blueWhat have we become
When all is said
And the day is done

What were we then
What are we now
Within life’s prison den

Headless victims without a thought
A group think mind
And the sufferings it wrought

Upon our children for themselves to fend
Abandoned they, as we march
Into the workforce to keep up “our end”

And what end is that in truth
Are we better off
By placing our children in a stranger’s booth

Severed arms and severed head
We claim liberty
But aren’t we really dead

Woman’s spirit and mind captured
By distortions and pretense
We deceive ourselves enraptured

Our reward, children dead by our own hand
Documents which dictate who we are
Membership in the Lonely Hearts Club Band

What have we become parrots all
Agree or die or worse~ shunned
True freedom beckons hear the call

Be shunned
Be damned
By headless women of this land

Your head intact
Your arms to hold
Your children back~from the abyss

Within your woman’s heart
Your woman’s nature let it reign
And fight the falsehoods of the devil’s plain.

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Sunday Mass: A True Story In This Climate of Fear

Parking in a big city is horrendous. The church I attend has a very steep parking lot hill to climb and if I could avoid it, I do. The street sign in front of the church, one of a million in this anti-parking city, read TOW ZONE NO Parking (except during church services) I parked. I got out of my car. I saw two policemen speaking to each other while they were sitting in their SUVs. As I walked away from my car, one SUV pulled up behind me. I waited for the officer to call me back for misinterpreting the TOW ZONE sign. He did not.

During Mass I wondered “why were two police vehicles outside of church to begin with?” Mass went along, no one was sick. There were no siren sounds from the street. I began to think of the elderly priest getting stabbed in a Canadian Church last month and over 300 of my Sri Lankan Catholic brothers and sisters who lost their lives at Mass. “Is there a threat here today”? I asked myself, “what would I do if I saw someone approaching the sanctuary with a knife”? I began to look around for what I could use to knock the lunatic out. “The brass candle stick”, I thought. “No, too heavy for me to lift”. “My purse, yes my purse. I would wack from the back. Wait, what if the lunatic isn’t knocked out and turns on me”? I eyed the Easter Lilly potted plant. “Yes, I would wack him/her from behind with my purse and immediately thwack the person over the head with the potted plant”.

This was my post communion meditation! Nothing “went down”. I spent the rest of Mass time apologizing to God for being so stupid and wasting good meditation time by indulging my overactive imagination. I rejoined “earth” at the final blessing.
As I walked out of Mass, I bumped into the policeman who was parked behind me. He was holding a church bulletin and ready to get back into his SUV. I said to him, “You know, Officer, this crazy world is getting to me.” He asked: “How so?” I answered: “I spent my whole meditation thinking about terrorists and how I would deal with it. I wondered if I was ready for martyrdom. I even chose my purse and potted Easter Lilly plant “weapons” to ward off an attack on the priest. After all that nonsensical thinking, here you are officer simply attending Mass!” I laughed at myself (out loud!).

He looked at me, the piteous, elder, crazy lady and smiled. Then he asked me, “Mam, did you happen to see the other policeman in his SUV”? “Yes” I answered. “Well mam, he was stationed here to be on guard for the Mass. I told him I would be more than happy to stay and will enter the church, attend Mass, and keep watch.”

Yes, there was a threat. The police were guarding. I guess I am not a piteous, crazy old lady with an over active imagination. I am an old lady who has lived long enough to witness the barbarity of an age, when a sanctuary is no longer a refuge.

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Vatican Summit: A Mother’s Response

You devoured our children
Oh, sons of perdition
As you spew the words
Of false contrition
Your dry eyes betray
For you have no tears

Your words now fall
Like sulfur’s burning ash
Into our mothers’ wounds
Beware Oh son’s of Baal
Moloch is your god
Forsaken is the Christ

Christs words for you were clear
You have ignored them without fear
No fear of God nor man
Only fear for your own desires lost
It was too great a cost

This cost then for your desires
Will gain for you smoke and fire
You have chosen this yourself
Not I, nor any mother condemn you
More than you have condemned yourselves

Mothers will not rest
We will fight you in this way
Our prayers like shards to pierce your souls
Our words a constant din within your ears
Our widow’s mite withheld
For you have devoured our children
You will not rest, nor we

You are not men
You are ringwraiths, shadows
Whose only love is self
A man protects, lays down his life
A man is father whether or not he takes a wife
You, Oh sons of perdition
Have devoured your children
Their mothers will not rest

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Sunday Morning~Widowhood

We no longer sit on a couch for two
We sit alone in a chair
One glass, one dish, one spoon
Ham sandwich may be our dinner
Cooking no longer our main
A ticket for one
On the bus or the train

In the restaurant we sit
A table for one if you please
Surrounded by couples
Some talking some not
We wonder why sometimes
We have been given this lot

Over time and a distance
From that sentinel event
Life becomes more livable
Tears become rarer
Our hand however
Once held by the beloved
And our side by which he stood
Still empty ~gone~ the one we loved

Ah yes, we are blessed with our children’s love
And our grandchildren’s love
And the love of our God from heaven above
For this we are grateful to all
Who are most kind
Yet, the loss of the one
That love which binds
Will never be repeated in this life
For the love for a mother is different
From the love for a wife

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The Empty Man

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At the bar
His place of forgetting
Mahogany surrounds
His life abetting
He stares into his empty glass

Another beer
Just one more
He can not afford
He is shown the door
He travels to his house, a home no more

He enters
His place so empty
Silence surrounds
Where his family should be
He falls to his bed wearing his unwashed shirt

He dreams of that day
When did it start
The road to his loneliness
The gaping wound in his heart
He searches his pockets for his loose change

He roams
The roads for a woman to charm
Someone to walk with him
Arm in arm
More for desire fulfilled and standing, than love

Night falls again
As he enters the bar
His place of forgetting
Those close and those far
He stares once more into his empty glass

This life chosen
A default into drink
It captures his mind and his soul
Into the darkness he sinks
And into his bed perhaps for the last time

His life to succumb
To this shallow existence
To the beer and the wine
Within his own insistence
A remedy~ empty of substance and love

He wonders
Blinded by pride
Others to blame
His own fault he hides
As he stares into his empty glass

Photograph: Empty Glass of Beer from the Top by Gamaweb
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Reflection 2016
It was the samewoman alone at table
From September to February
The chill of Autumn
The first snow
The lullaby carefully chosen
Anticipation and the hope
The fire warmed
Melting a heart grown cold
A pretense of care and protection
Against a solitary life
Ever lingering
Behind this facade
Remained the memory
The attachment to it grew
Like a cancer, stealth
Years passed and finally
Holy, blessed indifference
And with indifference came
The light, the truth, and a heart
No longer cold, nor longing
But fulfilled
By a love, grown for solitude
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Wednesday Morning Rain


The majesty of heaven bursts
Upon the head of man
A reminder
Man does not control the rain
Neither does he start it
Nor ends it
For all the world
Man thinks he gains
For control he lusts and tries
Yet when the rain
From heaven comes
His pride is soon to die
Be humble you pretentious soul
Bow your head in shame
For your pride dissolves
Within a drop
Of God’s almighty reign

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