By David P. Cantrell I hate having a damaged wheelchair. I hate getting the run-around from vendors. I hate relying on a doctor I barely know. I love being alive. I love having mobility. I love knowing someone will fix it. I love believing in others, even strangers. Life is good, but it can be […]
Random thoughts coalesce,
But fears invade the scene.
I think I lack finesse
For this particular dream.
Visions grow to stories told
By halting fearful souls
Willing to push limits through
Comfort’s silky hold.
Authors target many goals
Some write and rarely share.
A few seek fiscal gain
But find it’s rarely there.
Others for acknowledgement
Most any kind will do
A nod brings a smile
Five stars a groveling fool.
Writers write because they must.
They cast their words a sea
To catch another’s soul
And feed their passion’s need.
(c) 2016 by David P. Cantrell – EWI staff member and contributor.
They, not I, planned ahead:
What to wear and where to eat.
Not me, I retreated
And put my grandkids to bed.
The gals giggled and laughed
While the guys slapped backs.
They anticipated a special night.
I rolled my eyes and said goodnight.
They’ll suffer traffic with good cheer
But avoid talking about this year
Too much hurt is laid there—
Buried in France and elsewhere.
They’ll overpay for a so-so meal
And be glad they got a view table.
“Oh look,” she’ll say, “You can see Times Square.”
He’ll answer, “Only the best, for you my dear.”
They’ll listen to hip-hop and dance to Walk the Moon,
Drink out of flutes and share desert spoons,
But they’ll not think of the world’s torments
The ones that invade my quiet moments.
The great crystal ornament will slowly fall
Millions will count and watch the ball.
Billions won’t care about its last stage
Much more interested in a living wage.
He’ll hug her, passionate about his bride.
She’ll return the gesture with love and pride.
I’ll remember my bride with hidden tears
And when we celebrated our new years.
They’ll sneak in to protect my rest
From their noisy romantic quest
Fearful that my mood will depress
At her noisy response to his caress.
I’ll be okay I tell myself.
I’ll put this funk on the shelf.
Very soon I want to believe
But it must be after New Year’s Eve.
© 2015 David P. Cantrell contributing member of the EWI staff
She must have been a user because
She didn’t work for food, nor the
Children’s clothes nor their birthday gifts.
She stayed at home, doing the mom thing.
She gave up her dreams—what a loser some thought.
She sold herself for the easy life others thought.
Cook a meal; clean the house, nothing else to do,
Maybe, laundry now and then.
Her daughter cried, “But why Mommy?”
She cured the hurt and gave hope,
Then cried alone when she could.
The dog had been her friend too.
“What’s the solution?” the child asked.
How do I answer? The years are long past she thought.
But, answer she did, and did it well,
Because her child needed help.
Loneliness filled many days.
The lack of adult conversation created a vacuum
That soaps and talk shows wanted to fill,
But she knew in her heart where she belonged.
The child grew, became a woman to admire.
“You’ve worked a miracle, my dear. I’m sorry I worked so much,” Dad said.
“You silly man, I love you more than you’ll ever know.
I got to be, just a mom.”
David P. Cantrell © 2015, all rights reserved. David P. Cantrell is a contributing member of the EWI staff.
Photo credit: Tiny Plain Photography