My Poor Blog

       My poor blog awaits - it's letters lined up and waiting their turn for an insertion into some important word. Wait longer they must because I am unable to visit very often. My own computer was faster, but when it is again hooked up to the net - it will be - alas - still dial-up.  Don't cry out my little letters. I also miss the high-speed we had before. Mingle and make happy words. Keep encouraged, for I will return. Until then - Strange BirdJS

"Sheep Robbers" by Judy Sayers

Once upon a midnight dreary
Oh I've heard this line before
Get up - drink a little water
Then try to sleep some more

Anxiety hops over
You can count it just like sheep
One by one they all jump over
Each robbing you of sleep

Before you know it morning's come
Leaving bags beneath your eyes
It must be something that I ate
And other little lies

[written August 11th 2002, but very fitting considering last night. Except last night had nothing to do with eating anything, I rarely eat in the late night. Today I have an appointment I'm having some anxiety about.]

The Weight of A Rock

These are the words to the 24" X 28" poster collage that I made out of magazine cuttings that visually display my poem  "The Weight of A Rock". I personally feel the visual poem has more impact than the plain printed one, however, not as easy to read in smaller size. Each letter was selected for best effect. I did not use letters just because they fit. There are secrets to the poster I will include on another blog. This is my most important piece of work because I revealed my 'self'.

The child with pigtails in her hair,
Dimples on both cheeks,
She ran, she jumped, she laughed,
With playful childhood glee.

She filled her days with baby dolls,
Made circles on the ground,
Played marbles and jumped hopscotch squares,
She was a little clown.

Too young right now for worries,
Her innocence was flaunting,
Til one day the child was given,
A rock to carry, not of her wanting.

"This rock, it is so ugly.
In my pocket it shall hide.
But it really is quite heavy."
In silence the child cried.

It seemed to be an enchanted rock,
For blank pages her life it drew,
Still every day she carried it,
And the little child grew.

She wrote poems that were unfinished,
Her 'self' they might betray,
Beautiful drawings and painted pictures,
She carefully tucked away.

She could not see their beauty,
"For they were only done by me."
Alone the rock she carried,
And hoped no one could see.

Then one day looking at the rock,
She saw that it was cracked,
It was never magic, yet it held,
The life that she had lacked.

Invisible years had passed her by,
Now she had fear it was too late,
This rock she had to bury,
She could no longer bear the weight.

Standing by the water's edge,
She threw with all her might,
For a moment others saw her rock,
Til it sank out of sight.

Alone she stood there crying,
It was not the rock that she bereaved,
But the death of a little child,
That no one else had grieved.

The rock had left a mighty dent,
An empty void she had to face,
As an adult, those childhood years,
That she could not replace.


[Written in forgiveness in 1990. I saw my father a few months later and he looked surprised that when departing, I kissed his cheek. It was less out of love and more out of honor. Nevertheless, I'm glad I did so. Not long after that day I received a telephone call that he had been in an accident. Because of that kiss, I had closure. I'd forgiven him, but I can never forget. I say that not because I think about the 'rock' and dwell on it [which I can't anyway -thats on another blog] but because of the residue it left behind.]

Twenty Years Ago: more or less

     "NmmmH," I tried to snuff out another sob. I was all alone with this. I didn't want to be so isolated, I just was. In the general sense people say 'no one really knows what they're doing as parents'. I knew less than in the general sense of not knowing. I had no support, no one to turn to not even my husband. I tried calling one person for help that afternoon, but was rejected. I was completely alone sobbing on my bedroom floor.

     Looking back, if there had been somebody it would have been Dorcus. She would have came over and sat on the floor next to me. She wouldn't have looked at me, just put her back against the wall and slid down, staring at the wall to the side with a blank look of defeat. I would know that she didn't know what to do either. But no, I was alone, no somebody else, nobody but me.

     It wasn't the kids' fault, they were just being kids. Rotten kids at that moment, granted, but still just kids. They were just lucky that I, their mother, wasn't an animal in the wild because I'd of eaten them. Much of the time I could shoulder the situation and set things straight with them. This was not one of those days. I'd had all the whinning and arguing I could take. No more noise, I couldn't deal with the noise. I needed a quiet lone place and my bedroom was my only option. There was no one to help me. So I sat there on the floor, alone and sobbing.

     I could still hear them, an occassional "mommmm!". Unfortunately, this was one of those times they were temporarily without a mother.

Suicide is Ironic

When someone is comtemplating suicide from pains real or perceived, they are unable to see outside their box. Their focus is on their own pain and inability to deal with it. Suicide becomes a means to end that pain or grief. They ascribe to the belief that their loved ones will be able to go on without them. One aspect may be overlooked. What if they don't?


Certainly pain, physical or mental, can be tormenting, especially if it has been prolonged. Perhaps those not suffering can't understand the reality of it. But when someone commits suicide, they can't see the results. They can't change the outcome and search for a different way to contend with the problem. No more apologies can be said. That future day where you look back and say "that was tough going, but I survived, and I'm so happy now that I didn't take that other route," is forever forfeited.

The survivors then pick up the pain and carry the burden of 'what if'. 'If' only he/she had told someone. 'If' only I had seen the signs. Maybe 'if' I had said or done this or that. The survivors may blame themselves, real or perceived. A letter does not change the 'what if's or the 'blame' game.

Suicide is ironic - because it does not end the pain. It passes it on.



Why this subject: Because I know a couple of very nice girls who are suffering right now because someone they loved took his own life. They don't understand why he did this to them - repeat: why he did this "to them".

"Get Up"

     "Get up!"

     "No" a voice said silently in my head.

     "GET UP!!"

      "No!" I whined outloud. "Go away."

      "You HAVE to get UP!" I told myself again. I didn't want to. I'd woken up in the middle of the night and had a hard time falling back asleep. I like to be up by 8:00 A.M. every morning. I know that. But this morning I just didn't want to and here I am not letting myself sleep a little longer knowing full well what a hard night I'd had.

      "I hate you." I said lowly.

      "Well, I don't particularly like you either," I silently replied back.

      "Well, are you getting up or not?"

      "Shi by my mah tuk oh may!!"

     "Shut up!" I stopped myself. I say gibberish at odd times.I don't like it. I don't mean to either, but its automatic. Sometimes it happens when I think about past events. As a result, I pretty much have to stay in the present because my brain has an override. The gibberish immediately brings me out of the past memory. Although I don't like that I do this, I try to see this insane action as positive simply because it protects me from my own past. I can't visit and stay there. And its better than the swear words, which I absolutely hate. In this instance, the gibberish occurred because I was making myself do something I didn't want to and I was very tired.

     So I get up because I am obviously not going to let myself stay in bed. How rude!!