hotel. Your father can be tempered. I’ll tell him it was a donation to a worthy cause. A tax write-off. Now, go quietly while I distract him.”

Cat quietly slipped outside and jumped into the car parked down the drive to the side of the house.

Mrs Dubois distracted Mr. Dubois with the suggestion of summer night’s passion, “My, it’s hot tonight. Come upstairs with me. I have something for you. A gift.” She smiled and winked. She curled her index finger to and fro. “Come on. I’ll meet you upstairs.” Mrs. Dubois turned on the bath water for two.

The sound of rushing water would distract his hearing. He wouldn’t be able to hear the car’s engine as Cat started it up, nor would the Impala’s headlights reflect in the large victorian bathroom.

Her distraction worked, for Mr. Dubois couldn’t get there fast enough. For the moment it seemed as if he forgot about Daniel’s drama and gladly he accepted the invitation.

“Turn on some music dear…”, she taunted.

Cat started up the old car and crept down Downy Ridge Drive as if going slowly might make less noise. She spotted Daniel walking on the side of the road. It was past dusk, and she could vaguely

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make out his shadowy figure. Honking and pulling to the side of the narrow curvy mountain’s small shoulder, she called out to him. “It’s me, Cat. Get in.”

The silence was thick. There were few words expressed, but finally Daniel spoke, “All men must go through an initiation into manhood.” He was silent for a second. “Cat, don’t stop this. Boys need to have this time. Any of them who don’t will later wish they had. It’s our rite of passage. The Indian braves do it. This is the right time and the right thing to do.”

Cat wanted to believe him. She drove him twenty-five miles to the next town stopping at a small motel. “Mother told me to pay for a night or two.”

“Tell your mother, “Thank you. I love her. And, will you tell my mother the same?”

“Daniel?”, through her tears she nodded, “Yes.”, to his requests. “Daniel, I can’t let you go. I can go with you.”

“No, Cat; I will be fine. I know someone not too far away. He said I could stay with him until I find work. I will be okay.”

“Promise? Swear it.”, she begged.

“Yes, I must do this. I have to grow up, Cat. It’s my time to sink or swim. I must become a man, now.”

“Swim, Daniel, swim.” Sobbing, he turns her away. “Get the car home before your father knows. I don’t want him to take it out on you two.”

“Okay.” Sniffling, Cat hugs him one more time.

He points the direction out of the parking lot. “Do you know how to get home? It’s dark on the mountain roads. Be careful. Promise?’

“Yes. Daniel. Daniel, I already miss you.”
“I’ll keep in touch. I swear.” He held the door open as she got into the car.

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As he closed the door, he said softly, “Now, you must go. I love you always.”

Pulling out of the motel parking lot she found the mountain road that would take her home. Cat thought about him every mile of the way. Through her sobs and tears, she wondered how he would survive.

Upon her return, she found that her parents were fast asleep. Cat slipped upstairs toward her bedroom, silently replacing the gifts her mother had lent her.

The women thought the father never knew she had taken the car. But, when she pulled back into the driveway, he was listening. He sighed relief, and said his thank you’s to God. A tear formed in his eye. He never let on he knew, and they didn’t ask.

Cat wrote in her journal that night, trying to understand the day. Even though her daddy was tough and often cool, he thought the world of Daniel, like the rest of the family. But, after Daniel left that summer, her daddy would hug her, for no reason. He never said anything. He just hugged her.

It rained for one whole month in Glory Town. Perhaps the town was secretly crying about Daniels departure, or maybe it was the angels crying.

As for Mrs. Davis, the days of her sobbing were over, but she would never smile again. She stared down that road, and waited. She just waited…and waited…and waited. She had a feeling she would never see her boy again, her precious Daniel.

She questioned the rules voiced through the insensitive humans who surrounded her. How was it possible that a loving God was so cruel? How could it be that they worshipped an unloving deity that allowed no mercy or grey areas to exist, especially, in Glory Town where things were supposed to be based on God’s love? Black was black; and white was white; and there would never be any shades of grey there.

To to the neigbors (supposedly, all her friends) who judged her son so harshly, God was an almighty father who tolerated nothing but perfection from his lambs. No spots or wrinkles, just pristine, whitewashed picket fences, and houses that complemented each other with matching shades

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of paint, and children who walked and talked the Holy Scriptures without pleasurable smiles. They sang Christmas carols all year – songs that now meant nothing to her; they were simply empty, dead words—just like her feelings.

Cat saw Mrs. Davis’ endless watching to see if her son would walk again down their lane again – day after day, one year to the next. Cat wanted to reach out and touch her, to tell her how she felt. After all, they understood and accepted Daniel exactly as he is. But, Cat stayed her distance; she did not intrude.

Cat did pray, however. She asked God to help Daniel’s mother, “We are two women who know painful sadness: for Daniel who took the rainbows with him, for the unicorns also departed with their smiles.” Cat laughed at her silly humor, but she felt like all this about Daniel was just that – ridiculous. Besides, anything that brought a magical feeling did disappear out of their lives when Daniel left.

Meanness grew from the seed of uncompassionate judgement and resentment, planted the day they exiled Daniel. That seed grew with more cultivation than ever in their grounds of high expectations. Trying to live up to all the “Thou shalls, and the Thou shall nots” had turned out to be a very hard lesson that kept getting more difficult with every day.

If there was any grey area, it was gossiping. Somehow one could gossip without sinning too badly. “After all, who is perfect?”, they justified. The gossip queens found protection under the Almighty’s great wings of grace. Apparently, gossiping was very forgivable, for them. It was letting off the steam from their boiling pot of perfectionisms.

They loved to gossip about two things: Cat and Daniel. And, of course, Reverend Davis. Not one of the townspeope ever visited Mrs. Davis – not even once.

Daniel’s mother seemed to wither away. After Daniel left, she had very little to say to anyone, including her husband. Mrs. Dubois always warmly smiled, and patted her hand, once, to show support. It was a kind gesture, but Mrs. Davis needed more. She hurt so badly that she questioned

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God’s existence.

All the scriptures regarding pain and suffering were, simply, not much comfort. The scriptures were used to convict her son, not to love him. Wasn’t their God supposed to be a God of love? This is what she had always believed. Perhaps, she was wrong about “His” character. A hateful God she would not, she could not, follow.

Mrs. Davis desperately wanted to talk with Cat, but her husband’s strict rules – to stay away from the Dubois family – kept her from paying a visit to the manor house. She was so fearful of what others would say; and more afraid of her minister husband. He might hit her. He would definitely berate her, although never publicly. But, she had borne his harsh blames and accusations that she was the reason Daniel grew up to be queer. He growled, rebuking the mother of their child, “Had you not coddled him so often and treated him like a girl, this never would have happened.”, and “God, help you woman!”. Of course, he blamed his wife for all of it: Daniel’s homosexuality; the fact that he wasn’t a real man in his father’s definition, or that of his community; and that he had to leave his home. It was all her fault!

And so, Mrs. Davis changed. She avoided the congregation, and she isolated herself in their lonely prison of a home. The only hope for a glimpse of godly mercy would be that Cat Dubois would hear and answer her prayers: that some how Cat would make a way to find her and tell her about her son, her Daniel.

“Please, hear me, Cat. Please, come and tell me about my son.”, she prayed repeatedly.

Then one day, a diagnosis was confirmed by her doctor. Mrs. Davis was dying. Parasitic cancer was rapidly growing. She called their maid, Ernestine, to send word that she needed to talk with Cat Dubois.

The maid knew, at once, that this had to be a clandestine operation. She would have to go to Cat’s house and ask her to come. Oh, she wasn’t afraid of Cat, but she feared for her own reputation just like everyone else in Glory Town. Anyone seen talking or visiting Cat Dubois was ostracized. But,

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she would do it. She had to think quickly. How could she sneak Cat inside the minister’s home where the ill woman waited? Ernestine was resourceful – she went as quickly as she could to consult the other maids of Glory Town on the sad situation.

Now, those who worked as domestic housekeepers in the town were all black women, and were forever under the ever-watchful eyes of the influential Glory Town hobnobs; but, when it came to the dying, well, the dying get their last request, no matter what; and the maids knew how to serve those needs best. So, these women used that trust and liberty to work together to pull off the plan.

It was an elaborate and grand scheme of orchestration by these Christian women, so prejudicially considered as subservients by most everyone in Glory Town. They would accomplish what no one else, so far, had managed or even tried to do in consideration of Mrs. Davis. These women were going to help Cat Dubois meet with that one woman in Glory Town who desperately needed to see and hear from her.

“Knock-knock” on the Dubois’ huge wooden front door was the first stage of their plan.

Ernestine sent Grace to visit Cat. Grace was the daughter of Beulah, Ms. Dubois’ cook, when Cat was a baby girl. They had never met, so Cat didn’t recognize Grace when she appeared at the front door; but, once she introduced herself, Cat was all ears. She knew it had to be very important for this woman to call on her out of the blue.

Cat eagerly agreed with their plan to go to Mrs. Davis’ bedside. The ladies had a signal, and a clear-cut order of what was to happen to protect all involved. Cat was a phone call away, and she promised to be ready when they said, “Come.”

At last, the call came. “Go to her, now.”

Cat was ready.

First step: Grace drove behind her, so Cat could park her easily-identified Jeep a few blocks away, hidden from prying eyes. From there, Grace picked her up and sped to the Davis’ home, making sure she was just under the speed limit. She dropped Cat off at the back door.

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Second: While the drive, drop-off, visit, and pick-up was in process, some of the other women in their black congregation were putting finishing touches on pies in different flavors: cherry, blueberry, apple pie and even a chocolate one, taking care to add fresh whipped cream, and brewing freshly ground Columbian coffee, too.

While those women were readying the refreshments, a few others were sent scurrying around town, inviting all the ministers they could find, from all the denominations and congregations, for an important, though impromptu, morning chat and prayer breakfast.

Along their route, they would even ask some of the local “nosies” who loitered around the church, “volunteering” (mostly, of course, so they could be the first ones to know who had died, who was planning a wedding, who was spending too much time in the preacher’s office). The domestic brigade had to keep them busy, too.

All this was planned and executed in less than 24 hours.

Justine, a part-time maid, had agreed to stay with the ill woman in her home, and to wait for Miss Dubois at the back door. It was all moving like clockwork. Justine waved Cat inside, “Come on! Quick now!”

As soon as Cat got in the back door, she moved quickly to Daniel’s mother’s room. She would have maybe two hours for them to talk – if Daniel’s mother could last that long, not becoming too weak from being anxious, and then the visit with her “guest”.

Justine set coffee on the bedside table for Cat.

“Thank you, Justine,” Cat said, gratefully. “That wasn’t necessary.” She knelt down on the floor next to Daniel’s mother. “Hello, Mrs. Davis. I’m here. I’m right here.”

After parking her car down the street, Grace followed Cat, entering the Davis home to make sure all was safe. She graciously backed out of the room, leaving the two secret friends alone. She joined Justine in keeping watch for anyone suspicious, waiting and ready to whisk Cat away and back to her Jeep.

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They took their positions, Justine was at the front window of the house; Grace stood guard at the back. Other than the postman who was extra friendly with Justine that day, there were no hitches. It was a plan made from heaven, for now.

Cat whispered again, “Hello, Mrs. Davis? It’s me, Cat.”

Faintly, Mrs. Davis breathed, “Oh, Catherine, how I’ve longed and prayed for this day. The heartbroken woman could hardly contain her tears. The words were hard enough to say because of the toll of the disease, but the heavy flow of deep weeping, alone, would have stopped her flow of conversation if she had not been determined to talk with Cat Dubois. Her last hope to Daniel, she would muster up the strength to talk and listen.

“Tell me everything you know about Daniel. Please.” Her voice quivered, and she tried to look up at Cat.

Weak as she was, Mrs. Davis had to hear every word.

She called her Catherine. Mrs. Davis had always been more formal than most; she was, after all a preacher’s wife; and she was kind when addressing anyone around town, but this young woman was due some real honoring. At the very least she would call her by her given name. Catherine had en- dured as much pain over her relationship with Daniel as she, his mother, had. She wept as Cat began.

“But, first,” Mrs. Davis softly interrupted. “Before you say anything, I want to tell you how much I appreciate you. I wish I had been bolder after Daniel left. I wanted to come to your home. I wanted to, but…” Her voice trailed off, and, as her eyes look down in such despair, she cried harder. Her voice became shrill; her pain was more than even Cat had imagined.

“I am ashamed, for not standing up to the bitter, hateful gossiping, and for not standing up to the Reverend. I cannot even refer to him as my husband anymore.”, she said, finally.

“It’s alright. I know.” Cat smiled at her and squeezed her frail hand gently in a pact that their two minds thought so much the same. They both loved Daniel; and they both knew the hate they had endured for so long now; they knew the mindset of those who brandished the antiquated laws of

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Glory Town like razor-sharp daggers.

Cat was delighted to share everything she knew of Daniel in his mother’s final moments. She continued to hold her hand. In an unusual way, it was like holding Daniel’s hand; it gave her strength. So, Cat held back any sad or frightening thoughts about him.

She told his mother how Daniel had become a man. She didn’t tell him he was a drifter or a gypsy. She just spoke of the best of his life.

“Most of all, he told me to tell you how much he loves you, and his father.” Cat thought about lying to her. Lying would make it easy for the frail woman to pass on, but, Cat wouldn’t lie. She knew all lies eventually catch up in one’s life, or beyond. She did, however, sugarcoat the good reports.

“He forgives me?”, Mrs. Davis asked.

“Yes, yes, he never thought you were to blame and he hoped you were alright.”

“Please, tell him that I love him. Please. I’m so sorry.” The tears were coming again. “Why do I have to leave before seeing him, I don’t know why?”

Her tremendous sadness was tough for Cat. She stretched over a bit to gently hug the grieving mother. Within minutes, Mrs. Davis closed her eyes and went to sleep.

Cat kissed her forehead. It was time to leave; she had been there more than an hour. She slipped out of the bedroom, and Grace hurried her to the Jeep.

“Goodbye, Miss Dubois.”, Grace said as she turned to leave.

“Thank you for your help. I needed that as much as she did.” Cat gently shut the car door. Even though Glory Town was so small, Grace and Cat’s path likely wouldn’t cross for a long time, if ever. She paused to think how grateful she was for Grace’s safe passage for her, for the courageous and ingenious thinking of all the women who helped. They, too, could be judgmental in their own ways, at times, but they recognized that Mrs. Davis needed closure about Daniel, and they did exactly what their Lord through Ernestine had asked them to do, without a second thought.

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That evening Daniel’s mother drifted into a coma from which she never awakened. Her funeral was on a bright sunny day.

Cat made her way to the church, and sat in the back. She went for Daniel’s sake. She went for the sake of his devoted mother, Mrs. Rebecca Palmer-Davis. She also attended the graveside ceremony, standing a good distance from the others, but not too far from the “colored ladies” as she respectfully thought of them so much moreso than before, and certainly moreso than the other white folks. It was late summer or early fall, and the year was 1980.

As it was, Reverend Davis suddenly died of a heart attack less than two months later.

Cat knew he died of heartbreak, too, drinking himself into the grave by self-medicating from the pain of it all. Daniel’s leaving, combined with his wife’s sad and painful death, finally overwhelmed him. It was more than he could bear. He was buried on a cold rainy day in the first part of winter.

Daniel did not attend either of his parents’ funerals. Had he known of his mother’s illness, he would have jumped over the moon and fought off dragons to be near her in her last days.

But, he wouldn’t hear of their deaths until later, when a couple from Glory Town happened to be where he was moonlighting as a bartender in a strip joint three counties away.

They came for fun. Just to sin a little. You know, get away from Glory Town. As they sipped their drinks and talked to Daniel as if he was their best friend, and as if nothing had happened, they told him, nonchalantly, that his mother died in late summer and his father, two months later.

They drank and laughed their night of escape away from Glory Town, and Daniel pretended to laugh with them. Secretly, inside, he ached. He thought of both of parents. Nothing was settled in this lifetime; nothing was forgiven; nothing was better, but worse, with the news that came as if the drunk couple told him about having a tooth extracted – nothing more.

Daniel dried the last high ball glass for the night, and locked the door to the bar. He went back to his hole in the wall. He drank a scotch by himself, wishing that life had been less painful. He asked hard questions to a God that seemed removed from him: “Are we merely puppets for you to pull our

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strings? Is there no happiness or love on this god forsaken planet? Why? What is this all about? Am I a horrible person? Perhaps you should kill me! Let me die! I don’t want to be here. Mama! I love you! Father, if I could, I would hate you, but God won’t let me. See, I know about God’s love! I learned that! But, not from you. I learned it from my mother. Thank you, Mama. I love you!”

That night, on his flea-ridden cot, Daniel held his gun cocked. Several times, he place the barrel to his head. He didn’t do it. He just fell sound asleep.

In his deep slumber, he had a dream. It was vivid in every way; and, in it, a strange woman came to him and sat there with him all night. He asked her, “Who are you? And, what are you doing here?”

She answered, “I’m here because someone prayed for you.” The woman spoke with an old English accent.

“Who?” He looks at the woman in his dream. She’s wearing an old green velvet dress.

“Someone who loves you very much – Catherine. You call her Cat. She prays for you every night. When you see her, tell her that, one day, I will visit her.”

The strange dream never left Daniel. And, he did deliver the message to Cat the next time he saw her. Although the dream was vague, and all the time in the world could have passed, he would never forget the old English woman who got him through that night, the old woman dressed in a green velvet dress.

A more traumatic blow befell Cat, within a year after Daniel’s mother and father died.

A winter more bitter than the last took both her parents. They had been to a neighboring town to pick up supplies to hunker down in preparation for an ice storm headed their way, but the storm was moving fast.

They called as they were leaving the store and Cat plead with them to stay at the motel just nine miles away but on the lowland before hitting the winding mountain path, but they insisted on coming

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home to be at home, safe with their daughter.

Like many others before them, her father saw the ice on the curve before the bridge and slowed, but once they hit the suspension, the ice was black as the night and he lost control. They were gone in an instant.

Catherine would so sadly become the heir of The Dubois Manor in Glory Town.

Daniel traveled back to Glory Town when he heard of the Dubois’ deaths. It was the winter of 1981. He walked to the old manor. There he stayed with Cat for a week. No one knew he’d visited, except perhaps one man – a suspicious watcher – who wasn’t sure it was Daniel, but knew that someone was up there with her; and, being nosey enough, assumed it must have been him.

Daniel didn’t attend the double funeral. In fact, he never set foot in the perimeter of Glory Town. The Dubois Manor was as close as he would come.

And, the curious watcher didn’t make a big deal out of his assumptions either. Maybe it was just out of respect for Mr. and Mrs. Dubois, because if he had made even one comment, it would have become like a tidal wave in Glory Town. The townspeople had nothing better to do, and gossiping about Cat had been their favorite pastime for years now. She was the mysterious woman who never married, but was still gorgeous, despite the degradation and misery they caused with glaring eyes and whispers. And, she bore unusual healing talents, and the strangest crystal blue eyes. They said her eyes could capture souls, so they faced their fears of her with rumors and jeering laughter and cruel gossiping.

This was one of the reasons Cat stayed away from them as much as possible. Cat knew this about herself, that her eyes were like crystals – that she could mesmerize people, sometimes. She used this on occasion – for her eyes could throw invisible daggers of sinister emotion. Once in a while, when things were just too out of hand, when she really needed, she used her visual knives to intimidate the gossip queens.

When Daniel arrived at the manor, Cat made a warm cozy bed for him and prepared fine meals.

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Two more times after her parents’ funeral, Daniel came to stay with her. He became complacent about life – a vagrant; and he eventually moved closer to Glory Town, living on the streets of a nearby town. He had not found his self-worth…yet.

The next year, mid-winter, and with shoes so worn he was almost barefooted, he came wandering to Cat’s back door. He didn’t want to be seen, but he would chop wood and stay in the warmth of her kindness. She ministered to his broken heart. He would never stay longer than a week, although she always offered him a home for life, if he so wanted.

But Daniel would visit the Manor, and then leave again. Perhaps, it was the sadness of never being able to see his mother or father ever again that was just too painful to be near Glory Town for long.

One day, Daniel walked away wearing new shoes, purchased by Cat at the town market. He had a little money in his pocket and refused any further handouts from Cat. But, he always did what he could for her, in return for her generosity. He had pride, after all.

He chopped her wood, so she would have plenty for winter. He fixed her barn doors, and the garage door, as well. He painted the trim of the manor’s windows. The weeds were pulled out of the flower beds.

On the fifth day, he gathered his few belongings in his leather shoulder bag. Cat watched him pack through the crack in the door of his bedroom. It was time. She knew he was going, just like he said. He fixed everything in five days. She went downstairs and made a fresh pot of coffee.

He stood tall at her kitchen threshold, without speaking.

Breaking the silence Cat said, “You don’t have to go. This is your home. That is your room. I need your help. I can’t run this place by myself; you see that. We both need each other.”

He smiled. “Thank you. It’s good to know I have a place that is mine. But, right now, there is a world I have to explore.” He paused, “And you, Cat, you need to find someone. A man who will love you and take care of you. You and I love each other. But, it’s not the love you deserve. Find a man to

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love you. There is a whole world outside of this place.” He smiled tenderly. His eyes told her this was the way it was going to be.

“You’re a beautiful woman. To wait for me is wasting your life. I can’t love you the way you should be loved.”

“I see.”, she replied. Though, she didn’t see at all. She handed him $200.00. “This is your payment for fixing everything.”

“No, I stayed here. I owe you.” Daniel handed her the money back.

“No, Daniel, this time, I insist. This is for the wood you chopped; for fixing the fences, the barn door, the garage door and the painting. I couldn’t have done this. I know this isn’t enough, but please; it’s all I can afford now.” She wasn’t going to let him walk away this time without making her best effort to pay him.

“Cat, I can’t. You gave me food, water, a bath, a bed, meals, wine and, best of all, the love of a lifelong friendship. So, no, no, I cannot accept. It’s my gift to you.”

“Oh, yes, you will. I insist.” Cat puts the money in his shirt pocket. “There. And, there it will stay.”

They looked into each other’s eyes. “It’s time,” he said. “The weather is cool and crisp, and the sun is brilliant.” Daniel’s face bore a manly expression. He had grown up. He was a man. He passed the test – the right of passage; he knew what he was doing, Cat didn’t have to worry any longer.

Daniel was an honest gypsy. He went from town to town fixing things, staying at farmhouses or in barns in exchange for a bed, food and a bath; and, he was known as far as he could walk for repairing broken fences the right way – the old way, where they last for years even through many harsh winters. Sometimes the fences looked beyond repair, but Daniel could mend or rebuild even those if he was allowed.

As he leaned down and picked up his satchel, and started toward the door, Cat had to ask, “What about love Daniel? You never mention love or a special person. Do you have a special someone?”

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“No. No one special person.” The sun caught his eye as he had moved into the light from the window. He shewn like an angel – iridescent, glowing with an internal peace. She closed her eyes for a moment, wishing he just wouldn’t go.

He took the opportunity to slip the $200.00 on the counter as he opened the door, walked down the steps, and proceeded on the walkway toward the front yard.

Cat chased him. “Daniel, please. Please, don’t go.” Softly, she begged.

“I have to Cat. It’s time. And, oh, yes, I almost forgot to tell you.” He looked into her eyes and said, “One day you will have a visitor.” He predicted Cat’s future, knowing, without a doubt, it would come to pass. “The visit will be very important to you.”

Cat thought he was talking about a man. A man she would, one day, fall in love with. “That doesn’t interest me”, she firmly stated.

His eyes caught hers for a solitary moment before she could look away in belligerence. It was as if they told each other a story. A story they knew so well. It was a lifetime in a glance. “But, not this lifetime”, so she thought. “Could it be another place in time?” “No”, she reasoned. “No such thing.”

“Until you send word that you have met your visitor, I love you; I have to go. You are going to be fine.” He turned the corner to the front of the house, and stepped onto the road wearing his new leather shoes.

A car was coming and he put his thumb out to hitch a ride. The car stopped for him. Daniel looked one more time at her as he got in, and he waved goodbye.

She waved back until the car disappeared around the mountain curve, and the majestic stand of red cedars was all that looked back at her. She wondered if she would ever see him again. “Would he always be a gypsy? Will he be safe? God help him, please.” Cat always kept the night oil burning for him. She hoped he would return. For now, Daniel was gone, once again. Maybe forever.

She wiped the tears off her cheeks many times that afternoon.

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Bojenn



Chapter Two

Thank you for reading and I hope you will want to continue on the journeys with Cat Dubois. 

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Dedication

The main character, Elizabeth Catherine Dubois, is warmly dedicated to:

My father, Jim, who taught me the wonder of the heavens and the stars;

My mother, Babe, who showed us life’s magic;

Carol, my sister, who is a warrior queen;

Elysia, my daughter, who gives God’s love;

Joel, my son, who renders grace;

and, to Jacob, my grandson, who is God’s gift.

Most importantly, this book is dedicated to my God, who is patient with me

K♧

The Glory of Solomon’s God

 

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Behold the artistry of God’s seasons of living

Majestic colors to thoroughly assimilate His gift

Each colorful leaf strokes the faith of believing 

That something grander exists and kissed

Those who are able to see

The masterpiece by God ~ left for you and me

K♧


©2016 Bonnie Jennings All Rights reserved

Ambling

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Ambling

Ambling thoughtfully; analyzing this habitation
Arrived at an entrance of burnished timbers
It challenged me to set my feet onto its foundation
Staying put, contemplating the door of imagination.

Cautiously without making reckless steps 
Patiently progressed one step at a time
Over the doorsill, though I, perplexed
What seemed lovely, perhaps a trap hexed

Once on the other side, standing to my surprise 
The burnished timbers passed into oblivion
There stood I gazing at amazing huge butterflies
Overhead flying birds singing into their sunrise

Solely hoping for a friendly companion 
Felt unaided and quite isolated
Sauntering slowly, exploring saw a canyon
There fairies frolicking, twinkling, I glanced in

Sprites, pixies, brownies and a fay
Caught my attention, and they looked my way
Surrounding me with their warily gazing and swords raised
There I bowed low, clinging to convey

No danger from me, as I meant no harm
Imparting my terrors of being alone
Unable to find, any of my kind, may you lend me a charm?
You see, the portal closed, and I must transform

Back to the place where I belong

K🃞

©October 2016 Bonnie Jennings. All Rights Reserved

Image from FB shared photos

Haven Dreaming

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Drifting weightlessly awhile dreaming lucidly seeing

Floating through halls of granite having huge columns 

Touching cold stone walls filled with ancient lights

Knew momentarily, I was transported somewhere else

I studied the writings and carved pictures on the walls

Reading a story of humans caught within an earthen warp

But, here a palatial ruin, not foreboding, and oddly grand

Felt pleasure and comfort, felt familiarly, as if, I was home

The temple held temples, spirits ~ awaiting souls

A ride through the cosmos in order to find their own

And meanwhile awaiting the catalyst who transports

Watched myself drifting in this palatial mausoleum space

Recognizing old ~ old character beings, I’ve known

In another place for certain; however, this was our womb

Until the time of birthing thus taking flight combusting into life

Here we gathered, quietly awaiting, until our mother said

And this cold monumental temple is our place

I recognized the carvings and the silent grace

And one day, will return and unite with my family

A peaceful dream experienced, finding my haven 

©2016 Bonnie jennings All Rights Reserved

Tomorrows My Birthday: To My Unborn

To My Unborn

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An empty swing

Tomorrows my birthday and sadly I don’t know yours
I often wondered what happened to my little dears
Those two who were called, “fetal tissues,” not lives
And in ignorance succumbed to the abortionist knife
Were you placed in a burial ground or burned?
Were you put in the evening trash? Or could you
Have gone to a tissue bank, sold for big bucks
Without my knowing much. And that was 
Forty years ago, and the excitement of 
Women’s rights were celebrated, but you
My darlings, how sad I’ve become reflecting
Thinking of who you were and where you are
And I named you and gave you thoughts and gifts
One a poet songwriter coming from my genes
The other a pilot like his fathers dreams
And at Christmas, I set a place for you
In my heart, you’ll always be
And one is John and the other David
Oh perhaps you were Lillie or Sarah
But, I’ll never know you in this life
Please forgive my careless insights
For I followed the news of freedom for women
But regretfully never thought for myself nor
Thought of your lives at all, until forty years
Past your deaths and my mistake…
May God bless you in heaven
And please forgive my ignorance

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Perhaps one day, until then, I’ll always wonder

*** My poem was prompted because Bill Maher said callous jokes on TV last night about fetal tissues. I haven’t stopped crying. If I could hate or curse him I would, but instead, will stand up for the unborn. My poem:

©2016 October Bonnie Jennings. All Rights Reserved. But please share as the lives of the unborn are sold for their fetal tissues and it’s a huge monetary gain for the abortionists.

Please meet: Brianna Marie Wells, A Fellow Poetess

 

Good Morning from CST USA! This morning it is my pleasure to present to my readers another poetess. I’ve had the wonderful opportunity to read her poetry and to write on poetry challenges with her on FB at ‘The Poet’s Haven’ hosted by Alan Boles. 

Please meet and read about Brianna Marie Wells who has written a little bio about herself and has included a poem that she wrote called: ‘Was It Worth It?’

Brianna has included her email address should anyone want to contact her about her poetry. 

Thank you Brianna for allowing me to present you and your poem today and without any more interruption, ladies and gentlemen here’s Brianna!

 

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Brianna Marie Wells




Hello, my name is Brianna Marie Wells.
I am the youngest child in my small family. I live in Santa Clara, CA, where I have lived for the majority of my life. I studied Culinary Arts and Management in high school and I am now a full-time Kitchen Manager at a bakery in Cupertino, CA. Right now I divide my time between poetry, sleep, and work. 

The reasons I started writing poetry, well…. I’ve always felt stifled. That if I didn’t go along and agree with someone, then I was a failure for some reason. I began writing so that I could express myself more freely, where my thoughts didn’t have to be so organized and that was okay. I didn’t have a lot of friends to share my thoughts with, or at least none that i felt confident enough in that I could share with them. I needed a place for some darker thoughts as well, and to work through things on my own. I started writing poetry so that I could hide the real me, but still say what I needed to say. Not a lot of people can handle me. But maybe, just maybe, I did it so I could handle myself, so that I could see what makes up my mind, so I leave some sort of mark. In a world where everything tries to steal who you are and make you downtrodden, I can express myself freely in my poetry. I feel the call to write the most when I feel very strongly about something. Anything. It could be anything from something in the news to something in my more personal life. When i put that pen to paper the words just begin to flow….


Was It Worth It?
Was it worth it,
When you dashed my heart bit by bit
Was it worth anything,
When you played me and stole my dreams
Was it worth your time,
To stab me in the back and pretend its fine
Was it worth my pride,
To make me feel unworthy by your side
Was it worth my soul,
As I try to bring back the pieces to a whole
Was it worth the day
When you took advantage of me anyway
Was it worth the fuss,
Of ever managing to earn my trust
Was it worth the score,
Of letting me know that I’ve been burned once more
Was it worth my hate,
To make me suffer and deteriorate.
 
-Brianna Marie Wells 
©2016 Brianna Marie Wells. All Rights Reserved


Thank you for visiting and reading Brianna’s poem and bio. I hope that you’ve enjoyed what you’ve read.
Again Brianna’s email address is


A Poet’s Haven can be found at this link below with Brianna’s poems as well as many other great poets. 

Poetess Synda Payne Burton: Recognizing Synda’s Artistry

Good morning!

Today, I want to introduce to you a fellow poetess by the name of Synda Payne Burton. It was on a FB poetry writing group A Poet’s Haven that I became familiar with Synda and her poetry. We kind of played the poetry game of writing off each other a couple of times. 

Synda, I must tell you and others this little tidbit, and I didn’t know this until I read your bio, that you are a registered nurse and so am I. Perhaps that is our connection? Synda is a tender, intuitive poetic writer. 

So, now I give to all of you, Synda…. Thank you for allowing me the pleasure of having you as my guest this morning. 

 

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Synda
 
 

Hi! My name is Synda (pronounced Sin-duh…not a nick name) Payne Burton..

How does one introduce themselves, in a paragraph…I have in the past, as a child writing a letter in a classroom, but that was only to become someone’s pen pal. I have thence become an adult and have written resumes for job opportunities. In short, I am a retired registered nurse/certified nurse midwife. I have been married for 44 years. I have three grown daughters and 8 grandchildren. I have live in Fishers, Indiana  for the past 14 years. My husband and I are originally from Kansas, where we worked most of our adult life. 

 

 
 

While I was going to school and even into my adult life…poetry or writing it, was never my thing…I loved other forms of creative art. Perhaps it was because I really never understood it. We read poetry in literature class and often I wondered what the poet was saying…I now, believe I know. I started writing poetry or little jingles for my morning posts on Facebook in 2009…it was what I called passing time while I drank my coffee and waited for my granddaughter to arrive. It eventually grew into verses of ABAB poetry. My inspiration at times comes from photos…what I see and feel…or if something strikes a nerve…a word…an incident. Many of my photos come from a dear friend that is a photographer, her name is Ruby Karmann. Poetry, now has become a morning routine…I drink my coffee…listen to the morning news and write at least one…sometimes as many as three poems. Then, there are days, I don’t write anything. And that is how I came to write….

 
 


 
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Photograph by Ruby Karnann

Synda’s Poem:

Just…

One…picture can paint a thousand words…
But words describe… what one cannot see…
Which at times are not captured…left unheard…
Untold…to those that are blind or are absentee…

A…photo at times does not captivate…feelings…
Those innermost thoughts that are within one’s mind…
Nor can a writer describe your physical image, in being…
One has to see a person…to be well defined…

A snapshot can only grasp a mere moment…in time…
To enamor…or accomplish what was intended to enchant…
As a second or two later may be too late in the next frame…to chime,
That perfect pitch…tone in color…to clinch the beauty for it to chant…

While a picture can paint a thousand words for a writer to write…one has to be there to get the total picture…to witness the true beauty that is often just visualized only in a painting…

~Synda Payne Burton

With Ruby Tuesday Creations/Photography

 ©2016 Synda Payne Burton. All Rights Reserved. 

 


 

 

I hope you have enjoyed reading Synda’s bio, her poetry, and have experienced her artistry, as well. To find Synda on FB you might visit her at Alan Boles’ poetry page called: A Poet’s Haven

@  https://www.facebook.com/groups/313544755508623/



Thank you Synda for sharing with us, yourself. 

 

 

Thank all of you for visiting this blog today and may you create poetry or art or whatever your creative outlet is today and forever…Happy blogging! 

The Path

 

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The Path

Whistling with the birds at sunrise

Walking a wooden path on a hillside

The rays of sunlight came to greet me

And the birds twitted amongst the trees

The squirrels frolicked across the planks

And I meandered the painting of God’s picture

Expecting only brilliance at the end

A country fairground in the meadow

A carousel of horses going round

And pink cotton-candy to eat

And music from a pipe organ

Skaters dancing to the beat

And then I return at evening

The sun reflects similarly

And I follow the path homeward

And thank God for the diversity

Of imagination

 

 

 

©2016 Bonnie Jennings All Rights Reserved

She’s a Spy

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She is a spy

Wearing pearls that speak of innocence 

And extremely educated diligent citizen

Wearing cocktail black and a hat to hide 

A face diversified, she’s been worldwide

Her eyes that watch and see, matched with 

Her keen sense of intuitive deductions and myths

How polished and demure she appears

A graduate of the finest finishing school of cavaliers

And she sips like a lady from the china tea cup

However, underneath is a stealth spy dressed up

To play he game of cat and mouse and await

The counter spy who articulates secrets of misappropriate

Coming from her home ~ The Department of State 

 

 

 

©2016 Bonnie Jennings All Rights Reserved

More Summer Poetry 2016

Writing on FB @ The Poets Haven with Alan Boles

 

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In 1745, the apothecary

Time stands still, peering at the past

The chemists lived making potions 

Between dust and rats

Gadgets like compasses hung

Amidst glass vials and bronze knobs

Keys to hidden compartments

Silver ladles and candelabras

Joseph Black isolates CO2 

An odd phenomena of “fixed air.”

The healers of the early ages

The fearful labelled witches 

And, often then burned

 

 

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The Bird

Perching on a window seal 

With quill and paper imaging

Distracted by a thought

Exploring the unique meanderings

Of an early morning creation

Just sitting at the window

A bird catches my sight

Staring the feathered sparrow

Seems to ask, a crumb, I eat

And my writing takes another path

Because a little bird entered my notion

Thinking about Emily Dickinson

 

 

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History

Ions pass and people die 

But books left behind time and death

The future remembers our ghost that linger

Some will cry reading the pasts recorded

In romance, in texts, in diaries and Bibles

 

 

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Each life is a story written within a story.

A book with moving pictures 

A book who’s ending, we write

 

 

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Lavender and blue berries in a wooden bowl

Chocolate and cinnamon and aromas galore

Visual images, aromatic delusions, a memory

Perhaps scenery, placed within our energy

Recording the goodness of bounties

Mixed with human kindness

A life desired so simple

So fragrant 

synergies 

 

 

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A word arises, “Do!”

Sending norepinephrine whirling

Straightway to be

In utter confabulations

A mind unrestful 

Held captive by a demon whispering suggestions

 

 

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Reverence

 

A mountain stands, so climb

Exhilaration, reaching the summit 

Peace, before the descent

Pray, few rocks and cliffs present

The valley has green fresh grass

A clean stream of faith abounds

And God lets an eagle soar

But, the eagle too, will rest in the valley

 

 

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Life Force
I meant to have the purest spirit
As to look angelic, and holy
Thus in my life, affording this
And death be eluded by this raven

This raven stands collecting my life
It’s ears hear not my prayers
But that fowl governs life or death
Then, grace may it be aware

Humbly petitioning noble men
Mantaloo, I seek with supplications
Request that this bird flee
Graciously give me rest, I seek

That a Raven refutes Elohim’s designs
On this shall I trust my existence
Sucking the elements of force home
In turn, the Raven returns my life
And exits south thus taking flight

 


*** Mantaloo my creation for the name of a demigod***


 

 

Thank you for taking your precious time to read my poems. May you walk in God’s grace and light….

 

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K♣️©2016 Bonnie Jennings. All Rights Reserved

Deception Amongst The Garden

 

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Sweetness and flattery 

Oh, my, I am blushing

Your words sent my heart, excited and flushing

Heat of joy as your delicately chosen words

Has succumbed my ego, for a moment, oh dear.

And, I must admit, I am overcome with your praise

And what may I ask is your intentions, naive ?

Are you mocking me as you steal my songs;

Or are you incredibly disdainful, meandering along?

In life it is clear, you manipulate your foes

Choosing their best for yourself, but not their woes

Woes and foes brought me to this place and fate

And one can’t get around experience and disgrace

But, I’m flattered that you’d steal my poetry, my love

And, I’ll tip my hat to your theft, and bid you, good day…

And, thank you ~ As you’ve made my way ~

Better,  than I deserved… On any given Say (poetry)

Winter Fairies and Return To The Forest

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Welcome To Winter Fairies and Return To The Forest

My poetry is dedicated to my family respectively:  Jim, Babe, Carol, Elysia and Joel.

Also, I want to thank all of my poetry friends that I’ve made on FB. The list is so long of my FB friends and I just want to let them know that they are so appreciated…

Now, just a little note to you the readers. This is a long poetry story. It has to be lenghty as it tells a story about love that’s become volatile. Love ,that is abusive and perhaps dangerous, is Beauties struggle and “Beauty ” is a metaphor regarding the lives of domestic violence victims.

I’m most proud of Fairy Beauty who declares her win over The Evil Sh’man. I love her words to the audience, to herself and to him. She comes through as the ultimate victor in the case of domestic warfare.

Thank you for stopping by and reading the allegorical poems of Winter Fairies.

Oh and by the way, the word fairy or faerie have two different spellings and meanings. A fairy is good and kind and represents innocence while faeries are mischievous at times and are practical jokers and create havoc in their environment.
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WINTER FAIRES

Evil Sh’man Speaks:

Part 1

Hey! Come back here you Elfin Faerie!

Stop giggling, skipping and dancing, right now!

Caught again this time…

Feel the gripping of my grasp?

Delight, fright?

You Elfin mischief maker.

This time you’ll pay the price.

Last time… You’ve plucked my “C” chord.

Making sure of that…

Ha! You laugh, tease, taunt and twirl,

but now meshed between fingers of steel.

Escape not.

The last laugh; mine.

Little green Faerie neither sex surely known.

Doesn’t matter now

For between my fingers, thou art.

So, wiggly. So smart!

My eyes will not close!

The night approaches. Willing not thou clever plan.

I sleep not!

Fighting sleep.

Sword drawn at my side.

Think Thou smart, do’est though?

Think ye shall wait?

Time your best ally?

Big green eyes look so sad.

Concerned for souls, are you?

Eyelashes ever so sweet and dimples warming pink cheeks.

What’s this?

One big tear begging release?

Ahhh…Turn Away! …

Beguiling charm!

Eternal soul sucking fascination of Beauty’s green eyes.

Devilish harm…

AYE, Look away!!!

No gaze at she!!!

The promise of your love I shall not see.

Turn away!

The trigger’s trap catches not; me.

I DO NOT SEE!

 

Then Beauty Takes Her Leave as The Evil SH’man Sleeps:

Part 2

Black night comes,

alone and cold.

Smart beauty sleeps warmed

By hands that fold.

In quietness the present enemy waits.

Beauty taunts not.

She need not…

For time be her friend.

Coldness aligns her side

And loneliness sang lullabies to her;

“sleep child sleep.”

SSH…Shh…

The fight grows small.

Sleeps on the horizon; it calls.

Hearing distance voices my eyes rest.

The hills and a mountain melody lays sleeps fog.

I answer…

Can you hear it, as well?

He snores…

“Gently gently, sleep.”

Beauty crawls from fingers once tight.

Careful, careful…

Not to awaken the captures soul…

She’s played before..

However it’d grown old.

She plays well.

A champion for sure.

Quietly quietly,

“SSH”…says She….

“Awaken not my game.”

“Comes tomorrow a fair shame is he.”

“Foe rest; later your dare…”

“Truth? Ha!”

“Thought you had me?”

“You foolish sh’man.”

“Look! Who has who.”

“Thought you’d won?”

“Ha!!!”

“Surely thought?

I’d not get away?”

Ah…Before Daylight shines…

“One last game..It affords me so…”

Whispers stories in midnight sleep.

You’ll think strange, “God’s” voice for certain.

Magical messages, images, songs and words;

“God’s!, not His at all…”

Ah Hah!!

“Goody, goody for me.”

“One more time before nights end

Can bully jab my soul.”

“NOT!” Then; Beauty declares her win…

Her long fairy fingers reach for the harp.

The soul of her game?

To pluck his “F” sharp…

“Bold challenges,” said Beauty,

“HIS love I detest,

but, as He has made it,

I surrender my quest.”


 

Beauty, The King of Clubs, enter’s another battle with The King of Diamonds or The Evil Sh’man. One more round taking place in the courtroom of divorce.

 

Poem 2

The King’s Duel

 

The Final Question?

Can the deep insightful King of Clubs
raise the final victory
over the overachieving
game playing
often clever
king of Diamonds?

Swords raised
not a final nod.
Eyes glaring steel blue and hazel green
facial lines fixed
not even a twitch.

Slowly woven like the Earth to the Moon
moving like a dance
made a circlular pattern
on the floors of onyx black

The King of Diamonds
so sure of himself
believed no fight
from the Club herself,

But the Club held dear
the truth in her heart
The Lord Almighty
was there
from the start.

Round and round
so slowly they moved.
The Diamond King’s lips
snarled a smirk
as he spit tw’ord ‘er shoes.

And the King of Clubs
shot darts of fire
her eyes told,
“He’za liar!”

The one eyed King
dazzled with diamonds galore

But, The King of Clubs
kept her mind
on the chore.

Over and around
the blades slowly moved
then picked up the pace
without any shoes…

Cling, clang, ding and gwong
the blades met
rangling a song

“All shiny and strong,
the song of a Savior,
That life is a gift
given by Him
and though expect treasure
we don’t always win…”

And so,
The Kings welded
their swords in the air
cutting their skins
and toppling their hair.

No whining
nor whimpering came from the two
but fierce wellbred bickering
whipped whistled twang pue.

The blades never ceased
the clang of the strikes,
faster and harder
beaten the life

Of one Diamond King
and the other a Club
but The Savior stepped in
to straightened their thuds.

Now, it came to pass
that The Diamond King
tipped his hat,
and gave up his crown,
and that; was that.

And The King of Clubs
Surrendered her heart
at a cross
on a hill~
decidedly smart.

For the hill is where
all kings will bow
made not of fools…
but of heroes,
Those, i am’s, of Thou art.

 

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Poem 3

Fairy Beauty was captured because she was on a quest to find the perfect person to love her. And, because of her innocence, kindness and inability to defend herself, she is captured by a man, who is not for her ultimate good well-being. On the road of searching for a god-like man, she was captured by a sociopathic man….

 

In the poem, the man in the forest she meets, is a god-like man whom she created in her mind. It was a man similar to what she felt her father was and perhaps he is her biological father on her god-like quest for a great man to love and marry her.

So now, for poem 3:

The Forest Man

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Like a drug; I’m compelled.
An index finger points the way.
The path covered in vagueness.
Only trust leads my day.

The forest is my storybook.
Few paths I’ve known.
Some are smooth and uneventful.
Some are treacherously bare.

Once a lesson completes.
And a short respite occurs.
The forest fairies find me.
And, another adventure is assured.

My feet are weary from twists and stones.
Tripping along the way.
But nonetheless, the spirits find me.
And again, I’ve nothing to say,

Excuses are lame.
Whining creates more.
So, quietly I proceed.
Wandering, the magic roads of lore.

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Passing through the brush.
Carrying my satchel of prayers.
Perhaps I’ll pass a man.
A man who relinquishes terrors.

And I’ll look for him in the forest.
There, pray he shall find me.
Illuminate, our eyes will sparkle.
Then, my spirit shall be set free.

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Beauty does escape the evil sh’man; however, the road home is often filled with in trepidation as she is always looking over her shoulder watching and waiting for the reappearance of her captor. Her fears are at times delusional as she struggles with being tormented and falling back into his hands or similar hands. She knows that she is vulnerable because of her naivety.

 

Poem 4:

Escaping and Returning to The Forest

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Cold, cold, cold the morning; cold.
Coffee warms my hands.
Unraveling memories; seeming dull
Still night dreams, do unfold.

Whispering…
Low clouds covered the forest
Eyes that see not before us.

But, follow the pale path
Neath the weary feet.
See it! There! Underneath!

SHH!..silence!

Wet leaves covered the way.
Then look closely if you may.

Sprinkled sparkling faerie dust
Shimmers neath the leaves.
And, if you follow the shining lights
Those sights shall take the lead.

Following the strath of twigs and weeds …
Growing near the path
The wetness of the leafy stuff
Still bares the night time mask…

Here, there, turns and twists
Mark a path which won’t resist.
All night long seeking an end.
Running, skipping and stumbling on shin.

Searched, knocked, and sought
Only not to find
Any faerie myths…
Oh, how my heart…
Does pine.

I tired of your game,
Oh, Faerie
Running your path night long.
Then decided I,
Best to wander home.

And, vaguely remembering sanity
Since safety departed me,
Calling from the woods
It growled ferociously.

Sad and disturbed
Missed you again!
And, lowering my face,
Bares a fools return.

Hey, Look yonder!!!
There! My Mims!
To be greeted by their love!

The open arms of my kin.

My family who loves me dearly,

And they who prayed me  home

That night.

Even despite myself. ,
Yes…

Even despite myself.

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Special thanks to my Late mother, Babe, my Skipper B, my Dear sister Carol, my daughter Elysia and my son Joel. They “who safely, yea, safely prayed me home that night.”


 

Beauty is still on her journey with the help of her family to find sanity so she continues to seek refuge at home once again. She is still running from the shadows, the bumps and bangs in the middle of the night or day. She shakes from fear whether real or imagined.

 

Poem 5:

Trying to Find Home

 

“Awe,” the radiance; so bright.
Then, follow it, with all might.
The road course shall lead by day
Rocks, turns, stickers and curves
Climb anyway…

~~~

My prejudiced thoughts;
Lofty visions of you.
Fiery images deflect a golden hue.
Imagined you, bronzed, dazzling, and vein.
We danced; then came the rain.

~~~

Caught too long there.
Idol thoughts; so dear.
Washed away; with my tear.
My arms bound, and mouth sealed.
Woven. Hey! What’s the deal?

~~~

OH, My God! I’ve Been Caught!
The coven’s web intently taut!
The feast I am. His delight.
Oh, fairy friend! By the firelight!
Here I am!

~~~

Now the spiders home virtually unseen,
Vaguely tucks into that corner beam.
But, see the dim light, growing so bright?
A fairy severs the silk, so tight.
And, falling from the web of fright.

~~~

Still arms tangled by silk threads
Pushing out bracing the fall
The spider and the fairy brawl
Wham, Bam, to and fro, from the deathly fight they bow
Looking, whom’s, my fairy friend? Noticing it must be Joe.

~~~~

Underneath the spider
Joe waves thumbs up, You’re alright!
Now run like hell! To the light!
Run away little bait!
For, the fate of the firefly might be too late…

 

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By Bonnie Jennings 1/12/2010

 


 

 

While on the road to recovery of being a doormat personality, Beauty finds a new friend who comes to stay with her during the getting home and settled sate. And, it was then that Faerie Jo (JR’s) entered her life. It is true that Faerie Jo made Beauty laugh again; however, Faerie Jo had some deviant behaviors the Beauty was amused by. He made her laugh though she never experimented with his mischievous suggestions. But, Beauty does thank Faerie Jo for the recovery of smiles, amusement in life and deep hearted laughter she had lost while in the deep woods of fears.

 

Poem 6:

Joe’s Seduction and Return to The Forest

 

 

 

 

 

Joe’s Seduction

 

Innocently spoken

lips of faerie red.

Failure to answer

deliberately unsaid

~

“Come On!

You want to play!

I see in your eyes

And OH,

By the way”

“At the end of the day

You’ve nothing to say?

We’ll see.

Yea?”

~

“Come now

Sing and dance with me.

By the time night comes

We’ll use the key.”

~

“The window thought closed

We’ll not use tonight

For as the sun sets

The door will shine bright.”

~

“And, just as before

When the Moon was full

You danced by the light of the fire.

And your life…not dull.”

~

“So come on Old Foe

I challenge you today

to come to the Forest

But, don’t forget to pray.”

~

Now Joe’s eyes

faerie green-blue

Her hair of red waves fell

Her waist little too.

~

Charming alluring daring

Joe seduced the weakening victim

O so sweet her voice

before Joe actually kicked-em.

~

“I can’t, I won’t !

Now, GO JOE!

far from me!

Out! You Elphin mischief-maker!

There! The window!

Now, LET Me BE !”

~

Pouty lips and bats of faerie lashes

A wink of Joe’s eyes

She extends her hand

“Come now, come nigh,

And do not say, good-bye.”

“My human friend

Please don’t cry.”

~

Joe’s fingers crossed

After her word

“You know you want to come.”

Joe’s clever tenderness heard.

~

Then their eyes met

Joes soul stronger by far

It reached out to point the way

To the forest

By declare.

~

Weeping, sobbing and uttering,

“NO!,

For with you faerie

I SHALL NOT GO!.”

“You LIE, you CHEAT, You’ve NEVER TOLD the truth!

Away from me little demon!

For I a clever sleuth !”

“I found out your tricks

All slippery twists and turns.

You’ll not lead me to the forest

The fires there

Will not burn!”

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Blink blink. Smile smile.

Joe’s gestures summoned otherwise

Lies, cheats, twists and turns?

“You know how you loved it?

O, compromise!”

“Hey, for now,

Why don’t we play?

Remember the time

Remember the day?”

“You chased me,

And I chased you

Around and about

And away we flew.”

“And, I gave you wings

So you could fly.

You wore them one day

And flew sky-high.”

~

Up and away

or top of the trees!

O, how you flew.

Then, crashed down on your knees.

You cried a little

Afraid to smash

But, I caught you.

Do you remember that?

~

By day we flew

through tops of trees.

At night we danced,

Howled while burned the fire

With the breeze.

~

The snow fell

white branches below

cold air on our faces

you didn’t say, no.

~

Confessing your fears,

Don’t make me fly!

Saying, Damn you fairies!

But, we took you so high.

But, once on top of forest trees,

cold air blew

threw majestic hair.

Then, smiles over took you.

You’d no more cares.

~

Remember Foe

The human flew

Above The Earth,

And, safely returned

To the fires hue.

Tasting faerie brew

Though freezing; made warm.

Tasting our food,

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Now, whats the harm?”

~

So, come now,

God of the sky.

Let us dance, cheer and sing

And, please, don’t lie.

~

For flying, your game fare

The faerie sort

A dare!

~

So, stay if you must…

But, winter is coming

and near the first frost.

Kindling our fires

Don’t get lost.

~

The invite is yours.

Extends the Faerie hand

In Spring depart

From kindred land.

~

Think it over,

I’ll return once.

To ask you to play

to ask you to dance.

~

Well,

Quiet are you

Not so sure?

Your soul inside

Embarrassingly pure.

~

Judge others,

And they judge you.

But, in Faerie land

All tiny feet

Wear the same tiny shoe.

~

“So, I’ll leave you this morning

To think for yourself.

I’ll return ONCE more.

~~~

When The Moon shall wane

Then, you should thin,

Follow the elf.

~

But, one more time

I ask you to follow

Before The Moon’s full light is gone.

Then, don’t dilly-dallow.

~

Joe moves to the window

Her faerie finger points up.

Then, her faerie wings take to flight.

But, before leaving from captives sight

~

Joe turns to wink

And salutes goodbye.

 

 

 

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In the year 2011, Beauties mother dies and it is in her memory, that this poem was written. “Babe,” Beauties mother was life’s weaver of magic and good dreams. This poem is about Babe, who helped Beauty so many times. This poem is a thank you to Babe for her constant help in real life and beyond….

 

Poem  7:

Autumn Weaving with Babe,

my weaver of dreams and magic 2011

 

 

 

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Weave in and out skip two colors of dreams

Raise the level of forest green

now circle around the lights magic stream.

 

Yellows and oranges

Parfet and red

perfect strands of marbled threads

~

Dashing there yonder

up over Mars

bringing back a handful Stars

~

Wild horses charge

Black stallions at night

Taming the dragon with beacons of light

~

Casting them into fortune and fame

Causing the wind

Making it bend.


 

Lastly, there are many more in The Winter Fairy series of Poetry, but these are the most significant to the experiences of abuse. This poem is about the road of recovery. Victims have a tendency to repeat damaging relationships. So, in the recovery process, Beauty separates herself from any possibilities of dysfunctional relationships until she can learn to say, “No,” and she can recognize  the “red flags” that charismatic abusers often present. Until that time comes, and maybe it won’t, Beauty rests, heals, and discovers her own needs for self love.

 

Poem 8:

Leaving Adam

 
 
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~

Leaving Adam

 
~
 
 
Eons advance and passed away.
Thought, theory, speculation and opinions, die.
Glancing through lenses, and squinting, at the sky,
Adam, pointing, at the twinkling specs, named the brilliant ballet.
 ~
 
So, following mankind, up the mountain,
And ascending a rocky path; we embarked.
My feet followed his, upward, to where the sky was arched.
His staff pointed, and the heavens, then filled me, as a refreshing fountain.
 ~
 
An advocate of The Father of Man, I desired what he sought,
Thus’ left the home of my family and upheld his zealous quest
Confidently, I abided and affirmed his every request.
Even, wore his belief’s; did just as he taught.
~
 
One day, dared I asked, Adam, the man of science,
How is Eve today?
And, if looks could kill, then Eve is dead, thus’ left us only, to pray.
Deceased, she is. He answered, with a chill of neglectful defiance.
 ~
 
Man of Science, I spoke so boldly.
At the mountain top; we stand
The stars, you named, and held, in your hand,
However, love you murdered, so coldly.
~
 
This day, I choose the mother
Her love, which first found me
Within the warm and welcoming spirit, in there, dwells she.
 And, today, I accept non-other.
~
 
So, progressing and moving towards her;
 Over, the cliff of doubt, rapidly grabbing her hem, I aim.
Because, after carefully, considering your treacherous, pains,
There, in her grace ~ I seek her, safe harbor
~
 
I choose faith, that which, I cannot see. 
 
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©2010 by Bojenn or Bonnie Gay Jennings or Bonnie Jennings
@Bonnie Gay Jennings, or Bonnie Jennings or Boondoggling with Bojenn

*Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Bonnie (Gay) Jennings, or Bojenn or Bonnie Jennings with appropriate and specific direction to the original content. All artwork is also the production and creation of Bonnie Jennings.

 

My email: Bonniegjennings@gmail.com

Thank you for reading. I pray you found insight.

God bless you.

Bonnie Jennings or Bojenn

 

 

 

Quarks and Atoms

 

Similar to a galaxy spinning in time
Measures and degrees relations to physics
Worlds and molecules and atoms be
Thicker, heavier, denser or sparse
Spinning in their community on a coarse
United by their gravity and specific force
Ignoring mankind as it flows in unison
Though truly mankind rarely notices
Tiny quarks and black space not hidden
Just so small, but significantly living
Wildly busy and holding prayers
The littlest places, but no one cares
But in the tunnels black between quarks
The energy moves vibrating this heaven
The space between iron and chemical seven
Make a place that causen weights to levin
Billions and trillions of atoms maybe
Your eyes, so that you can see
A world of beauty beyond this place
A world of atoms of molecules and me

©2016 Bonnie Jennings All Rights Reserved

Doodles by me