Poetry 1998-1999-c

Poetry 1998-1999-c

Kenidra R. Stinnett


I call You beloved because of Your Love.
Helping me step by step holding my hand.
I never had a clue about my dreams until now.
Beginning a new life with You finally I am free.
From the insanity called a broken heart.
You opened up to me and I love You.
Days are many to recall Your gentleness.
Even when I knew I was wrong to sin.
Sometimes I forget who I am.
Born again but human is me.
Let’s me know why I am here.
I am not perfect nor am I of “this world”.
It has been made clear because of You.
Who put me here on this earth to Love.
To be a light from the darkness that exists.
Submitted By Donna Kimmel
Nov 98

Please read this. It’s such a wonderful forward!!! And if you aren’t moved
by this story…step back…and take a look at yourself.

The day is over, you are driving home. You tune in your radio. You hear a little blurb about a little village in India where some villagers have died suddenly, strangely, of a flu that has never been seen before. It’s not influenza, but three or four fellows are dead, and it’s kind of interesting. They’re sending some doctors over there
to investigate it.

You don’t think much about it, but on Sunday, coming home from church, you hear another radio spot. Only they say it’s not three villagers, it’s 30,000 villagers in the back hills of this particular area of India, and it’s on TV that night. CNN runs a little blurb; people are heading there from the disease center in Atlanta because this disease strain has never been seen before.

By Monday morning when you get up, it’s the lead story. For it’s not just India; it’s Pakistan, Afghanistan, Iran, and before you know it, you’re hearing this story everywhere and they have coined it now as “the mystery flu”.

The President has made some comment that he and everyone are praying and hoping that all will go well over there. But everyone is wondering, “How are we going to contain it?” That’s when the President of France makes
an announcement that shocks Europe. He is closing their borders. No flights from India, Pakistan, or any of the countries where this thing has been seen. That night you are watching a little bit of CNN before going to bed. Your jaw hits your chest when a weeping woman is translated from a French news program into English: “There’s a man lying in a hospital in Paris dying of the mystery flu. “It has come to Europe.”

Panic strikes. As best they can tell, once you get it, you have it for a week and you don’t even know it. Then you have four days of unbelievable symptoms. Then you die. Britain closes it’s borders, but it’s too late. South Hampton, Liverpool, North Hampton, and it’s Tuesday morning when the President of the United States makes the following announcement: “Due to a national security risk, all flights to and from Europe and Asia have been canceled. If your loved ones are overseas, I’m sorry. They cannot come back until we find a cure for this thing.

Within four days our nation has been plunged into an unbelievable fear. People are selling little protective masks for your face. People are talking about what if it comes to this country, and preachers on Tuesday are
saying, “It’s the scourge of God.”

It’s Wednesday night and you are at a church prayer meeting when somebody runs in from the parking lot and says, “Turn on a radio, turn on a radio!” While the church listens to a little transistor radio with a microphone stuck up to it, the announcement is made,” Two women are lying in a Long Island hospital dying from the mystery flu.” Within hours it seems, this thing just sweeps across the country. People are working around the clock trying to find an antidote.

Nothing is working. California, Oregon, Arizona, Florida, Massachusetts. It’s as though it’s just sweeping in from the borders. Then, all of a sudden… The news comes out. The code has been broken. A cure can be found. A vaccine can be made. It’s going to take the blood of somebody who hasn’t been infected, and so, sure enough, all through the Midwest, through all those channels of emergency broadcasting, everyone is asked to do one simple thing: “Go to your downtown hospital and have your blood type taken. That’s all we ask of you. When you hear the sirens go off in your neighborhood, please make your way quickly, quietly, and safely to the hospitals.”

Sure enough, when you and your family get down there late on that Friday night, there is a long line, and they’ve got nurses and doctors coming out and pricking fingers and taking blood and putting labels on it. Your wife and your kids are out there, and they take your blood type and they say, “Wait here in the parking lot and if we call your name, you can be dismissed and go home.” You stand around scared with your neighbors, wondering what in the world is going on, and that this is the end of the world. Suddenly a young man comes running out of the hospital
screaming. He’s yelling a name and waving a clipboard. What? He yells it again! And your son tugs on your jacket and says, “Daddy, that’s me.”

Before you know it, they have grabbed your boy.
“Wait a minute, hold it!”

And they say, “It’s okay, his blood is clean. His blood is pure. We want to make sure he doesn’t have the disease. We think he has got the right type.”

Five tense minutes later, out come the doctors and nurses, crying and hugging one another some are even laughing. It’s the first time you have seen anybody laugh in a week, and an old doctor walks up to you and says, “Thank you, sir. Your son’s blood type is perfect. It’s clean, it is pure, and we can make the vaccine.”

As the word begins to spread all across that parking lot full of folks, people are screaming and praying and laughing and crying. But then the gray-haired doctor pulls you and your wife aside and says, “May we see you for a moment? We didn’t realize that the donor would be a minor and we need. .. . we need you to sign a consent form.”

You begin to sign and then you see that the number of pints of blood to be taken is empty. “H-h-h-how many pints?”

And that is when the old doctor’s smile fades and he says,
“We had no idea it would be a little child. We weren’t prepared. We need it all!”

“But – but…”

“You don’t understand. We are talking about the world here. Please sign. We – we need it all – we need it all!”

“But can’t you give him a transfusion?”

“If we had clean blood we would. Can you sign? Would you sign?”

In numb silence you do.

Then they say, “Would you like to have a moment with him before we begin?”

Can you walk back? Can you walk back to that room where he sits on a table saying, “Daddy? Mommy? What’s going on?”

Can you take his hands and say, “Son, your mommy and I love you, and we would never ever let anything happen to you that didn’t just have to be. Do you understand that?”

And when that old doctor comes back in and says, “I’m sorry, we’ve -we’ve got to get started. People all over the world are dying.”

Can you leave? Can you walk out while he is saying, “Dad? Mom? Dad? Why – why have you forsaken me?”

And then next week, when they have the ceremony to honor your son, and some folks sleep through it, and some folks don’t even come because they go to the lake, and some folks come with a pretentious smile and just pretend to care. Would you want to jump up and say,


Is that what God is saying?


Why do the tree frogs scream
From dusk till dawn
As if they are being tormented
Driving me to close the
porch door
and cover my ears.

Why do the tree frogs
Sing like a heavenly choir
While I linger on the
porch a little longer
Just before I sleepily amble to my bed
Falling asleep peacefully
Content in the angelic sounds of God’s creatures.

They scream when I’m screaming
They sing when I’m singing


Written by Ben Searle Age 17,

The offer had seemed so glamorious
The chance at immortaity
She despised death
Accepted destiny from a pale man
The hunger in the symptom
Of the addictive destruction

Be warned
Nothing comes with a price
This dispisment of life
She must pay
Till the end of the world
Not a star shined
That dreary night
The men came marching
Right up to the door
The awoke her from a nightmare
So she could start another
Her fiance dragger her outside
The torches casted eiry shadows
About Angelica’s face
Three classmates stood
With crosses around their necks
They chanted prayers
Angelica stood in exhausted confusion
Not knowing why they stood in the cold
Under frozen eyes
That pierced to her bones
There was a ounce of terror in all their faces
The mayor stepped forward
He held an old scroll
Slowly he opened it was a slight rustle
Read the charges against her
No one look at her
As she was accused of witchcraft
No one but the three girls
Who smiled with pride
The mayor tried to comfort her
As she was led to the tiny cell
She’d get a trial
Her innocence would be shown
These were just formalities he assured
With those words
She kept her sanity
Up to the trial
The prosucution
Had but three witnesses
Her classmates
The accusers
The court room all gaspesed
As a story of curses
Was told by the first
Men cried
As the second told of gruseom animal sacrifices
The third was worst
Children and women fled
Angelica had killed her little sister
An virgin sacrfice
Everyone knew it was all fiction
Imaginitive stories
But when the defense asked for witnesses
No one would stand
Only word to be heard was witch
She cried & looked ot her friends
Wondering why they condemed her to death
The only thing she had done
Was refused to help them cheat
She was lead back
For a last mean
All night she prayed
The dawn cam
The sun hide behind the clouds
She stood up straight as the bound her
She recieted sweet poetry of hope
Knew there was some place better waiting for her
Her fiance stood with a torch
Begging for a confession
She just kept reciting bible verses
Until the scream and death
Angelica was just the victim
Of teenage revenge in Salem


“Father, seeing it from your eyes breaks our hearts. Maybe now we begin
to comprehend the great love you have for us. Amen ”

–Author Anonymous

br -Jessica-ought tears
To all who read of this love
Many years came to fly
The little girl turned to a woman

A young man came to ask
For her hand
Would she take his ring?
Against the dreams & hopes
Of her parents greed
She said yes to her fiance
Forsaked money & family
Her heart was stronger
She ran off to be eloped
They streamed down the road
Didn’t want to waste any time
Holding hands in pure happiness
They slipped off the road
A unseen cliff lurked ahead
It swallowed them whole
They never did see the danger
Laughing all the way
The greeted eternity together
Her mother’s eyes
Wept with a river of tears
As the bodies were lowered
Into the darkness
Her father was stunned
To realize that he had lost his heir

Days feel through the hourglass
When someone stumbled

Mar Jun Dec
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1999 2000 2001

23 captures

15 Sep 1999 – 20 Aug 2008

About this capture

I want to be six again.

I want to go to McDonald’s and think it’s the best place in
the world to eat.

I want to sail sticks across a fresh mud puddle and make
waves with rocks.

I want to think M&Ms are better than money ’cause you can eat them.

I want to play kickball during recess and stay up on
Christmas Eve waiting to hear Santa and Rudolph on the roof.

I long for the days when life was simple. When all you knew
were your colors, the addition tables, and simple nursery rhymes,
but it didn’t bother you because you didn’t know what you didn’t
know, and you didn’t care.

I want to go to school and have snack time, recess, gym,
and field trips.

I want to be happy because I don’t know what should make me upset.

I want to think the world is fair, and everyone in it is
honest and good.

I want to believe that anything is possible. Sometime, while I
was maturing, I learned too much. I learned of nuclear weapons,
starving and abused kids, and unhappy marriages.

I want to be six again.

I want to think that everyone, including myself, will live
forever because I don’t know the concept of death.

I want to be oblivious to the complexity of life, and be
overly excited by the little things again.

I want television to be something I watch for fun, not something
I use for escape from the things I should be doing.

I want to live knowing the little things I find exciting will
always make me as happy as when I first learned them.

I want to be six again.

I remember not seeing the world as a whole, but rather being
aware of only the things that directly concerned me.

I want to be naive enough to think that if I’m happy, so is
everyone else.

I want to walk down the beach and think only of the sand
beneath my feet, and the possibility of finding that blue piece
of sea glass I’m looking for.

I want to spend my afternoons climbing trees and riding my
bike, letting the grownups worry about time, the dentist, and
how to find the money to fix the car.

I want to wonder what I’ll do when I grow up, not worry what
I’ll do if this doesn’t work out.

I want that time back. I want to use it now as an escape.
So that when my computer crashes, I have a mountain of paperwork,
two depressed friends, or second thoughts about so many things,
I can travel back and build a snowman without thinking about
anything except whether the snow sticks together. What I can
possibly use for the snowman’s mouth?

I want to be six again . . .

By Ken Myrback

I used to think
that I was something special
but lately
you have changed my opinion
and made me see
that everything I am
is nothing
without you
I want to die to myself
and be nothing but
Fill me
Fill me Take everything I am
and make it everything
you are
Sin still lives in me
but I’m free
I don’t have to do that anymore
I’m a slave to my best friend
and I’m so relieved
I am ready to die for you
Consume me
Burn me
Destroy me
Purge me
you will never hurt me
You just want me dead
so I will die
I can’t keep this to myself
The world will know
who you are
when they see you in me that is all I want to be
you in me
God you’re so amazing
nobody understands
they think I’m crazy to talk like this
but I’m fearless now
what can they do to me
even my friends think I’m a fool
so what
I want to plunge into a sea
of spirituality
and find you there
and know you are the Only Way
the Truth
the Life
and know that I am worth the World to you

Good Day

I’m feeling sad…, somewhat scared, and apprehensive about this “Grand Dame” of all adventures in my life,so far! Yet, at the same time I am curious as to what mysteries await me at the other end of this exciting airplane flight. All of these different emotions flood my senses, threatening to
overpower me, one by one. I turn my head to look outside the window, and down below me I behold the most beautiful sight my eyes have ever seen. A tropical paradise! My florid Island home, embraced and caressed by the aqua colored waters that surround it’s graceful, alabaster shores. “Goodbye”, wave the Palms trees. “Farewell”, whispers the Rain Forest. “Vaya con Dios”, sings the Coqui.”Goodbye, my Island home!” “My verdant, tropical mother!” “My one and only true love!” “Goodbye…. Adios…!”

Just like a young and tender sapling,
You nourished me since birth.
My limbs grew strong yet slender,
Island mother, home on earth.
My spirit you did nurture,
with your beauty, so sublime.
Your loving breeze caressed me,
For mankind had no time.
Your warm tropical sunshine,
Did wake me up each day,
In time to hear the last of the Coqui sing
Before they went away.
I roamed around your forests,
Ran up and down your hills.
You loved me Island mother
Like no one ever will.
I miss the gentle kisses,
Placed on my youthful cheeks,
By playful drops of water,
As I splashed upon your creeks.
I laid down on your gentle ground,
On many star-filled nights,
And safe within your warm embrace,
My spirit would take flight.
I’d travel to the stars so high,
And look down upon the earth,
No where else did I want to venture to,
But to the Island of my birth.
And like that tender sapling,
They pulled me, roots and all,
Transplanted me into some foreign soil,
Where I grew strong and tall.
There’s only one thing lacking,
My spirit they can’t find,
Though many have been searching,
It must have stayed behind.
In the shadows of the Palm trees,
Dancing with the ocean breeze,
On the most majestic Island,
There my spirit dwells at ease!


August 4. 98
Poetry 1998-1999-c