I cannot laud the wondrous butterfly,

nor ant, nor swan, nor owl's lone, haunting cry.

The spider and its web's most sure another

done to death by this world and his brother.

Actually, there's really nothing left;

they took it all, and now we're left bereft.

Why bother lifting pen in hand at all?

Might just as well stare stupid at the wall.

And lo, I spy a subject I might broach,

as down the wall climbs Harry, the cockroach.

O inspiration, I do cry, my roach crawls on the floor,

then turn in dread, and bow my head, as opens up the door.

My wife steps in, I wince and grin, as inspiration's lost,

O bitter world, a horrid fate, my Harry has been squashed.

A Modern Poem

Here's a poem, new and free,

the product of long labor;

pen in hand, I've toiled and sweat,

in truly valiant ardor.

You mustn't use, they all protest,

clear meter nor true rhyme;

free verse is now the new in thing,

th'example of our time.

How to conform, in whole or part

to all these modern notions?

I tax my brain, just can't refrain

from recourse to strong potions.

And in the end, I must admit,

while beer nuts I am crushing;

a modern poem's come to light:

it certainly says nothing.

Go Away

All told, there's just one joy I truly cherish,

a frame of mind so comforting to me;

a sweet and painless ease will always flourish,

in this soft, restful ecstasy.

Perhaps it's strange, I am in truth enraptured

by that which to some others may be just

an irksome net in which they're captured,

that little death which naturally follows lust.

But days are vexing, life one great long boor,

and pain through all the crevices will creep;

so please do not disturb me, by knocking on my door,

be courteous, go away, and let me sleep.

God Alone Knows Why I Wrote This Poem and I Don't Think It was God Who Made Me Do It

There are, they say, many ways to go,

an arctic wolf, for instance, might perish 'neath the snow.

It just might be a roasting porker's fate,

to end his days on someone's dinner plate.

But what about the microbe in one's bladder?

Fred, I'll call him, mad as any hatter.

Will on his stone the wicked muses scoff?

"Poor Fred, Our Friend, Was in the End, Pissed Off"

Lit Crit

Jane Eyre was not, I've always thought,

so truly, terribly wicked,

Austen, though her name's spelt so,

seems also wondrous marked.

And Dickens' light - a true delight,

from youth and then till now;

and several more, with tales of lore,

raised even Vicky's brow.

But oh the sighing, anxious, mournful dread,

when in the end, all of them I've read.

Oh what a pox, I got a box,

filled with modern prose;

so for my friend, I sought my pen,

and sent this little rose -

Thanks so fond, when on the john,

I'll certainly feel safer;

I'll turn the lock with this great box

of brand new toilet paper.

On time's done plain there is a brave new ville,

And Elle's grand, golden temple, high atop its hill,

In search of wisdom's light we will progress,

Up Elle's temple's hundred golden steps.

Elle Lectra on her mighty throne did sit,

Worshipped by a priest of two, a bit.

"Elle Lectra, I beseech one not uncouth,

Grant me your discourse on holy truth."

She looked down on me with a heavy heart,

"I will," she said, "enlighten you in part,

I cannot give you all you might desire,

My power has dimmed, hard times have quenched my fire.

In ages past I ruled a bright, new world,

Traveled cross the hard wired paths, majesty unfurled.

And without me, all others were as dust,

Ibey Em, for one, she'd wither and she'd rust."

"And who," I asked, trembling 'fore my gem,

"Was this glittered Lady, you call Ibey Em?"

"She was," Elle Lectra answered, "queen upon her mount,

All nations knelt before her, and pled with her to count.

'We cannot live without you, tell us if and when,'

The whole world came and groveled, before its Ibey Em.'"

'Em,' one day I told her, 'you're beautiful and you're young,

Without my pulsing power, though, your praise would ne'er be sung.

Without my kind assistance, though I sound a nag,

You'd be my precious Ibey, just another hag.'"

"Elle," my wondrous Lady, queen of every god,"

I spoke on ever boldly, cowering as I nod,

"How could she doubt your power, you thundering, mighty volt?

She must have been dim witted, a truly stupid dolt."

"Worse by far than Ibey," Elle spoke on voice serene,

"Was Ma Belle with her chatter, a boisterous, irksome queen.

'Behond,' to all the people, the loathesome bitch proclaims,

'I need no help from Lectra, I'll dance on her remanins.'

In foolish adoration, the people came and fell,

In worshipand in stupor, they drooled across Ma Belle.

'Ma Belle, you vain, ill-tempered witch,' I said so long ago,

'You are deceit, I will repeat, a lie ne'er made it so.'

And still the foolish horde did some, Ma Belle their pretty pet,

Till Ma Belle said, 'it's time to pay,' and bit without regret.

'Ma Belle,' a cry arose, finally cross the land,

'We'll cut you up, no ifs or buts, not even one quick and.'

And so the people sliced her, twice and thrice and more,

Fifty bloody pieces, rotted to the core."

"A truly guesome, horrid fate," I in good time observed,

"One the wicked Ma Belle, undoubtedly deserved.

But tell me, Elle so mighty, beneficent and true,

The secret you are keeping, the curse you've come to rue."

"On time's done plain, in the wondrous city,"

Elle Lectra quod, so sweet, so cute and pretty,

"They've set me on this high and mighty throne,

And time's done people will not let me roam,

O'er mount, down vale, through green across the land.

They fear my shocking power, the lightning in my hand.

'You were, Elle Lectra,' people now complain,

'No lady to our parents, you were instead their bane.'

But twas not I who smote your dad and mom,

It was, instead, another, your precious god A Tom.

'A Tom, though vile and noxious you might be,'

The people cried, in woe and strife, cowering on their knees,

'We'll let you out if you will just behave,

And give us all those trinkets, we one and all do crave.'

And so A Tom was worshipped, with trembling aplomb,

His final act, however, was just another bomb."

Charisse Unfinished

Perhaps another moment I might spare,

Charisse, who dear and true I should have loved,

my Lady, O my love, she might have been.

To make her with the license God has given,

I'd pray for gentler, nobler, thoughtful words;

she could have been my cherished, lasting dream.

You are, Charisse, no less than other loves,

my Lady, fair, who takes and rends my heart,

who's caught, I must confess, my hopeful eye.

Or could, Charisse, you have finally been

a teacher others seek for wisdom's light,

burning, fire swept passion in your soul?

O my love, I cannot give you true,

all I'd give which justice would demand;

my strength has gone, and pain alone remains.

And so in shadow, I must let you sleep,

in part formed dream, and long unending rest,

to live in silent beauty as your name.

Strange, it seems

Half the world I've seen

The north half, at least

At least the western half

Of the northern half

From Greenwich to Fairbanks

From zero, the start

To almost one eighty

Half the world I've seen

More than some today

More than most yesterday

Have ever seen

Sometimes sent, sometimes not

Wandering even while I wandered

Small paths beside great ones

Captive to the lust

Knowing well what it was

I haven't seen it all

But I think enough

Half the world I've seen

And what is there to say

Here's this

There's that

Subtle difference

Annoying similarity

Green, brown

Hues of blue

Shades between

Strange it seems

Now half the world I've seen

I lust for it no more

A vice from which I'm cleansed

For in the east it's said

Enlightenment is had

Staring at the fence

Without undue concern

For things which lie beyond

Half the world I've seen

And now the other half I'll see

Sitting still and quiet

Here beneath this tree

Pray tell, what reason will today,

you give those you have cast so cruel away?

I cannot, murdered babes are curtly told,

nourish you if my life's put on hold.

There's just too much the world I have to give,

takes so much time, none left for a crib.

I've not yet lived, I am too young by far,

I want a job and money, first, of course a brand new car.

Besides, they say in thoughtful, reasoned voice,

who else's could it possibly be, if it's not my choice?

Flanders Fields, Arlington, even Gettysburg,

grand and monumental plots, to which this country's lured;

and still they'd be as nothing next to most,

if in such fields were buried, this land's aborted host.

The Samaritan

Oft times I stop and ponder, inconsequential points,

questions which may matter, to those with aching joints

from long years sitting bent across their desk,

refining trivial nuance, taking no great risk.

How, I ask, a question so profound,

when 'long the way a waylaid man was found,

did they who passed him by decide to speak?

Did tact and eloquence they only seek?

Did in royal, flowing dress they lean and say,

"Bless you, son, this wondrous shining day?

Be of good cheer, your lot will soon improve,"

beatific smiles lest they sound course and crude?

"Poor soul," did they bemoan as they resumed,

their noble, priestly duties, with which they were consumed?

And finally, another soul did come,

this man, of course, our Lord's Samaritan,

the enemy, of vile and ill repute,

possibly a fearsome, fiendish brute.

I'll argue that he looked with sighing scorn,

toward nuisance like an aggravating thorn;

nor did the one in pain within the ditch

vary long and greatly from his niche.

"I'll get no help," he said in anguished glum,

"from any low and course Samaritan.

At least the priest and rabbi all the while

gave solace with their beauty and their smile."

But then, just as in writ we're truly told,

a sight most likely wondrous to behold,

two enemies their hands in close embrace,

one lifts the other from that horrid place

of pain and hurtful anguish 'side the road,

past which two others thought no duty owed.

"O bother," the Samaritan did groan

carrying his rescued victim home,

"such nuisance on myself I've brought,

and by my wife I'll certainly be shot

by arrows, darts and pikes when she discovers,

another to be nursed till he recovers."

Pretty smiles and gracious words, soothing elocution,

traded by the righteous just, in clerical vocation;

but smiles and words, if in a ditch, I truthfully want none,

I want instead, I've often said, a Good Samaritan.

I've been a great and long lost weary age

tramping cross this desert burnt so fierce,

seeking naught of wealth or lordly wage,

vain lies, no long and lasting worth.

I've heard the awesome rush of driving winds

scrape dust and dirt from distant, timeless plain;

no power there is which in this world rescinds

this cleansing drought - the Sprit's endless reign.

The wind, of course -our Lord's dear, cherished voice,

our Lord who in the desert's also known

the raucous, boasting of the devil's voice,

the tempter's lying gloat and wicked groan.

No rusting wealth, no ill got crust of bread,

nor kingdoms grand which compass far and wide

are worth, our Lord to tempter truly said,

our Father's joy when banal want's denied.

O why, I ask, as o'er this waste I tread,

can I not shun with tranquil calm and ease

the pleasures of the tempter, vile and dread,

which heaven hath declared low vanities?

Perhaps an age or two I'll wander still

and hear one day the quiet voice divine

in scented breeze from every vale and hill,

the desert fierce, our Lord's in type and kind.

The desert is, without a word of doubt

a wondrous place, the world's base cares dismissed,

that noisy din of cities, the vendor's irksome shout,

those luring lights not easy to resist.

Yet even in the desert, subtle devils dwell

which poke and prod, their accusations oft

a needling, vicious clamor, malicious lies they tell

to quench the Spirit's whisper, low and soft.

But only in the desert, burnt of guile and pride,

is God's true voice in sweet song truly heard;

the desert's where the soul is rent, the heart is opened wide

to every quiet sighing of his word.

Nor is the desert distant, mysteriously placed

cross oceans or in lands spread far apart;

the desert lives wherever, a person has been graced

with gentle faith and open human heart.

A Loud Mouth

A Mouth roars long and loud across the airwaves

exhorting tired old notions o'er the land.

And from their countless, polished, pompous enclaves,

a flock of bleating sheep laud his command.

How can, the Mouth roars on, we keep our neighbor,

a costly and unwarranted New Deal?

It's time the lazy louts got fruitful labor,

those sluggards who demand a prepaid meal.

There's naught that's wrong, the Mouth to all its minions,

proclaims while praising its own excellence,

with hoarding wealth and gains, the noble fruit of

one's striving for another pound or pence.

Though Tory times are long since past,

more webs are being spun,

by wriggling, venomous creatures,

the Mouth's Republicans.

It's true a shame, the Mouth roars on and loud,

that only some of this land's teaming mass

can decently in brick and stone be housed.

But let us not rush quickly, sounding brash,

by crying that there's any nagging problem,

or numbers marked greater than of old;

and even if the mob grows loud and fearsome,

with just and righteous force they'll be controlled.

It's true, it said, in every street and lane,

when in unruly haste the mob's been caught;

we can no longer pity for the pain,

must send instead a gift of grape and shot.

Though Tory times are long since dead

I shudder at the words,

I've heard the Mouth speak all so loud

to its malignant heard.

There was a time, before the Mouth burst forth,

when matters of such high significance

could be the average man and in due course

be spoken wanting not intelligence.

But greatest sorrow's for the drooling host,

those legions awed and dazzled by the Mouth.

Will they and it in chanting roar soon boast

of carnage others view with scorn and loath,

of paupers laying spread across the street,

the soldier prone and peering at his gun?

Don't doubt a lurid, potent new elite,

if one and same are Mouth - Republican.

Though Tory times are long since done

comes now another trial,

the Mouth roars on across the land

and 'heils' another mile.

Just one precaution I might add,

to end this simple letter,

the other party now about

ain't a whole lot better.

A razor's steely, slashing, cold hard bite

Slicing, pitiless, mercy mocked again

Machines which count, whirring disks

Heartless, sand stone brains

Jeering, leering, craving men

In every public hall

Crushing mindless robots

Enforcers on the streets

Noxious, bitter, acrid stench

Drifting clouds of fuming, loathsome scum

Children bitten, pierced and cold

Slaves to devil's wage

Who dare not cry their discontent

Remember - crushing robots

An obscene, snide, foul, haughty rude remark

For common use serves well enough

Children bitten, careless, cold

Slaves to useless time

Drifting clouds of stinging gas

Biting, knifing wind

More crushing robots

Jeering, leering men

With heartless, stone brained guns

Slicing, pitiless, merciless

The end

Apocalyptic Home

Hid behind some cob webbed cracks -

Apocalyptic home

Cold autumn's airy touch on hand -

unrepentant portent

Phantoms stirring cross the way -

Invisibility

Scraped broken plate and crumpled tin -

End time's sustenance

Not a banquet, not so bad -

Subjectivity

Then darkness, dreams of happiness -

fond remembrance

She and I, in fondling clasp -

Illicit dalliance

Now rust and dust and long decay -

Inevitable end

Shadows lengthening cross the day

Terrible progression

Just one of millions in this plight -

Sympathetic comfort

Though poorly armed for end time's host -

very little comfort

So hid behind this cob webbed crack -

Sensible precaution

Surviving with just one true friend -

Invisibility

Walking long along no easy way

streets swept hard by scouring winter winds

walls of dark where felons crouch and hide

wild dogs in the alleys, and hungry, clawing cats

downtown streets with naked trees beside

past all this desolation I must stride

But three of four who pass along this way

in glossy, glassy, polished, gleaming steel

are end time's nobles - privileged kings and queens

three quarters seeming numbers far askew

more royalty than any other age

it's just our land's strange nature, peculiarity

Seething anger round this bend and that

despairing sighs and cries the louder still

annoying, grating, scratching, wailing noise

to three of four who 'long these streets must tread

from carriage royal to polished marble shop

to sit and fit another king's gold ring

I am no king, their majesties declare

are millions more who have more than do I

I'm taxed, and unto death I am so weary

of this loud, noisy, constant, vexing din

by tramps and malcontents of every sort;

my carriage waits, and sir, to you farewell

Walking long along a cold damp path

'long streets swept clean by bitter heartless wind

a gleaming knife, another begging plea

I'm not, I say, a privileged royal myself

I'm not one of the three of every four

a ring for every finger, a ring for every king

Past rusting tin and crumbling, brittle brick

a box, a bench in park's dark lonely grove

finally 'neath hard iron and twisted steel

I'm weary of my trek and I must rest

a moment on this dark, secluded path

where anywhere can be a wandering home

Let them eat cake, a queen of old once said,

and ended on the block for words too bold

let them eat naught my own king intimates

though to the block I suppose he'll never go

why should he fear the loss of just one head

two hundred million left if but one's chopped.

On verdant path through silent vale we stepped,

her lustrous beauty shone for robes bereft.

She's yet the piercing sight of willful youth;

will not admit a throne lost through misuse.

"Why," she asks with ardent, watchful eye,

"deign ye stride still eager at my side?

Why, in this dark and lonely forest glade,

doth my sweet lad keep company with shade?"

Because she still, and always will, intrigue me?

Because she has been, is, and always will be

a lady lost in lofty, plotting schemes,

dark beauty in her features, never what she seems?

"My Lady," spoke I with no small regret,

"my pity's for the fate with which you've met.

I still, however, cannot but berate your

less than subtle cries toward our creator."

"All those," as 'neath the branch she paused to stand,

"where notions penned by cold and modern hand.

I have within me creeds the sages told

when trust for silver was so bitter sold.

Recall, my lad, who thinks me fair and young,

the ancient root from which my kind are sprung.

Recall, my lad, who fawns before my beauty,

a single throne was ne'er my only duty.

And still are those, even in the west,

starved and froze, huddled in their nest,

who court me with their desperate, wailing cry,

scorned by those who naught but sell and buy."

Toward subtle poise I gazed with found regard,

her fiery passion hardly even marred

by constant, cruel, and quarreling ordeal

fought long and hard with grape and shot and steel.

But now she stands bereft of flowing gown,

her limbs exposed to winter's chilling frown.

And yet I'm not repulsed by her disgrace,

would, if I could, take strange love to embrace.

"For shame, my lad," coquettishly she smiles,

twisting free from amorous awhiles.

"Would for a trifling moment you so dally?

Count the costs, consider well the tally.

Will not" my Lady cried in anguished tear,

"you eye my disrobed strife with cringing fear?

The multitude has cast me cruel away,

will disown you if at my side you stay."

It may, in truth, quite easily be so,

but vain intrigue, I cannot let her go.

So hand in hand, I led her ever on,

finally to a cabin, 'side sheltered, crystal pond.

"O ho," the woodsman cried as we approached,

"lodging her I'll certainly be poached,

spitted by my squire o'er open flame.

Off with you, lest I incur her shame.

This wood I'll hew in long and tiresome labor,

fuel my master's fire, retain his favor.

And if he's pleased, to me he may dispose

a stick or two against this fearsome cold."

Again I grasped my lady's trembling hand,

through winter's gloom, a frightening, bitter span;

to milkmaid's cottage we at last did come,

a fair young lass, and lo this tale was spun.

"My true love's gone, to wed and bed another,

a wealthy dame; in jewels she'll one day smother.

"'What is life?' the toad quod as he fled,

'the golden road's the way on which I'm led.'

I'm sorry for the trial you must endure,"

said milkmaid to my Lady, "but it's sure

a certain thing your reign is finally done;

consider my old lover, no pond e'er saw such scum."

Next we came to mansion grand and fine,

the answer, though, but one short, haughty line.

"You jest," scoffed butler's leering, irksome smile,

and so we walked another tiresome mile.

Alas in forest close we took our rest.

"My sweet young lad, why toil at my behest?"

"Because, my lady dear, it's still your time;

if only you'd not scoff for things divine.

Consider bent, old woodsman froze at labors,

for master's wants, those luxuries he savors.

What of the poor young maid's most frightful beaux?

For love of money, bitter seeds he'll sow.

Rest awhile, my weary, trampled love,"

and so she does, a lonely, bitter dove,

misunderstood, like light as though through prism,

who could have been so noble, my Lady Communism.

Imagine, if you will, a stern though loving father sighing frustration for a misbehaving son.

"Well, and what do you have to say for yourself, Master Satan?"

"Aw - everyone does it. I'd like to see anyone do better than me."

"Very well. Then you will. I will create a being who sensing my love never having seen me as you, Master Satan, see me now, will with a minute portion of your advantages, still prove worthy of my love. A - bet, Master Satan?"

"Better odds, if you please, sir."

"Very well. We'll place obstacles in the path of - humankind, as good a name as any. You may devise a few yourself."

Hmm, Master Satan smirked, delicious little concepts such as pain, loneliness, hopeless despair running through the impudent little pup's mind.

"Yes," Master Satan answered, "a bet indeed," a few more pleasant little cruelties coursing through his mind, none of these human things to do anything but curse out in despair when he was done with them.

"One proviso, however, Master Satan. We shall consider my sons and daughters called humankind to have been victorious if, no matter how vile their cursing, no matter how base and abject their transgressions, no matter how black a final the pit of despair into which fallen, they but whisper one instant's plea for forgiveness while an atom of inhaled air remains in their lungs."

"Fair enough," Master Satan replied, a few more delicious little tortures coming to mind which would vanquish even those few foolish human things still professing and proving their love for their creator after the day to day trials of life.

The father, of course, shook his head in frustration knowing that the impudent little pup's lesson wouldn't be leaned even when uncounted multitudes of his sons and daughters emerged victorious. The lesson, however, would still be taught, even if he had to do it himself. One of his human children would prevail over all the impudent little pup's obstacles without a single mistake, would, in fact overcome the ultimate obstacle.

"Not a chance," Master Satan smirked. "I'll stand whispering a really delicious little contrivance of mine into his ear - death. Let's see this human child of his prevail over that one. The bet's as good as won."

Foolish child, the father sighed. And how startled he'll be when he asks to inspect the dice and discovers that they weren't even loaded.

Just one more song from youth, fond remembrance, home,

sweet and simple joys, even I have known,

a foaming brook spills down the tangled way,

a pine clad peak o'er fields of summer hay,

wood smoke's strange. near sensual delight,

huddling on our lonely, windswept hill,

youthful pranks and mischief, laughter shared at will.

Remembrance fond, joys of long ago,

yet time is cruel, and ever comes the blow,

when from sweet childhood's bounds we must progress,

and meet the world's cold, hard, like steel's caress.

Wandering now, stumbling, struggling forth,

seeking still small scraps of vanished warmth,

though mine seems e'er a lone and bitter path,

tossed amid this world's consuming wrath,

turning eyes forever back in time,

mourning childhood lost, life's long decline,

gone that blessed sense of tranquil ease.

Can time be but some virulent disease?

Is home no more than just a distant ache?

Familial warmth a hope I must forsake?

Gazing back across the distant years,

yielding in the end to bitter tears,

crying out in sorrow, what is home?

Perhaps in sense eternal, seeds are sown,

joys both past and future one the same,

united in the bond of heaven's reign.

And so at last, a vision without cost,

sweet childhood's home was never truly lost,

then and now as nothing in God's mind,

for future joys the same in type and kind.

Our childhood home's our long, eternal part,

residing without end in our Lord's heart.

Oh can't you see, I heard her say,

we're all in this together.

It just could be, if I may,

a question that is never

a matter of concern that's troubled most

of this land's greedy, gobbling, drooling host.

A time ago, my doctor said,

I have some news to tell.

The answer's no, the tests I've read,

you're healthy and you're well.

I'm not, I asked, truly going to die?

Then why, I pray, do I want to cry

tears of pain, never those of glee,

such dark, pervasive anguish, washing over me?

Oh can't you see, the well fed land,

three quarters of you covered

in blankets warm, and still you scorn

those who in pain are smothered?

May in the end there finally come a time,

though not, I pray, as horrid as was mine,

when no child lives in torment and in dread,

to grow in pain, then wish that it were dead.

O cold and heartless spirit, guarding endless flame

who thinks you're now triumphant, who thinks you've won the game,

and looking cross this tortured world, though loath I must concede,

the devil his malignant due, his plague of angry greed.

Another hail of venom, low poverty they scorn,

wealth wasted on their welfare, sons and daughters born

who rob us of our riches, our just inheritance.

O vile, malignant spirit, the death of tolerance.

An old tune, worn and weary? O but it's fresh and new,

a raucous din and clamor, against the ill born few,

irritants to others, in splendor fed and housed,

O low malicious spirit, your cruelty aroused.

And always this uncaring herd's led by the pitiless guide,

stupidity, in excess, a mouth has ever lied

the same lies, told the spirit, in temper base and cold

repeated by his minions, a vicious circle droll.

Though lately something new seems burst upon the scene,

a haughty, mocking spirit, enmity between

the varied class, high and low, some virulent disease,

pity's just a common jest, spare me if you please.

Survival of the fittest, still others rail and shout,

natural selection. Who's in and who is out?

The final death of mercy? O cruel and heartless fiend,

is this our future and our lot, no soul, just cold machine?

In truth it's not, I cry at last, despair gives way to hope,

my gloom and sour script above does no more than denote

the age old part as it's been ever played

as weeping we still step across this worldly stage.

And when all's said and pondered, the fearsome battle done,

vain and useless worries, the final course now run,

low spirits and their minions were never worth our time,

nought but God's true kindness was ever worth a line.

While in a public hall I stood, a little girl passed by

followed by her mother, or so I guessed she was.

"I got," the precious child proclaimed,

"a brand new library card,"

her beaming smile intriguing, joyous chatter dear appealing.

With no real fear, one slight and small looked up,

and I, a stranger, nodded in like mien,

then turned, of course, more cautious toward the mother.

"She thinks it is a credit card," the mother's smile reserve.

I nodded, searching gently, as 'long the way they passed.

A moment light, no consequence perhaps,

not even race nor color interfered.

The little girl was black, uncaring that I'm not,

her mother, as did I, most likely noticed.

How much, I have to ask, a question seeming troubling,

should we who know the difference tell our children?

Might it not be better, just to watch them grow

and let a thing or two in silence rest?

It hasn't happened yet, you say, never really will,

and history forgotten's lived again.

I just cannot, however, let that child's smile go,

her simple, radiant charm and sweet delight,

I'm sure much be a taste right here on earth

of wondrous, careless, unassuming heaven.

On Rainbow's waters, still and sweet,

I long ago did row,

'neath fragrant pine, 'side foaming swell,

five days, a week, or so.

In quiet ease and tranquil peace,

the river's ne'er a fright,

until on beach or crag or bar,

I land and pass the night.

Then daylight wanes, my fire is built,

a trout or two my food,

till in the end, the dark descends -

and now true solitude.

The waters on the beach do slap,

I spread my tent with care,

and hope the rustling from the wood's

no hungry, shaggy bear.

And even if, lo in the night,

comes big brown, huge and dirty,

I sleep without great chilling fright,

beside my thirty-thirty.

All jokes aside, I must confide,

now's when I am imbued,

with nature's sense, magnificence,

an awesome, lonely mood.

I'm far from home, the only one,

on Rainbow's crystal waters.

It seems a very different world,

my nearest neighbors otters,

two owls, a loon, a lonely whippoorwill,

all God's wondrous creatures,

above me on the hill.

I peer into the darkness,

mysterious the wood,

and ponder ancient people,

and wonder if they could,

have dwelt in caves

and felt this same lone fright,

for every haunting stirring,

sounding through the night.

Perhaps they did,

perhaps that's why I strive

up Rainbow's crystal waters,

just to feel alive.

Some things, many things, cannot be written,

nor even contemplated with any real measure of ardor,

unless confession's made along the way,

the soul rent and the heart terribly revealed.

My confession - nothing by which one might deem precedent set,

nothing startling, fascinating, unheard of,

nothing unusual at all. Twenty years past, a few more, perhaps,

I promised someone marital fidelity,

and lived a dizzying, senseless swirl of life with her,

the heights of amorous ecstasy,

the depths of confused and tortuous misery,

and all this in something far less than a year.

And then we parted, she to hers, I to mine,

and only now, twenty and some years hence,

have I ever paused in one long, single moment's thought

for love's vagaries, hers with hers comparing.

The first girl was, after all, the first, and I her first,

wondrous as that seems, today or some twenty years ago

of two people when promises are said.

But again to theirs, just two others, a number which today,

would never turn one's head. The first girl after the first -

a girl with three children,

money changed the day the youngest two were got,

a girl who's seen the maddest streets, all life's dark despair.

And love, before we parted to, we shared,

though not, I admit and shudder, that first strange night

when in lust with her I lay and entered on the act,

and heard from nowhere as I did so

(or was it from somewhere well debated and defined?)

bluntly, starkly, and without the least shred of doubt,

a name, the first girl's name,

course shrill and loudly through my mind.

And yet I let that whispered name from twenty years past go,

and for another year or so, I sought familial warmth

with a mother and three children, perhaps a family at times.

This love was tenuous at best though, never really knowing

from one night to the next, nor even to the morning,

if chemicals she craved would call her from the streets

to the streets, from my arms, from the children's pleading cry.

Despite my own addictions, there were still those still and quiet times

when love with her was sweet, soft and gentle words in darkness,

though love with her could also be demand, strange and stringent,

and dare not I feel sole satisfaction - she'd not allow it.

And then, after a hundred partings and rejoining,

my second love and I drifted finally and finally apart.

My third love then stood along the street calling out my name.

I turned, mystified, wondering why and how she knew it.

She had parted, it turns out, from the one to whom my second love

had in the meantime given love,

an amicable arrangement, I suppose, no quarrels,

she to him, her to me, far less bother than a triangle.

Childless, guileless, quick with wit though surly in bad temper,

my third love was indeed my love, the word I can't explain.

Could she, I asked, somehow be the first, rather than my third?

At first it seemed she somehow was, a girl, a woman quite in fact,

whose sweet and soft caress, whose warm and strong embrace,

whose frantic, gasping love was new and unrestrained.

As beautiful as she was, though, she walked her own strange path,

knowing always where it led, hesitating only briefly

when it led away from me. Perhaps my third love's love was new,

at least in the beginning, when all things are fresh and new.

I'll never doubt it genuine, will never doubt the pain

when the path along she stepped varied greatly from my own.

It did, of course, it seems my fate, they all have,

and now in freedom of acceptance I can wander back in years

to that first moment, that first girl, that first time.

I wonder if she's realized I was just as frightened as she was,

as clumsily and gracelessly was done that which could have been

much sweeter. But wasn't it, for that brief and fleeting moment, sweet?

It was, after all, the first time.

Three sweet, intriguing sisters, I met along my way,

their faith sincere, though passion swept their hearts,

love's struggle, then its grandeur, all three with pen portray,

a fusillade of fiery, amber darts.

The eldest sister first I met, learned and serene,

her voice long studied charm and practiced poise,

the next was frightful, forceful, a stunning Gothic dream,

sprung from her brother's little wooden toys.

And then onto the youngest, t'was led and introduced,

in proper order, so it's oft been told,

with faith's strong guiding passion, to Anne my mind was loosed,

my sympathies, my heart she'll always hold.

A sweet and gentle creature, unassuming charm,

all a suitor verily could wish,

though not a timid teacher, who flees from hurt and harm,

so found the all dogmatic Calvinist.

And all the pain, Anne must have felt, for one in drunken sin,

her heart consumed with prayerful, pleading love,

if heaven's gates he'll still approach, and true life finally win,

t'will be for prayers from such, a gentle dove.

The Word is spoken, from on high, begin the living reign,

creatures great, others small, across the endless plain

spring forth in vibrant, verdant, morning long

to echo God's creation, in joyous festive song.

He made them all, it's oft been said, such wonder and delight

for all creation's children, huddling in the night.

One has four legs, another wings, some live in a shell,

this one swims within the deep, who knows where others dwell.

No matter which, of type or kind, it's ever right and true,

tis from the might throne divine, the Word still comes anew

breathing yet the breath of life in all that swims or crawls,

flies or walks or deftly climbs a towering cliff's steep walls.

And children from the dawn of time, in gentle, heartfelt love

have cradled fur clad children, a gift from God above,

a taste of heaven's glory, a sweet, intriguing bond,

pups and chicks and kittens, every creature fond.

Yet ever comes the day of pain, the gentle friend has died,

a child's small heart is broken, a thousand tears she's cried

wondering if her loved one, really had a soul,

words seem low and useless, terrible the toll.

Mystery I'll tell you now, about the spoken Word,

twas spoke in sense eternal, time a thing absurd

in heaven's reign where nothing ever dies,

in joyous 'frain where no child ever cries.

God spoke and every creature, some great and others small

leapt joyfully into being, returns when sounds the call.

And when God's Word is spoken, can it be taken back?

It lives on ever after, a plain and simple fact.

He gathers all his children, around His mighty throne,

children of the spoken Word, in heaven's endless home,

and soon we'll be together, some great and others small,

leap joyfully into being, when sounds God's gentle call.

Through the wood, to a dark close glade,

the secret vale, in which we lay,

this is my home, she knelt and said,

this is where, I make my bed.

Return to town, my sad young lad,

to home and hearth, its good and bad.

You cannot dwell, in a forest clear,

a shadowed wraith, who knows not fear.

She's wild and free, green leaf her bread,

while beer and wine, they soak you head.

An avenging angel send me now,

a wraith so fair, black coal her brow.

Her sword she will wield, her blade in her hand,

they'll cower in fear, her voice in command.

You've murdered my babes, now hear my wish,

to sea you will go, and there you'll feed fish.

Walking long along this cold, cruel world

depraved, half crazed in every loathsome wrong

I've done the sins you've ever dreamt could be

there's no sin done I haven't more than you

just take my word as simple, truthful fact.

Though not like you, I've tread a step beneath

toward depths you'll never truly comprehend

have walked the final step toward endless fire

have shut the Spirit's voice with senseless wrath

just take my word, you've never known the like.

Then standing on that final step to hell

I heard from even there God's quiet voice

I turned and trembled fearing I was lost

and even then heard one more whispered call

just take my word, just one quick, honest prayer.

I have to smile when oft times I have heard

"I'm lost, my sins are many and too vile."

If 'neath your breast beats any living flesh

and even if it's just a whispered sigh

take my word, it's God's sweet voice you've heard.

There's only one real sin that's not forgiven

the sin for which forgiveness is not asked

oh please, just take my word there is no other

need keep you from the joy of heaven's gate

just take my word, you'll hear the Voice Divine.

Let pain come as it will, tortures harsh or mild,

afflictions in their varied sort while in the tempest wild.

Pain comes indeed, life's mystery, nothing rare or new,

but let me suffer, yet to God, be faithful and be true.

The tempter cries in glee and cheer for one who lies in pain,

O look, the tempter gloats aloud, in scoffing, endless 'frain,

another cursing for his aches, how pitiful his cry,

and surely when his trial is done, God's mercy he'll deny.

O let it not, in honest prayer, ever end this way,

no matter what the course ahead, with Thee O let me stay.

With none but strength from God above, can ever we endure,

fleeing ere the tempter's wrath, a deadly, wicked lure.

But why should we, with God our strength, succumb to needless fear?

When all is done, the battle's won, through every pain and tear?

For such is glory's meaning, our Savior's wondrous gift,

all hurt is truly conquered, healed the age old rift.

How can these teasing, fleeting short lived pleasures

stand fore the gifts from God's transcendent throne?

An instant's vain and passing low temptation

was never worth the bitter discord sown.

Lift eyes on high, hear the whispered call,

His voice in mind, divine, so clear revealed,

and true it calls for effort, a promise must be kept,

a heart sincere, no secrets there concealed.

Who can stand the utter desolation,

separation, darkness all around,

when lost is God's true guiding presence?

Such sorrow for the hurt, none more profound.

Narrow, base, confining earthly passions,

the total sum for some on worldly stage,

good sense is dulled, total contradiction,

the spirit quenched, a bitter, listless haze.

Lift eyes on high, a sweet, consoling prayer,

the soul renewed, the quiet call divine,

rest gently in His all consuming love,

with vision clear, wondrous life so fine.

Pleading for Terri

A great many people in America believe that we have endured the loss of two people who are very dear and beloved to us, he who was "papa" to a great many of us, and woman named Terri Schindler-Schiavo for whose life John Paul pled, a woman who despite the Vatican’s and our own pleading has just been put to death in as cruel and inhumane a manner as possible. At the behest of her husband and with either the silence or the cooperation of the courts, a woman who was conscious, who smiled for her mother, who needed only "a feeding" tube to sustain her life, was denied both water and food for fourteen days. A great many of us fought an ongoing, desparate battle to save this innocent woman. I would like to submit for your consideration excerpts of my own pleading to save this woman, and assure whoever will listen that a great many people in this country fought far more valiantly and tirelessly trying to prevent that which a great many of us believe was euthanasia at the least, was at the worst an act of murder. I’ll trust that you will understand that some of that which I submit is anguished, frantic pleading, some of it desparation. I submit it only in an attempt to persuade you, if you believe as I do that this was unjustified mercy killing at the best, that we fought desperately to prevent it.

-baring evidence to the contrary, no one knows. The presumption must be that she wants to live. It's a simple matter of common sense, black and white. If we don't know, we must assume that she wants to live.

-she has suffered in this state for fifteen years now, longer than almost anyone else in a state like this. Terri will have a very special place at the right hand of God. And make no mistake, it has happened again, an innocent individual allowed to die by the state. People, wake up. This is the most obvious sign imaginable that we will all very quickly now see the face of God. Decide for yourselves if you are ready

-A mother is pleading with us all. Think of your own mother. Would she not if your eyes were open, blinking, plead with every breath she takes that you be fed. A mother is pleading for the life of her child

-The reason for all of this seems so perfectly obvious to me. That which happened 2000 years ago is now happening again. Terri is not the Savior. The Savior is risen, and will never again die. But God, in as obvious a manner as possible, has come again, is residing in the body of a woman who at the behest of others is being put to death, the government, it now seems, simply allowing it to happen. I pray this now with every beat of my heart - God, please, enough. She's done enough. Take her. And then, however, I have to pray the most important prayer of all - God, your will be done. And we can't, therefore, give up. A mother pleads with us, just as a mother pled two thousand years ago at the foot of a cross. A mother looks into her daughter's eyes, a daughter who is alive and smiles. A mother is pleading with Terri, please - don't leave me, not yet, not until God decides. Terri longs to go, has suffered that which is incomprehensible to us, has suffered for fifteen years now, has suffered in ways not seen in two thousand years now. And yet - how can any of us believe that Terri's smile for her mother is not the same most important prayer - God, your will be done. And that it the point of it all - God, your will be done. It is my belief that it is God's will now that we just don't give up this time, must fight on for the life of this innocent woman, must trust that no one other than God has a right to do what is being done to Terri. Will we win? I don't know. None of us do. God alone knows. But it just seems so obvious to me that God is watching each and every one of us now, is calling on us to make a choice. The choice I have made, the choice I believe God is calling me to make, is that I just do not give up, that I do whatever I can to save the life of this woman. I plead with all of you, don't give up. Governor Bush, perhaps the president. They're our only hope now. If you haven't done so at least once today, plead with them, any way you can. And how can we doubt - 2000 years to the day. Let's save Terri, plead with God that we are all sinners, give us another chance - plead with God to let us try to make the world a better place for everyone. And if we cannot save Terri today - God, your will, with this world, be done.

-Because of that which is an openly declared and perverse argument on the part of the political left in this country that anyone other than God can presume on a matter of life and death, it is now morally requisite that the political left in this country be abandoned by those of us who will identify ourselves as liberal Catholics. I realize that once the political left has lost its most numerous base, this country and political liberalism will face an inquisition which will make the Spanish Inquisition seem tame. But this case in Florida is definitive and nothing more than a matter of common and moral sense. It is as blatant and obvious a sign as possible that it is now sinful to support the political left. Nor is it any longer possible, as I have, to abstain from the political process. It is now morally requisite to support and vote for those candidates who respect fundamental principles regarding life. Even if, as I do, you think George Bush's and a Republican congress' foreign policies a mistake, they have proven themselves today as the only possible moral choice in this country. And those of you who as I do believe in prophecy, stay awake, keep your eyes open. It will happen quickly now. God is about to unleash wrath which Spain of former times couldn't have imagined. Do not - do not be on the wrong side now, or you will be on the wrong side for eternity.

-Please go to terrisfight.org and look at the videos, particularly the swab test, and tell me that this woman after three days in not now suffering horribly from thirst. I believe this is God's last attempt to gently plead his love for us and ask all of us to come to our senses. I believe, if this woman is allowed to die, that we will see the other side of God, a wrathful God from whom you will not be able to hide no matter how deep bit you try to hide yourself in, a God who will slaughter half of this country and consign it the deepest pit in hell

-Terri, at this moment, is praying the same prayer which Jesus on the cross prayed. Father, I thirst. She is suffering horribly, possibly cannot understand why God has required so much of her. God is whispering to Terri, another moment, my daughter, while I plead one final time that those who profess to love me come to their senses. Most will not, and they will see the wrath of God. Terri will soon be with a loving God, and will understand why she has endured this for the past fifteen years. Please, try to understand this. God is a loving God. And God is unimaginable wrath who has finally given up, is about to unleash wrath on this world which is unimaginable. Please, decided now, or you will be on the wrong and horrible side for eternity

-Selfish? I have to answer this one in order to explain why you and your sort are the most perverse and evil self serving individuals who have ever lived. Terri and her parents are Catholic. God at this moment is asking Terri to hold on a bit longer, that she will be with him when it is time. You have no idea how passionately we want this over with as well, to have Terri's pain ended. We will not give in, however, to selfish motives which motivate perversities such as yourself who would just let Terri go to ease your own perverse, selfish suffering. We will fight monstrosities such as yourself as long as necessary, until the last minute, will fight to keep Terri alive until God, calling for her and taking her home, tells us that the fight is over

-I've done all I can for the moment, so I think I'm going to take a break, go back to being the same old dog for a moment. I was wondering how to classify messages such as yours, was wondering if I might collect them as the wit and whiles of the devil. Then I came to my sense. The devil is crafty, highly intelligent, will come across as sensible. That sure let's you out.

-Look at the pictures just one more time. Look into the face of a daughter who smiles her joy toward the woman she loves most in this world, her own mother. No matter at how diminished a capacity, how can anyone not see the most sacred emotion still alive in that daughter's eyes, love. Then look into a man's eyes, a husband's and guardian's eyes, just once - just one more time - see that which is just so blatant and obvious in his eyes. And it is not too late. Don't give up. Just as living skeletons were saved from the extermination camps, so we can still save this woman. Don't give up - consider it as I do joy if you can just get one other person who is with us but might be hesitating to act. And practically, now - I would urge one call, one telegram, one email a day from everyone to the Bushes. They don't need to be deluged by the same person again and again but they need to hear all of us, from everywhere. Call family, friends - it's endless joy if you can just convince one other person who might be wavering. How can we know that that one person might be the deciding vote - the one last person God wishes to speak to. And we just can't allow one single innocent person in this country to loose her life - not like this - not when you can look into a man's eyes even through a camera and see that which is so obvious. Look one more time, talk with others - then decide not from the facts now, but with your heart. I was police, a teacher - know what's like to have to look into someone's eyes, decide with the heart when all the other facts are in. And this one isn't even close. He looks calm and collected, his wits about him, precise and logical explanations - and you simply know, know with that deciding look that if ever there was a murderer, here he stands. The evidence will be found. He wants the body cremated -? Just don't give up.

-the innermost secrets of your heart, I very much fear, might well be shouted to the world very soon now. You, and I, will stand naked and exposed, answering for our every thought and act. I hope at that time you can justify your actions. To everyone who thinks going to this site at this time would be a filthy, perverse, and evil act, you know my advice now. Don't give up. Save this innocent woman.

-From the AP - Outside the hospice where Terri Schiavo lay, eight more people — including a 10-year old boy and 13-year-old twin girls — were arrested Friday for trying to bring her water.

"I don't want her to die," Joshua Heldreth, 10, from North Carolina, said before his arrest. "I'm not afraid because God is with me."

-You seem a very practical sort. I suppose you know you're gonna get the metaphysical from me. I think it's our moral duty, in any way we can, to get that glass of water to Terri while she's still breathing. I mean, I'm not a doctor myself, so all I could do is carry a glass of water to a woman's whose dying of thirst, unjustifiably in my opinion. I mean, what I do with it when I get there. I dunno. But I gotta try. Maybe the point is this - I was that which the cops are now standing around the hospice, I was the guy standing at the foot of the cross. I think I've finally leaned that I might wanna get my butt out of the way if someone's trying to take the life of an innocent person rather than have to say, "I was just following orders."

-- The parents say Schiavo said "AHHHHH" and "WAAAAAAA" when asked to repeat the phrase "I want to live."

The individual Who ordered every sheriff's department in Florida to enforce that which has been His usurpation of power belonging to no human being on earth, the individual Who sits His throne defying all other worldly powers, the individual Who defies and stymies the Caesar of our age, the individual who got a good night's sleep before issuing His pronouncement regarding a woman who has been dying of hunger and thirst for the past seven days, the individual Who was prophesied to come - has said to a woman pleading with Him for her life - no. Do you know who this individual is now? Do you know who this individual is who has told a woman with the breath of God still living in her that she may not live, who has told God - you may not live? I will give you a hint. Look into his eyes. Look into the eyes of an entity in the guise of a man.

There is still time. Do not give up.

-Greer gets the boot by his own Church. I'm beginning to wonder if my previous might have been closer than even I thought. Antichrist? - the antichrist? - an antichrist? Lemme just counter the argument that Greer has tirelessly and diligently studied this case for years now. No doubt. He's been presented credible evidence for years now that this girl wants to live. Last Friday, Terri might just as well have sat up and said, is this guy a moron or what - I want to live. Greer says no. God's given him years now to make a decision which seems with every passing day nothing but a matter of basic, common sense any moron could understand, and he says no. And did you hear him yesterday, he himself admitting that Terri still had twenty percent of her brain function rather than the one or two I might have thought myself. And with one molocule of it functioning, and God with that one molocule allowing Terri to say I want to live, who is this Greer to take the decision into his own hands? I'll certain say anti - God in a way we haven't seen for a very long time now.

-might as well give you the ending of all this now. God wins.

-Terri, we love you, baby. You will have a very special please with our Father. You're suffering has brought many many people back to God, including me.

- I'll answer just one point. Why should I feel so passionately about Terri. For the same reason I feel so passionately about Jesus Christ, I suppose. Just because I can have passionate feelings about one particular individual doesn't mean I can't have feeling for others.

-Why should I feel so passionately about one particular individual who I've never met in person? Well, I haven't met Jesus in person yet. But God, in my opinion, has given me a whole heck of a lotta proof that some of my thoughts are the whispering of a person who lived two thousand years ago - and who still lives today.

-if not for the media I wouldn't have known about Terri? Nope. If not for God, I wouldn’t have known anything about Terri.

-it's all, in the end, are matter of conscience. It's the same reason Saint Thomas Moor went to the Tower when everyone else said Tom - you're a nutcase, or words to that effect. Anyway, like the family, I get the feeling it's over, that even if she were rescued now, she couldn't be saved. So I as well think we should let her go now. My last prayer was, God, don't let her feel another moment's pain. Put it all on me instead. (you know, I think God's got a sense of humor. Various little ailments I've have for years have really been a pain in the butt for me tonite)

-Why wouldn't he allow her communion today, that in the form of a tiny dot of bread and a touch of wine to her lips? What in God's name is the sense of that? And that is why I'm fighting on, will not give up. What is the sense of that which is nothing more than an attempt to separate one of God's creatures from her God by trying to deny her communion with her God on this day of all days. And even if he hasn't any idea what he's doing, if this is not as blatant a sign as any that Satan incarnate in a man is at work here? I was almost ready to say enough, was tired, not another day. And something comes along like this which I'll plaster across boards and emails and calls to everyone in Washington and Florida in the hopes that just one more person realizes that which is just common sense, maybe even that one last person which God is trying to speak to.

-Greer's last ruling - the essence and heart of 1939 Germany. It is everything 1939 Germany was. It is every person murdered in an extermination camp. It is every officer who said, "I am just following orders. I am just following the letter of the law." And most obviously of all, it is the most idiotic, blind, lacking of common sense decision in the past 2000 years.

-one point regarding a threatening email advocating pointless violence which I think as idiotic and counterproductive as anyone. Can anyone now doubt that George and Jeb Bush are listening? Can anyone doubt that the next phone call or telegram or email sent might be the last required of us by God, that a president and a governor who are decent, moral people will say - enough, it is time to rescue this woman? Do not give up. Use caution, common sense, but argue for this woman now, plead for her life with every breath you take. Do not endanger others. Stay calm and use common sense. My point - they're listening to us, listening to every word. Keep pleading. Don't give up. I believe it is the most sacred duty of any government to safeguard the lives of its citizens, and it is now obvious that the executives of the governments of the United States and Florida must see to it that this most sacred duty is performed. They can no longer restrict themselves to "the letter of the law." This would be no different than the statement made at Nuremberg - "I was just following orders." I believe that the executives of governments in this case are now, by every moral and common sense standard, entitled and required to take whatever measures are necessary to save this woman's life.

- over that which you and I know in our hearts is criminal by every common sense standard.

- I was looking at a video of Terri last night, her mouth open, her eyes blinking as she looked this way and that. There was something about the expression in her features which seemed striking and familiar to me, something I couldn't quite identify - until it suddenly so seemed obvious. It was a look of marveling wonder in her features, something almost childlike, something we might see on the faces of others who we suppose "in their own world" rather than ours. Who or what was it that Terri was gazing toward in wondering amaze? I'll always believe that Terri, in ways the rest of us can't understand, has been gazing into the face of God these past fifteen years. She came back for moments, smiled for her mother, a smile you and I know with our hearts was something so much more than reflex or anything of the sort. If with a half percent of the capacity the rest of us have, you and I know in our hearts that Terri's smile for her mother was the emotion of her own heart spoken for her mother, the love of her heart for her mother.

And then Terri turned her eyes back to God, a God who has asked of her patience in ways incomprehensible to the rest of us. I'll always believe that Terri has been saying yes, your will be done, for fifteen years now. And why should Terri be so important to us? I can only believe that Terri is all of humanity in ways we haven't seen in a very long time now, Terri simply the one person in the world at the moment to whom God wishes us to devout our attention, not to the exclusion of others, but in a very special way.

-I'm searching desperately for consolation, for myself, for those who love Terri as passionately as I do. And for me, that consolation is the certainty that Terri is one of the greatest saints who has ever resided on this earth. How can we know what she has gone through for these past fifteen years? How can we know what prayers she has prayed? For herself. For us. Terri must have prayed a million times, please, Father, I want to come home. And God says, please, my daughter, a little while longer. If you say yes, Terri, just a little longer, you will by your suffering show love for your God which will lead multitudes to heaven with you. Can anyone possibly doubt that Terri has said yes to God, again and again for the past fifteen years now? Can anyone possibly doubt that Terri is still saying yes to God, that Terri is saying yes to God at this moment - that Terri is saying, Father, your will be done. Terri is now home. Remember us to our Father, Terri.

- The last ten minutes of Terri's life, for me, are just one more of a multitude of signs that Terri is one of the most faithful saints who has ever lived on this earth, that an ordinary girl with faults no different than our own has been chosen by God to share in the work of His only Son in a very special way. Terri, my beloved - I'll always believe God said to her - you've said yes to Me for fifteen years now. Terri, I'm going to ask of you now, for another ten minutes, to endure that which I ask of only a very few, that which I ask only of those who love Me with a heart proven by suffering the world cannot imagine. I'm going to ask you to endure that which My own beloved Son endured when He cried out, "my God, my God, why have you forsaken me." Terri, My beloved, for ten minutes now you will be alone, separated from those who love you with sincere and honest hearts. Know they are with you Terri, a mother who waits in agony crying out the love of her heart to me. Know that a brother fights earthly powers to be with you. And know that by this final proof of your love for Me, you will lead millions with you to heaven and to Me. We hear now that Terri's eyes were open, that she was frightened - that she knew exactly what God was asking of her. And you and I know with a certainty the world will never understand that God is now holding Terri very closely to his heart, that the rejoicing multitudes of heaven surround Terri as she stands with our Father's arms around her, that God is saying - here is my beloved daughter who has proven her love for me.