Meant To Be 

My soul has washed up on

    time’s beach out of place 

My eyes pale and change green to blue

I remember things I have not seen 

I’m certain the corner ahead

    hides my past from view

Shadows cone to greet me 

   with flashes previous

Falth whispers  ” meant to be ”

  ears assemble pieces together

Thousand puzzles with no image

    descend  into view

Tallowed like a glove, they all fit ideally 

Their embrace frees fear to conquer anew

It could be madness or immaculate  

    that fills me now

A mirrors image either way to inner                journeys beyond maps

I was destined to arrive here eventually 

Fields of dreams tucked in beds under

    mystical mountains 

I’m a fulfilled spirit walking amongst

     wishes and prayers

Under a star filed blanket I pause to                reflect the 

History taught me about time and place 

Nature slipped my place  through time

I understand divinity is destiny

   is meant to be 

School’s Out for Summer

image

The lemonade stand!  These girls.   Entrepreneurs in training.  Hawking their lemonade to passers-by’s.  Fifty cents a cup for an American Traditional summer scene.  It may be Kool-aid.  It might be part of a garage sale. But nothing is more a sure sign of the world having its priorities straight, then this.

As a kid, I did this. They will never move on to delivering newspapers.  That’s an adult thing, if your town has a daily paper still.    But an slice of tradition peers past an Xbox, video game, the TV.

Wrapping up Everyday Inspiartions


It’s time to move on!  Already!  Good thing I pulled out the suitcase.  Ok what do I have from the class.

  Several new people to read. Check

A handful of posts that were inspired by prompts and those readers. Check

New ideas mostly from reading others view points. Check

Another challenge throw at me.  Quotes. Check

I finally was able to force myself to read everyone’s posting. Check

Reblogged several people that wrote well and had less followers. Check

Entered the world of guest writers. Check (many thanks for those)

Was able to coherently follow every prompt. Check

New followers. Check

This was most fun I had with a Blogging University class.  I hope to keep up with all of you moving Foward.  I would love to add more but the beach is calling.
#everydayinspiarion

Anecdotally Coming Through in Waves

The salty air surfs above.

White caps push-up

They tumble and spread.

Behind them another line waits.
Crashes echo

Roars build and  vanish.

Waves jump on the waters back.

The graceful act of low flight try to reach higher

Pulled back down

The water washes white.

It ripples and races faster toward the sand

Quite Challenge -Day Three

It suits me well,” he said, “to take a blow from thee, but first you must swear that you will seek me out in twelve months and a day, so I can give back what I received from you.”The Green Knight to Sir Gawain, the Canterberry Tales by Chauncer

image

I would like to thank Angela, https://iammyownisland.wordpress.com,
for nominating me.
Rules stolen from another blog.
Rules for the challenge:

Post one of your favourite quotes(different quote on each day) on three consecutive days. The quote can be from your favourite book, author, or your own.
Nominate three bloggers to challenge them.
Thank the blogger, who nominated you
Oh those greedy aspirations of easy reward from little effort!  My extremely tall friend green knight bows and lets Sir Gawain take an axe to his neck.  Then promptly puts his head back on.  Laughs and disappears into the night from which he came.  He knows that a Knight of the Roundtable is duty bound to honor that in a year and a day what will happen.

So what does this say about us?  All fairy tales, legends, myths have a parable feature.  Ok, the obvious choice never trust a Green Knight with an axe.  But maybe if the deal makes no sense you should question what the hell is going on here?  Maybe an organized group make bad decisions when the leader gets questioned and no one will speak up for them.  Wait, I have the answer in the clarity of the old English that it was originally penned.  Don’t let pride make your decision for you!

See we have King Arthur.  He’s hanging out with a bunch of his Knights.  They are carrying on about their exploits.  Beer or mead is involved.  A strange guy, uninvited walks in and says a have a challenge.  You cut off my head and in 366 days, I’ll come back and return the favor.  Rather than anyone step up.  The king jumps to act because their honor dies if the challenge goes unmet.  The youngest needing to make a name for himself jumps to the chance.  The king isn’t happy his nephew does this, but hey honor is honor.

Group pride!  See where it gets you.  You head whacked off by a Green Knight on a day you know is coming because you needed to make a name for yourself!  Life lesson – never have your head served on a platter because of others.

Where the hell was Merlin anyway?  I bet Morgana had a thing with the Green Knight.  But that’s a different story.  And I’m out of days for this Quote Challenge

But before I leave, the list of three more people.  This is voluntary and fun

Christina, http so://blogging0380.wordpress.com

Amanda, https://justinqueso.wordpress.com

Hammad, https://hammadrais.wordpress.com

Mining the Archives

#everydayinspiration
image

“The ripening grape shall hang on every thorn.”

Incultisque ruhens pendebit sentibus uva.Virg. Ecl. iv. 29. Virgil

To make British Port Wine.[31]—”Take of British grape wine, or good cyder, 4 gallons; of the juice of red beet root two quarts; brandy, two quarts; logwood 4 ounces; rhatany root, bruised, half a pound: first infuse the logwood and rhatany root in brandy, and a gallon of grape wine or cyder for one week; then strain off the liquor, and mix it with the other ingredients; keep it in a cask for a month, when it will be fit to bottle.”
Taken from A Treatise on Adulterations of Food, and Culinary Poisons, Frederick Accum, 1820

The small wooden barrel has three inches of dust on top.  The paper had been yellowed.  It’s letters the purple of poke berries still sharp.  The receipe on port wine was centuries old.  But why was it here?  The keg plug hammered in place well before a machine could make it.  Oil lamps burned back when it was sealed.  The two foot tall relic stood as a shadow off to the side.  If not for a chance passing, would it have ever been noticed.

“Uncle, uncle, uncle what treasures did you bury here?” A voice tears into the dim room.

The barrel moves easy.  Most of its contents given as the angel’s share.  The slushing inside announce a presence.  A mild berry smell beckons from the past.  The dark wood and cooper rings have aged in impeccable condition. Grabbing the top edge, he rolls it on edge, out across a deep shelf.

“Joshua, you don’t want to try that.”  Uncle’s voice rattles him to the core.  The hair on the neck are stood up.  Goosebumps run through the arms, like a jolt of electricity.

Joshua stops moving the barrel.  The keg plug stares at him.  The voice echoes.  The lack of body for that voice is a problem.  After another minute he pushes the barrel back.  Gathering his thoughts, it seems a good time for lunch.

Day Fifteen- Because John Said So

John Donald this is for you (if you speak Auto correct- rid is fit tijuana).  please visit him at https://johndonald.wordpress.com. doing my toes in reality…no, not quite reality but non fiction!  Well, reasonable explanation of history surrounding a ghost story!  The Non Fiction thing is like sacred ground, I don’t think my heels will catch fire if I step there with both feet…why take unnecessary chances?

Chapter Thirteen: What Really Happened at Gore Orphanage  (Presented at Paper Session: Legend I: Local Legend, October 27, 1983, American Folklore Society Annual Meeting.)
By Bill Ellis
There is this place. . . it’s kind of close to my town and it’s called “Gore Orphanage” and it was back in the 1800s I believe. It was an old building, all that’s left is the foundation now, but, uh, it was an old guy who ran it, Old Man Gore, they called him. He was a mean guy and all the kids in there they were really deprived I know that. . . the place caught on fire. The old man Gore he got away and he left all the kids in there to burn to death….

image
Photo credit: Wikipedia

This is all that remains of Swift Mansion.   A driveway marker.  This is the only solid past of the story left. Legend of the Gore Orphanage runs deep. The road is a long country road that is jagged starting and stopping at different places.  It possess few traditional crossroads. The lack of a physical building just makes its existence have more mysterious. There is tought the Swift Mansion story is to keep teenagers from needing attention from the Lorain County Sheriff’s Department.  Young thrill seekers end up in driveways of farms, farmers wish to make them ghosts!

So the legend is Ma and Pa Gore, losing all of their children start an Orphanage. They were always described as hard luck people.  This is 1903.  The horseless carriage is not around this area much.  The area is the middle of nowhere.   It’s an island of misfit toys long before a Rudolph story.  In these days, children who didn’t go to school worked.

There are branches in the time line about 1905.  At a time near this (maybe even 1902, or 1908..), the Orphanage was changed owners.  A Lutheran Reverend used the name Light of Hope Orphanage.   The road was so known as Gore Rd.  The name of Gore Orphanage never dies

In 1908, a school nearby creates a legend.  Lakeview School has a real piece of history.  A fire cost 108 children there lives.  There are stories of children crying unable to flee the building.   The cause was probably one exit and poor construction for the deaths.   But one quick fire changes everything.

Following the fire, ghosts came to the area.  The assigned Swift Mansion burnt down abdonded in 1923.  But teens were scouting out the grave yard a generation earlier. Swings moved empty near Swift Mansion and other buildings called the Orphanage.   Children screams cries out from beyond. 

Time changed the area.  Near Swift Mansion site runs an Interstate highway.  Trucks vibrate a bridge near a ravine.  The high pitched sounds like children screaming after they travel a mile and a half.  Maybe.

But before that highway, the sounds were from?  Can one Legend be splintered into different parts then explained away?  If you go near Vermillion, Ohio, maybe you can stop by and see.   The empty swings are waiting.

#everydayinspirations
image

One Day July 15, 2012

Trying to pack a 24 hour day in a coherent post is about the subject. I had a couple options.  But decided to go a different direction.   Non fiction.

It’s a beautiful Sunday morning.  It will very hot, as summer should.  But the morning is slightly cool.  Windows open and ceiling fan moves the night air.   My day to sleep in stays about 9AM.  My wife and I are locked in a routine.

After breakfast, we will go pick up my mom.  We have seen her everyday for two weeks.   The toll of my father’s illness still well concealed in her.   We all know the day is coming.   We don’t talk about it much.   The night before Mom did.  Sunday would be spent at the hospice.  As every evening was.  As every minute of work, or  that didn’t income sleep would.

Mom was very relaxed.  The feeling was lost on her for the previous year.  By 11 AM, we have stopped by to get her. Normally, there would be anxiety and she would be at the door waiting.   Thus day was a little different. The son doesn’t recognize acceptance without a mask.

My parents live about twenty minutes from the hospice.   My mom spent about twelve hours away this time.   That’s a record.   She wanted my father in the hospice to make sure he had around the clock care to keep him comfortable.   Also because as a nurse, she never wanted to be the one to give that last pain killer.  The pills are always the same but one time the person will slip away forever.   You can rationalize it. But what you have gave them has pushed them into permanent sleep.   No spouse needs to feel that.

Our drive was quiet.  An unnerving quiet.   My wife tried to start conversations but they died quickly.   “Where’s Val (my sister)?” My wife
“She’s having a hard time with this.” My mom.
(Like any of us like doing this!  She’s a f’ing nurse!  She can do it for others!) My mouth quiet but the mind speaks
“Where should we go for lunch?” My wife worrying about mom eating.
“Did you get any sleep? ” my wife again.
That’s about all that was said. 

By noon, the the if us are bedside.   My father was 5 foot, 10 inches tall, maybe 160 pounds when healthy.  Pheocromocytoma had grown thirty years inside.  It creates tumors in the glands.   My father’s adernal gland was consumed by something that would become the size of an orange.  The tumor would dump norepinephrine into his blood playing hell with blood pressure.  It also produced little cysts that split off from the mother tumor.  The mother tumor was called binary.  But noone knew how many of the other cysts would become malignant.  There were thousands in the end.   He was 125 pounds at this point.

We spent a couple hours holding his hands.   Talking to a body.   Seeing him in a state of unrest.   Not able to recognize us, but reacting to our voices every so often.   This is not a day anyone should go through.   The minutes were agony.

By 2pm, my mom decides is time for lunch.   I get the draw to pick up food.   Hell, I couldn’t tell you where or what it was.   Just an excuse to free myself.   I talk to a nurse outside the room.   She tells me this can go in for days.   And his schedule for pills for the rest of the day.   She says 6pm and I never think twice why she mentioned the time until later.

By 4pm, my wife and mom have taken turns leaving the room.   I’m suddenly realizing we have been telling my father is time to leave.   We developed a chorus, a dark chorus of leaving his works of pain.   He just kept hanging on.   The hands would squeeze time to time.   He would move abruptly.   But never gain consciousness.

At 5:50, here comes the nurse.  She is there to change the linens and that next pill.  We move outside the room.   We’re ask looking out the window at the beautiful landscape around the hospice.   As single ding conned behind us.  Neither if us move.   We hear the door open and close behind us.   We never saw a second nurse go in the room.   He is gone.   He waited all day and would not leave without us there.  

My mom was dumbfounded.   She know it would happen.   She cried a little but was at peace with it.   At least from the  outside, she seemed if a weight had been lifted.

I had spent a year working my dad out, taking him up and down stairs, helping mom give him showers.  I was so relieved.   He was a lifetime learner.   I mean dvds of art appreciation, world religions, math theory, astronomy,  philosophy, high brow and deep science stuff.  He was a organic chemistry Professor at local college.  But he lost the ability of short term memory.  He was a shell and he was well aware of it.

But in seven hours in a day, the finale was calling my sister and telling her.  She answered the phone by saying “I’m pulling into Walmart.” 

I told her that he was gone.  And we were leaving the hospice.   My day was over early.  The relief and disbelief combined for a couple days.
#everydayinspirations

Rose of Faith

Written as part of a challenge called Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers,  details are at https://flashfictionforaspiringwriters.wordpress.com/2016/05/23/fffaw-challenge-week-of-05-24-2016/

And part of everyday inspiration, #everydayinspirations

image

She looks up at the angels.  Each one has a panel of triumph!  Each one has a battle to emerge from.  Her battle has been self inflicted.

Her fingers raw.  Tiny holes.  Blood no longer flows from them.  Her voices are fading.  Her trust places unseen.  In her hair, a fade white rose.  In her mind, the question of questions. Why?

Faith comes quick like a snake bite.  It’s paralysis warms the soul underneath. Eyes slowing to see, open like a child to the works sound her.

She talks to angels.  Today, they answered.

Death and the Word Count

We are playing with a word count.   But adding a challenge to the mix.   So a picture is worth 1000 words, we’re going for 100.

https://mindlovemiserysmenagerie.wordpress.com/2016/05/22/may-22-2016-writing-prompt-tarot-major-arcana-death/

image

#everydayinspirations

Her hand grips a white rose.  But the rose has it’s thorns in Rose as well.   She spins it between fingers until the pin holes let out a stream.   It comforts her.

Below her spills out the future.  Her cards neatly spread.   Eight cards waiting to relieve her pain.  Only her final card is death.

She smiles.  Her heart skips a beat.  It’s white rose is her’s. Everything fades away.  Her pain can at last be gone.

Behind the card is a meaning of great change.  The novice doesn’t realize the cards are pointing toward change.  Her pain goes.  She does not.