Saturday, July 16, 2011

Mostly Me.

This is a poem that I found written by my Mother some years ago.  Love you Momma.

I am a Mother, a Wife, a Mediator, a Fixer, a Matchmaker, a Student, and a Teacher

 Most of all I’m Me

 I am my own person.
I stand on my own two feet and am proud to be me.

I wonder what the world would be like without turmoil
 Without the pressures of society
I wonder if things would be different…

I hear the questions in the voices of my children
 As they search the world for answers
I see myself as the Teacher.

I help them find their way.

As a Mother
I want my children to be independent 
To never lose sight of who they are
To be able to stand on their own two feet 
To proud of what they have become

I look into my husband’s eyes
 Instantly I know
  He is my touchstone. 
He helps me keep one foot on the ground.
I am a Wife

I feel lost at times…a bit confused.
I ask questions
I am still the Student

I worry sometimes that...
 I’m not growing fast enough
  That I’ve reached for the stars and...
 just hit the ceiling.

I’ve cried a lot during my life
 because of circumstances I’ve been through
 I know that I am Healing

I understand that my life has been full of choices
 I’ve made so many
 Some good
 Some bad
  They were MINE!!! 

I share with my children
 most of the crossroads I have passed
Hoping they won’t have to live some of the bad ones.
I am the Fixer.

I try to help my children
 To be honest with their emotions
So they can choose
 To find their own friends, companions, and lovers.
I am the Matchmaker

I want them to be Happy, Joyous and Free.

I worry when they have problems
 When they get stuck in that rut of life
 When they have arguments
 Problems or conflicts in beliefs that get in their way
I am the Mediator

I show them softness, kindness, a closeness
 That not too many others see.
I am a Butterfly
 Starting to Feel Free

I am a Mother, a Wife, a Mediator, a Fixer, a Matchmaker, a Student and a Teacher

 Most of all I’m ME!!!

Friday, July 15, 2011

Time's Design

Edited by Randy Sturridge

Time is an Illusion, A product of man’s delusion

In an attempt to ascertain a structured solution

We have become prisoners of this disease

Micro=managed, controlled, meeting other’s needs

We no longer strive to achieve self-satisfaction

We are sadly a bi-product of time’s distraction

Always chasing time but never quite catching

We keep on seeking, we keep on fetching

Timely presence warrants minutes on trial

Slaves to the seconds that we have so styled

Living in denial we have lost sight in living

To busy, distracted, sacrificing and giving

Our life is lost and what is the cost

Happiness iced over and time is the frost.

Unfortunate causalities of man’s understanding

As time progresses time becomes more demanding

Slaves we are and slaves we’ll be

Until some soul comes and sets us free

Invariable Memories

Edited by Randy Sturridge:

Everyone needs to stop and take a second...

to understand that today is a day that is unlike any other. 

Because today will turn into tomorrow and today will…


     …only exist in your memories.

You cannot go back and experience today as it can never again be…

Today, once tomorrow, will remain constant
...but will no longer be relative……

….In that the state of relativity can only exist in the constant that is…

  never to again be.

Live as you are as you progress through your life.

Come into all existence as it is, not as you expect it to be.

Do not be a prisoner of invariable relativity remaining in a constant that is no-more.

Do not become a product of the constraints of fears and guilty sorrow that exists only in memories.

Wednesday, July 13, 2011

The Hand Crafted Soldier

Randy Sturridge

The hand crafted soldier propped up on the mantle is desolate inside

A thought will never pass through the hollow canvas of his eyes

Wars being fought while the distraught widows collapse at rueful news

Grief stricken sisters with sparkling teared eyes receive savage clues

A soldier has passed amongst his comrades with fear in his voice

Idly standing years before never really having a choice

The hand crafted solder propped up on the mantle doesn't get to say

The soldiers of passing wane good morrow as they ascend to heaven

We commandeer the fortunes and fears of future branded tyrants

Honoring bravery seems so savery if it were conveyed

The hand crafted soldier propped up on the mantle shakes his head in pity

We play the game of offering sweet lives ensuring only confusion

Lies beholden the shadows of congress and the moors of black leaders

Walking so carefully in the darkness to ensure they are safely

The dogs of death wag their swift tails marking those so jaded

The hand crafted soldier propped up on the mantle salutes his fallen boys

Our country is playing in the large sandbox and soldiers are their toys

Moving the pieces of those they defeated and shuffling off lost hopes

Why don't we account for those in doubt as their voices chimed in votes

Is it not worth it to question the motive of the decisions that bind

The boys down the road now full grown in size are running with a gun

Running the rapids of America rivers shifted by great damns

The times are wicked as are the decisions made by government hands

The hand crafted soldier propped up on the mantle will see you all in hell

Striking the chord as lively as ever for the minions descend in hell

The judgement is now upon your good favor and it is time for dinner

The hand crafted soldier propped up on the mantle rings the dinner bell

The hand crafted soldier is smiling upon us
 in heaven and in hell.

The Hand Crafted Soldier

Tuesday, July 12, 2011

Estranged Passions

Love's first embrace entrenches my soul
Enveloping my mind and shatters my defenses
Entangling my thoughts and clouding my words
Isolating my strength revealing all consequences

Love's first kiss drives my mind insane
Tugging ever-gently at my weak body drained
Fighting is vain Love's enthrall is exhausting
All of my vigor is now caged and detained

I am a prisoner clinging to Love's assignment
Pointing, I wander concerned only with enchanting
The thought of delinquency is beyond my awareness
This Love that consumes is forever granting

I am a grindstone existing only for  Love
Love that has defiled my being of pleasure
degraded and detached I beg Love's direction
Love orders death, I end my oppressor's leisure.

My disgust misconception of Love's indiscretions
Have influenced my heart now tattered apart
I admonish the souls in Love's feasting bowl
Understand the danger that Love sings at kind strangers


Randy Sturridge