The scars we carry

We both carry the scars,
the ones from our darkest day.

I for the life I lived,
He from the life I lived.

Dark with dispair, was I.
To carry my dispair, did he.

How I long to speak, to him,
of our scars.

He must have luved me,
as I long to luv them now.

This is a dream we share,
the scars that bind us ...

Eternally.

On learning new things

Difficult things, I seek to know.
Yet thus explain,  I cannot.
And little understand, do I yet.

I ponder them now,
These many years

Long do to I desire,
to share these thoughts.

Then why do you not,
understand me thus?

To win an argument,
I do not, then seek.

I want to share, a truth.

Maybe the day, will come,
when better prepared to receive, you are

Or more able, to explain, I am.

Till then, shall we dance,
and be friends.

On her paintings

She painted,
In water colors and oil.

Whence she started, I do not know.

Late in life, I do suppose.

In life, I did not appreciate them.

Long gone, she is now.

Charlene her daughter in law
She was living with, when grandma died.

She sent them to my sister.

We have them now.

I long for her presence,
the paintings will do..
for Now.

Maybe my children will have my poetry,
when gone, I am, too.

Will they long for me, as I do, for her ...
Now

The Castle

Their is a castle set
In the middle of our town

A castle built
To house a God.

Their are battlements,
But no keep and bailey

I have seen it,
from my bedroom window,
this lifetime.

We build temples,
so God can be with us, in our midts.

Emmanuel.

Long before I understood,
why we built them,

I wondered,

Why? battlements.

They were Englishman,
The first ones.

But Swedes, and Swiss , Germans too.

Refugees from their homeland,
Come to build Gods Kingdom

My people left The United States,
to gain religious Freedom.

Having been conquered, in the Mexican American war,

They then became territory.

The Utah Territory.

Their first governor, a prophet,
battled Johnston's Army,
to a stalemate.

For fourty years they battled to leave and then to rejoin The United States.

So the first four temples in Utah all have battlements.

A sign of victory, through defeat.

The choice

Why choose,
to end a life.

Mistakes he had made,
and been forgiven.

Then came, new life,
a wife, and 2 children.

Still the demons haunted him.

The seizures, waking,
have returned again.

He tried, so hard,

To begin life, anew.

I have had dark hours too.

I know the despair felt, that day.

Luckily no access to guns, did I have,
on my day.

Others live with our choices, too.

Now two babies have no father.
The world has one more widow.

And I am a loss,
to explain, the choice.

On creating midrash

She had told him,
The young life, had been wasted?

Or did she.

He ask momma,
Why his daughter died.

His daughter being less then 6 months.

Crib death they called, it.
No explanation, no answer.

He ask Momma,
Why.

To help you be a man.

He said I am not a man, I have not changed.

He heard, "Your daughters life's was wasted"

He then became a man, and changed.

This is the story, I heard,
as I studied,
at his table.

Two lives improved, by her short life.

Now I tell you the story.

This is the power of myth,  as it becomes midrash.

The poems

To this then the poems.

Come forth unannounced
Unaware.

I call them forth, naught.

From whence do the come?

Come forth thence do, they.

To bless, and to share.

Thus,
therapy, could be they?

Share them, do I,
Then.

In hopes to bring forth,
The light.

For all to share.

This, Then, be Sacred

It was oil, olive,
Then was it, naught.

Together, they nelt,

Together, they prayed.

How does one seek forgiveness,
of the self.

To then hallow, the vulgar, choice.

To remove,
this, then, the pain.

Thus, to bless the oil,
and then the act.

To make this, then, sacred, the choice.

To the moment they shared.

That peace may come,
and the pain,
be no more.

For to remove, is to restore,
and safeguard life.

This then, the choice, he made.

When to plant, the pot.

Nephi had done it.
Many prophets did it
Defied the culture
To save a life.

Now we plant the pot.

It is a risk.
The risk we bare.

He who plants, 24 years.

We who grow, our home, and freedom.

We risk it all.
For the one we luv

Now to bare fruit.

The cure it came.

To share another day.
With the one we luv.

Acts 10:9-16

The blanket,
it was spread forth,
on the roof top.

All the unclean food.

"Take eat this is my body"

Three times the command was repeated.

Then the meal was removed.

Three times he had denied Christ, before.

He had been ever faithfull,
Ever since.

But this seamed a bridge, too far.

He pondered thus.

Can anything be impure,
What God has made pure.

When the men came,
from Cornelius,
he journied, thus.

Have I denied,
the pure,
unpure.

The pot was planted,
the pure,
unpure.

The prisoner, in his jail cell.
The unloved.
The unwashed.

To have not left,
The cave.

To leave behind the burden,
the expectation of his culture.

To be with, and strengthen,
the impure.

Those with heavy burdens.

This was his task,
and desire.

The scares, He bore.

The knife, it was not sharp,

Just enough,

Serrated, thus it was,

Small in size.

Designed to portion a steak

into smaller pieces.

It had rested on the table.

Left from a previous meal.

It was a tough morning,

leading to a tough day.

One was dying, was she?

and one was taking the covenants,

of marriage.

Both performed,

one the marriage,

one the promise.

He was uncertain of his place, in both lives.

Luck had it there were no guns in the house.

Still,

Would they really care in the morning?

There was a lot of blood,

Still..

On Plato's Cave

Success and family was what, then he saught, always.

Long lived they in the cave.

The images that surrounded, them.

Were they real, or naught.

The others, outside, had such expectations.

He wanted to be with them too.

To be with them, this he could naught.

So he lived two lives, between the real and the cave.

Someday he would be naught.

Maybe his God would judge him naught.

But leave them, in the cave, he could naught.

Until they freed themselves.

Was it not the cave, Plato's cave.

Escape it once he did, almost.

But return then he must.

They could not see the real for the image.

For to leave them he could bare, naught.

So this then, was his task.

To be with them, and strengthen them, until they freed their own chains.

Then together they would leave the cave...

Tobe their naught.

On Mr Frodo and Gethsemane.

What be their task.
Here in the garden.

Know they not then, this burden.

Come to gloat, had they now,
Or only to mourn, this one.

If this be the failure, final.
All will be lost.

How to strengthen him then.
Thus now they confired.

This burden, could carry, they not,
For man
For God.

The blood it flowed, drop by drop.

Once before their had been such a scene.

High on Mount Doom, in Mordor, a task almost too much, for this one to bare.

Mr Frodo, all spent from burden, thus carried.

It had all seamed in vain.

Till came the friend, who walked the path.

Samwise Gamgee

"Come, Mr. Frodo!' he cried. 'I can't carry it for you, but I can carry you."

So do angel's imitate men and hobbits.

This lesson they share.

On Celtic Bishops.

What of the Celtic Bishop's.

Born so long ago.

How long did they preserve, the church?

... after the fall of the empire.

This long time, they served humanity, and transmitted culture, and learning.

St. Patrick's grandfather was one.

How they loved and cherished their wives.

To nourish the church in the wilderness,
was it not, their lives vocation.

Till in her beauty, she came forth, in all her strength, and magistry.

From whence doth it come?

The poetry.

Like a fountain.
A Volcano ,
A perrenial flower, that fails to bloom ,

... when neglected.

Long do'th it question me.

Like a Jungian apparition. 

... uncalled for it comes.

To the answers I seek,

Only questions, are provided.

Like a twisted, Douglas Adams dream.

The answer is 42, but what of the question.

Still together we dance,
The poetry, and I.

https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Carl_Jung

https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Douglas_Adams

Douglas Adams wrote "The Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy". In the latest version we learn the Earth was created by the mice to learn the eternal question, the answer, to which, is 42.

On Being Vulgar ...

I am a Vulgar man.
Less common with the coming years.

I learned to swear, like Brother Brigham.

Life does that to you.

This life happens, as you are making other plans.

Promised a large righteous posterity, by one who knew I was sterile.

Never to create new life in this world.

How does one become less common, more vulgar.

Feeling less mormon, and  more christlike each day.

I planted the pot.

I adopted two children from one who could create new life, special gift, from one who loves our family.

A gift, I hope to repay someway.

I helped to prosecute a young man who misused his reproductive powers.

Then purchased a van to visit him for several years.

To let him know he was not his crime.

This commoness
This Vulgarness

Trade, with the coming years.

Till I become less like me,
and more like him.

On the light of Christ

What of them, the Other,
Who never learned his name,

nor sacred covenants made.

Dammed to hell,
thus we're told.

Alvin Smith was the Other,
so was the Buddha.

Both came before the restoration,

of all things.

What is this Light Of Christ.

A power sent, and a gift offered,

To guide Them, to him, and lead, 

Them, to the Father.

Then comes the temple, and a chance,

to offer, the covenants to all.

The past, and the future children of God.

Prepared are they now, for his presence, and to preside in the Divine Council.

https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Alvin_Smith_(brother_of_Joseph_Smith)#Death

On the importance of tolerance ..

They said I must be, tolerant,
of the Other .

The Catholics were tolerant,
of the Protestants.

The Whites were tolerant,
of the Blacks.

The Missourian's were tolerant,
of the Mormon's.

I am told, tolerance,
will be enough.

How do I learn to need ...

the Other?

The newly married,

same gendered couple,
on the back row.

The One addicted to,
Porn,
Booze,
Food,
Sex,

The unloved.
The unwashed.

The Bishop unwilling to accept,
the one child, who no longer believes.

I, Myself, 

Who now struggles,
to hold to a belief,
I have luved from youth.

My Momma has taught me to luv,
the Other.

Can we learn to embrace, and need ...

The other,

till we come,
to a greater,
understanding,

Of the Other, like me.

Does the song remember when?

Does the song?

Know when, to remember,

Or when,  to forget.

Memories of Momma, on my mind.

When will come the children.

To long for them we do.

Do I remember the future, or is it the past.

This time too, shall pass.

This road to come, long it is,

Here I am in Momma's van.

Trisha Yearwood,  playing on the tape deck.

"The Song Remembers When".

When to love, when to cry, and when to try again.

To still the anger, then be one/won

He was angry with one of them.
With which one, he was not certain.

He had kissed them both.

In his life, their had only been two.

One gave him life, the other shared his bed.

Why spread the anger at the first, to the second?

The second had urged him, to settled the anger , with the first.

He was unwilling, to do the same.

So it spoiled his time, with the second.

Before the death of the first, their was reconciliation, and real forgiveness.

Now how to return to the second, to diminish the void, he created.

... this then is his quest.

On the cemetery, at Grants Ward.

I went to the cemetery today,
in Grants Ward, to see if Momma, was there.

Momma and I had been there, together, many times before.

This was not the first place I checked.

I  First, went to the one in Swan Lake.

The place of her Grandma and Grandpa's remains.

The baby they lost, and grandmas sister, they were not there.

My family has lived with death, for so long.

In ten years grandma lost,
Nada, Ken, Grandpa, Fred, and a grandson too, Willard's boy.

I lost my wife, too then, nearly,

This cure then, to be grateful for ...

There are wild roses near the graves, in Grants Ward.

My family still comes each spring,
to clean the graves.

Long gone but not forgotten.

My Grandmas's favorite song was My Wild Irish Rose.

My Aunt's and Uncle's sang it each year, at the family reunion.

Their tuning was wild, like the wild Irish rose.

Still, I felt the love in their hearts as they sang for their parents.

I have some of the wild roses, in my yard.

From the cemetery, in Grants Ward. 

Like the wild Irish rose, that was my grandmother.

Transplanted they are, like the memories, of my Mom.

The experiences with Mom, are like the roses, a little bit wild.

They grow best when left to their own, unmolested, but remembered.

Grants Ward is a geographical designation,

Between Swan Lake and Downy Idaho.

Bannock County, Idaho

Latitude: 42.4012694

Longitude: -112.0380434

It is the place my Grandparents homesteaded,

before they lost the baby and moved to Logan Utah.

It is near the Byington Family Grave site.
http://www.rootsweb.ancestry.com/~idbancem/downey_area_cemeteries/grant_ward/grant_ward_cemetery.htm

On the other, moms

She wanted to be his mom,
She did.

They all did.

All of the Aunt's
Wanted to be his mom.

He luved his Mom
Or so he thought.

But still tobe angry,
And very angry, still.

If he choose an aunt, to be his mom,
life would be better, so much better.

But which grandma, would he lose.

Thinking of the lost husbands, and babies, too.

The ones they had lost, to create what he was,

He will pay the price, to forgive and be forgiven.

That his children may have a father, they may choose to honor.

This then, is, his prayer.

To the end of, his days.

On the importance, of the poetry.

It was long his dream,
To write the history.

He tried once,
So long ago.

The journals in high school.

The letters to his children.

They were too complete,
in his brokeness.

How to help you to luv them,
He saught.

Then comes the poetry.

Poetry is broken, and incomplete.

This is the blessing, and a way, to show,

The luv.

A man and his murse ...

Why does a man need purse?

I knew a man, who had a jewelry box.

I have been accused, of being that man,
Little Eddie Jr.

In my purse, I have 5 Android devices,
And their chargers.

O' and my wallet too.

It was purchased for a small netbook,
But now it is a murse, a man's purse.

We go many places, together.

I always have it nearby.

Once in the hospital, I had no charger.

Now like a good Eagle Scout, I am always prepared.

It has a spare battery powered charger, two bluetooth headphones.,
And lots of good USB cables .

I hope you are prepared with a murse, or a jewelry box.

On Mommas, twin sister

Momma had a twin sister,
they were born 18 months apart.
Where one would go, the other would follow

for years they shared a bedroom,
and a bed too.

Momma had the babies
her sister helped to raise them.

having three children,
in a short time,
momma needed help, with the babies.

momma, took her sister, on their vacations
they shared a bed then too.
momma was in the middle,
just so daddy's eyes did not roam too far.

they luved the babies together,
momma and her sister.

in the summer's, after her marriage
momma sister would take a child, for a week or two.

her sister ached for her unborn child
momma's children helped fill the void.

I luved momma and I luved her sister,
They really completed each other.

On making a baby ...

Let's make a baby,
She said.

It was not the first night,
But the second.

The first had been a pajama night.

Still he had not sleeped with a woman,
Except momma, her momma, or an aunt.

The first day was a busy day,
The wedding breakfast,
Temple ceremony, when he nearly fainted, and the wedding reception.

So the first night was a pajama night.

She was the first to kiss him,
Except momma.

That second night, they did try, to make a baby.

Little did they know, He could never create new life.

Still they luved to try.

The babies did come, send from another who luved them all.

He so luved his Eve.
So times seam tough and life is a struggle ,
Still he knows she was the first and will remain the only,

To ask him, to help her, to make a baby.

On the first, broken, family.

Eve luved Adam,

She remembered the time before,

Before, when she was part of him.

Not a finger, or a toe, but a rib.

Always their beside him.

She luved the warm feeling.

To be a part of him.

Then come'th the separation.

No more together they are.

Then came the fruit.

And the knowledge.

They could be more together.

Adam wanted God.

Eve wanted Adam, and his babies.

Then, the separation, from God.

But still the joy would come.

Then the babies, Caine and Able.

Jealous was Cain of Able.

With Cain's choice, came death, to the world.

And sorrow to the family.

Where to go now, this first, broken , family.

How to recover Joy from such sorrow.

Tears and service and luv and forgiveness.

Then comes the gift of Seth.

Joy doth then return.

And many more children, to follow.

Till they be one again.

J. Golden on thinking for ourselves.

... "but all the men in the United States cannot prevent a man from thinking. There are not Apostles enough in the Church to prevent us from thinking, and they are not disposed to do so; but some people fancy because we have the Presidency and Apostles of the Church they will do the thinking for us. There are men and women so mentally lazy that they hardly think for themselves. To think calls for effort, which makes some men tired and wearies their souls. Now, brethren and sisters, we are surrounded with, such conditions that it requires not only thought, but the guidance of the Holy Spirit. Latter-day Saints, you must think for yourselves. No man or woman can remain in this Church on borrowed light." (J. Golden Kimball. April 1904 General Conference)

To be grateful, and the anger, be still ...

She, was dying.

Dying She, was ?

Or, was He ?

To grateful, for the small things,

Where, they?

A full hair of head .

A Hair Stylist, with real talent.

Two children, and a husband, she luved.

Angry he was, VERY VERY VERY ANGRY !

She was the center of his universe.

Talk about it, he could not .

Why?

Then came the one who brought the cure.

... AND ANGRY, VERY ANGRY, was he, still.

So, very still.

Talk, he could not, and why, they knew not.

Yet, came the cure, the full head of hair.

A full remission.

... and now to the rebuilding, of a life.

To let the anger, be still.

On their brokenness

Broken, the doll was,
broken, and luved.

It was a walker.
A real marvel of its' age.

Damaged, it was ...

I know not, when.

I remember it from my youth.

It, with its' sister,
hung on mommas wall.

Luved them, she did,
Luved us too.

Momma cared for the dolls,
as she cared for us.

When I see the dolls,
I remember to care, 

for the damaged,
the forgotten,
the unluved,
and the broken.

For Momma and I were broken too.