Tag: writing

Thank You for Your Gift

On By Jerry BrothertonIn Poetry, Rhyming8 Comments

Perched here within my writer’s garret

Among all my dusty books and notes

I’ll bare my soul and try to share it

All my stories, poems, quips and quotes

 

There’s times inspiration guides my hand

But other times nothing to be heard

It’s hard for people to understand

The struggle to find that perfect word

 

Though my attempts might fail, I won’t quit

Like the Phoenix, I will rise again

If my heart still beats, I know that it

Will have me write and never give in

 

Thank you God for the gift of story

I have strained to pen them full and well

In hopes the world will know the glory

That my humble words have tried to tell

 

Fathers Day Introspect

On By Jerry BrothertonIn Non Fiction, Short Stories9 Comments

With the rusting of time, our memories can turn ordinary actions into heroic deeds; heroes become legend and eventually, a myth is born.

My father had lived for 92 years and for more than fifty of them I had called him my friend. I’d heard him say many times how he’d grown up in a simpler and certainly less complicated era. I know that the problems I’ve faced in my lifetime are nothing more than a mere drop in the bucket of what his eyes had witnessed. He’d lived through two world wars not to mention a few others that most people would just as soon forget. He saw first-hand, the ‘great depression’, and too many so called recessions. He’d witnessed oppressions and knew the amount of cruelty that men were capable of inflicting on their neighbors.

He’d faithfully followed the rule of 15 presidents (more faithfully to the Republicans than those airheaded Democrats) as they each gave him a promise of prosperity. Though one way or another that prosperity somehow had always managed to evade him. He never gave up hope for his family, himself, or humanity. He’d raised fifteen children to maturity and had been a devoted husband for over seventy years. He’d witnessed over a hundred births into his extended family and sorrowed over an untold number of deaths, including his wife and three of his own children.

Now don’t get me wrong. I know he wasn’t a spectacular man. At least not in a superhero kind of way. He didn’t discover the cure for the common cold, win a Nobel Prize, or anything like that. He wasn’t famous, he definitely wasn’t a Saint, and it doesn’t take a person with too many brains to figure out that he wasn’t a rich man either. In fact he’d spent his entire life fighting the struggle against poverty until the day he died.

He was however an honest and hard-working man. He was a good friend, a good neighbor, and a person that people could count on when things got a little rough. He’d give you all he had and never expect a thing in return…except friendship. I suppose though when you really think about it, what other definition of a superhero is there.

So it was at his funeral that I suddenly came to the startling realization; that for me the road that I’ve already traveled is a much further distance than what is left of my journey not yet taken. My aches and pains constantly remind me of my age and of my ultimate mortality. My body has become a symphony of creaks and groans and it seems that everything about me only functions with the help of some sort of device. Glasses, hearing aids, pills to control blood sugar, blood pressure, high cholesterol and Viag… well by now, I’m sure you get the picture.

After his funeral, back in my comfortable house surrounded by my familiar things, my granddaughter crawled onto my lap. She looked up at me with those big brown eyes filled with the innocence of youth and asked,

“Papa, did you know that man they were talking about this morning?”

“Yes I did sweetie. That was my father, your great grandfather.”

“What was he like,” she asked, “I don’t think I remember him.”

I was certainly shocked. I couldn’t believe what I’d just heard. It was as if those words jumped up and kicked me right between my eyes. As I searched my mind for some answers, I began to understand that old saying, ‘we only live as long as someone remembers us’. I quickly realized that if my father, a truly great individual, could fade from memory after only one single generation… I sure as hell don’t stand much of a chance.

So here’s to you dad.  I know that if there is a Heaven, yours will be laying on the side of a tree covered hill looking out over an open meadow. You will be watching the moon cross an unclouded sky and listening to the sound of your dogs singing their music. So pass around the jug to all our friends that have joined you on this Father’s Day and know that you are in our memories and our hearts.

Lullaby

On By Jerry BrothertonIn Poetry, Rhyming41 Comments

I’d like to sing to you a lullaby

To make all your troubles disappear

Tell you there is no need to cry

That you will never know hate or fear

 

But I must tell you about the boy in class

With a gun tucked in his backpack

And how life can be taken in a flash

And some mistakes can’t be taken back

 

I would like to tell you a Fairy Tale

Of how friendships made will never end

And true love will always prevail

A world where evil will never win

 

But I have a different story to tell

About the maniac with a bomb in his car

Planned his action far too well

And left the shopping mall a lifeless char

 

I would like to hold you in my arms

To place a kiss upon your brow

Tell you I will keep you safe from harm

And always be there for you somehow

 

But a different song of fate I must sing

Not “Hush Little Baby, Don’t say a Word”

‘Cause the world is filled with monstrous things

With boiling blood and hatred stirred

 

So sleep tonight under a peaceful sky

Let tomorrow bring what may

I can only promise you that I will try

To keep all the monsters away

The Before and After

On By Jerry BrothertonIn Non Fiction, Short Stories17 Comments

When I was a much younger version of myself, there was an order to my existence. Life and death made sense to me because science told me the truth about the universe. The one thing I thought I knew was that energy could not be created or destroyed. So the concept of Heaven and Hell were just mythical constructs created by man to rationalize death.

We simply choose to place our loved ones in the Here-After to create the illusion that we might one day see them again. It eased the sorrow we felt at their passing. I understood that and I accepted death as a simple transference of energy from one thing to another.

Death made sense to me because ‘age’ dictated that people had outlived their life span. After all, our bodies are frail things and can only sustain life for a finite amount of time.

Besides, I was young and healthy. Any thoughts of the end were far from my mind. Maybe I would live forever or at least technology would develop to a point where our lifespans would make it seem like forever.

Oh yes, I was happy with my beliefs.

But that was when I was young.

The voices of destiny have started to whisper their harsh words of mortality into my ears. It’s no secret that I am the next to youngest of fifteen children. Now whatever your thoughts on that might be; we can discuss on some future blog. The reason I mention it here is because, much too quickly, my huge family has dwindled from fifteen children to seven.

And now, my body is moving further down that corridor of existence, and I can feel it beginning to break apart. Age is forcing my beliefs to crumble and I find myself spending more and more time (probably too much time) thinking about what the future holds for me.

So, I need to believe that I’ve been wrong all these years. I’m hoping that there’s something more than just the now and that there is some place set aside for me in the after.

The Voices in My Head

On By Jerry BrothertonIn Non Fiction, Short Stories9 Comments

I was sitting at my computer, as I usually am in the dying hours of each day. I had my headphones on and was engulfed in the music from my favorite play list. Letting the rhythms pass through me like a gentle brook, hypnotizing and relaxing. But somewhere in the middle of Kenny Chesney’s ‘Chasing Demons’ a frail and timid sound tried to push through the notes. It was barely audible in the beginning; as if someone from a distant neighborhood was calling out for their loved ones to come in for the night. I ignored it and continued with my nightly ritual. But the noise sulked and brooded; reminding me of a spoiled child that had been forced to stand in the corner. It fidgeted and twitched; stomping around in my mind, becoming louder, demanding to be noticed. As it became clear that I was not to be rid of it I picked up my pen and let the noise pour into it.

At first it rambled too quickly. Its sentences were incoherent and confused and its structure was laughable. But as the noise learned to control its emotions it calmed and gained confidence. A coherent word here and an intelligent sentence there until it became its own voice bordering somewhere on the edge of competent prose. Through my pen the noise began to court the page, stroking its ego with eloquence and coaxing the words from the depth of the paper’s blank stare. It no longer needed me for guidance and I let the ink caress the emptiness between the blue lines. I lost track of the music. There was only the sound of the pen carrying on its seductive conversations. I sat helplessly by and let the noise sing its song. It became so engrossed with itself that it did not feel the need to confide in me as it rolled the words from nothingness and brought them into creation.