Last night
I dreamed
of you
again.

For one
sacred
moment,
I was with you
and you
were with me.

You were in shining white
as in life
your eyes sparkled
like the brightest
star.
Your laugh,
your countenance,
your spirit
your love
were alive again
if only in a dream.
And I felt loved.

I miss you as the second beat of my heart
and there is no coming back
over the
misty chasm
that keeps us apart.
Someday I will join you
but that is not today.

Today is only sorrow.


© Copyright 2008

MAY NOT BE REPRINTED WITHOUT AUTHOR'S WRITTEN PERMISSION.

...and I await
the showing
of the blessed Face
Whose radiant countenance
makes me whole again.


© Copyright 1993

MAY NOT BE REPRINTED WITHOUT AUTHOR'S WRITTEN PERMISSION.

Hope was a funny little creature, really. She moved through the streets with her paper sacks filled with God-knows-what, and actually smiled at the people she passed. It was no wonder that the vast majority of those who encountered her regarded her as, at the very least, demented. She smiled.

They watched her every day, with the fascination usually reserved for regarding zoo animals, or with the intensity of a 14-year old boy "reading" a National Geographic Magazine.

They took in her every oblivious move. They watched her go through the most mundane of her activities, making copious notes. They did not want to miss the slightest detail. Unfortunately, they missed the forest for the trees.

It was no wonder that eventually they decided to kill her. The plans they made were extraordinary in their comprehensiveness. Their method was to poison her. Slowly. The point, though perhaps taken to an extreme, was to wipe that silly little grin off her face. Forever.

Because Hope was such an absurd creature, they thought that she would never catch on to their plan. Not in a million years, or at the most, she would only figure it out after it was too late.

They underestimated her.

Oh, they thought that they had a watertight plan, an airtight alibi. But with Hope, there was no foolproof method of anything. She could circumvent a nuclear explosion.

They didn't know that about her.

One of the first rules of warfare is to know the enemy. That was their fatal mistake. They assumed that what they saw was what they would get. They could not have been more wrong, and they could not have underestimated any adversary more completely. For the docile and constant Hope would be their undoing.


The day they began to carry out their plan, the sky bore down upon the earth with a grayness that reached inside the soul. The cold reached all the way to the bone, and no amount of shifting from foot to foot could create enough warmth. They did not take that as a bad omen; rather, it fed their desire to eradicate Hope. The grayness would have been impacted adversely by her too sunny grin and her buoyant personality. Ick.

Hope, poor thing, did not notice as the first grains of poison were fed to her. She did not react to the slight twinges brought on by the toxin. She was aware of some mild discomfort, but was not unduly concerned. She was sure that the next day would be better. She, to their delight, was wrong.

Hope started exhibiting symptoms of poisoning quite early. She experienced blurred vision, and had difficulty dealing with the things with which she normally had no problem. Her balance was off, and her mind became obsessed with details that were not at all important. She, quite simply, was not herself.

That was the first sign, and they missed it.

While they were scurrying around like field mice in search of grain, Hope was realizing what was happening. She, then, took precautions against her tormentors. She made sure that they could no longer tamper with her, inserting their poison and affecting every move she made.

She knew the poison well. Others had tried it before. Even though they often spoke kindly of her, she knew that they were only waiting for a chance to get rid of her. Hope had no illusions, for all the frivolity they tried to pin on her. Deep down, she was a realist, and had a realist's uncanny ability to survive...anything.

Once she recognized their intent, she obtained an antidote to ensure her safety. She realized that it would be a battle to the death, if they had their way. She wasn't prepared to die, for all their threats and plans.

When they had increased the dose of poison to half the strength required to kill her, she surprised them by appearing at her windowsill and planting bright red geraniums in the window box. They contrasted sharply with the dull red brick of the building.
It pissed them off.

When they had increased the dose of poison to the strength required to kill a horse, she surprised them by donning a flowing pink evening gown and going dancing.

That really pissed them off.

When they had increased the dose of poison to the strength required to kill an elephant, she surprised them by running naked through the park. At midnight.

And they were pissed.


They then decided to regroup and rethink their original plan. The one who had suggested the particular poison they used narrowly avoided being run out of town on a rail. They decided that, instead of poisoning her, the substance they used must have given her strength, for they could not believe that little, simpering Hope could possess so much vitality.

When, during their discussion, the positive qualities of the substance with which they had tried to poison Hope became evident, they all decided that, in order to be worthy adversaries of Hope, all should partake. They each took doses large enough to wipe out a small apartment building. They were not disappointed. The poison worked, quickly and effectively. They died rather unspectacularly, blaming Hope for their demise.

They were right; it was her fault. There was no trickery on the part of Hope; she just did what she needed to do to survive. She knew how, having had multiple attempts made on her life before. She didn't really understand it, this malice she engendered in certain others, but she knew how to survive it. Her basic survival method was simple: she just did what Hope naturally does, and she survived.

If you are wondering who "they" are, I am not going to tell you. If you don't know, you are one of them...if you do know, you are a sister, brother, lover of Hope.


What are you doing at midnight?


© Copyright 1993

MAY NOT BE REPRINTED WITHOUT AUTHOR'S WRITTEN PERMISSION.

She walked up the hill to the cemetery, breathing heavily. With her, she carried a jar full of dried rose petals. It seemed, however, that the jar contained far more than flowers; it was as if the jar contained all the hopes, dreams and promise she had once found in the future. She brought them with her to say good-bye.

She planned a little ritual, a breaking away, to dislodge (once and for all) the dream that stained her heart – not really stained, though…it was a tattoo, and she felt the exquisite pain of every single needle prick. She had done everything to give life to the dream; in return, it took her life greedily, hungrily, never giving anything back. Finally, it sapped joy from her like her life's blood, kissing her as a vampire; its embrace conveying her into the world of the undead.

She had loved the rose petals, so symbolic of the dream, and kept them for years, believing in their power to make her heart's desire (so she thought) a reality. She now realized her folly: rose petals were not magic, they had no power. She had kept them for years as a promise of the way things would be someday.

As she sat looking down at the jar, the glass blurred as tears filled her eyes. She had believed. She had been mistaken. What a fool she had been!

She unscrewed the lid and put her hand in the jar among the petals. She grabbed a handful and scattered them behind her, not before her as a bride, but after; the wake of broken dreams. The wind picked them up and scattered them, leading them into a swirling dance.

She piled them high upon a grave stone that bore the name of a long forgotten namesake. She said good-bye to the part of herself which had died in its infancy, had struggled valiantly for life, had lost.

She continued to sprinkle the petals throughout the grassy slope of the cemetery, winding her way through monuments of people she had never known. She let them go, gently, far more gently than the dream had ever been had ever been to her.

She did not hate the petals, did not resent them. She let them go, returning to the earth where they belonged. With the petals, she let go of the dream, finally, completely. It had never been hers to keep.


© Copyright 1993, may not be reproduced without author's written consent.