Category: Mothers
Passages: Time is a Thief 🌹
William Wordsworth, 1770 – 1850 (an excerpt)
“What though the radiance which was once so bright Be now for ever taken from my sight, Though nothing can bring back the hour Of splendor in the grass, of glory in the flower; We will grieve not, rather find Strength in what remains behind.”
Reflections on Family
My Family/families are my Valentines. ❤️
Ode on Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood
“What though the radiance which was once so bright Be now for ever taken from my sight, Though nothing can bring back the hour Of splendor in the grass, of glory in the flower; We will grieve not, rather find Strength in what remains behind.”
Time is a Thief
Fleeting ~ Time Left are memories of the children voices Left are the visions of sand castles Time is a thief ~ so subtly it steals The moments thought unimportant and harried If only for a moment ~ my mother and father We could gather at the playground together Instead of doing my own thing Would look only at you and carefully listen Because truly ~ Time is a thief BJ
Hidden from sight the old trees still protect
As if intruders enter out of disrespect
Inside the castle tucked deeply far away
Is a beating heart who yearns for their play
When they visit again and all will be restored
To the time and place where the children roared
The dogs barked when visitors approached
And all was well, once upon a day
BJ
The laughter of voices of children are still heard
Looking at the image seeing what once was
And nothing will bring back the innocent days
Moving time forward, can never return
And the cycle of voices of children presently heard
Are the ones who'll whisper in future playgrounds
And the cycle goes on and on and on perpetually turning
Making the maddening cycle stop
Takes fortitude, strength, courage and truth
That the voices of children stay presently in your heart
BJ
Her Mysteries
Ascending an abandoned staircase stood once gloried and adored
Still remains inside a crumbling castle’s walls ~ yet still lovely
She held secrets no one had explored, she waited to share
The mysteries, now ghosts, of people who once were
Back, caught in time, and the twirling vacuum of memories
Went ~ Swept away. But the antique staircase could bring them back ~
If only a wandering visitor came to stay.
BJ
“Please, whisper. As you enter a sacred place, be reverent. It is the granite that shields her heart, and the only way to enter is in quiet solitude.”
Thank you for reading
K♣️
©2016 Bonnie Jennings. All Rights Reserved
Tomorrows My Birthday: To My Unborn
To My Unborn
Tomorrows my birthday and sadly I don’t know yours
I often wondered what happened to my little dears
Those two who were called, “fetal tissues,” not lives
And in ignorance succumbed to the abortionist knife
Were you placed in a burial ground or burned?
Were you put in the evening trash? Or could you
Have gone to a tissue bank, sold for big bucks
Without my knowing much. And that was
Forty years ago, and the excitement of
Women’s rights were celebrated, but you
My darlings, how sad I’ve become reflecting
Thinking of who you were and where you are
And I named you and gave you thoughts and gifts
One a poet songwriter coming from my genes
The other a pilot like his fathers dreams
And at Christmas, I set a place for you
In my heart, you’ll always be
And one is John and the other David
Oh perhaps you were Lillie or Sarah
But, I’ll never know you in this life
Please forgive my careless insights
For I followed the news of freedom for women
But regretfully never thought for myself nor
Thought of your lives at all, until forty years
Past your deaths and my mistake…
May God bless you in heaven
And please forgive my ignorance
*** My poem was prompted because Bill Maher said callous jokes on TV last night about fetal tissues. I haven’t stopped crying. If I could hate or curse him I would, but instead, will stand up for the unborn. My poem:
©2016 October Bonnie Jennings. All Rights Reserved. But please share as the lives of the unborn are sold for their fetal tissues and it’s a huge monetary gain for the abortionists.
Imaginative Children, Are They Future Authors? Does your child change Medusa?
Imaginative Children, Are They Future Authors?
So, it’s been said, regarding the odds of becoming a famous writer that, “4 out of 5 people, want to write a New York Times best seller, book.” Clearly, the odds of becoming a famous author are stacked against every writer. It maybe easier to win the many lotteries, which have a winner every day, somewhere.
Looking at the traits of many writers when younger, we will find a child who had/has/have an incredible imagination.
To watch for a potential child writer, one should notice and observe traits. The traits vary, and these traits, I’ve listed, are certainly not (all) the characteristics of (all) young writers. But, these are a sampling or examples of some observations a parent may see in their youngster or youngsters.
Does the child change the story/stories that a parent reads them? Do they have another ending? And to add about this trait, it may occur at very young age. Perhaps, even before, age 2 or 3 and on up. It depends on how early the child was exposed to books and stories.
Does your child love stories? Do they open a book (often) without prompting by a parent? “Here, please, read this to me.” And, “No, that’s not how it ends, mommy/daddy!” They clearly change the setting, plot and characters…
Does your 7, 8 or 9 year old love to write poems and do they keep a diary or journal?
Has anyone accused your child of “not telling the truth?” Or, have they been accused of “lying?” Many times a young writer will suffer punishment for being creative. The parent may not understand, nor their teacher. Perhaps, the person who will/or has recognized this gift, in a child is someone who is also gifted… After all, as it’s said, “It takes one to know one.” Non creative people often become frustrated with the creative child. The parent or teacher is unable to understand the trait, they simply don’t resonate with a child who is unlike their self or themselves … They can’t.
On to the characteristics: Does your child make up better endings of stories, or more violent scenes, or change any part of their world that is unsatisfactory, as well as stories? Does your child perhaps change Medusa? I laugh at this statement, because this is what I did when I was a child. I made my mother change the snakes to dragons or horses, and my mother, always obliged me… She was a creator, as well.
Does your child pretend a lot? Do they have imaginary friends? Do they talk to themselves? Can they entertain themselves with fantasy for long periods of time? Are they as happy to be with themselves, rather than, being with friends?
Do they want to know historical facts? Are they obsessed with hearing other stories over and over again? Do they have foresight? Are they intuitive?
Do they live in a dream world? Do they daydream? Has the teacher at school gotten on your child for, “Not paying attention?” Perhaps, your child is partially listening, but is making the explanation better or more interesting… ?
Has your child been treated for a psychiatric disorder? Did they put your child on medications to clear up delusions, hallucinations or mental illness? Does your child have nightmares? Do they see things at night or day? Do they think the boogie-man is truly under their beds?
Now, please understand, there are mental disorders that do need to be treated. However, a consideration for imagination vs psychiatric diagnosis, must be clarified. Asking and verifying, are these behaviors an active imagination or symptoms of a psychiatric illness? (is absolutely necessary)
If your child is surely not suffering from psychosis or a mental illness, then it maybe a good idea to have your child placed in a group of young writers, poets, lyricists and artists. Often artists do suffer from some sadness like other non creative people do, but creativity plus sadness often is interpreted as mental illness. (Very sad face). The equation is not 1 + 1 = 2 … It is merely 1, you have a creative child and 2, the child is depressed (like many uncreative humans). Too often, the 1 + 1 = 2 means a psych diagnosis, medications and a label that follows a child the rest of their lives. (very sad face, again).
Children will need to have this gift of imagination developed by the right person. It is a parental responsibility to help cultivate an imaginative child and to teach the child when to turn the fantasy off and when to create… After all, an imaginative child will create ALL THE TIME… that’s their gift, just like a vocalist or an artist of pictures … Writers create worlds, kingdoms, magical places and wonderful stories if we nurture them, understand them, and assist them. For an example, if you forbade a writer or creator from mentally creating, they would not/could not stop imagining. It is as natural as a natural born vocalist. Writers are intuitive manifest-ors. They will need positive instruction and direction from someone who is also creative. They will need direction from a positive influence.
I don’t know about becoming a famous author, screenwriter, lyricists or poet, but I do know, from being a creative child, they will thrive in a protective, supportive environment and who knows what anyones future might be… Except the little author… Oh, they can create their world… It’s as far as their imaginations can venture…
Happy writing little ones…
Please feel free to write your experiences or your child’s character traits of being a writer… I would love to know yours…
My Thoughts on The Orlando Massacre There are many flowers in Gods garden
The world without gay people would be a world where a species of Gods flowers never bloomed. Their glorious array of talents and colors, smiles and tears wouldn’t exist. The world would be dark
Why do we kill things we simply don’t understand? Why are we so fearful of the unknown? Just because we are clueless doesn’t give us the God given rights to destroy his creations…
I write a lot about killing snakes. Why? Because you fear the unknown You have associated the snake with evil… And, is it truly evil or is it a misconception? Something misconstrued?
Why do we kill the innocent?
Why do we hate other colors?
Why are we blinded to possibilities of goodness?
Why?
What if the roles were reversed?
What if heterosexual males and females were the targets of terror and social hate?
I am the mother of a “gay” adult child. You hurt my child, I will hurt yours....
Where does hatred end?
The Circle of Life
The fog of dull moist clouds cloistered Earths hills
rolling slowly quietly assured with December’s presence
uncovering the steal bleakness of chills
the grey fox sought the superlative time stalking
hunting, one catch, the hare eating thorns, is captured
~
All rests except the fox, and the hawk that swoops prey
and beautiful it seems to carolers that dream
pictured on Christmas Cards sleighing coupled in hay
but the hunted sigh as the singers pass by
ignoring the innocent life in the forest by night
really wintery rest is not what it seems
~
The white witch cursed the greens for three months
laughing, she pointed t’wards the fox and the hare
the hawk she invites on her evening animal hunts
while the fox, hiding and embarrassingly shares,
“dear rabbit if only there was another way to convey
my condolences and my fondness, for you, today.”
~
The fawn born in grey thicket that night
a hunter was on track for a meal, of the carnivores type
deep in silence, bitter coldness, that eve less bright
their faces showed meanness, sickeningly alarming
hungry for killing the innocent and without any lament
the damp floors lined with twigs and leaves sent
~
Warning there are trespassers who entered our forest
and without invitation, the hawk soared forewarning
the dove in turn echoes cooing which entered space
of ears of the fox alarming, the furry rabbit crosses into the thicket
noosing the doe and the fawn warmed coddling
“stay within this eve the thicket safe from guns”
~
The hunter’s love winter’s and the innocent blood
And the white witch carries on until spring
stay here little doe while your mother brings the cud
the sleet drizzling rains seem never to bring
peace within the forest it seems
and life circles around the fox and the hare
and the buzzards that hunt the carcass from the air
~
©2015 Bonnie Jennings All Rights Reserved
First attempt
The fog of dull moist clouds cloistered Earths hills
rolling slowly quietly assured with December’s presence
uncovering the steal bleakness of chills
the grey fox sought the superlative time stalking
hunting, one catch, the hare eating thorns, is captured
~
Mimsi Flowers and Notions 