You Ask You ask to share my life My days and my nights, My joys and my sorrows. You ask,and I answer, Perhaps......perhaps. But,can you really share my life My life that is more than days and nights. Can you share the writhing,twisting Turmoil of chaos That is me. Or the calm, untouchable serenity That is also me. Can you walk with me Through the endless,forgotten ages, Or rush headlong,to stand,trembling, On the brink of eternity. Can you feel,with me,all of time Compressed, in the hand of a child, Or watch with me,and see the universe Hang suspended,in a single dewdrop. You ask to share my life. You ask,and I answer, Perhaps......perhaps. Mary Good Carter

God's Gift When skies are blue and grass is green And summer ƒlowers paint the land With sunlight soft upon your face And warmth of hand that touches hand, With friends so near and loved ones dear And laughter floating on the breeze, Then shout for all the world to hear, "This gift my god has given me'. When nights are long and dark and cold, It seems the dawn will come. When sorrow drips from leaden skies. And every dream you had is gone, When friends and loved ones seem so far, And laughter, just a memory, Then whisper, softly, through your tears, "This too, my God has given me" Without darkness there can be no light . Mary Good Carter

Comparsion Like a piece of antique lace Is this dead leaf I hold in my hand. The flesh is gone Leaving a delicate network of veins, And in this faint tracery, Meeting and branching There is no sign of the vibrant life That flowed here. No hint of the strength That kept it clinging to the tree As the summer storm raged around it, The warmth of the sun On it's fresh green skin, Or the kiss of a soft breeze That set it dancing and whispering In the summer twilight. Like a piece of finest ivory Is the face of the old man before me. The skin, stretched tightly over the skull Shows a delicate network of veins, And in this faint tracery, Meeting and branching, There is no sign of the vibrant life That flowed here. No hint of the strength That kept it clinging to that life In the midst of a world gone mad, Of the warmth of a woman's kiss On the fresh, young skin, Or the softness of children's laughter In the summer twilight. They have a beauty of their own, This dead leaf and this old man. The exquisite,heartbreaking beauty Of something about to be lost Forever. Mary Good Carter

Deams Twisted branches claw at the dripping sky Like the bare bones of dreams long dead, Beautiful dreams, bright and fragile, Made of rainbows and gossamer. Do the lie somewhere, torn and broken, Ripped away by the savage wind of reality, And covered with the drifting sands of time? Or have they been taken up by some stranger Who breathed life into them And made them his own? Were they passed, carefully and lovingly, Into other hands, and still others? Did every dream we have Once belong to someone in the past, And will belong,again,to someone in the future? Perhaps, dreams are not so fragile, after all. Perhaps, they never really die. And, perhaps, that is the only reality. Mary Good Carter

Peach Blossoms Shadows, like dark stubby fingers, reach across the the narrow dirt road that winds through the fields and almost hills of early summer green, spatter-painted with wildflowers. With the sun so low, it should be getting cooler. Maybe it is, just a little, but not much. Later, there may be a breeze and the birds' medley of evening songs. But not now, not yet. The silence is deadening. The air hangs, siill, and heavy with expectancy, a breath held in anticipation. At last, the spell is broken by the low droning of a bumblebee as it drifts, lazily, among the roadside flowers. Given permission, now, to move, a shy brown quail steps, cautiously, onto the road. Followed by two slightly smaller replicas of herself, who mimic precisly her every move, she crosses the road and disappears into the tall grass. Now, another movement. A puff of dust, stirred by the toe of a worn, scuffed shoe. A second puff as the other shoe follows, and another, made by the end of a heavy stick that seems almost a third leg. Above the worn shoes are worn brown trousers, and above that, a worn plaid shirt. The hand holding the stick is brown and weatherbeaten. The face probably is too, but is hidden by the brim of a dusty,sweat-stained hat. The slow, shuffling walk stops. Something has caught the old man's attention. He cocks his head, listening, but the only sound comes from the heavy, pollen-laden bee. He lifts his head and glances around, puzzled. A look of dread crosses his ravaged features. His body stiffens and draws into itself, as if to escape a terrible pain. The hand tightens on the stick until the knuckles show white. ...No...No..Please. But he knows, even as he makes it, the protest is useless. He has caught a faint scent, the slightest touch , of the fragrance of peach blossoms. He closes his eyes, but it won't matter. It never does. He sees the peach orchard. Young trees, with every branch a plume of delicate pink, spreading it's heady perfume into the bright April morning. He hears the voices of his friends raised in laughter and boisterous chatter. So young, so vulnerable, so foolishly brave in the certainity of their own invincability. He hears the bees swarming through the pink confection. But, no, they're too fast for bees, and too angry. Wasps, maybe. Yes, wasps. They buzz, fiercely, past his head and he hears the sharp swat as they bury themselves in the tree trunks. But wasps don't bury themselves in tree trunks, and they don't shred peach trees until the blossoms shower down, like pink confetti, to cover the ground. No, not the ground. The bodies. But they can't be lying here, his friends. They're talking and laughing nearby, vibrant and alive. A petal drifts down to settle, as softly as a kiss, on a smooth, pale cheek. The cap has fallen off and the sun glints on the bright hair. The boy could be sleeping, except for the ragged hole in his jacket and the blood seeping into the ground around him. The man's mind recoils in horror from the carnage that surrounds him, and slowly, it fades. The buzzing stops, the cramped body relaxes, the hand loosens it's grip on the stick. The old man sighs with relief and exhaustion. It doesn't happen much anymore, and sometimes, when it does, he can't remember if he wore the blue or the gray. But it doesn't matter. It was all so long ago. A breeze has come up and the leaves rustle softly. The birds mummer their sleepy goodnights. Soon the first stars will come out. The stick, with it's little swirl of dust, creeps forward, followed by the worn, scuffed shoes. First one, then the other. As the old man's peculiar, three-legged gait takes him, slowly, along the dusty road, the twilight closes, protectivly, around him. Mary Good Carter

The Child That Once Was Me Once, long ago in the dim, dark past There lived a child that was me, And the world was big and bright and new, A wonderful place to be. A place of birds and butterflies, And leaves of red and gold, Of walks in a sunlit meadow With a grown-up hand to hold. Cotton clouds in a clear blue sky, Green grass beneath my feet, With warmth and light and laughter and love My child's world was complete. Did that world grow, suddenly, dark and cold, Did the wonder of it dim? Or did I pull the curtain aside And see the pain within? Did the sky become a paler blue, The grass, a duller green? Did the butterflies all disappear Along with childhood's end? But part of the magic didn't die, Dimly, faintly, it lingered on, Like a glimmer of light in the eastern sky That tells of the coming dawn. For, I saw again, in years gone by The child that once was me, In eyes filled with laughter and delight, And a curly head at my knee. Again, there were birds and butterflies, And leaves of red and gold. And walks in a sunlit meadow With a tiny hand to hold. But the years were swift as the running deer, So quickly they seemed to flee, And childhood's end came, all too soon, To this one who was part of me. So, now, I walk the meadows alone And my spirit scampers free To chase the dancing butterflies Like the child that once was me. Mary Good Carter

Your Nane To hear your name was to hear music, And sounds of gently falling rain. It's only letters strung together, After all, it's just a name. In your name, the sound of moonlight, And waves that softly kiss the sands. Sounds of butterflies and snowflakes, And sunbeams caught in open hands. Now, your name brings sounds of darkness, And emptiness, forevermore. The endless sound of one heart breaking, And waves that crash on rocky shores. In your name, the sound of sorrow, And of never ending pain. But, it's only letters strung together, After all, it's just a name. Mary Good Carter

	Powered by MSN TV