Child Interrupted

“Happy And Free, Laughing With Delight”

A memoir of a child who once was happy and free in the garden of life.

A mother and a father, proud of their child dressed in pretty clothes,

A special dress her mother had sewn, adorned with a bonnet and

Barrette and a smile on her face, her eyes lit with wonderment

And delight. Like a fairy tale story, surrounded with love, secure in the

little part of her world.


A Game Of Hide And Seek


What is this game, child, you

Are playing in the garden of your


A garden full of wonder and beauty

Adorned with flowers and trees

Sweet sounds of birds with

Babbling brooks, serene and calm

And filled with trust

Playing hide and seek

Running from tree to tree

Waiting in excitement to be

Found by those you trust most

When suddenly this garden becomes

Very still

Not a sound is heard

Not even the sound of a bird

In wonderment you realize that

Everyone is gone as you

Sit down and cry

Wondering where your father

And mother are


Falling fast asleep

No longer your secrets keep

It is true your earthly family has

Left you, but do you not know, there

Is a Father up above seeking those

Like you, hiding from their pain

He is with you when

Your father and mother have

Forsaken you

He understands your fear and

Anxious thoughts

He is here to take the painful

Memories away

Do you not hear Him walking in

The garden of your heart?


“Though your father and your mother have

Forsaken you the Lord will take you into

His care” Book of Psalm Verse 27:10

This poem is adapted from the author’s book ‘Child Interrupted’

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The Librarian

“Growing A Little Older, Another Rung Is Added”

When I started writing, I had no computer, iPad

Or any other devise. I actually started writing notes on

My iPhone, in cafes, even bars, (very unusual since

I did not frequent them) but anyplace that had WiFi.

And then I found the library to be my refuge.

I knew nothing about the computer and struggled,

Going home in tears, but always returning,

Determined to learn what I needed to

Tell my story. But for a very kind and caring

Nephew stepping in and running the technical part

Of this, my writings would not exist to others.

It was a long process, and challenging, since

I was writing things that were emotionally

Disturbing. Long ago a very strong disciplinarian

Set up residence in my head, and a battle raged

Every day. The child in me feared this person

And hid behind words and numbers I developed

As a tool (a component of OCD). I counted

Everything I saw and words ran through my

Brain, a serious mental disorder.

As I look back, I know God was in control, since I

Was out of control. Little did I know that the letters

And numbers I hid behind would one day be words

Of poetry seeking my mind!


This is a strange vault for a library,

Consciousness holding and

Unfolding histories and mysteries…


The librarian is dressed in black

Her hair sleeked back, spectacles

Enlarge her eyes

A ruler is used to prove her

Authority, she is very stern and

And makes sure these books of

Memories are learned, on

Shelves in a sea of words

Where thoughts are stirred


The child is little, she is small

Latched to a tall ladder day and

Night with no relief in sight

Too young to know what matters

Just following the instruction, with

pages worn

From many fingers leafing through

stories told


She can barely reach the lowest

Shelf recording the story of herself

The twelfth shelf she must reach

In time

Growing a little older with an

Inquisitive eye, another rung is

Added, another shelf is saddened

There is succession of speed as

Wheels turn across the

Floor, the ladder reaching to the top

Before it stops


The child flees in terror to the

Basement of this keeper of life

Events and is lulled to sleep

Consciousness turned to

Unconsciousness, it is

Apparent the child is no longer


This poem is included in the book


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Prodigal Mother

“Mother Had had Enough, Her Wild Desires Were More Important Than Her Child”

Messages are often sent to children even though

They are not aware, mixed message that are confusing.

Mothers play an important part, shaping their children’s

Thoughts and character.

There roles are often influenced by the missing parent,

Creating insecurities, and often the child thinks it is their fault…


School is a difficult day after

The night before, words were

Confusing, people screaming,

Bottles strewn about the floor.

What are these people doing

That is so distressing?


No time for breakfast, running

Out the door, fearing she will be

Late, she can’t remember when

She last ate.

Taking a seat on the bus, the

Girls laugh at her dirty hair and


Standing at the board, the teacher

Shames her for the questions she

Does not know.

The bell rings, but she is afraid

To go home.

Each time she goes she is not sure

What she will find.

Reluctantly opening the door,

Gathering courage to walk in, it is

Strangely quiet, as she calls for

Her mother.

Going from room to room, panic

Sets in, calling louder than she

Did before.

Mother had had enough

She couldn’t take it anymore.

Her wild desires are more important

Than her child.

Tears begin to fall, if only she had

Been better, if she had only been


It is her fault that mother has



There is a strange story told of a

Land where a certain man dwells

He has a special message to tell

Given by God to share with his


But no matter what he said no

One would listen, even though

He pled with them night and


Then one day he awoke

Distraught, he must leave this city

He is too tired to carry on

Pleading with God his strange request

“Surely You can strike them dead”

God sitting quietly by is horrified at

Hosea’s words

But He has a plan for him

Strange and hard to understand

He is told to marry a woman

From another land

A woman who does not love His God

His eyes are big and wide

Where shall he go to find this


Knocking on doors, asking

“Where can I find this woman

God has for me?”

Coming to a tavern in the late hours

Of the night

Tables are lit by candlelight

He is directed to a brothel where

She sits drinking wine

Dressed in red satin and


He is not sure but he follows

God’s plan

Taking her home to be his wife

She bares

His children teaching

Them wrong

Taking them to strange altars

To pray

She is not happy with Hosea

And her children and one day

Returns to her evil ways

Though his children’s mother is


He loves his children even

Though they disobey

Feeding and clothing them

Hoping one day they will

Turn to his love


Though sometimes we stray,

We are ever on His mind

With the call,

“Return to My love and be saved”

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Earthen Vessels

“I had become marred in the hand of the potter”

I have spent much time at the potter’s

Wheel, becoming marred in his hands,

Falling from grace, but with a love so strong

He left me not that way, forming me into

Another vessel.

With rotating, circular motion, making me

Dizzy with the busy motion.

Taking his paddle with a scoop of clay tempering

It on his spinning wheel. The process hurts,

His knife scraping away the unneeded clay.

Baking me again in the furnace of affliction,

Shaping me as seemed best to him.

I have become a new vessel in the hand of the


“As chards of broken clay”

Are not we all earthen vessels,

Chards of broken clay

Lying upon the earth for

All to see

Since that good and evil


Fractured minds, injured


Enclosed in an earthen


Filled with holes

Coffer’s of treasures

Not of silver or gold

Hold those chosen to


The suffering

Of this earth’s souls


“Like clay in the hand of the potter

So are you in My hand”

Jeremiah 18:6 in God’s Word

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Children Of The Womb

“One child’s fate lingers, another quickly taken”

I often questioned in life, why my

Existence was different from the

Way I observed in others.

Probably a very self pity point of

View. In my young years it was too

Mystifying to understand why I

Was ashamed to bring my

Friends home, that they would see

How we lived. When I went to

Their homes, everything seemed

To be in place. No one was angry,

There was food on the table,

Mother’s talking kindly to their

Children, father’s playing with


But then when I would have to go

Home, with the chaos and

Confusion, I would retreat to

Another room, hoping to be out

Of the way in case there would be

Another blowup.

In later years I questioned why I

Was born, as Job of old mourned

His existence for all the troubles

He had. But he never cursed his



Oh Children of the womb,

Are you all created


One a story one a


The womb from which you


A mother looks down with


And Affection

One in harshness and


One child’s fate lingers

On earth

Another is quickly taken at


Some struggle, some are


Others receive no rest


A conscience pricked from

A hand too


Tides ebb and flow upon

The soul

To be consoled by something


The womb has now become

A cross

All things on this earth are


The child comes forth with

Faith unshaken

Her wounds soon taken, but

For insult and injury

She has received, she would


Remained on earth in



This is a mystery!

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Poet In Disguise

“Please Do Not Take My Pen And Ink Away”

It was a swift epiphany, an illuminating

Realization, that moment I walked into the

Room. An artist was sitting on a stool

Next to an empty canvas on an easel.

Paints of beautiful colors sat on a table.

I remember soft music playing, and the

Evening shadows had cast a quiet

Reflection as she began to speak,

Sharing the empty canvas was this

Earth before it was created, empty and

Void, then taking her brush she dips it

In paint, with strokes so evenly and

Smoothly, as she moves from side to side.

She speaks of the creation of this world,

No longer a dark canvas, it becomes a

Work of beauty. At that moment I was

Gripped with the thought, God could take

My life of darkness and recreate His child.

Little did I know the instrument of poetry

He would use, weaving its threads about me.


I should be so blest,

Or be put upon a shelf to


At least I express

My grief

Though somewhat


Through pen and ink


The scope of colors

Tapping upon a vastness

Deep, I weep

It is not a fatal sin to


What lies within

For my sorrows make me ill

Until I share

With others

We are not alone the


We own have flown through


A self proclaimed poet is

What I am

Not worthy to walk upon

The sod

Of these sleeping poets

These comforter’s of the


Now inspire me to plod my


Please do not take my pen

And ink away

That I may survey my dismay

And each book I write until

My last

I will draw upon the inkwell

Of tears from my past!

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Hitchhike To Heaven

“My Load is Heavy, Along This Road To Heaven“

It seemed like most all my relationships in life were

Based on an unrealistic image of my father. When I

Was converted to Christianity, I looked to God as I did to him,

Not able to see the acceptance and love freely offered

To me, thinking I had to do something to earn His favor.

My experience had become too heavy to bare, looking

To others to get me to heaven.

It is a difficult road I have taken,

My load is heavy and I am

Forsaken, along this road to


Preachers, teachers, friends,

I look to all to get me in.

Holding my thumb up high,

Hoping for a ride, they wish me

Well and pass me by.

I don’t know how long I can do

This, I cry, I weep, all the rules I

Keep. I run and run, busy, busy,

Barely taking a breath, lest I

Falter and be left.

Everyday I confess, what more

Can I do? Throwing up my hands,

I quit, there is nothing I can do,

It is a gift!

A promise given to us –

“Look unto Me and be saved…for I am God,

And there is no other.” Isaiah 45:22

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“Leave Them Alone, For They Will Only Harm You”

It seemed I was constantly looking for answers

To my problems, religion, doctors, therapists,

Medications, twelve step programs, self help

Books, bargaining, pleading, begging, anything.

Until my search became a secondary

Obsession to the OCD I compulsively practiced.

I had tunnel vision, thinking the answer could

Lie in only one of these attempts. Not realizing

Each one was a part of the process of healing.

It was like fishing, never catching anything.

And then, after I had done all I could, I had

To wait for the deliverance only God could bring.


In the early dawn of the

morning hours

A ship scours an angry sea

Of thoughts

Trolling on the deep

A fisherman holds the


While a thought is


A larger one than anyone

Sought rises to the top

The battle begins as the war

Is fought

Three more knots added to

The speed of the ship

But it is all for naught

Leaving the fisherman


Above the commotion a

Voice is heard

“Push her down”

And an answer says

“How far down?”

“As far as the thoughts

Are buried”

“Hurry, cast a line and

Reel it in with all your


“But it is too big and my

Mind too small

How can I let it go, I

Am sinking?”

With a body that is weak

With my feeble strength

Pulling and striking, falling

On my knees

Every muscle, bone and

Grandiose groan has hit

The bottom

Another voice is heard

“Leave them alone, for they

Will only harm you”

The fisherman no longer


Releases his thoughts into

The depths of the sea


A word of hope –

“He will again have compassion on

Us… He will cast all our sins (and

I like to think, thoughts) into the depths

Of the sea”

Micah 7:19

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“Her Mind Was A Million Miles A Way”

I remember as a child, and an adult,

when someone would

Talk to me, I could not concentrate on what

They were saying. It was as if I disengaged

From the person and surroundings. It was

Exhausting to be around other people and

I would isolate to avert any interaction with

Others. I don’t know if the person talking to

Me knew what was going on in my brain.

I think I became quite adept in not letting

Others know what I was thinking and the

Extreme stress I was experiencing.

(At least I hope so)


Pardon me for not

Listening to what

You say

For you see, my

Mind is on other


A million miles away

I don’t live in


There is a delay, a

Hesitation to


A filter in my brain

Goes round

And round

Repeating sounds

It pretends

To send

The message

But it is not quite sure

What to do

It was stolen long


Too young to

Understand and put

On hold!


One definition of distraction is

‘Something that takes your

Attention away from what you

Are suppose to be doing’


I would add ‘not able to live in

The moment’

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“The Bickering Is More Than I Can Hold”

Whenever I would make a decision

(After many agonizing thoughts)

I would then question what I had

Decided. The focus was ‘what if

I had made the wrong choice’

All hell and damnation would

Break forth. It was agonizing,

Maybe similar to those who

Contend with ‘ buyer’s remorse’

Only the buyer in my head was not

About to give up and let it go.

Thankfully after many years, that

Has pretty much gone away (with the


Of sometimes when I am faced with

A very important one, but the time

Lapse is shorter)


Is this what I should

Have done

And done it better?

The bickering

Of my

Soul is more than I

Can hold

Once is never enough

All these

Lessons are really


In my mind there is



Filling it with holes

Until it

Becomes a sieve

With no more room

To give!


An encouraging thought to share –

“Let no one strive, neither let

Any one reprove ‘oneself’ or

One another.

Do not waste your time in


Hosea 4:4

Amplified Bible Translation

I added ‘oneself’

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