If I were lead to hell,
Not of my accord,
Would you be with me?
Would you hold my hand,
And sing sweet lullabies,
Of comfort to me.
Thou knowest the end,
And the beginning,
and what must I learn,
Being driven to Hell,
Like Job, or Virgil.
Thou standest by me,
As a true friend.
Of free will then comes the choice,
But not the consequences.
Never alone, am I,
Or far from thee,
And thy thoughts.
(Inspired from reading of "The Sparrow", Maria Doria Russell,1996)
the best I can document this poem i 06-26-2016 When I included it in a draft of a sacrement meeting talk I prepared.
“Out of the quarrel with others we make rhetoric; out of the quarrel with ourselves we make poetry.” ― William Butler Yeats
Saturday, March 21, 2020
Wednesday, March 18, 2020
the scares that remain
There are scares on my arms,
self-imposed scares,
these kinds of scares,
maybe the most difficult to carry.
They are from a time of darkness,
when I felt no joy, just sorrow,
and no light.
Now there is light, they remain,
as a memory, and a reminder,
to find joy amidst darkness,
and despair.
self-imposed scares,
these kinds of scares,
maybe the most difficult to carry.
They are from a time of darkness,
when I felt no joy, just sorrow,
and no light.
Now there is light, they remain,
as a memory, and a reminder,
to find joy amidst darkness,
and despair.
Sunday, March 15, 2020
On the memories of a mac se\30
There it sits, in the room
in front of me, and the tv.
Of what use is it to me,
now.
It sat for so many years,
in the closet, full of my memories.
It was old when first, I used it.
to transcribe the memories,
the first memories.
Now 25 years later, it still holds,
the memories.
I see it, I fear it.
the memories it holds, still.
This then, now it's losing its ability,
to share.
What do we do with the memories?
Having not used it for a decade,
its memories return to haunt me.
Contained within the shell, a truth,
but no warmth then it shares.
The truth then remains, why
it has remained unused,
for a decade after its memories,
were transferred to another one. still.
Now it remains a hollow shell.
Advanced for its age, now lifeless and still.
Do I keep it for its memories or my memories?
On the other side of the room remains the radio.
It too was in advance of its age, once.
This long before my birth.
It had been really old at my birth.
It always seemed to be present in our home.
It was never used though long remembered.
For what use does one keep a Phillips AM radio,
circa 1935?
It is of little use now,
years ago, having lost the ability
to temper its sound.
Its sits now on my desk,
it too full of memories now.
A few years ago I removed its power cord.
I feared that if used, its aged cord,
would burn the house down.
Now I keep it too, for the memories.
My sister never understood why,
it played modern music.
This in the day when am radio was still rock music,
and not political satire.
Now it remains silent,
not only because of the power source,
but also for lack of content, in the air.
Will the day come, when I too, will be only,
a memory too them?
Like the two white plates that remain, today.
The last memories of my grandparents trip, to Mexico.
Will my children understand the memories, still?
Then on to create, their own, memories.
Still to dream, and then to share, will come,
their memories.
in front of me, and the tv.
Of what use is it to me,
now.
It sat for so many years,
in the closet, full of my memories.
It was old when first, I used it.
to transcribe the memories,
the first memories.
Now 25 years later, it still holds,
the memories.
I see it, I fear it.
the memories it holds, still.
This then, now it's losing its ability,
to share.
What do we do with the memories?
Having not used it for a decade,
its memories return to haunt me.
Contained within the shell, a truth,
but no warmth then it shares.
The truth then remains, why
it has remained unused,
for a decade after its memories,
were transferred to another one. still.
Now it remains a hollow shell.
Advanced for its age, now lifeless and still.
Do I keep it for its memories or my memories?
On the other side of the room remains the radio.
It too was in advance of its age, once.
This long before my birth.
It had been really old at my birth.
It always seemed to be present in our home.
It was never used though long remembered.
For what use does one keep a Phillips AM radio,
circa 1935?
It is of little use now,
years ago, having lost the ability
to temper its sound.
Its sits now on my desk,
it too full of memories now.
A few years ago I removed its power cord.
I feared that if used, its aged cord,
would burn the house down.
Now I keep it too, for the memories.
My sister never understood why,
it played modern music.
This in the day when am radio was still rock music,
and not political satire.
Now it remains silent,
not only because of the power source,
but also for lack of content, in the air.
Will the day come, when I too, will be only,
a memory too them?
Like the two white plates that remain, today.
The last memories of my grandparents trip, to Mexico.
Will my children understand the memories, still?
Then on to create, their own, memories.
Still to dream, and then to share, will come,
their memories.
Thursday, March 12, 2020
on seeing her picture, for the first time
She lived but a short life.
A life that made such a difference,
Why she died we know not now,
How she died is more apparent,
A life that made such a difference,
Why she died we know not now,
How she died is more apparent,
But the influence she left
And the difference she made,
How then do we measure?
And the difference she made,
How then do we measure?
She was the topic of conversation,
For years, though often unsaid.
For years, though often unsaid.
I would visit her father on weekends.
He was helping me to become a man.
He was helping me to become a man.
She had helped him to become a man.
Her death had transformed him,
And now he would transform other lives.
Her death had transformed him,
And now he would transform other lives.
Her death would ripple down, through time,
To transform many lives,
To train a generation of leaders, in this life.
To transform many lives,
To train a generation of leaders, in this life.
I am not foolish enough to believe God wanted this.
I could not worship a god who was so cruel.
He did choose to use her loss,
To create a gain, and now my life,
Is transformed by her loss
I could not worship a god who was so cruel.
He did choose to use her loss,
To create a gain, and now my life,
Is transformed by her loss
Saturday, March 7, 2020
on the second marriage
she was younger then,
younger then I am now,
when Jamsie she married.
She had been younger, still,
on that first marriage.
She had been a single mom, of a sort.
her momma having taken the last-child
with her on her death
grandma finished the raising,
of a brother.
She then had married, an older man.
nine years her senior,
he was 30 and she but 21.
so together they raised the younger brother.
then came ten children and his early death at 60.
I have seen the letter,
the one to the children,
explaining her choice, to marry Jamesie.
Sometimes in life, we make choices.
to live with a hard choice is preferred,
to living alone, or apart.
I have been told, it was not a good marriage.
I have made hard choices.
To love my mom,
to rebuild our relationship,
continually.
To have planted the garden,
to bring the cure.
Now I live with my dad,
and visit my wife on the weekends.
It is better to visit on the weekends,
at our home, then to visit once a year,
in the cemetery.
So I understand grandmas, choice,
to marry Jamsie.
I hope someday my children and grandchildren,
understand, the hard choices,
I have made, to bless their lives.
younger then I am now,
when Jamsie she married.
She had been younger, still,
on that first marriage.
She had been a single mom, of a sort.
her momma having taken the last-child
with her on her death
grandma finished the raising,
of a brother.
She then had married, an older man.
nine years her senior,
he was 30 and she but 21.
so together they raised the younger brother.
then came ten children and his early death at 60.
I have seen the letter,
the one to the children,
explaining her choice, to marry Jamesie.
Sometimes in life, we make choices.
to live with a hard choice is preferred,
to living alone, or apart.
I have been told, it was not a good marriage.
I have made hard choices.
To love my mom,
to rebuild our relationship,
continually.
To have planted the garden,
to bring the cure.
Now I live with my dad,
and visit my wife on the weekends.
It is better to visit on the weekends,
at our home, then to visit once a year,
in the cemetery.
So I understand grandmas, choice,
to marry Jamsie.
I hope someday my children and grandchildren,
understand, the hard choices,
I have made, to bless their lives.
Tuesday, March 3, 2020
on faith and the gardener
Tomorrow he would start the garden,
The one in the garage,
I had no hope that it would cure,
I had hope enough that it would heal,
My brokenness, our brokenness
The brokenness in her, in us, in the family.
At the least, it would return her appetite and
Help ease the transition in the next few months.
The Gardener was angry with me, angry that I was
making plans,
To live our life, the children’s lives, without
her.
He had the faith, not I.
He had seen the miracle, before and would see it
again.
This then was his task, to cure her cancer and my
lack of faith.
Time is past the miracle has come, and I am
grateful for the Gardner
And how he restored my wife’s heath and my faith
in the cure.
Saturday, February 29, 2020
to then my other Mom
You then are the one,
the one I reach back for,
for then the earliest memories.
For the love, and the warmth,
and the need to be loved,
I have no visible memories of these moments,
only shadows of our time together.
You moved away before I was three,
yet still I share the shadows, of the memories.
It is these memories, that make possible,
my love and attachment, to my wife and children.
My first mom was young,
growing still, herself.
Dad was a challenge,
growing still himself.
With dad and my brother, mom had her hands full.
So you stepped up and carried the plate,
for the first three years,
because that is what sisters do.
Then your own life you needed to start.
this now I have come to understand.
But the shadows of the memories,
gave me a place to start,
a base to learn to love.
Through the years,
I tried to get you to see,
that I was your first child.
Mom loved you too.
She had been happy to share her family,
over the years.
Mom having been born,
a year and a half, before, your birth.
Yet you were twins, sharing the same soul.
Thus then, in the end,
you mourned your unborn child,
never seeing the many you raised.
I too have mourned my unborn child,
but I have loved the others.
This then, my daughter's oldest brother.
My wife could have been a single mom
when first we met.
Having been offered this child, by the handmaiden.
He was then offered to another family, to be their joy.
Then came the one who could have been my first son,
but grandpa loved him first.
But then the handmaiden offered us,
our first child, and what a joy she was.
Then 8 years later the second joy.
This then the gift, that filled the hole,
that was not there.
So now both of you are gone,
my first and second moms.
Still, I carry the memories, of you both.
The base of love, built by the second,
and the dance of love with the first.
This then, I use to build a place of love,
for my children, born and unborn.
the one I reach back for,
for then the earliest memories.
For the love, and the warmth,
and the need to be loved,
I have no visible memories of these moments,
only shadows of our time together.
You moved away before I was three,
yet still I share the shadows, of the memories.
It is these memories, that make possible,
my love and attachment, to my wife and children.
My first mom was young,
growing still, herself.
Dad was a challenge,
growing still himself.
With dad and my brother, mom had her hands full.
So you stepped up and carried the plate,
for the first three years,
because that is what sisters do.
Then your own life you needed to start.
this now I have come to understand.
But the shadows of the memories,
gave me a place to start,
a base to learn to love.
Through the years,
I tried to get you to see,
that I was your first child.
Mom loved you too.
She had been happy to share her family,
over the years.
Mom having been born,
a year and a half, before, your birth.
Yet you were twins, sharing the same soul.
Thus then, in the end,
you mourned your unborn child,
never seeing the many you raised.
I too have mourned my unborn child,
but I have loved the others.
This then, my daughter's oldest brother.
My wife could have been a single mom
when first we met.
Having been offered this child, by the handmaiden.
He was then offered to another family, to be their joy.
Then came the one who could have been my first son,
but grandpa loved him first.
But then the handmaiden offered us,
our first child, and what a joy she was.
Then 8 years later the second joy.
This then the gift, that filled the hole,
that was not there.
So now both of you are gone,
my first and second moms.
Still, I carry the memories, of you both.
The base of love, built by the second,
and the dance of love with the first.
This then, I use to build a place of love,
for my children, born and unborn.
Thursday, February 27, 2020
This then a Father tobe
This then a father, tobe,
This then a desire, then a hope.
To the one who then,
the children then had
Many she then discarded,
this then an inconvenience.
He then desires one of the inconveniences.
To convince her then to maintain,
and to share, the next inconvenience,
this then was his task.
This then the conspiracy, he shared with,
the other portion, of his soul.
He had joined this portion of his soul,
in holy matrimony.
This, when she knew no offspring,
would she have, maybe?
Before they knew or could suspect,
his sterility.
Now then how to conspire to obtain,
one of the inconveniences?
This then was their shared, task.
Thus they did then obtain, an inconvenience.
To create a story, this then was their next task.
To hide the truth, from the inconvenience.
For to love the handmaiden then,
must be the desire of the inconvenience.
This then was his task.
to teach the children,
to love the handmaiden,
and her choice.
This then is his lifetime goal.
This then a desire, then a hope.
To the one who then,
the children then had
Many she then discarded,
this then an inconvenience.
He then desires one of the inconveniences.
To convince her then to maintain,
and to share, the next inconvenience,
this then was his task.
This then the conspiracy, he shared with,
the other portion, of his soul.
He had joined this portion of his soul,
in holy matrimony.
This, when she knew no offspring,
would she have, maybe?
Before they knew or could suspect,
his sterility.
Now then how to conspire to obtain,
one of the inconveniences?
This then was their shared, task.
Thus they did then obtain, an inconvenience.
To create a story, this then was their next task.
To hide the truth, from the inconvenience.
For to love the handmaiden then,
must be the desire of the inconvenience.
This then was his task.
to teach the children,
to love the handmaiden,
and her choice.
This then is his lifetime goal.
Sunday, February 23, 2020
the one who almost was
Thus then, the one who almost was ...
Children I then do have, thus now ...
Thus then to have a grandchild, too.
Years ago one almost was born
This one lost before it became ...
How I would have loved,
to help raise this child.
to help raise this child.
Young my child was then
as my mom was once too.
When born was I.
Maybe someday, another will come.
For now it is enough, children to have.
Yet someday.grandchildren tobe.
Sunday, February 9, 2020
On memories of the early years
I have no bad memories of the early years.
My friend Jared had memories,
bad memories of those early years.
Being handcuffed to his crib.
I then seek my memories,
the early memories.
I see grandmas,
three then I had, four if you remember
great-grandma.
Maybe she is my earliest, memory.
In-home, in Preston Idaho.
A kitchen and a pantry,
a promise of a cookie,
then to be given a Fig Newton.
Fig Newton's are not bad cookies.
They are a prune-like mixture,
surrounded by a sweet breading.
But chocolate cookies, they are not.
How is it that my earliest memory,
is one of disappointment.
I was loved, I knew I was loved.
I was just ignored by my mother,
in a state of perpetual neglect.
She was young, growing up herself.
One of the younger ones in her family home.
Ignored by her alcoholic father.
Only sharing affection, when drunk.
she then shunned physical affection.
This then returning, memories,
bad memories.
My earliest memories, then too,
of being loved.
first then my moms sister, Nancy.
Until the age of 3, she was my mom.
People believed I was her child.
This then no lack of love,
experienced I.
Fortunate then am I,
that I can love and be loved,
by others.
I was always loved,
by them,
my moms brothers and sister.
One pursued adoption,
Thankfully she grew with me,
and in her thirties,
she became the mom I needed.
So grateful I am, that no bad memories have I, of the early years.
Just the dance, with mom, she reached out, and my retreat.
I then reached out, then her retreat.
In the end, the dance was resumed,
each ready for the other and the bonding complete.
My friend Jared had memories,
bad memories of those early years.
Being handcuffed to his crib.
I then seek my memories,
the early memories.
I see grandmas,
three then I had, four if you remember
great-grandma.
Maybe she is my earliest, memory.
In-home, in Preston Idaho.
A kitchen and a pantry,
a promise of a cookie,
then to be given a Fig Newton.
Fig Newton's are not bad cookies.
They are a prune-like mixture,
surrounded by a sweet breading.
But chocolate cookies, they are not.
How is it that my earliest memory,
is one of disappointment.
I was loved, I knew I was loved.
I was just ignored by my mother,
in a state of perpetual neglect.
She was young, growing up herself.
One of the younger ones in her family home.
Ignored by her alcoholic father.
Only sharing affection, when drunk.
she then shunned physical affection.
This then returning, memories,
bad memories.
My earliest memories, then too,
of being loved.
first then my moms sister, Nancy.
Until the age of 3, she was my mom.
People believed I was her child.
This then no lack of love,
experienced I.
Fortunate then am I,
that I can love and be loved,
by others.
I was always loved,
by them,
my moms brothers and sister.
One pursued adoption,
Thankfully she grew with me,
and in her thirties,
she became the mom I needed.
So grateful I am, that no bad memories have I, of the early years.
Just the dance, with mom, she reached out, and my retreat.
I then reached out, then her retreat.
In the end, the dance was resumed,
each ready for the other and the bonding complete.
Thursday, February 6, 2020
On snail sex
Why do it
this way?
In the open,
in danger,
out of the
protection, they carry.
Male and female, are they both.
They could
reproduce, by themselves.
This, then
the choice,
They make, not.
They make, not.
Then the race is on,
to share the
sperm,
and not the egg.
Adam was
once like them,
male and
female,
until Eve was removed,
to benefit them.
Now it seems
we like Adam,
and the
snails seek union, too.
To share the
most, intimate of acts.
In utter
darkness, and nakedness.
To simulate
the act by one's self,
does not
fully satisfy.
We like Adam, and Eve.
Seek
union, again
This then, together, anew.
Sunday, February 2, 2020
On being a single parent
How many times,
had he wished,
she were a single parent,
she were a single parent,
when first, they met.
She had been offered that first baby
their babies older brother
He would have been a young child,
When first, they met.
Not ready, she was,
No husband and no prospects.
So the baby became a gift, to another.
So, on the weekends,
they stole the other babies
niece and nephew, they were,
they stole the other babies
niece and nephew, they were,
and a day care center,
she began.
This then while they waited,
for their babies.
Still he felt a longing,
and a desire, that a single parent,
she had been, when first they met.
she had been, when first they met.
Sunday, January 19, 2020
On their first loss, together
How to mourn
The ones that never were
The ones that never were
Lost where two ,almost,
when first they wed
His eyes where opened, half,
or half-closed.
Still not considered,
it was he,
and not her.
To be born not fatherly,
yet desire their the still.
When the time was past,
Two were offered,
a gift to be shared.
To fill the gap left,
when first they wed
The possibilities
Possible, this he knew
he'd considered it for years.
still to consider the possibility,
is the more difficult,
when real they become,
When the first,
Possible, this he knew
he'd considered it for years.
still to consider the possibility,
is the more difficult,
when real they become,
When the first,
She informed, him.
His eyes where opened, half,
or half-closed.
Still not considered,
it was he,
and not her.
To be born not fatherly,
yet desire their the still.
When the time was past,
Two were offered,
a gift to be shared.
To fill the gap left,
by the possibilities.
No more, to mourn,
No more, to mourn,
the ones that never were.
Facebook
January 19, 2015 at 9:59 PM
January 19, 2015 at 9:59 PM
Friday, January 10, 2020
a discussion post to my BYUI Math class FDMAT 108 Math for the Real World
We invited a friend of ours to plant to a garden in our garage that would supply an herbal remedy. I had no hope that this would be a solution or even supply any healing properties. I knew that it would supply some hope to the children and ease the transition for them to my wife’s passing.
As I saw my wife, children, and the gardener interacting I saw hope and joy and happiness return to their lives. I worked two jobs to finance the home and the garden in the garage. I no longer felt a part of their lives. I was distant and separated from them. One day sitting on the back porch of our home, I could hear them laughing and smiling and having a good time around a campfire in the backyard. I wanted so desperately to be part of their world. That is when I wrote my first poem.
I never wanted to be a poet. I read very few poets. I like John Milton, Carol Lynn Pearson, and Eugene England. I especially hate the obligatory poems that rhyme at the ending of each line. I prefer blank verse like David Whyte or visual poetry like E.E. Cummings.
This poetry gave me an outlet for the anger and shame and regret to flow forth. It comes like puss from a wound, deep within my soul. With time I gained the courage to share it on Facebook and then with selected friends.
You ask how did poetry help me to develop a growth mindset. It forced me to develop a hidden talent that had always rested at the center of my being. As I wrote more poems, they came naturally to me. They seem to spring forth like a great lava plume from my soul. I rarely think about and seldom edit them more than once or twice. They are always about some thoughts I have had for years.
Today wife is fully cured. She is in remission. All signs of cancer have left her body when the doctors saw her MRI’S they stopped asking questions. I have no idea why it worked. I have no idea why Christ cured a man by rubbing dirt in his eyes. I don’t even know how God appeared to Joseph Smith in the woods. I just know these things happened. I think when we are hurting and in pain, if we listen to God, he will help heal the parts of our souls that are in pain. I do not say he cures all cancers. I do know he has ways to ease the pain and help to carry our burdens. Like the poetry, he supplies means to handle the pain and to increase the joy.
Here is that first poem a real gift from God.
On life or is it death.
To come to life,
or is it death.
To question now,
this life or love
T'is death to live,
and not to love
To question now,
to this I must
To love I must,
though life be short.
For tis it death,
to love no more.
Steven Bassett
March 2015
http://www.mymuzes.org/2015/02/on-life-or-is-it-death.html (Links to an external site.)
Edited by Steven Bassett on Jan 10 at 7:34am
As I saw my wife, children, and the gardener interacting I saw hope and joy and happiness return to their lives. I worked two jobs to finance the home and the garden in the garage. I no longer felt a part of their lives. I was distant and separated from them. One day sitting on the back porch of our home, I could hear them laughing and smiling and having a good time around a campfire in the backyard. I wanted so desperately to be part of their world. That is when I wrote my first poem.
I never wanted to be a poet. I read very few poets. I like John Milton, Carol Lynn Pearson, and Eugene England. I especially hate the obligatory poems that rhyme at the ending of each line. I prefer blank verse like David Whyte or visual poetry like E.E. Cummings.
This poetry gave me an outlet for the anger and shame and regret to flow forth. It comes like puss from a wound, deep within my soul. With time I gained the courage to share it on Facebook and then with selected friends.
You ask how did poetry help me to develop a growth mindset. It forced me to develop a hidden talent that had always rested at the center of my being. As I wrote more poems, they came naturally to me. They seem to spring forth like a great lava plume from my soul. I rarely think about and seldom edit them more than once or twice. They are always about some thoughts I have had for years.
Today wife is fully cured. She is in remission. All signs of cancer have left her body when the doctors saw her MRI’S they stopped asking questions. I have no idea why it worked. I have no idea why Christ cured a man by rubbing dirt in his eyes. I don’t even know how God appeared to Joseph Smith in the woods. I just know these things happened. I think when we are hurting and in pain, if we listen to God, he will help heal the parts of our souls that are in pain. I do not say he cures all cancers. I do know he has ways to ease the pain and help to carry our burdens. Like the poetry, he supplies means to handle the pain and to increase the joy.
Here is that first poem a real gift from God.
On life or is it death.
To come to life,
or is it death.
To question now,
this life or love
T'is death to live,
and not to love
To question now,
to this I must
To love I must,
though life be short.
For tis it death,
to love no more.
Steven Bassett
March 2015
http://www.mymuzes.org/2015/02/on-life-or-is-it-death.html (Links to an external site.)
Edited by Steven Bassett on Jan 10 at 7:34am
Saturday, December 28, 2019
a letter, written in response to a facebook post from Ken Zabriskie 12/28/2019
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Joey_Feek
She lost her battle with cancer about the time wife won hers.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xcpjSMmWUDw&feature=youtu.be&fbclid=IwAR04W5WItn3ygHTmI5PdIjFEvPtRy0DYA8vMYwecB2ZSopVMWxRqvmeI4dY
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Joey_Feek
She lost her battle with cancer about the time wife won hers.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xcpjSMmWUDw&feature=youtu.be&fbclid=IwAR04W5WItn3ygHTmI5PdIjFEvPtRy0DYA8vMYwecB2ZSopVMWxRqvmeI4dY
Kenny
In the spring of 2015, I nearly lost my bride to gastric
cancer. She had this cancer most of our
married life. Gastric cancer, in our
case, was a slow burner. It took nearly
20 years to catch fire. When I would
question my wife about its progress, she assured me it was not a problem, their
became a time when she came to me and said it was now a problem. She had been given six months to live. She chose no chemotherapy or x-ray treatments. She wanted to keep this private in our
family. To use this time to build
memories for her children to carry the remainder of their days. I was filled with anger and rage and
shame. So many confusing thoughts and
memories. The comfort God offered me, was the poetry. This is a gift I adore
yet never desired to form.
I feel the pain and suffering and joy in your post. I wonder what gifts God has given with you as
you have traveled this journey and felt this pain. I don’t think God gave my wife cancer to develop
my poetry. I could not worship a God who
was so cruel. I feel that he offered me this
give a gift, to help support, my journey.
I nearly ended my life one day when the pain was too much. I am glad I did not and I see the joy my wife
and I know enjoy with her recovery.
You may ask how this cure was possible and I have no explanation. Like the miracle of Jesus curing a man blindness
with mud, her cancer was cured with an herbal recipe, that has never worked
since. But this I am grateful for, her
health and the gift of the poetry.
May I then share this poem with you about the experience, in
hope that you may discover the gifts god offered you with your longing a desire
to be the ones who are gone.
Thursday, December 26, 2019
On the creation of poetry
So, what we must do then,
to create poetry?
Milton lost three wives, a Kingdom and a Republic.
Eugene England received a letter from Bruce R. McConkie,
the whole world read, while still in the post.
Carolyn Lynne Pearson lost her covenant partner to love and AIDs.
I nearly lost my wife, due to gastric cancer.
Can one desire to be a poet?
Is poetry like a seed, resting in your soul?
Mine would never have come forth but to battle with my shame,
and the possible loss of my wife.
How then do two great suns grow brighter and their orbits wider,
as they strengthen their relationship?
Tobe and influence those, in their orbital sphere.
When away I think nothing but of her.
When together I fear the loss of the connection, with her.
This then the one I have no commonalities with is the very center of my soul.
Then this remains the question, how to strengthen this bond,
as we grow brighter, and our orbits increase?
Is it then the task, of poetry?
The first poets, in Israel, became the prophets.
The psalms then they sang, and wrote, and prayed.
How then now, to be a poet and a prophet, as in ancient Israel.
This, then to be family-centered and church-supported.
In the end, all I have are the children,
and the wife, and the memories,
we then create, anew.
This then I am told “Out of the quarrel with others we make rhetoric;
out of the quarrel with ourselves we make poetry.”
William Butler Yeats.
to create poetry?
Milton lost three wives, a Kingdom and a Republic.
Eugene England received a letter from Bruce R. McConkie,
the whole world read, while still in the post.
Carolyn Lynne Pearson lost her covenant partner to love and AIDs.
I nearly lost my wife, due to gastric cancer.
Can one desire to be a poet?
Is poetry like a seed, resting in your soul?
Mine would never have come forth but to battle with my shame,
and the possible loss of my wife.
How then do two great suns grow brighter and their orbits wider,
as they strengthen their relationship?
Tobe and influence those, in their orbital sphere.
When away I think nothing but of her.
When together I fear the loss of the connection, with her.
This then the one I have no commonalities with is the very center of my soul.
Then this remains the question, how to strengthen this bond,
as we grow brighter, and our orbits increase?
Is it then the task, of poetry?
The first poets, in Israel, became the prophets.
The psalms then they sang, and wrote, and prayed.
How then now, to be a poet and a prophet, as in ancient Israel.
This, then to be family-centered and church-supported.
In the end, all I have are the children,
and the wife, and the memories,
we then create, anew.
This then I am told “Out of the quarrel with others we make rhetoric;
out of the quarrel with ourselves we make poetry.”
William Butler Yeats.
Wednesday, December 25, 2019
Poetry history love and shame
What of the stories and the poetry
Once when love was young, one child he had.
This then one young child.
He wanted her to know the stories,
the ones that made, him and her and them.
He prepared the journals, the ones he kept
and honored and adored.
He copied and typed and edited,
with plenty of footnotes, like he had learned in school.
As he read and reread them he feared them.
There was no love there, between the pages, of the journals.
He had spent so many years learning to love and to live and to forgive.
One hundred years from now the grandchildren would read,
the carefully crafted, and footnoted and spelling checked journals,
where love was not noted within?
He put them carefully away for another day.
Twenty years later cancer came back, like a raging storm.
She had promised him that it was not a big deal, she lied,
it was a big deal.
Six months, they had left, maybe less.
How then to live a life without her?
The gardener was busy, working in the garage, to find a solution.
He was working two jobs, to fund the solution.
He was filled with anger, and shame, and regret.
The gardener and his wife and children were enjoying a campfire.
Theirs was no longer a world of his, so then came the poem.
You see poetry was never a gift, he adored.
Yet you ask, what of John Milton, Carol Lynn Pearson, and Eugene England.
These then were the exception.
What then makes him see himself as a poet?
The pain and anger and guilt and shame must go somewhere.
The toxic levels of fear and regret,
these must go if only to survive another day, so the poem came.
At first, they were not good, he dared not share the guilt and shame.
Like puss from a great wound, it sprinkled forth, to release the pain.
You see poetry, like life, remains unfinished.
The story to be completed by the reader.
The love, the hate, the anger, the shame,
become a shared story with the reader.
No carefully crafted footnotes, no carefully researched and accurate history,
just the guilt and love and hate and shame splattered on the page.
One hundred years from now, when you read the stories, I hope you feel,
the love and adoration and lessons,
he learned, from the poetry.
Once when love was young, one child he had.
This then one young child.
He wanted her to know the stories,
the ones that made, him and her and them.
He prepared the journals, the ones he kept
and honored and adored.
He copied and typed and edited,
with plenty of footnotes, like he had learned in school.
As he read and reread them he feared them.
There was no love there, between the pages, of the journals.
He had spent so many years learning to love and to live and to forgive.
One hundred years from now the grandchildren would read,
the carefully crafted, and footnoted and spelling checked journals,
where love was not noted within?
He put them carefully away for another day.
Twenty years later cancer came back, like a raging storm.
She had promised him that it was not a big deal, she lied,
it was a big deal.
Six months, they had left, maybe less.
How then to live a life without her?
The gardener was busy, working in the garage, to find a solution.
He was working two jobs, to fund the solution.
He was filled with anger, and shame, and regret.
The gardener and his wife and children were enjoying a campfire.
Theirs was no longer a world of his, so then came the poem.
You see poetry was never a gift, he adored.
Yet you ask, what of John Milton, Carol Lynn Pearson, and Eugene England.
These then were the exception.
What then makes him see himself as a poet?
The pain and anger and guilt and shame must go somewhere.
The toxic levels of fear and regret,
these must go if only to survive another day, so the poem came.
At first, they were not good, he dared not share the guilt and shame.
Like puss from a great wound, it sprinkled forth, to release the pain.
You see poetry, like life, remains unfinished.
The story to be completed by the reader.
The love, the hate, the anger, the shame,
become a shared story with the reader.
No carefully crafted footnotes, no carefully researched and accurate history,
just the guilt and love and hate and shame splattered on the page.
One hundred years from now, when you read the stories, I hope you feel,
the love and adoration and lessons,
he learned, from the poetry.
Tuesday, December 24, 2019
Ode to the Poem
You are like a tiny seedling from a mighty pine tree, sitting fallow for years, on the forest floor, waiting for that majestic fire to set it you free.
I wonder where you come from, little poem. This piece of magic, this gift from God. You sat silent, for years at the center of my soul, bursting forth at that great fire, then at the coming death of the one I love and adore.
You were the first one to come to me, I never longed for you, as I longed for the birth of my children. Yet here you are, my first creation. I was sitting on the back porch of our home when you first came to me. The family was sitting in the back, around the fire. Enjoying a laugh or two. I struggled to see how I fit, into their world. Always at work was I, seeking the funds to keep us afloat.
The Gardner was returning joy to the ones, who's laughter I had not heard, in years. It was good to hear her laugh. Cancer would consume her soon but the children would be left with the memories from the Gardner. He had come to bring the cure, but joy supplied him also.
You came with your gift. Laying fallow at the center of my soul. It consoled me, supplied the strength to continue. Years it would take to find my place, in their lives again. The anger and guilt and shame came out in the poetry. First to Facebook and then to select close friends. Then to the one, I loved. This then to return to intimacy long lost. I am thankful for your gift of poetry.
I wonder where you come from, little poem. This piece of magic, this gift from God. You sat silent, for years at the center of my soul, bursting forth at that great fire, then at the coming death of the one I love and adore.
You were the first one to come to me, I never longed for you, as I longed for the birth of my children. Yet here you are, my first creation. I was sitting on the back porch of our home when you first came to me. The family was sitting in the back, around the fire. Enjoying a laugh or two. I struggled to see how I fit, into their world. Always at work was I, seeking the funds to keep us afloat.
The Gardner was returning joy to the ones, who's laughter I had not heard, in years. It was good to hear her laugh. Cancer would consume her soon but the children would be left with the memories from the Gardner. He had come to bring the cure, but joy supplied him also.
You came with your gift. Laying fallow at the center of my soul. It consoled me, supplied the strength to continue. Years it would take to find my place, in their lives again. The anger and guilt and shame came out in the poetry. First to Facebook and then to select close friends. Then to the one, I loved. This then to return to intimacy long lost. I am thankful for your gift of poetry.
Monday, December 23, 2019
The gift God gave my children
Sterility,
the gift God gave my children
What is the gift God is giving my children?
Once when
our marriage was young,
My wife asked
me to help her to make a baby,
At this task
I failed, though many times I tried.
This left
and the empty spot, in my soul.
This left a drive
to serve to restore.
Children came
into and nestled, in this space,
For a while.
Three have remained,
and I serve them well.
Still, I ask
myself, what of the children,
If we had
created our own.
I shy away
from this question now,
I shudder to
think of what their life could have been,
If I were
not sterile.
I still feel
the drive to create.
This poetry
then fills this space.
This and the
children will be sufficient, for now.
Maybe in the
eternities, Bonnie and I will create more.
But for now,
I have the children, and poetry.
This blesses
us now.
Monday, December 9, 2019
the two great suns
My goal this semester was to increase my communications
skills with my wife. Because of the
needs of our ageing parents, I live with my father and my wife lives in our
family home in a town about 20 miles away.
My father needs daily guidance and her moms needs physical
assistance. My goal then was to see if I
could increase our communications and intimacy using texting, voice calls,
weekly visits and sharing the poetry I write.
Take a walk down memory lane with me today.
My parents have always been very central to my very soul
even through the many decades I was angry about the way they raised me the
first three years of my life. I used to
borrow my mom’s van when I would make weekly trips to Wyoming repairing big
screen tv’s in people’s homes. I would
play this song for hours on her cassette deck.
I selected my wife based on the relationship she would build with my
family. My wife and my sister became
best friends while I was courting my wife.
Today they run a day-care center together.
“I was standing at the counter
I was waiting for the change
When I heard that old familiar music start
It was like a lighted match had been tossed into my soul
It was like a dam had broken in my heart
After taking every detour
Gettin' lost and losin' track
So that even if I wanted I could not find my way back
After driving out the memory
Of the way things might have been
After I'd forgotten all about us
The song remembers when”
I was waiting for the change
When I heard that old familiar music start
It was like a lighted match had been tossed into my soul
It was like a dam had broken in my heart
After taking every detour
Gettin' lost and losin' track
So that even if I wanted I could not find my way back
After driving out the memory
Of the way things might have been
After I'd forgotten all about us
The song remembers when”
Trish Yearwood, The Song Remembers
When1
My wife and I listened to
this song a great deal when we were first married. I sent her this link one morning to reminder
of my love for her and the life we built together.
“Remember when I was young and so were you
“And time stood still and love was all we knew
You were the first, so was I
We made love and then you cried
Remember when”
“And time stood still and love was all we knew
You were the first, so was I
We made love and then you cried
Remember when”
Alan Jackson ”Remember When”
I wrote this poem for one of my
English Classes last year. It is about
the first time my wife and I made love on our second day of married life. The day we were married was a busy day. My wife planned, decorated and hosted her own
wedding reception so by the time we made it to the hotel room that night she
was very tired. We made that first night
a pajama night. The second day was in
our apartment where her family and friends has helped her move her stuff the
previous week including her king size water bed. We had spent that Sunday
visiting my sister and blessing her first son Fridy Leishman. We have never had a honey moon, life just got
to busy. That night she escorted me to
the bridal chamber and ask me to help her make a baby.
On making a baby ...
Let's make a baby,
She said.
She said.
It was not the first night,
But the second.
But the second.
The first had been a pajama night.
Still he had not slept with a woman,
Except momma, her momma, or an aunt.
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.
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.
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,
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.
My wife and her mom have always
seamed to be more sisters then mother and daughter. I wonder what their relationship had been
like before they were born. My wife was
29 when we married and she had brother and sister young enough to be her
children. She was living at home when we
married. she helping her mom to raise these children. When we found out I was
not able to create life we thought we would help her mom with these children
and borrow the nieces and nephews on weekends.
My wife started a day care center in our hope to help with the baby’s
pains. My wife’s sister chose to become
our handmaiden and create two children for us to share. I have taught my children of Nancy’s love
for them. The choose she made to create their life and how they need to honor
her choice. They were never a mistake or
a problem to be solved.
This is the last picture I have of
Ashley, Nicholas and their older brother Cody.
I really wanted to be Cody’s father but grandpa loved him first. If we had taken Cody then it would have
removed my fathers-in-law desire to live. My mother-in-law raised two babies of
her daughter’s and we raised our two. My
wife and her mom did their best to raise them as one family unit in two
separate homes.
The Babies they raised together
They were sisters, first, were they not?
Then mother, and daughter.
The babies, then they raised, together.
Unmarried she was and living at home.
Helping her mom with the babies.
Born when out of high school, she was.
Young enough, they were.
They could have been, her children.
Then the young man along came he.
Too young for her was he,
she then 30 and he is 25.
This then the cradle, she robbed.
Then the small house, in the center of town.
It was her grandmother's house, the first they bought,
together.
Then no babies came, to them,
infertile was he, failed her request,
to help make a baby.
Then the daycare center, in their home,
more babies then come, to raise.
Her sister, fertile was she.
This then her gift, a baby, to them.
This then their baby to raise together.
Her mother received a gift, two babies,
from her daughters.
This then more babies, to raise, together.
These babies, siblings would be.
One home, two houses, and three babies to share.
Then later, one final gift, this baby,
to them, this day.
This then the babies, they raised together.
Then the small house, in the center of town.
It was her grandmother's house, the first they bought,
together.
Then no babies came, to them,
infertile was he, failed her request,
to help make a baby.
Then the daycare center, in their home,
more babies then come, to raise.
Her sister, fertile was she.
This then her gift, a baby, to them.
This then their baby to raise together.
Her mother received a gift, two babies,
from her daughters.
This then more babies, to raise, together.
These babies, siblings would be.
One home, two houses, and three babies to share.
Then later, one final gift, this baby,
to them, this day.
This then the babies, they raised together.
I wanted you to this picture, the joy
in my children’s lives. If you knew Ashley’s
and Cody’s history you would wonder how she grew to love and forgive him. He spent a few years in reform school for the
mistakes he made with his sister’s. When
you walk into a courtroom and participate in prosecution and then purchase a
van so you can visit that a boy, that should have been your first son, you learn
the real power of love and forgiveness.
This then the drive
This then the drive, to visit, one of the babies.
Nearly grown now, is he?
He is tall.
He is smart.
One of the babies, we raised, together.
But the choices, he made, what of the choices.
He is not what he did, he is one of the babies.
So a used van, I buy, to take them, for a visit.
This then four hours, we will drive, one way.
In the van, my wife and I will sit,
while mom and dad visit with the baby,
now a young man.
I hold a prayer, that is all I can hold.
No influence have, I over this baby.
All I have is my love.
He could have been my first baby,
But grandpa loved him first.
So all I have is my prayer and hope.
A hope that he will become more then he did.
More than he is, now.
This crime, this thing, forgiveness will then come.
For to love is the only choice I have, today.
To choose any other is to damage my soul.
So I will love the boy I have no influence over,
and I will cherish this memory, we make today.
Nearly grown now, is he?
He is tall.
He is smart.
One of the babies, we raised, together.
But the choices, he made, what of the choices.
He is not what he did, he is one of the babies.
So a used van, I buy, to take them, for a visit.
This then four hours, we will drive, one way.
In the van, my wife and I will sit,
while mom and dad visit with the baby,
now a young man.
I hold a prayer, that is all I can hold.
No influence have, I over this baby.
All I have is my love.
He could have been my first baby,
But grandpa loved him first.
So all I have is my prayer and hope.
A hope that he will become more then he did.
More than he is, now.
This crime, this thing, forgiveness will then come.
For to love is the only choice I have, today.
To choose any other is to damage my soul.
So I will love the boy I have no influence over,
and I will cherish this memory, we make today.
So, you ask
how is Bonnie and my relationship, today, I visited her this weekend to again
ask this question. Al least twice a week
I ask her if we are good and is she happy.
She reassures me that we are good and that she loves me, still. It seems
like we are both two great suns orbiting one great planet. This planet represents our parents and our
children. This is the poem I wrote this
weekend and shared with wife yesterday.
on two great
suns
Two great suns, once there were.
once in orbit near a great sphere,
Attracted they were one to another.
This then what of the attraction.
Little in common had they then,
even less now so they find.
This attraction what does, it hold?
This distance required, as the sun's glow brighter,
a greater distance, in their orbit sphere.
This the fear then he feels,
that destruction may come,
at a smaller orbit, as their strength and bond
glow brighter.
that destruction may come,
at a smaller orbit, as their strength and bond
glow brighter.
Daily he checks, this then the dance.
Weaving in and out, each other's sphere.
This many years now, then have they danced.
The choice than to continue, this covenant path.
Sunday, December 8, 2019
on two great suns
Two great suns, once there were.
once in orbit near a great sphere,.
Attracted they were one to another.
This then what of the attraction.
Little in common had they then,
even less now so they find.
This attraction what does, it hold?
This distance required, as the sun's glow brighter,
a greater distance, in their orbit sphere.
This the fear then he feels,
that destruction may come,
at a smaller orbit, as their strength and bond
glow brighter.
that destruction may come,
at a smaller orbit, as their strength and bond
glow brighter.
Daily he checks, this then the dance.
Weaving in and out, each other's sphere.
This many years now, then have they danced.
The choice than to continue
this covenant path.
Wednesday, November 13, 2019
On Relationship an essay for COMM 150 BYUI
Steven Bassett
COMM 150
November 11, 2019
My Most Important Relationships
Angie Miller
My Most Important
Personal Relationships
¨
The Godhead
Ø
Father
Ø
Son
Ø
Holy ghost
¨
My wife
¨
My children
Ø
Ashley
Ø
Nicholas
Ø
Bryce
¨
My Parents
Ø
Father
Ø
Mother
¨
My Faith Communities
Ø
The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints
Ø
Greater Christianity
Ø
Non-Christians
Ø
Atheist – Agnostics
The Godhead
God the Father
In his debut novel, The Shack, William P. Young tells the
story of Mackenzie Allen Phillips. Mack
is invited by Papa, his wife’s name for God, to spend the weekend with her in
the Shack. The shack is the place, where
a year ago, his young daughter was used as a man's play toy and then
murdered. Mack has spent the last year
in a place of anger and shame. His
relationships with his remaining daughter and son are strained. He learns his daughter still blames herself
for distracting her father and allowing Missy to be taken. The family is stuck with no way to go
forward.
Papa is Nan’s, his wife, name for God. When he arrives at the shack it is transformed
into a beautiful cabin by a lakeside. He
is introduced to God the Father, God the Son and God the Holy Spirit. The Father appears in the form of an elderly
Negro lady. She prefers to call herself Elousia. She comes in the female form because she
fears Mac will reject her if she appears as a man.
At first, Mac is very angry and defensive. He is angry that
God was not there for Missy and that she was not there for her son Jesus while
he hung on the cross. There is a scene where Mac and Papa are needing bread in
the Kitchen and Papa shows him the scares she received while her son hung on
the cross.
For many years my own relationship with my mother was
strained. This image of Papa reminds me
of my Mom when I began to see her as she truly was today and not the woman
she was when I was younger. I have
learned not to allow the “Noise” of our relationships to interfere with those
relationships.
God the Son
I love this image by Brian
Kershisnik. It is from his series, Jesus
and the Angry Babies. You see babies
squirming on Jesus' lap as he seeks to comfort them. Some of them are trying to crawl off. One is cuddling in the background. One is angry and scowling at Jesus
I am not sure which of these babies is me.
I sometimes feel like one of these babies, both wanting to
be cuddled by and climb off of the lap of Jesus.
It reminds me of one of my favorite songs, Casting Crown
“Just be held”.
In our relationships, it is not just about what I get out of
it or what you get out of it, but how we both become enriched through the
relationship. Don’t let the “Vultures” in to interfere with the relationship.
The Holy Spirit
In this scene from
The Shack we see the Holy Spirit, called Sarayu, watering the Garden with Mac’s
tears. The Garden represents Mac and his
mind and spirit.
It is in this garden that they bury Missy’s recovered body,
in a coffin that God the Son built for her.
We see that God the Father can now appear to Mac in his male
form. Their relationship is
healed. Sarayu’s place in the Godhead is
to confirm the relationship. I am never certain of my relationship to the Holy
Spirit. I know that he does confirm the truth and relationship.
In this scene we see them burying Missy, in Mac’s Garden.
We heal our relationships by listening to the other. This then is the transactional model of
relationship.
My Wife
This is a
photo of Bonnie and me at our wedding reception.
I told her I was not going to wear a suit or stand in any kind of reception
line. I purchased a new set of bib
overalls and wore my best white shirt. Today I wear dress Levi’s to church. I started
writing poetry as a way to comfort myself when I learn she had stage 4 stomach
cancer.
It seems like, my wife and I, are like two great stars, as we each growing brighter, the orbit between us grows wider and wider. I live with my father now fulltime. I am his caregiver. My wife has offered my father this gift, in his twilight years. My wife has known my father longer then she has known me. They were working together at the hospital when dad convinced me to ask her out on a date. She has told me many times that she promised she would never marry one of his sons. I am not sure why she agreed to go out with me that first time. Our first date was at a swimming party and she is afraid of water. She has stood by me for 30 years now. I am certain of her love for me and our children. I am learned to let her become, as she lets me become as I improve in “The listening process”.
It seems like, my wife and I, are like two great stars, as we each growing brighter, the orbit between us grows wider and wider. I live with my father now fulltime. I am his caregiver. My wife has offered my father this gift, in his twilight years. My wife has known my father longer then she has known me. They were working together at the hospital when dad convinced me to ask her out on a date. She has told me many times that she promised she would never marry one of his sons. I am not sure why she agreed to go out with me that first time. Our first date was at a swimming party and she is afraid of water. She has stood by me for 30 years now. I am certain of her love for me and our children. I am learned to let her become, as she lets me become as I improve in “The listening process”.
On the Loss of Possibility
Is the pain any less, for the loss of a possibility?
I ask myself this question, one day at work.
Help me make a baby she had said,
On the first time, on that second night.
It began with the gentle nibbling on her ear.
It was good that first night, and the many to follow.
In a matter of weeks, they were in that first home.
The first one they purchased, together.
He came home one evening, twins she said, coming soon.
Then one night the home teacher they called.
A blessing she wanted, to keep the babies.
Then the loss of those two possibilities.
Still together they worked, on creating the babies.
In time they learned of the loss of the possibility.
He had been born sterile, no babies would he ever produce.
Still, the pain he remembered, from the loss
of the first two possibilities.
He would keep the memory of the pain, of the loss.
He would recall it when he needed to understand the loss of
the others,
and their possibilities.
With time the handmaiden would provide the babies.
He would teach his children to honor the handmaiden,
as he and his wife raised their new possibilities.
Still, he carried with him, the pain of the loss, of those
first two, possibilities.
Alan Jackson “Remember When”
The Children
I was lucky to adopt two beautiful children, on the left is Nicholas, on the right is Ashley, between them, is there older brother, Cody, who was raised by his grandmother. They were created for us by a woman we love and adore. She is my wife’s younger sister. When she learned my wife and I could not have children she created two for us. They were not mistakes and they were always loved, and wanted, by their Birth Mother.
This is taken at my daughter’s wedding. On the right is my final son Bryce. Our relationship was tense at first. We are both mellowing with age. I always referred to him as my son though at first, this made him very angry.
I have learned from them the role of “Attention to Listening” is in a relationship. I was so angry in this photo. My wife was still terminal and life was not worth living. I was uncertain what my relationship with my children would be like after she died. That morning I nearly took my own life. I am glad I didn’t. I would have lost all of the joy I feel today.
I have learned from them the role of “Attention to Listening” is in a relationship. I was so angry in this photo. My wife was still terminal and life was not worth living. I was uncertain what my relationship with my children would be like after she died. That morning I nearly took my own life. I am glad I didn’t. I would have lost all of the joy I feel today.
The Gardener and the Cure
It is growing
now, in the garage.
The Gardner
brought the solution,
he tells you to
believe.
You have no faith
in the cure,
but the peace it may
bring.
This herb, this
evil then, they tell you.
This gateway to
Hell.
But you live in
Hell, now.
To risk it all,
now you do.
For the life of
the loved one,
you do adore.
So many fights,
through the years,
with each other,
to gain the children.
The Gardner will
be a 3rd child soon,
with the marriage
of your daughter.
For
now, there is hope growing in the garden, and peace, in my soul
My Parents
Mom
In many ways
my relationship with my mother is the most complex one. I was so angry with her for so very
long. I was angry for her not being who
I needed when I was younger. Her father
was an alcoholic. He only showed
affection when he was drunk. My mother
rarely held or cuddled me. She was so
young when I was born and Carl and my father were such a handful. I was raised by my Aunt Nancy until I was three
and she moved away to Bountiful Utah. My Mom and Aunt Nancy were so similar,
yet so different.
As I grew older, I began to see the
“Perception Filter” I had placed around our relationship. Just before she died, I had that final
conversation with my mother when I truly said I finally understood her and I
truly forgave her for not being what I needed in those first few years.
She closed her heart
Luv her, a choice, not a feeling.
She closed her heart.
Like the lady, that swallowed that fly,
I know not why.
I reached for her, their, as a boy.
There, on the bench, in the car, she
beside me.
Cuddled, under her arm, like the puppet,
beside me.
She, purchased the puppet, at the pink
lady’s shop.
We had gone to the hospital, to discover,
why I wet the bed.
She was damaged goods, as was I.
When life gets tough, it hardens you.
You grow a shell, thicker with the
growing years.
I wet the bed, this because, distant
then, began I to feel ...
Not luved, not wanted, cast aside, This,
I had thought.
Forty more years, we spent, in this
cuddle, or embrace.
I would reach out, only to be pushed away.
In the end, she reached out, to dance.
only to be brushed away, almost.
Still, once more, we danced and beautiful,
it was,
The Dance, Garth Brooks
My Father
I live with
my father fulltime now. I work, go to
school and care for him. My wife offered
me this choice because she has learned to love my father. I could sell his home and move him to
Franklin but his life is here and there is no room for us there. There my wife and children’s lives are so
full. I often feel like I am not needed
there, but I am very much needed here. I made the choice to attend church with
my father now. Try explaining to a new
Bishop why a happily married man would choose to live with his Father and not
his wife. When I pray and speak to my wife,
I know that we are making the right choices now.
My Father and
I share a simple, wedding band. It is a
simple sterling wedding band, most likely purchased at a pawn shop. It was discarded by another when its value in
cash exceeded its value in sentiment. He
wore it daily as a reminder of the covenant they shared. It was not the first band, that band stayed
behind in the jewelry box. It was too
valuable and easily damaged. The first
would not endure long, in the room where he washed clothes to feed their
growing family.
The ring we share
She is gone now,
yet they are one.
This we share, now.
The three of us.
A covenant,
a promise,
a ring.
Once it was shared,
by two, then came two more,
and the temple ceremony,
then two more,
Dad gave me the ring,
years ago.
Now four more are bound,
by the ring, the promise,
and the covenant.
My father gave me his second wedding band, which I now wear.
I have three siblings and two children
.
The final relationships I have are with my faith
communities. As you can see from the beginning of this essay. My relationship with my God and the Godhead is
central to my life. My Relationship to The Church of Jesus Christ of
Latter-Saints is changing and evolving.
I have a temple recommend for the first time in decades, yet I no longer
feel its central draw to my life. Like a
great Venn Diagram, I am expanding my faith community to include all of his
children.
¨
My Faith Communities
Ø
The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints
Ø
Greater Christianity
Ø
Non-Christians
Ø
Atheist – Agnostics
I have for decades searched out the non-Mormon and
non-Christian prophets. My favorite one now,
and I suspect will always be, is John Milton.
In his great works, Paradise Lost and Paradise Regained, you learn of
the fall of Adam and Eve, the battle in the pre-Earth life and of the forty
days Jesus spent in the wilderness. I
admire the Christian Bishops who served their congregations, and their wife’s
in the time between the death of the prophets and the rebirth of Christianity
in the late middle ages. I refuse to
call them dark ages because there was great light during this period even if
there was great persecution.
Revelations 12
5 And she brought forth a man
child, who was to rule all nations with a rod of iron: and her child was caught
up unto God, and to his throne.
6 And the woman fled into the
wilderness, where she hath a place prepared of God, that they should feed her
there a thousand two hundred and threescore days.
Terryl Givens speaks in many of his books and lectures on
how at the death of the apostle, the church, like the woman, in the scripture
quoted above, was carried into the wilderness where she was sheltered and fed
by his poets and writers.
"I have heard some people say, — If God revealed himself to men in other days, why not reveal himself to us?” I say, why not to us? ... There were men who could gaze upon the face of God, have the ministering of angels, and unfold the future destinies worldwide. If those were dark ages, I pray God to give me a little darkness and deliver me from the light and intelligence that prevail in our day” (Taylor).
Maybe I can leave you one last link to an essay I wrote for my English class last year.
“This I Believe”
"I have heard some people say, — If God revealed himself to men in other days, why not reveal himself to us?” I say, why not to us? ... There were men who could gaze upon the face of God, have the ministering of angels, and unfold the future destinies worldwide. If those were dark ages, I pray God to give me a little darkness and deliver me from the light and intelligence that prevail in our day” (Taylor).
"I have heard some people say, — If God revealed
himself to men in other days, why not reveal himself to us?” I say, why not to
us? ...
There were men who could gaze upon the face of God, have the ministering
of angels, and unfold the future destinies worldwide. If those were dark ages,
I pray God to give me a little darkness and deliver me from the light and
intelligence that prevail in our day” (Taylor).
1 Peter 4:6
For for this cause was the gospel
preached also to them that are dead, that they might be judged according to men
in the flesh, but live according to God in the spirit.
This scripture has often puzzled me? How do men live like God in the spirit and
yet be judged like men in the flesh? I
have sought to generalize salvation using the doctrines first shared by Joseph
Smith. When you combine The Light of
Christ with The Atonement of Christ and temple ordinances it became possible to
save all men who seek to be saved and who develop a Christ-like soul though
they never learn the name of Christ or his teachings in this life.
I am learning to enjoy this class. I am learning to enjoy my relationships with
those around me. I have felt real joy,
this past year, for the first time in years.
It is interesting how much stronger my relationship is with my wife now
we no longer live in the same house.
Maybe I have stopped taking her for granted. Maybe I am just working harder at our
relationship because our lives are so separate right now. I often wonder if it is the right thing to do
with my life. My wife says it is not
forever. In the eternal scheme of
things, this next decade will be a short period of time and our relationship
will grow much stronger.
I guess I am learning that life is good and that life is
worth living. That I should enjoy every
day for I know not how many days I have left.
Maybe I can leave you one last link to an essay I wrote for
my English class last year.
“This I Believe”
Maybe I can leave you one last link to an essay I wrote for my English class last year.
“This I Believe”
References.
Young, William
P. The Shack. Hodder Windblown, 2017.
Casting Crowns,
“Just be Held”, Thrive, 2014
Givens, Terryl,
and Fiona Givens. “The God Who Weeps: How Mormonism Makes Sense of Life.” Amazon, Ensign Peak, 2012, https://www.amazon.com/God-Who-Weeps-Mormonism-Makes/dp/1609071883.
“The Knowledge
of God and Mode of Worshiping Him John Taylor.” John Taylor: The Knowledge of
God, Etc (Journal of Discourses), journalofdiscourses.com/16/26.
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