September is ‘National Suicide Awareness


Nine years ago my son took his life and two

Years later I attempted to take mine. They

Call this a cluster effect, when the act is

Followed by a family or friend, or even a celebrity.

It has a lasting effect on many. Some do not

Understand the depression or other mental

Disorders that can lead to this devastating

Illness. I have dealt with depression all of my

Life, some times more difficult than others.

And some family members or friends

Do not understand, and withdraw from

The sufferer, not

Realizing it is like any other illness

One may have. If you have a broken leg it is

Not your fault, and have to seek professional

Help for healing, surgery, medications and


Isn’t that true of mental illness? It is not our

Fault that we have a broken mind, unable to

Control our thoughts. Shouldn’t we as well

Seek healing through doctors, therapy and


The following is a poem I wrote after my

Experience with this emotional trauma.

I have posted this before but in recognition

Of this month I would like to share it again.


It was a sudden decision

A force grabbed my mind

To all things on earth I

Was blind

I was done!

A warm summer evening

With beauty all


That I would never again

Look upon

A bottle of pills and a bottle

Of wine would do this job

Just fine

Driving up the road past

Homes of friends

I did not realize the pain

My decision would bring

But this would only be for a


Friends would soon forget, I

Would be forgotten as time

Went on

The sun began to set

As I parked the car on a

Far off road

My last night on earth

Taking one more look

Shadows lingering upon the


I twisted the cork tipping

The bottle to my lips

Taking the bottle of pills

Falling asleep, death would

Be a sweet release


Suddenly I awoke to the

Sound of words

As I was placed on a stretcher

They were trying to keep me


I was angry

“Why God, was I not taken,

Did You have something else

In mind?”

“Did I try to stop my clock just

For You to rewind?”

This was my intention but

He had plans of intervention

The answer to this question

Would come in time!

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Dream Of Death

“Half Past Four I Fell Asleep”

We lived in a small mining house

In a little town, where we finally

Settled from our travels through

The remote areas of Nevada.

Our house was nestled in a little

Valley all by itself, with only one

Road in and none out.

If cars came in, they had to turn


Many nights I spent laying awake

Waiting for my mother to come

Home after her jobs as a

Waitress, and her frequent visits

To the gambling halls.

It was very scary at night when

Cars would come, their lights

Reflecting on our windows,

Not knowing who they were.

When I was finally able to go to

Sleep, I had many dreams and



The clock on the mantle

Struck half past ten

The hour to retire for

Most women and men

I listened to the clock

Heard a knock on the door

I looked, no one was


Half past two still awake

With nothing to do

Half past four I fell asleep

Forgetting the mother I

Had expected to come

Through the door

A gust of wind blew

Through the window

Death came in with a

Shroud on his face

He came to take me

Not yet was my plea

I have much to do

Much to undo

Death agreed to let me


He gathered his cloak

About him and went

On his way!

I suddenly awoke

Knowing this was just a


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The Box

“A Narrow Box, I Was Curious What Was In It”

It is interesting what goes on in a child’s mind, how they perceive

Death and it’s mysterious ways, growing up with thoughts sometimes

Replaced with an adult’s point of view. However death is received,

There is the hope that it is not the end of this life but the beginning of

Something much better!

It arrived, it was a solem

Occasion, people were

Hesitant, I did not know why.

I tried to look in, but I was

Too small and it was too tall.

A narrow box, I was curious,

What was in it?

I tried to lift the lid, but my

Fingers could not reach.

With each attempt I became

More intent to see what this

Box meant.

As time went by I became

Older, going back to see if

Perhaps I could open it now…

I visited the box when life was

Violent and I was seeking


Visiting a garden of rest, as

They lowered a box in the earth,

There were similarities as the

One I had seen as a child.

Then I knew it was for those who

Had ceased.

That could be me!

And then one day I fell asleep,

And was planted in the box

Reserved for me.


Waiting to be broken and come

To new life.. To be reunited

With those I have lost,

The hope of all who trust in


No earthly box can contain

Our souls for when it is time

To rise ‘He cries’…

Pulling us through this earth’s

Crust, thrust out of the box

To receive the heavenly

Prize, one the coffers of this

Earth cannot provide!

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The Attic

“A gust of wind fans the flames until little remains”

A person can only handle so much, then
things begin to explode. Repressed memories,
reminders of the past, all play a part in this
thing called life.

The foundation is weak,
it seeks its own level.
Rusty pipes leak, joints
Red climbing roses speckled
with peeling paint, from
decades of neglect. Age has
had its effects.
The attic bears the burden of
this house of ruptures and
fissures, storing baggage in
rafters…it is full and ready to
blow, it has capacity to hold
no more. I am hesitant to go
in, but that is not strange,
I left long ago, it was too much
for me, I split in two, leaving
my child, a part of me, behind.
But she followed me in my mind.
In my dreams I could hear her
cry, in my nightmares she would
I can bare it no longer, I have
to return, to claim what is
rightfully mine. Reaching in, I
pull her out, now with me she
shall remain.
With such weight, beams crumble,
into the house they are falling. A
soft glow of orange erupts into red
tongues of fire, consuming the rooms.
A gust of wind fans the blaze,
until little remains, but ashes and
dust, and a few childhood
remembrances, that survived this
The sole of a shoe that once held
my foot, covered in soot. My
pink dress smolders in cinders.
A doll looking injured with charred
eyes and lips. Her hair on edge with
scars on her head.
A book with singed ruffled edges,
opened to a nursery rhyme,
“And all fell down.” I am astounded!
Walking through the rubble, I see what
trouble the neglect of this house has
Sitting amidst ashes, tears begin to
fall. This house had been my body,
to it I had not been kind.
I really didn’t want to leave, I did not
know what else to do, if I had stayed
I would have lost my mind. This
house had been deserted, the pain
it bore, tore a hole in my soul. It
must be restored!… Hinges
must be replaced, as well as windows
and doors.
Who will do this, I must have help?
I now look to the Rebuilder of broken
walls, the Restorer of houses in
ruin. He takes the destruction and waste,
preparing a dwelling place, one that is
built with His love and grace!

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Weeping Prophet


In the year Two Thousand Twenty

In the third month of March

A national day of prayer

Had been declared

There was a pandemic scare

Spreading across the world

Now six months later and not

Much better

Cities pillaged by mobs

Streets once safe no

Longer rush with throngs

Of people

In the thoroughfares

In amazement we questioned

“How could this be?” an

Illness we did not understand

Nor how to treat

It came upon us slowly

Then rapidly circling the globe

Doctors and nurses short of


Willingly gave their lives that

Others may live and not die

Have we slept in peace and safety

Lulled by a lie?

Thinking we have all we need

Proud and free in a land of plenty?

What will it take to bend our knee

And offer our cry?

Our hearts are troubled

Have we strayed too far

From the God of heaven?

Have we spurned His love

He has so lavishly given?

Have we now been forsaken?


Funeral Of A City

A story of antiquity is told, of a

City once dressed in rich garments

Of gold

A royal city with grandeur and

Abundance, of perfection among

All nations

Lifting its splendor

Where God and His temple abide

In the proud City of Jerusalem a

People reside whom He

Long bore with His grace and love

Their safety lay in rules and

Traditions, refusing to accept

The King and His salvation


With a fountain of tears

A woeful man cried, pleading

Forty years he warned this


Only to be scorned and beaten

His message ignored, he

Wrote a book called


But no one listened

How lonely sits the city now

Like a widow in sackcloth and


Ravished by a heathen nation

Her walls of protection and gates

Are broken

Her children taken bondage to

A Babylonian nation, worshiping

Other gods forbidden

These men had turned

Their backs and hidden their



Could this holocaust that has

Stricken our lives be a warning

We who may be living in the last


Can our cities be restored, their

Gates and walls of truth and right

Be reinstated?

Oh Jeremiah, you who wept for

Your broken people, will you weep

For us as well?

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Bottles Of Tears

“Where Flowers Bloom So Does Hope”

Last spring I noticed a very small plant that

Had been a volunteer from last year. It had

Come up through a tiny crack on the patio

Cement. I didn’t think much about it and

Just watered it along with the other plants.

“Just A Tiny Seed Grew Through A Crack In The Cement”

And then it began to grow and today it has

Blossomed into a very beautiful plant.

It made me think of the hope we have, though

Our lives have sprung through the cracks and

Crevices of our life experiences

Our seed laying dormant in the confined soil

Dependent upon our restricted environment

Unaware of our significance

Dependent upon a Source to nurture

And sustain us.

There is a tradition in biblical times

When those who suffered a loss

Of a loved one, weepers were hired to

Grieve with tears collected in bottles

“Our Tears Are Never Wasted”

When we suffer a loss, whether a loved

One or perhaps the trials we bear

Our sufferings are never wasted

Our tears are

Stored in God’s bottles and

He knows just when we need the

Sprinkling to moisten our loss

That we may grow stronger, our

Roots deeper, experiencing deliverance

And freedom from our confinement

To this earth’s worldly existence!

A short poem of different
Traditions in the loss of
Others –
Mourners are called to weep

Lifting up their cries

Preparing for a burial

As the custom was when

Someone dies

She was just a child

Suddenly becoming ill

All that they had done

Had not made her well

Washing her body with

Sweet scents,

Painting her cheeks

Darkening her eyes

Placing rings upon her

Fingers and toes

A necklace of gold and

Bracelets of silver

Then wrapping her in


A procession begins

The mourners following

Close behind weeping

Tears in their bottles

To place in the tomb of

The child…

“He keeps track of our sorrows,
He has collected our tears in
His bottles” Psalm 56:8

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Resting Places

“The Laurel And The Poppies She Beholds”

There is an ancient Hebrew saying

“Faith is the confidence of things

Hoped for, the evidence of things

Not seen”

In my early conversion years I focused

On all the rules to keep, to be perfect in

All my ways, unless I might not reach the

Expectations of God and others.

To be lost was a terror I felt. It took

A long time for me to accept the idea

That perhaps this wasn’t true. Slowly

I began to let go of these expectations

(Though I still struggle with them)

The rules were like extra garments I wore

Encumbering my body. It has been a slow

Process. I don’t know if you can relate

And experience like me, slightly shedding

One piece of clothing at a time, like

Reaching for the door handle to be

With others and feeling just

A little lighter, a little naked, and checking

To make sure you are fully covered.

The serpent sheds its skin to allow for

Further growth, to remove any parasites

That may have attached to their old

Skin, often by creating a rip in their skin.

It doesn’t happen all at once!

Sometimes I wonder if we feel ripped and

Torn apart, by the lessons we have to

Learn to have new growth? Removing any

Erroneous ideas clinging to our minds.

Holding on to our old earthly garments?

The following is a poem with words

I have not fully reached, but by hope

One day, though not here.


Pressing on with hope, that

What I cannot see will one

Day come to be

In my youth I I had striven to

Excel in all things given

In after years I was slowly


All things in the past forgiven

Resting places have


The magic number seven opens

The door to heaven

A busy week of six, one day

Given for rest

That all may be blest

This is new to be here, I knew

Not I would rest here

Laurel and the rose with poppies

I behold

Before I had not the presence

Of mind to see the beauty

They hold

The briar and the thorn no longer


Giving way the pricks to one

Eternal thought, preexisting


Prone to share this heavenly


I seek one like I to ever press

On together.


I know how lonely our journey can

Feel, if there are others like me I

Would love to hear from you.


There is a saying

“Therefore encourage one another and build up one another”

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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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