My Little Soldier

When Children are very sick parents try and blame themselves and  sometimes feel immense and overwhelming guilt and all though they know they are not to blame they continue to do so. Hope and acceptance of an illness is sometimes the only way to get through it sometimes with really positive outcomes !   

My Little Soldier

I look at him 

His perfect ivory skin 

Peaceful in his drug induced sleep 

I know within 

War rages,one he must win !

I look at him 

His perfect potential life 

Peaceful innocence of his internal strife. 

I know within 

I'd die to save him ,my kin !

I look at him 

My perfect child 

Peaceful yet I'm forever riled, 

I feel within,

He's paying for my sin! 

I look at him 

My perfect babe, 

I search my heart and soul, 

Dissecting my life whole 

I feel no shame, 

Yet he's still in pain 

I look at him 

My perfect son, 

I promise him all, till 

This war is won 

For I know within 

Together 

We'll conquer and win! 

  Bluebell Books Poetry Short Story Sam

Where The Heart Is

This poem was written by Linda Rhinehart  Neas who was inspired to write after seeing the suffering of children suffering from HIV and aids and their grandmothers known as Gogos  who care for them In Swaziland ,She was so inspired it became a book whose profits go to help in education and health care.The book sits proudly in Nelson Mandela Personal Library.  

Where the Heart Is

 How is it

            that simply

                        by looking at

pictures

          taken by others,

pictures

           of strangers

                        never to be met,

pictures

           of rolling hills

           of lush, grassy plains

           of shining eyes

                        that look into your soul

from the faces of children

                        you could hold all day

in spite of the heat

                        of the African sun…

How is it

            that your heart

                               finds a connection

that you never

                    knew existed

until you

              looked at

pictures,

            falling

                   unquestioningly

                                    in love?

©2009 Linda M. Rhinehart Neas

Gogo's Dream: Swaziland DiscoveredPlease help the orphans of HIV/AIDS in Swaziland...

All Profit from Book Sales go to : Possible Dreams International  

The Constant

The Constant 

A Poem By Randy Sturridge 

A child of ten with high hopes and large dreams,
Has nothing but love for all, it so seems,
A child of twelve just wants to be alone
Independence and distance he wants when hes home,
A child of 15 plays lacrosse with his friends
Off to meet a girl for which he thinks the world,
A man of 17 is applying for college
Enthusiastic with all of his knowledge,
A man of 19 gets dropped off  for the last time
At college alone, the child inside cries.
He will be fine, he will be strong,
I saw in his face that he still needed his mom !

Chidi Okoye

Read More Of Randys Poetry at :The Mind Canvas  

Echoes

I believe things good and bad that happen within our childhood can affect how we are as adults and how we inter react with others.  

ECHOES 

The echoes from past times

Of mental and physical crimes,

Haunt the chains I have made

Since my childhood was betrayed,

Echoes interrupt my being,

Constantly in my head,

Like a film i'm seeing,

Played and replayed,

Always bubbling away

Waiting to invade.

Echoes beat in my heart,

Drowning the love you give me, 

Unless I rewrite my history, 

The echoes of the past 

Will destroy us

Shatter us like glass !

Picture by Zane Lewis

This is an entry for the Mookychick blogging competition, FEMINIST FLASH FICTION 2011. 
ENTER NOW

A Fairy Is Born

 I believe in childhood innocence and think it would be wonderful for all children to have the freedom to believe, a life free of trauma and stress so they could all believe in fairies dragons and good things !

A Fairy Is Born

                                        Blow the bubbles, 

And look carefully 

Can you see 

The delicate wing of a little fairy ?

For every time a bubble is created 

The mummy fairies giggle,all excited 

Cos they have waited and waited, 

For the magical soapy bubbles to be sighted !

Look at the bubbles can't you see 

The birthing of a tiny fairy 

      The rainbow colours dancing in the light 

Are the tiny wings of a little sprite!

So blowing bubbles isn't just for fun 

It's the start of a fairies life 

 That's only just begun 

So blow your bubbles and you will see 

The tiny delicate wings, 

                                 OF A 

Brand 

New 

Fairy!

My Dolly

MY DOLLY

My Dolly's like me

Her eyes are blue

But when I smack her  

Or whack her 

Her skin doesn't bleed 

She doesn't cry 

Her hair stays still 

My dolly's like me  

When my bruises are gone 

Missiles Of Love

Missiles of Love 

Banksy 

Around the World, missiles and guns.

 Constantly fired 

Death, birth and love though, 

Not yet retired. 

Innocent children brought into this political unrest 

Too young to fight

 Too young to protest 

Innocence and love in childhood

Is their life,

 It is their norm, 

 Yet elders of countries, 

Constantly fighting to reform!

Maybe the saviours from the devastation 

Emanates from their seed

For every fighting nation 

Its from the innocent 

They should take heed 

No prejudices indoctrinated 

Peace, love and tolerance, 

 The only missiles activated. 

Child Prisoner Within

Dakota Is a Published Poet and lyricist she comes from Texas and has been writing since she was 17. 


CHILD PRISONER WITHIN

By Dakota Williams          

i wish i could be a child again
free to run and play in the pouring rain
free to dance in the shadow of the night
free to explore the wonders of the world
free to daydream about my knight in shining armor
free to pretend i am a princess and he is a king
living high up on a mountain top's border
in an old english castle
free to explore the mysteries of my mind
without worry of life's little hassles
free to be me again like i was
when i was a young child, free
free to live in a fairy tale world
free to feel free from fear
free to feel free from danger
free to roam, free to go home when
the night drew near
free to know some one would be there
to love and protect me
from the cold winter rain
free to be just me again
free to eat like a king
and eat moon pies again
without gaining a single pound
free to talk to my make believe friend
who came to visit one lonely afternoon
to drink tea with me
free to be just me again like i was
when i was a child ,free
free to be anything
from a princess to cinderella
while wearing momma's pretty things
free to be a brave soldier fighting a war
and building a soldier's fort under momma.s
kitchen table
free to be a marilyn monroe starlet,
while wearing my big sister.s mink sable
free to dress like an indian maiden
and be captured by Bo the boy next door
free to be a tom boy
free to climb the tallest tree in the world
free to play spin the bottle and know i won.t
get coo-dees from kissin my cousin Charlie or
Bo the boy next door
free to swing high into the sky
from the school's playground swing
at L.K Hall Elementary
free to pretend to be an eagle
watching over the world
free to be me again like i was
when i was a child, free
free to cry tears again and have them wiped
from my face from someone who cares
free to be held in my mother's loving arms again
free to be protected from the evils of the world
free to walk hand in hand with my father again. 

 To find out more about Dakota Williams and her work check out  Myspace Page   

I Don't Like Mondays

I Don't Like Mondays 

Banksy

 On one side of a our globe 

A baby stirs, yawns, 

Safe from every tiny microbe, 

The sun rises, Monday dawns 

On green mowed and tended lawns. 

The other side of our globe

A child stirs, stomach aching, 

Attacked by every tiny microbe, 

The sun rises, Monday's baking

On children hunger fuelled awakenings.

Mondays may fill us with dread, 

With the whole working week looming ahead, 

So take heed and keep in your mind, 

The life of a child across the world, 

Not just Monday, But a daily grind 

Their struggle to remain alive

 Survive !

Save The Children

Balance of Life

Balance Of Life


As I write this I can't help but think of the children and adults starving in Kenya and Somalia and ask if after reading my poem you will check out this link  Save the children thank you. 

Water is the fluid of life,

Too much ,
Too little,
Just enough we'll be alright!
Not enough, diseases breed, rife!

Water feeds our nations,
Too much,
Too little,
Just enough, nourishes us!
Not enough, promotes starvation!

Water feeds our soul,
Too much,
Too little,
Just enough, we play like fishes in a shoal,
Not enough, we perish in dust-bowls!

Water feeds our bodies,
Too much,
Too little,
Just enough, our bodies can perform
Not enough, we become malnourished zombies!

Water balances the earth,
Too much,
Too little,
Just enough, our environs flourish!
Not enough, we are thrown into a dearth!

Too much ?
Too little?
Or
just a drop?
Is that enough ?

Submissions Wanted for October

September /October 

Words are the start of Understanding and communications on which our World peace and well being pivots. though we may not be able to cure or make things better ,with words on here we can tell our stories raise awareness and help people identify with others in the same situation. 

September has had a fabulous response so far for Alzheimers Month and will continue until the end of September.
For October we will be highlighting Children and Childrens Charities with Poetry, Music and Words these can be about a particular charity or just about children.Children are the future they should be loved, protected and nurtured. Please Email me at  KEZ   or comment  below .

Momma

Linda Rhinehart Neas wrote this poem for her mother who sadly suffered from Alzheimers she gave this to her mother a year before she died. Linda is a writer and teacher .

Momma…

Mary Cassatt 1897

Before you disappear

into the rabbit hole of age,

Remember…

Green, cat-eyes twinkling,

as secrets of womanhood rise,

steamy,

in the wisdom of conversations

shared over tea

in the sacred realm of kitchen.

Before the Night of New Life

comes to rob us of the light of your smile,

Remember…

Toil worn hands guiding

small, eager fingers in the craft

of pen and paper,

slowly forming the spell of words

that would release the magic

lying in wait among the book shelves.

Before Time’s thief steals away

the last, familial connection you greedily grasp,

Remember…

New life, wrapped in heirloom splendor

cradled in your arms

as generations of yourself

surround with mews and coos,

the miracle that proves our existence

to all who fail to…

Remember.

© 2007 Linda M. Rhinehart Neas

Read more about  Linda and her  writing at : Words From The Heart

My Mothers Room

This is a poem written By James Wesley Mcgee who Lives in North Carolina U.S.A he is married to Jenny and has two daughters. He wrote this especially for Alzheimers Month.

My Mothers Room

Vincent van Gogh 1888

A warm house, now cold

Where memories ran, like

Children,

Free and wild

Entrance to a tomb.

My mother’s room, a

sterile coffin,

Every moment, now

Washed away,

Where she lies breathing

but lives

No more.

Wes McGee, 2011

Memoirs From The Asylum

This Piece is an excerpt from a Novel By Ken Weene  

Memoirs From The Asylum 

Mitch is throwing stuff at the TV. There isn’t much to throw in this 

day room: a few books that have browned and greased with age, bits and pieces of board games that nobody ever played, decks of cards – mostly recreated from lots of other decks until the backs are as distinctive as the faces – and half-ripped magazines that the aides bring to read during their shifts and then leave scattered around. Mitch wanders around picking up this debris and heaving it at the television. Only a couple of the books hit their mark. The picture goes on rolling. Two aides and a nurse wrestle Mitch to the floor and pull down the back of his pants. The nurse inserts her Valium phallus into his butt. Soon he won’t remember why he was throwing anything. They wait until he’s nodding off and then half drag him to his bed where he’s safely lashed down. As they’re tying him in place, one of the aides will get his jollies with a quick punch to the gut. Nobody will object, not unless you count Mitch’s wordless grunt. Nobody counts grunts around here. Alzheimer’s has Mitch. Every now and then it gets him restless, and he blows like an old geyser that’s running out of steam. The rest of the time he wanders around talking to himself. They say that he was once a college professor. So, it isn’t really that different; he’s just talking to himself in a new place. Guess what? Nobody cares. Mitch never married. He has nobody to take care of him. One of his cousins, his closest living relative from among a collection of the uncaring, had him committed. Now he has the state – the state as parent – the great father – the great white father. 


Learn More about Ken Weene and his Novels 
Watch The Trailer for this Novel

Contemplation on Loss of Self

This Poem was written by Marian Veverka Inspired by a friend who has Alzheimers 

Contemplation On Loss Of Self

By Marian Vervaka

They say the sense of numbers is the first to leave.
Arithmetic and I were never on good terms.
All through grade school, I counted on my fingers.
Now, each entry in my check book is rounded off in zeros.
My children gave me a calculator, but I keep forgetting
About the batteries.

A little joke – it’s a relief to know my sense
Of humor is still here. But will I realize it
When the laughter slips away?

How many other powers disappear
When our backs are turned?
When we are busy living, dreaming, thinking
Of something else – how do we know
What has gone away, never to return?

Why do I startle awake from dreams
In which I am still a child?
What room is this? What house?
What strangers walk beside me?

They tell me my name is Lilian–
Touch me
Am I here? 

Alan D Harris writes his stories and poetry based primarily upon the historical fictions of family and loved ones.  Most recently he has published in the 2011 summer edition of Candidum, Australia’s 2011 Chimaera, UK’s August 2011 Welcometowherever and the September 2011 edition of Healthy Artists.  Harris has received the 2011 Stephen H Tudor Scholarship in Creative Writing from Wayne State University.

Memory Stick 

I carry a memory stick

on a string

around my neck

My stick archives

1000 images

1,000,000 words

My stick helps me

remember who I am

who you are

My stick helps me

remember the first time

my child walked, talked

the last time

my grandpa laughed, cried

If I misplace my stick

I may forget

your name, my own

So archive my picture

on your stick

Mention the last time

you saw me laugh, cry

Carry me with you

until you forget

my name, your own

before your life

is but a frozen archive

on someone else’s

memory stick

.

Owls Nest  A site that promotes and encourages older writers