Where Do Babies Come From?


Poetry with lines too lovely not to Reblog.

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where_do_babies_come_from_by_hotamr-d4m0a0y

Where did you come from, baby dear?
Out of the everywhere into here.

Where did you get your eyes so blue?
Out of the sky as I came through.

What makes the light in them sparkle and spin?
Some of the starry spikes left in.

Where did you get that little tear?
I found it waiting when I got here.

What makes your forehead so smooth and high?
A soft hand stroked it as I went by.

What makes your cheek like a warm white rose?
I saw something better than anyone knows.

Whence that three-cornered smile of bliss?
Three angels gave me at once a kiss.

Where did you get this pearly ear?
God spoke, and it came out to hear.

Where did you get those arms and hands?
Love made itself into hooks and bands.

Feet, whence did you come, you darling things?
From the same box as…

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LollyPop Chalk


Like colors of chalk upon peppered cement, words wait for fingers to draw a story of a different kind.

In yellow and pink with blue and turquoise too, colors fill lines with shades of waiting….  

LollyPop colors to catch everyone’s eye.  Squished in the middle between hues of blues is a purple head poking up and out towards the right.  Slowly it sneaks apart waiting for a chance, like horses in a race or dogs soon to take chase.  If an innocent’s hand should move for a minute, sweat with one bead, scratch on the side or open wide a LollyPop head shall loft up, up and away.  Into the sky. Gone for good.  No coming back.  Not a chance.

“NO WAIT….It can’t!  There is a wish inside!  Come back!!”

Through green of trees the LollyPop head of chalk soared above blue bird’s nests of brown made of twigs, feathers, paper and mud.  Onward and upward it flew above chimneys and rooftops. Whee, so free it floated over hillsides of roaming cows and meadows of flowers. B.a.c.k and f.o.r.t.h like children on swings!  Push higher still to soar above woods and valleys with rivers so deep.  Shadows passed by the daily sun and soon the silver moon just so.  Yes, a purple puff of round carrying a single string below….Climbing above until it touched Heaven where golden keys unlocked a gate hidden behind clouds of frothy white.

“I’m sad to see you go, to say good-by, to let you go,”  said the little girl who clenched her fist so tight.  She wiped a tear, sorry that her purple balloon of chalk was gone.

Just then an angel appeared, dangling a broken string beneath her feathered wing.  A printed wish was tied to one end.  The angel told the child that all LollyPop’s chalk passing through the gates of Heaven magically turned into poofs of fairy dust.

Eyes of wide gazed at the angel in awe.  “Does this mean that my wish might still come true,” she asked, with hopefulness?

“It already has,” replied the angel,” looking back knowingly, as she flew toward Heaven.

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Hearts of Dolls


Bittersweet.  A taste inside my mouth trickling down the back of my throat.  All the way down, down, down to the pink of my heart.

Today would have been my mother’s 79th birthday, yet she’s been gone for over four years.  She left this world far too soon.  Thankfully, my belief in God is comforting.  I believe she is at peace.

This morning, I spent time in my grand-children’s nursery playing with dolls.  Yes, you read my words correctly.  I played with dolls.  Baby dolls, Barbie dolls and Madame Alexander dolls plus every other brand in-between.

A very special cabinet once owned by my mother protects these treasures which were all part of her collection.  Together they were given to me by my father after she passed away. Shortly after he emptied his home, I wrote of this in a post entitled Cabinet Full of Heart http://wp.me/p41md8-14b .

Today this grand piece of glass with little wood is the center of my grand-children’s nursery.  It’s the first thing eyes of wide see upon entering their room.  Every visit, we sit and stare until a girl of little picks her chosen one for the day.  She holds it gently, combs hair of long or short and sleeps beside limbs of four during an hour of nap.

So yes, this morning on my mother’s birthday, the day after my own and my husband’s too, I played with dolls.  The very best present I could have given to her, all wrapped up in an imaginary pink bow of satin sent with love.   Later, when toddlers with curls and babies too, come to visit, she’ll be looking down upon us wearing feathered wings with dreams come true.

Never too old to lose the child within one’s heart. 

Are You Hoping For Spring?


      It’s bitter cold outdoors, and yet the view through my cherry blinds of wood depict the promise of a coming spring.  Yes, a patchwork quilt of powdered snow covers the climbing hill behind my home. 

      Rays of sun sparkle through a forestland of tall gray trees, sharing shadowed imprints of majestic trunks atop blades of evergreen grass barely peeking through. 

      Grabbing a jacket to hear the beauty of it, I stepped onto my ice-covered patio.  There, I gazed at a sky the color of a bluebird’s breast and indeed heard wings chirping by.  

      Leafless limbs scattered their fingertips of weathered bark from one end of vastness to the other.  They reached nearly out of sight, surely toward an unseen cloud of Heaven.

      I looked into the viewfinder of my phone to snap a photograph.  The sight I saw was pretty, not altogether unusual.  “Click-click.” And, then my picture came through, nearly taking my breath away.

      Although it is the sun, it seems as though the light of God shines brightly between the oaks of the forest, making way for spring.  Or perhaps an angel soars wearing blinding wings to beckon this new season that I’m hoping for?

      Tell me, do you see what I see?

      

      Heaven on Earth


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      While on holiday or vacation, how do you choose what sights to see?  Reading through bundles of accordion-folded brochures, my fingers brush over glossy pictures of scenic images.  Where should I go?  What do you recommend?  So much to see…so little time. 

      The drive is only a short distance from the villa my husband and I share with good friends.  Stopping to speak to the Gatekeeper, a nice middle-aged man wearing a copper cap atop his balding head, we’re directed toward the “Cougar” lot.  “There it is,” I exclaim! An outline in bright green tells me so with a paw of claws to the left.  Crunching sounds are heard beneath the weight of our mini-van from stones of crushed quartz together with variegated granite.

      No sight of a genuine “Cougar.”  It’s safe to jump out!  Skipping to climb stairs and steps in sets of three or four, suddenly it’s time to rest.  Whew…hard to breathe for me.  The air is different here.

      Crisp and clean, but thinner.  One-two-three, short breaths for me.  A voice booms loud over an unseen speaker, startling me. “Departure!”  It’s time to catch a free ride on the aerial tramway.  Soon we’ll be pulled all the way up to the tip of majestic mountain before me.  I see it standing stately in the background sky of royal blue.

      Along the way my eyes of wide glance side to side and all around looking out a glass balloon floating on wires of two.  My mouth drops open, agape in awe.  Yes, I do realize what I’m looking at, yet my mind is having trouble catching up.  I’m spinning together with the mountain top around me.  Up-up-up we go all the way to the top of God’s wilderness where we stop at 8,500 feet.

      Heaven on Earth….

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      “Praying Hands”

      Copyright Kim Gosselin

       

      Off Tips of Shiny Silver Wings


      Off on vacation, I am.  Sounds of humming engines vibrate below covered feet.  Whooshing air blows cool and quietly past ears to the left and to my right.   Unaware, those around me sleep fitfully with eyes partially closed. Irises of blue, green or brown, some speckled with golden flecks peek from bodies twisting this way or that in an effort to get comfortable in nearly impossible positions.   Hmmm…I’m looking at rows and rows of ‘pretzels’ poured from cellophane bags.  Twisted arms, legs, and feet sticking every which way, their cushions nearly too small to hold them all.

      Here I am, sitting huddled in an assigned seating space near the bubble of a plastic window shade.  Raising it with the left of my hand, morning light floods the cabin with a brilliance never quite seen before.  Shades of golden yellow, coral, orange, and cotton white nearly blind me with the beauty of a magnificent sunrise painted against billowing clouds of smoky blue.

      How sad for the salted “pretzels” around me who shall miss this magic in the sky!  I want to shake them, wake them from their slumber.  Suddenly from the Flight Attendant’s microphone an announcement is made.  “Hurry, look to the East.  Wonderment is awaiting you.” Ahhh, my imagination is playing tricks on me once again….

      Then, I stop to sigh.  Perhaps this “Here and Now” moment is for me alone to embrace, to tuck within my heart or to lock away in a trunk of forever memories?  Yes, my bubble window space has been a quiet blessing during this unexpected dawn of spectacular seconds for this day to stow away.

      Sparkling rays of brilliant sun point towards Heaven off tips of shiny silver wings.  Look beyond to see and hear what angels do……

       

       

      Ajayatao’s Children


      My world is turned upside down having learned only moments ago that our dear blogging friend, Ajayatao, has passed on into God’s, heaven.  I cry tears for myself and others at losing this gentle soul upon our living earth.  Yes, I am selfish.  I miss his soft spirit already this morning.  Yet, I believe children above are smiling today.

      Ajayatao had tremendous gifts.  How I loved his talented eye at getting the perfect shot with his camera upon passing an exotic flower, a sunrise over ocean waves, or a crinkle within the corner of an old woman’s weathered face.  He found artistry in God’s waiting wonder, sometimes writing beautiful words to accompany his alluring photographs.  No one shared more than my lovely friend, Ajayatao.

      But, by far what I shall remember about Ajayatao, is his love for children.  This, I shared with him.  Often, we commented back and forth regarding the photographs of our ‘little ones.’  He had a special place in his wide, open heart for young children…like God, I think.  This is how I ‘picture’ him now.  In heaven surrounded by chubby faces, moppets of curls, tenderness, faces in need and pure innocence.  He loved them all.  I know because he told me so.

      I will miss you, Ajayatao.  Your loving ways, your words, your photographs, your comments and most of all, the tender spirit that surrounded you.  Thank your for your time with me.  With all of us here.  You have been a gift to share forevermore.

      Fly free on angel wings, Ajayato.  Close your eyes to capture children’s loving hearts for all eternity.

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      An Analogy of Wind Chimes


      I woke with a start in the darkest of the night. Loud winds whirled and whipped around near the moonlight. Listening, I could hear the banging of chimes, their brass pipes sparring against air like a fight, like a war.

      Usually, before winter comes my favorite wind chimes are lifted carefully from summer branch homes to be stored away till spring. One had been forgotten somehow. Lonely, it hung in the cold, in this snowy weather now.

      While lying in bed, I knew which one sung its mad song to me. It was the last gift my mother sent on my birthday the year she died. It was the one with the red cardinal on top that reminded her of me, of St.  Louis, you see.

      The wind swirled, the brass tubes wrestled, furniture tipped, and new snow swept. The war of the chimes against nature created an analogy of the fight my mother had on her last day of life. While laying there, that’s what I thought of, the fight between life force and what lies next.

      On my mother’s last day the chimes played the way she would have wanted. A variety of them hung outside the screen door of her home. The winds were blustery. She loved them all, the different sounds and melodies they played, the twinkling of the brass tubes against one another when the breezes blew this way or that.

      It was nearing the end, but only God knew exactly when. The winds were especially gusty, blowing and brisk. As though He had a hidden message that soon she would be in heaven to breathe freely. For on earth it was such a fight for her, like the war waging outside my house last night.

      My family prayed by my mother’s side while listening to different songs of chimes blowing in the wind. Like messages from God sent from above, each one had a different tune. We listened to lyrical music, there for us to hear by ear. They were signs that Mother would be hearing them forever soon and be at peace.

      My mother’s death was several years ago, yet it is still so fresh in my heart and mind.  Today I will take the gift of my cardinal wind chimes from the snowy branch down to be safe.  I will place them inside my home, warm and safe.  Soon spring will come.  The cardinal chimes will be pulled out again to be placed on a waiting branch for the sun to shine down from Heaven above.

      My mother will see them there. My mother will know.

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      The Knitting Angel


      For all readers and writers, I’ve hit a wall.  I’m stuck at a certain point within the book I’m knitting.  I keep coming back to that word (knitting) because it reminds me of my dear mother.  She was a fabulous knitter, an artist really who rarely used a pattern.  Not the kind who used knitting machines or crochet needles, but a woman who relied totally on her slender hands and thin fingers to click and guide different colors of yarn from one needle to the next.  I used to watch her closely.  Baskets overflowed with nubby balls of yarn.  Their shapes, colors, and textures piled on top of each other in spare rooms no longer used around the house.

      Drawers of needles in different sizes, long and short, fat or thin seemed to be dipped in brightly colored printer’s ink.  They rested until my mother’s fingers called them to make magic.  After many days and long hours into the night, “Poof,” it was like she pulled a rabbit out of a hat of shiny black!  I used to watch my mother click needles from her designated chair of burgundy velvet.  It fit her just so, rounded, warm and safe.  A place she could work beneath the perfect shade of tinted rose that shined above the softness of her head.  Assorted skeins of textured yarn sat in her lap.  Wool, cotton or colored silk and even dyed leather ribbon.  She was the ‘miracle’ worker of threads.  A tiny woman who knitted white feathers on a string, turning them into one-of-a-kind sweaters for high-end boutiques to sell.  Oh, what a gift she had!

      Knitting was my mother’s passion, as writing is my own.  I know at times she was stuck with her own projects too.  If she were here, could I go to her?  Would she look at my work?  Would she understand?  Things are different now.  I’ve come to know her and I believe she knows me.  God is with us and has provided me answers that were never there before.  I believe she would be proud of me.  She’d smile at my writing and the special way I play with words.  When I’m stuck knitting in my book, I think she’d offer me one of her warm and slender hands.  She’d reach out, helping me to figure it out.

      Knit one, pearl two.  Perhaps I’ll have to unravel a few pages in order to get it right?  What would my dear mother have to say?

      A little dexterity is helpful in working with ...

      Stairway to Heaven


      It was a beautiful day.  The sun was bright in the sky of blue and breezes blew softly by the patio.  Whenever I passed the screen door, wind-chimes that dangled from the outside roof twinkled with melodies so dear.  Family gathered by my mother’s side.  Not many.  My father together with my sisters and brothers.  Mother sat upright in her favorite rocking chair, determined not to die in the same bed she had spooned my father in for over 56 years.  It was her last unspoken gift to him.  To this day, I’m not sure he ever got the connection, that final bit of will in her…but, I knew.

      Mother’s chair of soft burgundy velvet, a gift from my sister years before was small and shaped to fit her itty-bitty body perfectly.  For as long a I remember, it sat under a rose-colored lamp.  The same one that shined above her petite head of wavy, graying hair where she knitted ruffled christening gowns for grandchildren, read her Bible daily, and hand-stitched needlepoint quilts for all five of her children grown.

      The day was long as my mother struggled between this world and the next.  Her breathing became more labored while rays of sun stung the milk-blue of her eyes.  I remember finding dark glasses to fit her tiny face.  Finally, her body seemed to rest in preparation for her journey to Heaven.  Between comforting her and dispensing medication, my sister and I wandered out to the back of the yard where we prayed for God to take her while tears fell to our toes.

      That evening, our family sat around the family dining table of walnut colored wood.  My father’s seat was the ladder-back chair directly in front of my mother’s resting spot.  So close, he could feel the warmth of her body while smelling the scent of her breath.  Softly we spoke, reminiscing about the years gone by.  We laughed about little things while listening to Mother’s favorite music from dark speakers connected to an older CD player in the foyer, nearby.

      It seemed to be the first time in a week that we had time to sit down together.  Minutes to share love and respite from the emotional toil of a soon-to-be, finality.  Fluted paper plates in a Thanksgiving theme held our dinner of take-out tacos made of  golden corn. Shredded green lettuce, yellow cheddar cheese and red salsa on the side.  Between bites, my father’s hand reached behind his chair to gently touch the nape of my mother’s neck.  A silent gift of love and loyalty from him to her. What message was in that simple touch? Their many years together would be ending soon.  How my heart ached for this humble father of mine who wanted nothing more than to love my mother forever and always!

      Joining hands in prayer, we asked God to ease my mother’s suffering.  Peaceful lyrics continued to give us a sense of strength in the background while wind-chimes of brass and glass danced to music a few feet away.  So close were the sounds of our voices together with the melodies, that I wondered if my mother could hear all that was comforting and familiar to her?   If so, perhaps it would help her transition into God’s afterlife?

      A few minutes later the phone rang.  Wiping his hands free of taco crumbs, my father answered it.  On the other end was my youngest brother, who lived about an hour away. He was of course, calling to check on Mom.  In that very second we learned that she was gone.  “Oh, my God,” my father said, in anguish.  Through tears, my ‘baby’ brother responded, then. “Dad, I had a feeling.  I just knew…..My other brother, who was with us let out a the most terrible wail.  Deep and guttural like the cry of an animal.  I shall never forget it.  His heart shattered into a million pieces, scattering them to the wooden floor below.

      By then, my mother’s soul was surely being carried by Angels to the Stairway of Heaven.  Instinctively and without thinking, I removed the clear, stiff oxygen tube from her soft, delicate nose.  It was no longer needed and she hated it so.   At last, my mother could breathe freely on her own.

      She Breathes Freely with God in Heaven Above.  I love you, Mom.

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