My hero, my best friend, my Grannio (a.k.a my Grandmother)
She raised me like I was her own daughter from the day I was born 32 years ago.
She loved me like nobody else has ever loved me in my life.
She stood by through the most difficult days I've ever known.
She showed me more unconditional love and support than I've ever imagined.
She taught me how to live, how to love, how to be a lady, how to be a mommy and how to survive.
For 78 years, she had always been as healthy and stubborn as a mule.
About a year ago she stood by my side and fought tooth and nail to help me survive a bitter custody battle and win primary custody of my wonderful two year-old son, who is her only great-grandchild, and the love of her life and my life.
After fighting with everything she had inside of her and seeing me prevail in court, she suddenly became deathly sick. Within days she lost her ability to walk, eat, dress herself, or even get out of bed.
I quit my job to take care of her 24 hours a day. I spent every moment possible at her bedside, talking to her, trying to feed her, bathe her, brush her hair, change her clothes and make her take her medicine.
Finally my uncle, who lives 100 miles away from us, responded to my calls for help. He forced her to see a specialist in his home state.
She spent three months at one of the top hospitals in the country with more than ten doctors trying to figure out what was wrong with her. She suffered a heart attack. She had to be connected to life support. She was forced to have several emergency surgeries to remove a tumor, to remove a blood cot, and a few others to save her life, they said.
My son was not allowed to visit her. She cried a lot. She begged me to bring him. She asked for me constantly. I was told I couldn't visit for various reasons, primarily, because I was too emotional. I called her every day until they took her phone away.
I thought she was going to die.
She gave me a list of things I had to know, like where the safety deposit keys were hidden, where her cash savings was stowed at the house, where the bank accounts were and how much money she had and who was supposed to get what when she died.
I prayed every day - several times a day. I began a nightly ritual with my son, who learned to say "God Bless Ger," when he barely said other more common words, like "daddy."
Somehow, some way, some where, God was listening. He gave me the greatest blessing and answered our prayers about a month ago. The doctors finally identified Grannio's illness as 'vasculitis' and began intensive treatment.
Two weeks ago she was moved from the hospital to a rehabilitation center, just 10 miles from our home. She can't walk and she is just beginning to regain use of her arms, but she's alive. Thank God.
God granted us a miracle by giving life back to my Grannio.
My faith is unfathomable.
Resource Box - ę Danielle Hollister (2004) is the Publisher of BellaOnline Quotations Zine - A free newsletter for quote lovers featuring more than 10,000 quotations in dozens of categories like - love, friendship, children, inspiration, success, wisdom, family, life, and many more. Read it online at - http://www.bellaonline.com/articles/art8364.asp
Grandpas House & From Iraq with Love [Two Poems]
Grandpa's House[The ole Real House]The house needed paintingSun-blistered and flakingGrandpa started to have usBoys-Mike and I- startDoing some scraping-While he, pealed off the olePaint, and started painting?Just a humble wooden houseWith several rooms, but Strong enough to keep theWinds and winter snows out,How he loved that ole house!..
You can do and you can bewhatever you want.You have the power,and the right,to make the changes.
JOINEDHeart beat of manpounding - yet unheardjoined becomes thebeat of a nation.Words of man written - yetunreadjoinedbecomes a proclamation.
Five Mixed Poems, with Notes [now is Spanish and English]
1.Night in Jamaica [Peruvianism: 1810]It was a rainy night they sayWhen don Simon BolivarSlept in the arms of beautiful-Luisa Crober(of Jamaica); thus anAssassin missed his markWhen he stabbed Major AmestoySleeping in the darkIn Bolivar's hammock!.
Lord Byrons She Walks in Beauty
Lord Byron's opening couplet to "She Walks In Beauty" is among the most memorable and most quoted lines in romantic poetry. The opening lines are effortless, graceful, and beautiful, a fitting match for his poem about a woman who possesses effortless grace and beauty.
Storm Rising along the Lima Coast
Storm Rising along the Lima Coast [Summer of 2002]?wind was blowing furiously It never left for a moment Bursts of fury I found it difficult to keep My feet placed, thus, I clung to my knees For one blissful moment I could not now disguise it From myself Some subtle feeling Manifested itself Then the current drew Sharply away from me With her mystery-Back out into the open sea Yet-, still it roared back at me! It was an expressed release It made my head swim I noticed it kept-step With my exultation!?#761 7/14/2005Notes: There are mysteries to the sea, at times it seems as to have its own mind, its own character; as if nature was plugged into all that exist. Earth itself being an entity with its own lively soul.
The Poets Corner [Three Poems with a review]
The Poet's Corner[Three poem/ see review of poetry under the poems]The Poets CondorThe condor fly'sAmongst the hillsIn open skiesOf San Jerrˇnimo,Near Huancayo?Forbidding anyTo near his path-Lest he dareTo risk a attack,Near Huancayo!..
Savage Nature: The Life of Ted Hughes
One of the most important poets of the post-war period, Edward James Hughes (1930-1998), was drawn towards the primitive. He was enchanted by the beauty of the natural world, frequently portraying its cruel and savage temperament in his work as a reflection of his own personal suffering and mystical beliefs - convinced that modern man had lost touch with the primordial side of his nature.
Wars, Air of Ambiguity [for: Lt. Laura Walker] in SPANISH and English
Wars, air of AmbiguityDedicated to 1st. Lt.
Expressing an Emotion - The Art of Writing Poetry
Writing poetry is an art, a way of expression, finding meaning in few words. A melody of passion flowing out onto the pages, words that flow into each other and yet express the inner most thoughts and feelings of those who read the words.
Portrait Of The Artist As A Young Dog
Emlyn Williams Theatre, Mold, North Wales: 20th February 2003Clwyd Theatr Cymru commemorated the 50th anniversary of the death of the Welsh poet, Dylan Thomas (1914-1953) with a superb run of performances by a small but accomplished cast of actors.Described in the programme as "A theatrical journey through the prose writing of Dylan Thomas", the production was created by Tim Baker, an Associate of the Royal National Theatre, who won the Manchester Evening News Best Visiting Production award in 1992 for the highly acclaimed To Kill a Mockingbird.
I Saw the Universe
I can see the cerulean blue of the skiesOr the indigo of the nightI can see the stars wink, the grin of the moonDuring the changes of it's monthly face**I am in awe**I see the sun on it's annual trekAlternately awakening the life in the earthAnd then fading away to allow it to sleepUntil the next spring**I am told the Universe is "out there"Beyond those stars, moon and sun,Yet the power of what I can seeIs a fathoming beyond my comprehension**I am in awe**"Out there" no time, no seasons passNo sense of age, hatred or loss existOnly the infinity0f the Universe**What IS "out there"?What IS the Universe that has no end?What IS the power that creates all this?I want to see it too**And then I remember..
Farewell to Lester Graybill
I never met a man, who could shake my hand, and make my heart feel like a hearth afire.I never met a man, who could smile so easy, real honest.
As I picked up some of the polished gemstones in the rock store I began to think about what the stones looked like before they were polished. The store had several rocks on display showing the before and after and I realized that unless you knew what you were looking for, you could easily pass by a valuable gemstone.
It's dark, it's cold, its' just six thirty,thoughts of sleep still dull my brain,As I huddle down, inside my coat,a commuter clone, just waiting for a train.Insidious rain, just drizzling down,through weak light of creeping dawn,Paper sandwich bags and old coffee cups,blowing past, look so forlorn.
Ode To Quetzalcoatal [Now in Spanish and English]
Ode to QuetzalcˇatlQuetzalcˇatl the GreatNo one knew his true name, so theyCalled him Quetzalcˇatl-feather SerpentHe and his crew of nineteen: facesStrange faces, images of a prince, a lord:King of the Yucatan in the year 986 ADHe was a tall man; long cloths, sandals;White as day, with a long beard, black hair.Some say red: some don't say?But they called him priest, Lord, kingAmongst many things: god!.
Black Blood, in Jeremiahs Vines - A Poem and an Article
Black Blood, in Jeremiah's Vines[A Dream Poem]And I heard the crackling of wood, and I noticed the Lord God had made men of wood, and fire came from his mouth.Then the wind poured its grief upon us-over our sins; and I heard the words for the seventh time, "Go to the mountains!"Foolish people of this land pray and understand-for He cometh! Thereof, toss yourself to thy knees, for the roar of rebellious men will bleed: black blood, through the vines of Jeremiah.
Ballade of an Inca King
Ah! Leave the gold, wealth and landSays the Inca King?;In Spain, they leave the bustling streets,For sail to Peruvian shores;The murmur of the gold is sweet,It glows and glistens like the sunA mountain of gold, or the graveAwaits the human, Inca-god?!Spaniards sing their songs of victoryWhere breaks the green Peruvian sea;Who now, worships the Inca King (?) Guarded behind prisons doors-?They chatter about his golden ringsThey watch the winds cross the shores?They count the days that idle by,For gold they worship and will die.Envoy.
Whats A Prisoner to Do?
What's a prisoner to do when justice fails and the innocent is escorted off to jail?What's a prisoner to do once stigmatized,caged and abandoned and ostracized?What's a prisoner to do there's no one to trust;the system fails and the outcome unjust?What's a prisoner to do when family decidethe punishment is warranted and justified?What's a prisoner to do while confined in a cell;the perpetrator's free and faring quite well?What's a prisoner to do once his reputation is deadand his life has been ruined because of what someone said?What's a prisoner to do when he's not believed,though he's telling the truth, he's thought to deceive?What's a prisoner to do as he sits all alone,no one seems to care; former friends all gone?What's a prisoner to do sitting lost and idleand most of one's thoughts become suicidal?What's a prisoner to do when freedom's taken awayand the will to live diminishes each day?What's a prisoner to do when hedged in by strife;with no escape possible; no chance for a new life?What's a prisoner to do when he can no longer seethe beauty of the sky or the waves of the sea?What's a prisoner to do when the sun he can't feel,nor the breeze of spring because his fate is sealed?What's a prisoner to do when doomed to despairbut still praying to escape the electric chair?Tell me, what's a prisoner to do?Rev. Saundra L.
The Last King of Mars [A Poetic Mytho]
[As Told by the Last] King: it was in the year 23,700 BC that one of the two moons of earth was hit by a meteor that of which, a great part of the moon broke off and hit earth's surface with a devastating impact. Thus the solar system absorbed a cataclysm in unimaginable proportions, from Jupiter to Mars; knocking Earth out of its 100,000-year Ice Age.