The Architecture of Broken Hearts

"The Architect" by Erik Johansson

Click HERE to view his website.

Linking with The Sunday Muse for Muse # 78

brought to us today by the amazing and talented poet Shay!

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"When the winds of change blow, some people build walls and others build windmills."

~ Chinese Proverb

We build homes out of more than timber and brick

For living in a perfect place is an optical illusion

A sleight of hand that hides an ace under its sleeve

My mother built hers with secrets that remained behind closed doors

Perfect curtains in front of cluttered rooms where emptiness

Filled the air thicker than the dust that lined the shelves

I built my house on my own with no directions

But it still was block and beam set on the same illusion

Denial is stronger than the steel frame of a skyscraper

Where character defects can be blind to a cracked foundation

Sometimes to truly repair the damage

 we must tear down the dilapidated homestead

and simply begin again. 

The Visitation

~This photo was taken in the house my grandparents lived in, and I am the awkward little girl sitting by my grandmother.~

Linking with Poets United for "Telling Tales" with the lovely and amazing Magaly Guerrero

for A Pantry of Prose # 2 ~ Magical Realism

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Some people have had lost loved ones visit them in their dreams, and believe me when I say, this has happened to me many times.  It always leaves you feeling both comforted and saddened at the same time.  Like re-bruising an old injury brings the pain back to the surface.  This story takes it a step further.

When I was growing up, my maternal grandparent’s home was my summer vacation home, and where I stayed for most holidays, and many weekends.  It was more than a visit when I went to Grandmaw and Grandpaw’s house.   That house was my favorite place in the whole world! There was so much sadness, and hard silences at home, so their house was a lovely home to me and a place of refuge for my heart.

We had a peaceful routine, and they both spent true time with me; telling stories, singing songs, indulging me with my silly performances with a cassette recorder and my talk shows that I made up including them in the skit.  It was no lie that I was much closer to my grandparents than I was my own parents.

 Then sadly, from the time I was 13 to 16 years old I lost both my Grandparents; my Grandmaw to pneumonia, and later my Grandpaw passed in his sleep.  The phone call I got for him was devastating.  I had lost them both, and I went through a depression for many months.

Time does have a way of easing the pain, but for 30 years after that time I dreamed of that house every single night! It was as if it was a beautiful ghost comforting me with a visitation in my dreams.  You see that house represented all that was close to my heart; my Grandparents, the joy we shared, and the peace of a happy and secure place.

 It still visits me to this day. 

Note:

I need an editor with me at all times, so if there are major rule and punctuation errors in this, that is why. I do love these prose prompts, because they make me stretch out of my comfort zone some.  Thank you Magaly for helping us spread our wings!

This is Just the Beginning

Photo by Lukasz Dziegel from Pexels

Linking with the Sunday Muse for Muse # 50 Yes this is our 50th prompt Yay!
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The rustling sounds at the back drew her to the fence like a lure.  Sara had finally arrived at the MacGregor Ranch, hoping to find Mrs. Covington, the owner of the property.  She had been longing to make this trip for such a long time and get answers about her real father, Leon.  He had been a horse trainer and lived on the property for years as a ranch hand.  This was the only thing she knew about him.  He was a stranger otherwise.  A person she had never known, a face that she had never seen except in pictures.

  Peering through the open slat in the fence she tried to get a glimpse of him before she walked around to the front and knocked on the ranch house door. So many questions filled her mind, as her stomach stirred like a cauldron of butterflies.  What if he did not want to see her?  What if she had to leave with no answers at all?  Before she could think up another ending of doom, a hand patted her on the shoulder, sending her reeling backward with a scream as loud as a siren.

  Once she had regained her breath and heartbeat, she looked around to see Mrs. Covington, a tall lanky woman with a voice rough like old rusty nails.  “How can I help you, young lady?”  Sara took a long swallow like it was whiskey going down hard, “Well yes, I called you a few weeks ago, uh about your horse trainer?”  she said in a question as if she was no longer sure what she had done.  “Sara Mosley?  Oh yes, I remember you.” Mrs. Covington wrapped her arm around her and led her to the house. “We have much to talk about Miss Sara, more than a phone call could rightly suite.” “My name is Leona by the way, call me Leona.” 

After hours out on the veranda drinking lemonade and laughing until they were crying and back again, the two ventured out to the pasture so that Sara could see where her father had spent all these years. Leona held out her hand and waved it forward like a game show host model, presenting the prizes in store.   “This is it.”  She said to Sara, like it was an inheritance finally at hand.  Sara stood there quiet for a moment taking it all in, when suddenly she looked back at Leona, and it hit her.  Her eyes got wide as moon pies, and then she stepped back from Leona.  Leona reached out toward her.  “It is me honey, it’s okay, it is me.”

This is just the beginning……

©Carrie Van Horn 2019

It Takes a Village

Photography by David Nam Lip Lee

Image Source


Linking with The Sunday Muse for Muse #43
and Poets United for Poetry Pantry # 440
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Mothers are the gardeners of the human race. ~Anna A. Rogers


If we lose our mother young
we search our whole life for her
in the faces of strangers
in the arms of those we hold dear
all the roads we take
lead to questions
we never ask
the silence of the unknowing 
becomes the song we always sing
yet somewhere in the place
of holding on and letting go
we find 
that she is all around us
in the void there is an outpouring
that fills up some of the empty places
women have a way of nurturing
the lost child
like the lioness in the pride
will care for another's young
the motherless child
will grow up
and one day
look back
and realize
they found many mothers
God provides one way or another
and that is the answer
to the questions
of a lost child.

©Carrie Van Horn 2019

L O V E

Courtesy Google Images

Linking with Poets United for the Midweek Motif ~ Love
 Brought to us by Sumana

Without love, the rich and poor live in the same house.
 ~Author Unknown

I never cared much for diamonds

they cut skin and pocketbooks

it has always been about 

love and what my heart felt

I never wanted to be a gold digger

sounds too messy anyway

give me a heart of gold and soft kisses 

and I will follow you 

to your one room shack

and work two jobs

to make it all work

yes love has led me

along a rocky path

and I have stumbled down it

with an awkward grace

there were times I questioned my decisions

but now I have no regrets

every fall has refined my heart 

like the polishing and cutting

of raw diamonds

if there had not been my first husband

I would not have 4 people

I cherish in my life

and if there had not been 

my second 

I would not have my Becky

for each gravel road has

led to a beautiful palace of family

rough rivers leading 

to a breathtaking sea

and the amazing part it this 

*****

through it all

the love gets stronger

with time

it's comfort grows like 

trees shade in evening

and after all

I never cared much for diamonds

they cut skin and pocketbooks

it has always been about the love.

©Carrie Van Horn 2019

Everyday In Heaven

"One Father's day when I was around 8, I asked my Dad why there was never a "kids day".  His response was timely and sure, he simply said, "because kid's day is everyday"!  I was certain he was trying to make me laugh and nothing more.   It was not until I was an adult that I really comprehended the truth in those words."

Amber and Seth

 

Many years later I became a parent myself, and through all the sweat, tears, blood, pain, and squeezing my husbands hand so that he would not feel left out in the agony, I gave birth to a 7 pound baby boy.  At that very moment my view on everything was never the same.  What had mattered in the past was truly passed, all in one babies cry.  Nothing else mattered from then on.  It was like a slate had been wiped clean, or I had amnesia to everything that existed  before.  My focus was on a little one in my arms, and nothing more.  As time went by I came to understand the idea that was behind my father's words. 

Now I have many grandchildren, and that is a whole world of it's own.  In many ways to me it is like a little bit of Heaven right here on earth.   I have 10 grand children ranging in age from 14 years to 8 months, and they are all amazing, but there is one that I do not get to see any more.  His name is Seth, and today is his earthly birthday.  You see he passed away when he was only 2 years old.   It was the year 2000, and that time is etched in my heart and memory like a scar that can not be removed.  Today, August 13th, Seth is 12 years old  in Heaven.

In my heart I feel that birthdays in Heaven are probably not the way we experience them here.  I envision every day to be a celebraion there.  Loved ones being reunited, and those that are finally able to see God's face dancing and rejoicing.   I imagine it is not something we can truly grasp in our minds at the point we are at here on earth, but I have faith that Seth knows these joyous treasures.

This post is not meant to be sorrowful, bitter, or melancholy.  For me, it is truly a celebration of a life, just as a birthday truly is here on earth.   It is a recognition and remembrance of a precious child that filled our lives with so much joy in such a short time.  I know in my heart that everyday in Heaven is a beautiful jubilee for our precious Seth, and like my Dad once said, "everyday is kids day" in Heaven.

 

 

Heaven has been blessed with your wonderful smile for 15 years.

One day we will smile there with you. :-)

 

I wrote this five years ago...and the feelings and message stand strong today and will forever and always.

Here is a link to something Amber wrote many years ago: click here.

To see her lovely blog click right here.

 



I Should Have Listened To My Mother

 Google Images

"The past can't see you, but the future is listening." ~Terri Guillemets

Lonely Is A Velvet Chair

Google Images

 Linking with Poetry Pantry #220

"Loneliness and the feeling of being unwanted is the most terrible poverty." 

~Mother Teresa

In the old house I grew up in, there was an antique velvet chair that sat in the corner of the living room draped with a sheet. It was never used as far as I could tell.  Mother said it was too fine a chair to be dirtied up by our sweaty little bodies. So there it stood ,while I sat on the floor to watch television.

Years later after she passed away, the chair ended up in my grandparent's garage once again draped with a sheet. I came across it searching for old photos of my family. I had spent many nights there at my grandparent's and other friend's houses throughout that difficult time.

Looking back now, I realize it was simply my Dad's way of protecting me from the emptiness that so filled our home. I suppose he did not understand that loneliness is not merely solidarity, for I learned then, that it is also magnified by being kept apart from where you are meant to be.



The Endowment

Wind of History by Jacek Yerka

The Mag #156

"History is a cyclic poem written by Time upon the memories of man". ~Percy Bysshe Shelley

The place my grandmother came from
 is the place my child would be destined to go. 
There is no way I could have foreseen it,
 but here in my sojourn backward I now know.
All the destruction of one bent affliction
of one searching for a cure of a hollowing ache
can leave a path filled with acres of ruin
 for the seeds of another generation to face.
For the legacy of this disease of suffering
is a gift no one in sanity would ever choose,
yet it is an inheritance granted with no favor
to the descendants of history's unsettling dues.



Our Place In Life,

image: ParkeHarrison

The Mag #111

"It takes hands to build a house, but only hearts can build a home." ~Author Unknown

Twig by twig we build our world long before a boy becomes a man.

The tools that our father's father used eventually fill our hands.

All the methods our great grandfathers learned from the ones that built before,

are passed down to the next generation through trial, error and lesson's chore.

Every sinful habit, and constructive wisdom gained in the design,

are blueprints our fore fathers drafted that determine our way in life.

Yet, simply because a frame is formed and a life is completely raised,

does not mean that the lines drawn before cannot be productively erased.

Being the mother of someone in recovery, I have learned that we are all  in so many ways products of our past, and the past of our parents before us.  The way we build our lives and relationships directly affects our children and then our grand children as well.  When there is unhealthy behavior, it builds a nest of quandary that can become a pattern that others follow for years to come.  Yet, like trigs and limbs of a tree, patterns can be broken, and then removed.   We can rebuild something worthwhile from a nest that is destructive. That is the beauty of the recovery of the human spirit when it is open to the truth in this life.

All The Way Back

One Shot Wednesday

When I was a child out shopping with my father in the busy paced Christmas season, my small steps could never match his giant ones.  For every large stride he took, I had to take three awkaward leaps to keep in step.  It was like a little red bird flying next to an eagle with his massive wing span, there was a great difference in our flight, and like the eagle my father had a great wing span.  When we were finished at the store, and the car was loaded up, he would always push the shopping cart all the way back into the store where it belonged.  I would sit in the car waiting and wondering why he took the time to do such a good deed when he had so many more important things to do.  At the time, I could not comprehend how his example of giving of himself, even in such a small way, would impact my view of the meaning of giving later in life.

Last week marked the beginning of the holiday shopping season.  Once again as an adult, I found myself participating in the pyretic frenzy of shoppers bumping into one another trying to attain our prized merchandise that would make the perfect gift for that special someone.  The chaos of that kind of interaction can steal the cheer right out of the holiday spirit. So when I was leaving the sale, and could not get to my car due to several carts left all in the way, it was at that moment, that I realilzed how in the effort to get everything right, we seem to get it all so wrong!

Every year at this time I become torn between the joy of the spirit of giving, and the drudgery of getting everything done on my Christmas to do list.  Time, like lightening, flashes past me, and I just follow it in vain, like the thunder with an artless thud!  However, if I stop myself in my tracks, and think all the way back when I was a child at Christmas, there are certain memories that come rushing back like a prodigal son longing to be held by the father once more.  None of these thoughts hold any significance to anyone but me.  There are no favorite gifts, new bikes, go go boots, or colored television sets.  There are only precious moments spent with loved ones that repair my vision of what truly matters.  Sometimes we get so caught up in the race reaching for the prize, that we forget the true purpose it held in the beginning.  The holiday season is not about how many presents we can give, but giving in celebration of the priceless gift  of hope God gave us all the way back on the first Christmas in Bethlehem.  In times like these, I often have to be remimnded that the greatest gifts of all are free.

Many years have passed since I was eight years old out shopping with my father.  He has long since passed away, and I have spent many Christmas seasons out shopping on my own.  Sometimes I have waisted too much money, but I realize more and more as I get older that I have never been waisting my time,  for no act of kindness is ever in vain.  The real gifts that I was given growing up stay with me always, and they reflect out to others, like ripples in a pond.  When I recall the memories of my father, it is the times we shared together, and how his integrity etched its place upon my heart that hold true.  Just like our Father in Heaven has given us an eternal hope that our hearts can always hold.

This life is full of many struggles; errands that must be done, and decisions both mundane and colossal to be made.  Through it all, let us not forget what truly matters most.  Sometimes when I am out shopping, and my father is on my mind, as he so often is this time of year, I will finish loading my car with gifts, and take the time to push the cart all the way back to the store where it belongs.  It always fills me with an inner peace, and the sweet vision of my father's smile.  I know I will never be able to fill my father's shoes, but I am certain that I shall always try.

This is an essay I wrote for Christmas "all the way back" in 2007.  I hope that everyone here in the blogosphere had a wonderful Christmas full of the blessings of the heart, and that the new year is one full of happiness and hope.

Fences

At Christmas, all roads lead home.  ~Marjorie Holmes

One Shot Wednesday

Growing up my brother and I were raised on one hundred acres of perfect Sanger graze land, just north of Denton, Texas.  At our house there was a majestic view from every window, but the house was completely surrounded by a a fence.  It served its purpose in keeping the cattle away from the porch, yet it seemed to be the place I remained most of my childhood, staying within the fence.

Looking back it seems so strange that we had all that land, but we had to remain most of the time within the confines of those closed gates.  For myself ,I could only call it a loss and go on, but for my brother Vaude it was different.  He had more freedom at a younger age than I, but when he did get it, he went as fast as he could, like a canary that broke out of its cage.  He always was a restless spirit, and peace was just not within this grasp then, and unlike the distance that seperates counties and states, I could not reach him for a very long time.

It wasn't until the last few years that his heart had settled down.  We had not seen each other in over ten years, but he had called me several times, and our talks had become increasingly longer.   I had invited him to stay many times at no avail, yet I never ventured out his way either.  I kept imagining that when we were older, and retired that we would have lots of time to visit one another then, and maybe even live near each other.  I knew that then we could make up for all the time we lost.  Unfortunately, on Christmas day 2002, my brother died of a massive heart attack at the Elks Lodge in Denton.  It is a day that has forever changed me.  I had spent so much time being too busy to get away, that like a fence, I kept myself from going where I should have gone.  I can't have that time back.  I can only learn from it.  I do not ever want to take anything or anyone for granted.

Christmas is a time of hope, celebration, and an opportunity to reach out to others, as God has to us.  I want to take this time to reflect, and look forward, with the thankfulness I should have for all the wonderful people in my life.  My plans with my brother may have been altered, but they were not completely changed, only the destination.  For I know that we will meet again beyond the confines of this world.

God bless you all today, and always.

Grandma's Way

Think Tank Prompt #15

Memory is a child walking along a seashore.  You never can tell what small pebble it will pick up and store away among its treasured things.  ~Pierce Harris

There once was an old lady with hair a light shade of blue.

Her face was slowly falling and her heart was tried but true.

She loved to feed the alley cats and tell them of her dreams.

She squatted in her lilly garden to plant her plastic queens.

I loved to hear her stories of life and days gone by.

Her voice was soft and wistful that never told a lie.

Her manner was truly graceful as she tied her sheer pink scarf.

Her words were always gentle as she touched you with her heart.

She prayed over my pillow, and cast her faith on high.

She always looked so peaceful when she glanced up at the sky.

Her hands were warm and true when she brushed my tangled hair,

and she always intently listened to all my hopes and cares.

She lived her life truly smiling, day after day.

A rainbow in the storm, that was just her way.

Even though she is gone now, and is beyond my reach,

Grandma will always be the reason I hold on to my dreams.

A tribute to the memory of my Grandma and her wonderful ways.

Green Off The Vine

Magpie Tale # 22 ( A great site for writers!)

You were always hungry to hold freedom before your time.

I grew fat on hopes, content to linger on the vine.

On earth you never found the purpose you longed to hold.

I hope that now in heaven, peace is yours to know.

For Vaude

October 10, 1956  to  December 25, 2002

So many times over the years I have wondered why my brother, and I chose such different paths.  Both of the same vine, we shared so many things as children, but how we accepted and dealt with the troubles of our adulthood was so diverse.  We were like different fruits of seperate gardens.  I often thought that maybe there was something more that I could have done to help him.  Now through life's hopes, struggles, and recoveries in my own life, I have come to realize that our lives are part of a bigger plan that our hands could never completely hold.

His struggles taught me to be strong.  His searching helped me choose hope.

His shortened life was my teacher more than he ever knew.