Seeing is believing,
and yet looks can be deceiving.
You can have your questions,
but it is laid out there for you to accept.
Except, you’re from Missouri
and you’re in a hurry to be shown.
You can demand proof and appear
aloof and arrogant. Some believe
although they have not seen.
You can have your doubts,
but without faith, you have nothing.
The soul has no windows,
as far as I can see.
But the truth has a heart,
and getting to the heart of the truth
takes a lot of belief
and a bit of faith.
Your ears will hear
what your eyes will not receive.
Do not trust your eyes,
for you realize that the soul
of a person rests in the eyes of truth.
Why didn’t I see that before?
“Have faith in dreams and they will come to fruition.”
Dream, for dreams provide the visions of tomorrow. Borrow your nightly thoughts and ideas and see where you can go fueled by their fire. They desire to take flight through the night, second star on the right and straight on until morning.
Then when you’ve awakened and taken all you can from your midnight imaginings, let them take wing, for flight was once a fantasy turned to reality. Life’s banality will flourish into all your dreams can become. If you can dream it, by all mean…do it!
Tarnished and dented; a bauble of a bygone day. In a wooden cigar box; keepsakes both, with little more function than that. The stem fused to the casing, the workings have retired. But,
it has inspired me to find the link. The contents of the box play like a road map; clues to unravel the mystery that is my history. The key, worn and encrusted with years of dirt and oils from feeble fingers.
It lingers in my hand for a moment, its uncertainty secured. Papers, folded and bound with a frail rubber band line the bottom of the box. A visa document, possibly a first issue wrapped in a tissue to protect
what it meant to an old Polish immigrant determined to become all that America had to offer. Naturalization documents, meant to pronounce his acceptance of a lifestyle long sought, and their acceptance of him
as one of the free and brave. The camera buried amongst the treasures, bellows cracked and torn, a forlorn instrument with which a part of his life had been preserved. It all deserved a better fate, but it is too late to shed
a single tear from your eyes for its demise. The puzzle is splayed before you, the detective of your past. A torn swatch of a fabric, hues faded but shades of blue and red and white pressed between pages.
Finally, one last piece remains. A photograph. a dark and handsome young man; heavy jacket and a fedora pulled down across the brow. Intermingled with other similar folk unconcerned for their purpose.
But the subject stands tall. Proud. Posed to save this moment in memory, and upon this daguerreotype for long after. In the background, Lady Liberty stands strong. In his hand an American flag clutched to his chest.
A chain from buttonhole to vest pockets and a key as a fob, a cinch to keep his pride from bursting. It insinuates the only part missing was the watch that sat tucked close to his left hand. A trinket; a remembrance
of the father he had left behind in Igolomia, Poland to claim his dream. It remains strong in your own heart as the box that holds your Great-Grandfather’s declaration secure. You are sure the timepiece marked his life as well as your own.
That’s me in the corner,
waiting for the other shoe
to fall. Faith no more,
shaken, my core beliefs taken;
they are unanswered questions.
Too many trials, no more
do smiles grace me; they deface me.
Shadows linger longer, sweeping
me to my knees. No pleas are heard.
It is assured, I’m losing my religion.
She sets herself; a life raft for wayward
sailors navigating life on a tumultuous sea.
Her beacon shines brightly,
a nightly sweep with eyes searching
and a smile that provides great light.
Lost souls find comfort there.
Every heart beats more sure;
no hazard is too great to bear.
Far and away she stands,
a gentle lady of a kind and nurturing soul.
Her goal remains within reach,
nature’s friend and confidant.
A mother’s caress never so sweet,
nor guiding hand so tender,
making a mental effort to present
her precious gift; melancholy’s true mender.
For she becomes the friend in which you place your trust,
the “embrace” in which you find comfort.
She is a beautiful soul,
a manifestation of every good thing.
She brings her smile to soothe your heart
and you start to believe in all of her charm;
a shield protecting and projecting
is the sanctuary disguised as her arms.
Secure in the shadows
miles from your eyes, you are wise
to rely on her heart being your rudder.
For the heavens give her direction
and her faith gives her solace.
Her face, an angel’s desire
and the smile she burns throughout,
with love’s unquenchable fire.
Our old house, empty then after Dad’s passing. We were on a quest to get the place ship-shape before its much put off disposal. A brother still in residence, an upper apartment meant to hold him over between divorce and reconciliation (both came), with everything including faulty kitchen drain (which in illness Dad never got around to mending). I became the pretending plumber; my brother, an apprentice, snaking the pipe every which way but clear, when I hear “under the stairs!”. My brother fully unaware as I stare incredulously at his claim of silence. “I heard you say ‘under the stairs’” I insisted, but he resisted the notion with negative nods. Mere moments brought a familiar sound, “Under the stairs” it would resound, catching me off guard and slightly perturbed. It disturbed me more when my brother was sure he hadn’t uttered a word. My faculties were not on Spring Break, my wits were full about me. I was left thinking “Had I been drinking?” But I would swear on a stack of pancakes that what had me quaking in my shoes was more of “Boo’s” than booze. “Under the stairs” once again. I shout, “WHAT! WHAT”S UNDER THE STAIRS?” Surely, a younger sibling witnessing the dismantling of his older brother’s rocker would be more concerned. But he yearned for the ‘project’ to be over. I descend the ladder and end up under the stairs amidst the cobwebs and dust balls there. All these years since, I no longer wince at the sound of my Father’s voice directing me, his heavy metal plumbers snake wedged under the riser. A wiser man would have snikcered at my flicker of insanity. But all of humanity would crave for that sound one last time to etch firmly in mind. My Father continues to keep watch; me still listening for the wisdom in his whisper.