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The Awakening Dream by Donald L. Fredrickson ISBN 1-891429-44-2 Religion/Poetry, 76-pages $9.95 |
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LIGHT AND SHADOWS
In the tale of Plato’s cave, where chained they’d watched the shadows dance grotesque upon the wall, they fancied demons and gods withal.
And then by chance one burst his bonds, and labored toward new birth, breaking forth to a bright new world, as from the womb of Earth.
How to tell his once born folk who’d never dreamed such things, as waterfalls and rainbows and meadow larks that sing.
The glory was too much for them, they never could believe, a world so grand could be at hand; their home they’d never leave.
So it is in our day too, with grandeur all about, while standing in full Son shine, our hearts are still in doubt.
Scarcely dare we lift our eyes, lest the glory blind us, ’Tis easier by far we say, to put the Light behind us.
We turn our backs unto the light, and there before our eyes, is a shadow of our true self, and we are satisfied.
And thus the sin of second best, still plagues us to this day, refusing the eternal gift, we continue on our way.
But if we had the courage, Holy Spirit to invoke, to let His light surround us, and glory fill our souls,
We could see Him everywhere, our spirits thus set free, Eternal light would fill us, the shadows then would flee. |
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HOMEWARD BOUND
The origins of humankind are buried in the mists, of countless bygone ages, our sages do insist.
But scientists go on poking through artifacts and flints. In assorted skulls and jaw bones they gather all their hints,
And find in him an animal with lumbering brutish gait, who from his birth had walked the earth at some primeval date.
But searching through the buried rock and divining what took place, seems to me irrelevant to the future of the race.
Too long we’ve peered through clouded lens ignoring spirit’s call, to understanding sapiens and why we’re here at all.
Its time to lift our eyes to heaven and bid our spirits soar, for only we in all the earth know what is at our core.
The elements of deity lie buried in our breasts. ’Tis ours to resurrect them and put our fears to rest.
Blest be the God who made us with eyes that yet might see, His glory in the highest, and what we’re meant to be! |
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The Awakening Dream by Donald L. Fredrickson ISBN 1-891429-44-2 Religion/Poetry, 76-pages $9.95 |
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Love Songs for an Imaginary Musician by Ernest Spearman ISBN 1-891429-20-5 Poetry, $9.95 |
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Hues of the Heart by Angela Jean Richart ISBN 1-891429-19-1 Poetry/Short Stories/Photography, 131-pages $10.95 |
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Guitar Hands
Peculiar – how your Fingers must rough and Harden to attain Their finest touches, How a coarsening Of nerve permits The sustenance of Ever subtler sound, How exquisite pain Must be renounced or Tremulous strings, not Being pressed in proper Measure, would be mute Of delicacies.
At the beginning Of our love, before The calluses can Form over the raw Tender of desire, Are our harmonies The richer for their Innocence? Can we Draw from each other Intricacies of Tone without some odd Interposing crust?
Let me inspect your Hands for the answer, Let my tongue and lips Discern the secrets Of use and hardness, Nimbleness and sense. |
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Love Songs for an Imaginary Musician by Ernest Spearman ISBN 1-891429-20-5 Poetry, $9.95 |
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One Road at a Time
I slumped in the rickety, wooden swing, which hung from a large hickory tree in the corner of my aunt’s yard, dragging my worn-out shoes through the powdery dirt and whistling the theme to Rawhide between the gap in my teeth. In the background, fat women with rooster red lipstick and beehive hairdos chattered like flocks of geese, old men with beer bellies and toothless gums chuckled at corny jokes, and drunks and lovers stomped and swayed to banjo music which pounded the earth like torrential rain. It was my cousin’s wedding reception, but I didn’t feel much like celebrating. I guess you would call me a loner. I don’t have any friends or real interests to speak of. My mother died in childbirth when I was two, and my baby brother died a day later. My father seems to resent the fact that I’m alive and they aren’t. He works a lot of overtime down at the sawmill, drinks cheap whiskey from breakfast til bedtime, and is sadly unaware that he even has a daughter. I guess you could say that my life is about as stagnant as this thick July air that seems to suck the life and soul out of folks around here. Spitting tobacco at unsuspecting ants and feeling sorry for myself, I was suddenly distracted by a rumbling trail of dust heading this way on the gravel road in front of the house. I could barely see the vehicle as it roared past, the white, chalky cloud tickling my freckled nose and irritating my saucer-like green eyes. “You’d better slow down or you’re never gonna make that curve,” I mumbled sarcastically. A few seconds later a thundering boom echoed through the hills, and my breath sucked deep in my throat with the realization of what had occurred. “Oh, my God,” I whispered, just as my cousin Jenny skipped up behind me. “What was that noise?” squeaked 12-year-old Jenny, scratching her pug nose and pushing her wire glasses against her round face. “Come on,” I quickly ordered, running toward the curve with every ounce of energy I could muster. I knew by the loud crunch of metal, the driver had most likely ran into that giant oak tree on the far side of the creek. Living in, hunting, and exploring this area my whole life, I knew every tree, trail, and creek in these woods. If someone ran into that old oak tree, they were probably hurt, or maybe even dead. Death didn’t bother me much; I’d seen plenty of people die in these hills. I didn’t remember my mom or brother, but I’d seen my uncle die of a heart attack, and that didn’t bother me. Of course, I never liked him anyway. And then there was Old Man Taylor who had lived over the ridge a ways. If you put a hat and overalls on a raisin, you’d know what Old Man Taylor looked like. Folks claimed he was crazy, so when he blew his brains out no one thought much about it. But Dad and I were the ones that found him that morning after coon hunting all night. He paid a fair sum for large coon hides, and we’d killed four that night. We smelled it as soon as we got out of the truck, a pungent odor of death and decay that could make the strongest man heave. There he sat in his rocking chair – what was left of him anyway, with blood and brains splattered from one end of the porch to the other. But I don’t think he was crazy; he was just lonely. I once thought I wanted to die. After all, what did I have to live for? Certainly nobody would miss me. Hell, I’d be doing the world a favor. So, I got my shotgun and sat down on my bed trying to figure out how to shoot myself quick and painlessly. Now don’t get me wrong; I’m tougher than a pine knot. I can outrun, outshoot, and outspit anyone in the county. But I never could see no sense in inflicting pain on yourself unless absolutely necessary. Neither can my dad. That’s why he keeps a supply of painkillers from Doc Butler in the bathroom ever since he got his foot caught in a trap a few years back. I decided that drifting off into an endless slumber was much more appealing than blowing what little brains I had into oblivion. But as I started to take the pills out of the cabinet, once again I hesitated. I guess I’m a lot like Hamlet; I’m half nuts and I think too damn much! Now you probably didn’t think a hilltick like myself read Shakespeare, but I read a lot, mainly because there’s not much else to do around here. I like Shakespeare because his characters talk even funnier than folks say I do. As I reached for the pain killers, I thought about Hamlet; I thought about Old Man Taylor and I thought about my father. I decided I could handle my Hell. At least here, I knew what to expect. Jenny and I didn’t know what to expect as we approached the sharp curve that led to the highway two miles away. We followed the tire tracks from the gravel road, stopping suddenly when we saw the black Chevy truck. It was smashed against the giant oak tree, the headlights even with the windshield. I slid down the bank into the shallow creek and walked hesitantly toward the truck. I’m going to stay up here, Annabelle,” Jenny yelled. “I don’t want to get my new dress dirty.” I started to yell at her to get her prissy ass down here, but then I realized she was pale and trembling. She wouldn’t be of any help anyway. I jumped back in disgust as I peered into the cab. The impact of the crash had completely crushed the driver. I knew he was dead, but I screamed at Jenny anyway, “Go get Pa and Doc Butler!” She just stood there a second looking confused. “Hurry! Run!” Jenny turned around and ran back toward the wedding reception. I smelled fuel and... |
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Hues of the Heart by Angela Jean Richart ISBN 1-891429-19-1 Poetry/Short Stories/Photography, 131-pages $10.95 |
