It’s Always Up There”

by BR Chitwood

desert_sunset-big

How often do you look up there?  That big old sky that presents all itspatterns? The clear lucent blue with old Sol hanging around? A few wisps of clouds that enhance the palette of your mind? A thick set of dark impending cumuli that carries lots of moisture, with perhaps a patch of blue just off to the west? A clear dreamer’s night of a million plus stars? How often do you look up there?

Quite often for me… You see, I’m one of those restless and rudderless romantics that cannot somehow find that magical glue that pastes me to one place. So I look up there quite often and ponder not only God’s great handiwork but the course of history and mortal confusion and doubt. Mostly, it’s my own mortal confusion and doubt, but, certainly, I would be totally blind not to see it all around me. The people of the world, peasant-types, power brokers, movers and shakers, all of us send out our queries to the universe in moments of that mortal confusion and doubt. Individual, global, it matters not, we fight our wars within these fragile bodies created during that nine-month miracle in time when we become who and what it is we are meant to be. Some of us with doubt and confusion speak in different tongues, make a wrong translation, push a wrong button, and cause a war. Some of us have been passed the torch of hate from generation to generation, will seemingly ever know only one way to relieve their confusion and doubt. Some of us, even amid our doubt and confusion, will create a masterpiece map for living in freedom with liberty and justice for all. And, some of us add to our confusion and doubt, forget the lessons of history which in the relative span of mortal time were only yesterday.

Somehow, I’ve managed to somehow understand that we all cannot come together in peace and understanding in my mortal lifetime. The efforts of good intentioned people have really become just silly simple games played among those who pursue their selfish political agendas. An accord is reached only to be broken. An ally becomes an enemy. An enemy becomes an ally… All silly power games that silly power men and women play.

When I look up there, in that sky that gives us sometime hope, sometime fear, I only ponder my simple existence and must come to some conclusion as to why I am here on this rotating sphere. The only reckoning that I can make is that no simple big bang caused all of this mortal confusion and doubt. When I look up into that sky of many faces there is but one conclusion, one truth that for me makes all the sense in this world. It is the truth that has been passed down to us from the beginning of our time, on cave walls, on papyrus, in the bible, the truth that has been maligned, reorganized, and otherwise discounted for centuries, the truth that has become debatable sport among some elites and scholars. It is the truth that a Supreme Being, God, controls all of our destinies. Otherwise, why do I and so many have our faith? Why would we contrive so much to make something so?

Our God gives us so many examples to how our mortal moments could and should be spent. He gives us so many paths our lives could take, to provide help for those who need, to forever act as peacemakers, to quell the urges of the dark essence that would possess us… Our God gives us free will to act out our choices. And, what makes God’s plan so wonderful is that we get to do it over and over again until we get it right. In His time, our mortal months and years are but fleeting seconds. There is death on the mortal plain, but you must believe, you must have faith, that you will never forego God’s ultimate plan. At some point along God’s timeline, no matter how many mortal lives it might take, you will reach that magical light of eternity.

It’s always up there. When I look up and penetrate the blue and dark of sky, that is what I see, out beyond the far dimensions of space… Family, Hope, Love, Peace, Eternity.

And, sometimes, I sing and write about it…

Please preview my Blog/Website/Short Stories/Flash Fiction on:

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September 13, 2013

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In “Bad”Posted in WRITING: For me and the World. Tagged biblebig bangcavescloudseternityfaithfamilygalaxiesGodhistoryhopelovepapyruspeacereligionskysununiversewar.htt

Sinful Desperation

©Sinful Desperation

Flash Fiction by BR Chitwood-

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.”

He stared at the ceiling as he reclined on the big bed, his naked body stretched straight, seeking relief from his back pain.

“It’s been years, my son, since your last confession. I hear desperation in your voice. Is the Church your last bastion of hope?”

A mournful smile of contrition and watery eyes looked upward to the ceiling. He would play both parts of this little satire from his soul, not mocking the billions of people who habitually practiced their faith in a Deity, rather, an awkward attempt at an anodyne for his pain.

“Yes, Father, on all accounts…” a back spasm interrupted his soliloquy and he sought another position on the bed. He was too tightly wound and needed to move his limbs in some exercises the cute young lady in physical therapy had insisted he practice each day.

Finally, he found some relief and continued with his conversation with the ‘Holy Father’ there in the center of his ceiling. “Yes, Father, many years, and, in conflicting ways, a lifetime ago, yet, now, here, as the filmstrip of my earthly adventure unveils itself to me, my weekly spiritual visits to your Church seems not so far away.”

The man was almost ready to hear a reply. Not to be, he continued.

“So, on to my confession, Father, one, I fear will take more than a few ‘Hail Marys’ and a heavy penitence to absolve.” The man closed his eyes and his face took on a grimace.

“I confess to one of Man’s oldest of the seven sins, Pride. All my life I’ve taken umbrage with people who sully me, sometimes, in simple remarks that attempt to jest and tease. Perhaps that sin comes from a youthful disconnect with family and a poor quality of life. This sin has cost me friends and love connections. It is also truth to say it is also the least  

“I confess to an earlier life rife with excessive sensual pleasures, Lust/Debauchery of the wicked and most wild, orgy-filled, salacious kind. I sought out and experimented with life’s underworld of Bacchus-plus drug madness. There were moments of intense euphoria, gratification, and immoral depravity.

“And, when the days and nights of playing Nero’s mad fiddle ended, there were tears, self-recrimination, times for soul-wrenching and no resolutions: preparation-time, it could be said, for the next ‘big toot’.

“I confess, Father, to periods of Envy, of Sloth, of Gluttony, and of Greed.

“There remains one more sin, Father, that of Wrath. I have saved it for the final portion of my confession because there was a prelude of most, if not all, the seven virtues before its denouement… a period in my life of happiness so fulfilling, so real, that it seemed my life had found its right and true moral compass.

“Having run the gamut of my ‘fiddling days, I sought to find a more righteous purpose in my life. A friend of mine who had been lost in the same forest of shame as I invited me to go to church with him on a beautiful Sunday morning in June. After smiling stupidly at the idea, I decided to go…to see how the ‘moral half’ lived.

“Are you still with me, Father? Have I lost you in my recount of decadence?”

The man could almost see the Father’s smile. “How could I not? What with such an interesting life you present to me?”

“You, Father, speak with a forked tongue. You must know it’s the fires of hell I’m destined for!

“Whatever, at the beautiful church with my friend, I met Maureen, a woman of remarkable beauty I felt destiny had placed in my path. We both felt a Karmic bonding and began a long relationship which ended in marriage.

“Our love was pure and, by any standard, storybook. We danced in the moonlight and worked every day at our jobs, saved our money and became wealthy, mostly by her artistic talent and her huge following. We were together all the moments we were not working or at a painting exhibition.

“We had a baby boy who died in his sixth month of an undiagnosed tumor.

“Maureen and I were devastated by Brian’s death, but, for her, there was an emptiness she could not fill. She began drinking. She stopped painting, and fate pulled her from me into the arms of another man. She was still trying to fill the void left by Brian.

“We began to argue, our spats becoming an ugly, yet another obtrusion to our love.

“Last night, Maureen arrived home after midnight, clearly in the mood for another spat. I pleaded with her to go to bed. She became infuriated with me and began slapping me. The slaps made me angry, and I tried to wrap my arms around her to carry her off to bed. She stomped my foot with the heel of her shoe and pushed me backward. I began to fall and grabbed her wrist instinctively to secure my footing. Then, she, too, began to fall, and I let go so she could get her footing. Her head banged loudly into the granite counter in our bar area and she went down onto the carpet, blood spreading out in a profuse flow from the gash. Maureen died last night, Father.”

The man could almost hear the sorrow in the Father’s voice, see the pain on his face through a small imagined window in a small imagined confessional.

On the bed, as tears flowed from the man’s eyes, he saw a pale shadowy figure, an apparition, Maureen, her arms extended toward him, her sad tearful eyes and still beautiful face beckoning to him.

The man’s face was covered in tears, his voice gagging and pitiful gasps, as he thrust the butcher knife upward into his heart.

The bedroom was silent in its darkness as the two wraiths walked across the room to eternity.

©BR Chitwood – SINFUL DESPERATION

                 (From the Archives)

                         *****

Please check-out my Website and Blog below to preview my 20 books & synopses of Mystery, Suspense, Romance & other genres, over 365 blog posts, short stories, flash fiction, poetry, Previews, et al.

https://www.brchitwood.com

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Memory Shadows

Memory Shadows

By BR Chitwood

“Billy, go round-up ‘Bessie’ – it’s milking time.”

Grandma gave me a hug, and I went rushing out the old rickety screen door in the side-room of the kitchen.

Grandma yelled after me, “If you’re going barefooted, you watch where you’re walking, ‘little man’.”

“I’ll be watching, Grandma. Don’t worry. I’ll stay on the lane ‘til I get to Bessie and her cow-buddies.”

I waved and was on my way.

The sunshine and clear blue sky was perfect, Grasshoppers and butterflies were flitting here and there, birds tweeting, and this was my favorite part of the day. Rounding up Bessie was the best part of my day. Truth is, I loved Bessie, and she was the nearest thing to a pet I had. We spent a lot of each day together, mornings before she went to pasture, during milking, and times not even grandma and grandpa knew about. I loved Bessie.

When I reached the pasture area Bessie now favored, she walked to me with a head wave and tacit ‘see you tomorrow, guys’ to the remaining cows. She nuzzled me gently while I put the rope around her neck with the copper bell. She bowed downward to me so I could give my own nuzzling to her blond and brown fur.

Guess my mind was too confused and young when I came to live with Grandma and Grandpa. My Dad and Mom had money problems, finally divorced, Dad taking a job out of state because jobs were not available, and my sister was sent to my Mom’s folks during that time.

When I first went up to Bessie, she lifted her head and looked at me with those beautiful brown eyes and softly ’mooed’. For reasons I could not understand in those moments, I wrapped my small arms around her big neck, kissed her, and my tears fell on her as she gently nudged me. Also, I could not understand in those precious moments, I loved Bessie.

Bessie and I walked the lane, and Grandma was waiting outside the kitchen door at our arrival home. She grinned happily when she saw the great friendship we had.

After leaving Bessie in her special area, Grandma took my hand, led me inside the clapboard farmhouse and treated me with watermelon. She spoke to me while I ate the melon pieces, trying in her way to let me know that I was loved.

After the watermelon treat, Grandma took my hand and led me to her old stuffed chair in the living room, put me on her lap, and told me stories about my Dad and the family history. She would stop occasionally to reach her spittle can on the floor to deposit some of her ‘snuff’. Her stories were told from the heart in a solemn tone, and, at times, I could see her eyes getting watery…it was like she wanted me to know the history of my family, the tough times of our history along with the good. Most likely, the tough times would beat out the good

When the time was right, we looked out the south-facing window and down the lane that led to the nearby mountain, waiting to see Grandpa walking home from his day on the railroad hauling logs from the other side of the mountain to our hamlet’s sawmill. Grandpa was the old train’s engineer.

When we saw him his metal lunch pail was swinging with each step he took, and a grin would break on his face when he saw me running down the lane to meet him…he always had a surprise for me in the lunch pail, candy bar, bubble gum, a toy.

Bessie mooed when she saw us nearing the old farm house – her milking would be coming in short order…plus, feeding hogs, Old Fred, the mule, plus spreading Chickens feed, gathering eggs from hens’ nests, and there would be acres of corn to be hoed, potatoes, turnips, and other farm jobs – not all jobs done by Grandpa but by my uncles. Even, I hoed some corn (hating it).

When dinner was finished, Grandpa turned on the floor model radio and listened to HV Kavelborn. If wintry, Grandpa would shave wood for the living room’s large ‘belly stove’ for the next morning’s heat.

When first darkness began Grandma would call me from my time with Bessie for a bath and bed. She would read me stories from the bible.

Some things in life are hard to explain. I loved a cow named Bessie, and, I know Bessie loved me. I loved my grandparents (paternal and maternal), and I know they loved me. They are connected in loving ways to my heart and mind.

I would eventually return to my mother and sister in a home setting, and it was wonderful being with my Mom and Sis. The time with my grandparents and Bessie is one of the most compellingly beautiful memories I have.

But, then, there are so many.

BR Chitwood – Feb. 5, 2021

My Books, Poems, posts, all writings:

My twenty books (mystery, suspense, romance, history, et al) PLUS over 350 Blog posts. Short Stories, Flash Fiction, Poetry – can be found on my website:

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‘Books and Writings of BR Chitwood’

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The Soul on a Stroll

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The Soul on a Stroll

By BR Chitwood

 The wild joy of children playing in the local park

on a sunny day…slowly becoming what it is

they will become

Screaming sirens from fire trucks speeding by,

onlookers forming thoughts of calamity

and lives in peril.

The tempo of feet on the concrete sidewalks,

haste and slow pace going hither and yon

to destinations unknown.

The Soul strolls, watches the mundanity

of masses, empirically builds the lives of those

who most draw attention.

The Soul seeks to understand the actions and

cosmic purpose of all It sees, tries to define the

what, why, and outcome.

So the Soul strolls through life’s enigmas,  hates,

lives, loves, errs along the way to an unknown hole

in the ground or a canister of ashes.

*

BR Chitwood – February 2021

+

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Love Is

‘The Heart races to find love and soulmate’!

Love Is

By BR Chitwood

Love is the Soul responding to a vision,

The motion of a body

That moves in perfect tempo…

Love is the luscious face of Grace Kelly –

Be still, my racing heart,

Her smile facilitates its pounding…

Love is the seeking of one so lovely

To cease the Romantic Wanderlust,

To surfeit lingering desires of the heart…

*

By BR Chitwood – December 14, 2020

https://www.brchitwood.com

The Essence of Love

God Bless all the little creatures of the world!

By BR Chitwood

During the soothing touches of my massage by a good and lovely wife, we chatted about one of our small pets… I thought the story of how we met our little cottontail rabbit and our seven-year love affair with that cottontail might have some soft and tender moments to convey. The morning was bleak, gray, and looked like snow. The trees were stark and sad without their leaves against the gray backdrop. It was much like the day ‘Christmas’ came into our lives.

Julie and I lived in Cave Creek, Arizona with Toby, our beautiful and faithful golden retriever. It was Christmas night around 10:30 PM and Julie took Toby out into our front courtyard for a tinkle session and to turn off the holiday lights on the few small trees and bushes. Julie heard a quick rasping sound among the gravel and brush. Toby suddenly assumed his retriever pose near our courtyard wall of stucco.

Toby maintained his pose there in the courtyard looking somewhat dumbfounded with his head arching downward and trying to see why the squeaky-sounding creature might be quivering under his furry body. Julie saw that it was a small cottontail rabbit, obviously recently born, seeking refuge under Toby’s body. Julie picked the tiny rabbit up and put it in the palm of her hand. She could see from the holiday lights that some animal, perhaps a coyote, had caused some serious damage to the rabbit. It had one eye missing and its small head was bloody and appeared just recently attacked.

With Toby softly moaning at her side, Julie carefully carried the cottontail into the house and began her miracle nursing. She wrapped the one-eyed cottontail in a small blanket, found in our garage an old cage we had once kept our lop-eared rabbit, Gigi, and put her tiny wounded creature inside. Julie put the cage and rabbit in the room she used as an office, with Toby still softly moaning and keeping careful watch.

The next morning Julie went to see a Veterinarian friend nearby and was told that the most humane thing to do would be to put the rabbit out of its misery. What the Vet did not know was that my wife is a true animal lover and refused to take to heart her pronouncement. Julie persisted, and the Vet finally gave her a small doll’s bottle for feeding, some kitten formula, and recommended that Visine drops be put in the rabbit’s good eye, that Neosporin be used on the gashed head, and that the formula be fed every two hours..

Julie returned home to find Toby in a state of frenzy. The cottontail had somehow managed to get out of the cage. Julie finally found the rabbit under her desk near the cage. Then Julie began the steady nursing and rehabilitation of the tiny desert cottontail. Every two hours, Julie brought our new pet, ‘Christmas’, out to the great room, wrapped in its blanket, fed it and tended to the wounds. The incredible thing was that Toby played Dad and Mom to this little furry creature, nosing its little bottom up in the littler box to make it go potty.

For me, it was a remarkable period as I watched all of this play out over the following days and weeks. Julie is the most patient and caring person I know. She loves animals, family, and children more than anyone I have ever known. She even loves me, and I consider myself one of the luckiest men in the world.

‘Christmas’ moved with us to a lake community and thrived with her daily routines of treats, going to her guest bedroom hideout under the bed, returning to Julie’s office to be fed. Julie was the only person that ‘Christmas’ would allow lap time. And, after seven years with us, that is where ‘Christmas’ died, on Julie’s lap.

It was early morning and Julie had come to her office where ‘Christmas’ litter box and feeding took place. Julie would habitually hide little treats around the office for ‘Christmas’ to find. This particular morning, all ‘Christmas’ wanted was to be on Julie’s lap. With tears flowing, Julie softly stroked with her forefinger the fur on ‘Christmas’ back, her barely audible breathing fainter with each passing minute.

We all cried, even Toby, when ‘Christmas’ died. She had become part of our family. I found a shoe box, lined it with tissue and a treat, and placed ‘Christmas’ in it. Julie, Toby, and I drove some miles to the country, found an old gnarled oak tree near a farmer’s field and, after a few words of love, buried ‘Christmas’ there.

Even in writing this, in the remembrance, tears easily come.

Perhaps, that is the essence of love. Perhaps that is why God gave us enduring souls.

***

BR Chitwood – (From the Archives) – November 28, 2020

https://www.brchitwood.com (Website & Blog & my Books)

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Sinful Desperation

“Maureen died last night, Father.”

Picture

Sinful Desperation

Flash Fiction by B R Chitwood-

*****

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.”

He stared at the ceiling as he reclined on the big bed, his naked body stretched straight, seeking relief from his back pain.

“It’s been years, my son, since your last confession. I hear desperation in your voice. Is the Church your last bastion of hope?”

A mournful smile of contrition and watery eyes looked upward to the ceiling. He would play both parts of this little satire from his soul, not mocking the billions of people who habitually practiced their faith in a Deity, rather, an awkward attempt at an anodyne for his pain.

“Yes, Father, on all accounts…” a back spasm interrupted his soliloquy and he sought another position on the bed. He was too tightly wound and needed to move his limbs in some exercises the cute young lady in physical therapy had insisted he practice each day.

Finally, he found some relief and continued with his conversation with the ‘Holy Father’ there in the center of his ceiling. “Yes, Father, many years, and, in conflicting ways, a lifetime ago, yet, now, here, as the filmstrip of my earthly adventure unveils itself to me, my weekly spiritual visits to your Church seems not so far away.”

The man was almost ready to hear a reply. Not to be, he continued.

“So, on to my confession, Father, one, I fear will take more than a few ‘Hail Marys’ and a heavy penitence to absolve.” The man closed his eyes and his face took on a grimace.

“I confess to one of Man’s oldest of the seven sins, Pride. All my life I’ve taken umbrage with people who sully me, sometimes, in simple remarks that attempt to jest and tease. Perhaps that sin comes from a youthful disconnect with family and a poor quality of life. This sin has cost me friends and love connections. It is also truth to say it is the least of my sins.

“I confess to an earlier life rife with excessive sensual pleasures, Lust/Debauchery of the wicked and most wild, orgy-filled, salacious kind. I sought out and experimented with life’s underworld of Bacchus-plus drug madness. There were moments of intense euphoria, gratification, and immoral depravity.

“And, when the days and nights of playing Nero’s mad fiddle ended, there were tears, self-recrimination, times for soul-wrenching and no resolutions: preparation-time, it could be said, for the next ‘big toot’.

“I confess, Father, to periods of Envy, of Sloth, of Gluttony, and of Greed.

“There remains one more sin, Father, that of Wrath. I have saved it for the final portion of my confession because there was a prelude of most, if not all, the seven virtues before its denouement… a period in my life of happiness so fulfilling, so real, that it seemed my life had found its right and true moral compass.

“Having run the gamut of my ‘fiddling’ days, I sought to find a more righteous purpose in my life. A friend of mine who had been lost in the same forest of shame as I invited me to go to church with him on a beautiful Sunday morning in June. After smiling stupidly at the idea, I decided to go…to see how the ‘moral half’ lived.

“Are you still with me, Father? Have I lost you in my recount of decadence?”

The man could almost see the Father’s smile. “How could I not? What with such an interesting life you present to me?”

“You, Father, speak with a forked tongue. You must know it’s the fires of hell I’m destined for!

“Whatever, at the beautiful church with my friend, I met Maureen, a woman of remarkable beauty I felt destiny had placed in my path. We both felt a Karmic bonding and began a long relationship which ended in marriage.

“Our love was pure and, by any standard, storybook. We danced in the moonlight and worked every day at our jobs, saved our money and became wealthy, mostly by her artistic talent and her huge following. We were together all the moments we were not working or at a painting exhibition.

“We had a baby boy who died in his sixth month of an undiagnosed tumor.

“Maureen and I were devastated by Brian’s death, but, for her, there was an emptiness she could not fill. She began drinking. She stopped painting, and fate pulled her from me into the arms of another man. She was still trying to fill the void left by Brian.

“We began to argue, our spats becoming an ugly, yet another obtrusion to our love.

“Last night, Maureen arrived home after midnight, clearly in the mood for another spat. I pleaded with her to go to bed. She became infuriated with me and began slapping me. The slaps made me angry, and I tried to wrap my arms around her to carry her off to bed. She stomped my foot with the heel of her shoe and pushed me backward. I began to fall and grabbed her wrist instinctively to secure my footing. Then, she, too, began to fall, and I let go so she could get her footing. Her head banged loudly into the granite counter in our bar area and she went down onto the carpet, blood spreading out in a profuse flow from the gash. Maureen died last night, Father.”

The man could almost hear the sorrow in the Father’s voice, see the pain on his face through a small imagined window in a small imagined confessional.
On the bed, as tears flowed from the man’s eyes, he saw a pale shadowy figure, an apparition, Maureen, her arms extended toward him, her sad tearful eyes and still beautiful face beckoning to him.

The man’s face was covered in tears, his voice gagging and pitiful gasps, as he thrust the butcher knife upward into his heart.

The bedroom was silent in its darkness as the two wraiths walked across the room to eternity.

*****

Flash Fiction by B R Chitwood –

-From the Archives-

Please preview my books/blogs at:

https://www.brchitwood.com

Please follow me on:

https://www.twitter.com/brchitwood

How Will I Find You?

Thinking one day of my mortality and the next dimension, my thoughts turned to Julie, my wife, my love, and how I would find her there in the land that only the soul can know. These are the words that came to me:*

How Will I Find You?

 There in the light blue sky

Where I look for your face

In the soft white puff of cloud?

 There in the empty chair

Where you once quietly sat

In the room of my solitude?

 There in the now barren garden

Where I once watched you

Kneeling, planting your seeds?

 There along the pristine beach

Where we collected sea glass

Among the gulls and shells?

 Where will you be when I am

In the shadows of tomorrow

A man lost in youth’s sorrow?

 How will I find you, my love

Knowing not where to look

In such a strange new world?

 When my timid spirit wavers 

There in that unknown land

How will you return to me?

 In the darkness that is death

What is God’s demand of me

To atone for sins of life?

 Why does this most peculiar

Etching of words play so

Strongly upon my defiled soul?

*

BR Chitwood November 13, 2020 (From the Archives)

https://www.brchitwood.com

How Will I Find You?

“Where will you be when I am
In the shadows of tomorrow…”

Thinking one day of my mortality and the next dimension, my thoughts turned to Julie, my wife, my love, and how would I find her there in the land that only the soul can know. These are the words that came to me:

How Will I Find You?

 There in the light blue sky

Where I look for your face

In the soft white puff of cloud?

 There in the empty chair

Where you once quietly sat

In the room of my solitude?

 There in the now barren garden

Where I once watched you

Kneeling, planting your seeds?

 There along the pristine beach

Where we collected sea glass

Among the gulls and shells?

 Where will you be when I am

In the shadows of tomorrow

A man lost in youth’s sorrow?

 How will I find you, my love

Knowing not where to look

In such a strange new world?

 When my timid spirit wavers 

There in that unknown land

How will you return to me?

 In the darkness that is death

What is God’s demand of me

To atone for sins of life?

 Why does this most peculiar

Etching of words play so

Strongly upon my defiled soul?

*

BR Chitwood – November 12, 2020

https://www.brchitwood.com

Songs of the Soul

“Soul Songs Sung Softly…”

Songs of the Soul

By BR Chitwood

*

[This post is dedicated to Leah Chrestien:

https://theecstaticstoryteller.wordpress.com%5D

*

So many ‘mystic’ memories coalesce here in my soul, some too nightmarish and obscene on which to dwell, mentioned here only as side notes to a hitchhiking heart that would chase pellucid romantic illusions for a lifetime… Love, family, picket fence, without the negative side-scripts.

This incredible Romantic crusade brought me joy, love, and ultimate soul tremors until the inevitable ‘small things’ became too large, too cumbersome, and the sad ending would come. There, in that desolate mood of self-pity I would languish, absorb too much alcohol, settle for a lady of the evening, and awake in the mornings with hangovers and self-loathing…

This became the routine of my life. Having a college degree and good job, I worked in some sort of sloven capacity during the day, did some TV commercials and acting on the side, and it was seldom I was late for cocktail hour – party time, lady-chasing time, cocktail time.

I married, had kids, divorced in ten years. Must have liked ‘marrying’ because I did it again and again…until I found the ‘perfect lady’ for my imperfect self, NOT in a bar, but at the work-place. She is a lady of outstanding intellect and understanding, a patient person in our nuclear family.

Finally, I turned to my ‘first real love’, writing, I write novels inspired by true crimes, mysteries, thrillers, romance novels, a couple of memoirs, Science-Fic, et al. I’ve written twenty books, 400 blog posts, flash fiction, poetry, and short stories.

We live in Arizona with the Cacti family, the rattlesnake family, other homo sapiens.

I have mellowed with age, no more lady-chasing, bar-hopping, and booze. In fact, I’m a rather dull guy, care for my country, for all of the patriots who gave us freedom and liberty.

One last admission: there are at times the demons in the night, and youthful thoughts that give me hunger for that unruly past.

BR Chitwood – November 11, 2020

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Website and Blog:

https://www.brchitwood.com

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