Up From the Ruins: Based On a True Story
Click Here to View & Purchase
On The Home Front
It was a close thing that I took my first breath. My father’s rage was all consuming and before I was born, he kicked my mother in the stomach, knocking her to the floor. He arose the next morning without memory of the incident and later I was born with no lasting effects. I had a fifty-fifty shot.
I was described as having a melancholy temperament with very few demands on my mother. She gave charge to my older brother for my safety and protection while I was at school. My mother lived through the Great Depression and experienced the ebb and flow that came with the struggle of a farm family. Every year we made the long trip to my grandparents in Mississippi and I always dreaded that long trip, because I knew hard work lay at the end of it. Football long chicken houses awaited me, and being a short kid, I could barely see from one end to the other. Thousands of chickens crowded the floor in between the end walls. Farm like wasn’t all work. In the soft breezes of a hot summer evening, the family would sit under the shade trees outside and relish the taste of sweet watermelons. It made me proud to hear their remarks of how sweet they were, as it was one I had picked. My grandfather had taught me how to thump them to find the perfect one. He also felt that hard work earned the right to play.
About once a month, everyone went camping and fishing on the weekend. The men ran trot lines all night on the river and the huge catch was saved for a giant fish fry. I was so excited one night when I tugged on the lines and beneath the swirling waters of the river I raised a twenty pound catfish. I thought my heart was going to explode.
This was the destiny of man and my grandfather knew that I did not enjoy farm life and could read this in my face. We took the time to relax and have a little fun, but we all knew it was fleeting. And, as it had from the beginning of time, toil called and it was back to work under the unrelenting sun. The women would leave the field early and my envy of them must have shown on my face. My grandfather knew I didn’t enjoy farm life. He told me once, “Son, if you don’t want to do this kind of work the rest of your life, you have to go to college and get book knowledge.”
It’s strange that something said to you as a child can stick with you through life. I did indeed get that book knowledge of which I know he would be proud.
My grandfather often let my cousin and me sleep out on the front porch in sleeping bags. We could hear the sound of “whipper wheels” echo through the blackness of the night. Somewhere in the forest their peculiar call kept perfect time as we faded into sleep. The sounds became faint and distant, like a passing train whistle in the distance. We never heard or saw them during the day; they only emerged at night. To me, these were the most mysterious creatures I had ever known. Farm life was short lived for my family and me since we only visited during our summer vacations. As we moved closer to my grandparents over the years, my activity on the farm became more frequent.
Father’s family and my Mother’s family were worlds apart in their polarized, emotional family systems. Mother’s originated from Indian descent and were gentle people while Father’s family was pure black Irish and lethal in their dealings, not only with each other, but with anyone who challenged them. Late one night while I was staying at my Grandmother O’Sullivan’s trailer, a fight broke out between my father and his first cousin.
Suddenly, I heard a loud pop and when I looked up from the sofa I saw that both my father and cousin had punched each other, I lay back with my head face down in the pillow. The whole event was too familiar and as much as I hated it, family violence was as prevalent in my extended family as it was in my immediate family.
Fortunately, my grandmother was sitting at the table with them when the fight broke out. She quickly intervened and grabbed a broom to hit her nephew over the head. Father’s cousin was a solid two hundred and seventy five pounds who had the strength of a grizzly bear, but when grandmother smacked him with the broom, he turned into a small child and began to whine,
“Stop, mama, please stop.” Grandmother’s fierceness was equally matched by her gentleness and no matter the size of the men; they didn’t challenge, nor talk back to her. The fight ended as quickly as it began and the next day my father and his cousin acted as if nothing had happened.
I became accustomed to sudden, explosive, emotional upheavals that erupted without warning. One night while I was sleeping in my usual place, I heard another commotion coming from the kitchen. In fear, I quietly raised myself up from the couch, unnoticed, and saw my father’s cousin pick up his Aunt June and throw her twenty feet across the living room from the kitchen and she landed outside the trailer door on the steps. I silently lowered my face into the pillow careful not even breathe too loudly lest I be next. Aunt June was bleeding but didn’t go to the hospital. Such experiences didn’t mitigate the fear that grew inside of me but only served to heighten a sense of alertness that I had to maintain in order to survive. Aunt June appeared to be unhurt the next day and the family accepted the volatile episode as normal.
The summer finally closed as we made our long trip back to Florida and it seemed as if I transitioned from one confused world to another. Blackouts became common for my father because of his excessive use of alcohol. He had big dreams and we grew up moving from one town and state to the other.
Father decided early on that he was not going to get trapped in small town life. In 1958 his promotion to assistant manager moved us to Memphis, Tennessee, where he began his employment with H.L. Green’s department store.
The rest of us stayed behind until father found a place to live. The time arrived when we had to move and my mother took the train from Jackson, Mississippi to meet father in Memphis. He didn’t give her any money for the trip, so she borrowed enough from my grandfather for the journey. With two small children clinging to her side, even though my brother and I slept the whole way, the trip was difficult for her. She arrived at midnight without a dime to spare, expecting to step off the train and see her husband. The station’s high ceilings cast a rustic look against the glare of the station lights. She heard the clanging of the engine bell as the hissing of pressure released from the engines and smoke drifted from under the train. Seized with fear and feelings of abandonment, she began to worry because of the late hour. Vagrants were wandering the tracks and it was obvious that she was by herself with two small children. A kind black man helped with the luggage and loaned her a dime for a phone call. My father had been out drinking and had fallen asleep at home. He was awakened by the phone and came to pick us up. This was only the beginning of many episodes that left the family in unpredictable circumstances.
My childhood years were lived in Lake Wales and Orlando, Florida. The year was 1961 when my younger brother was born in Lake Wales. The day he was born, my father took me around the side of the hospital where Mother’s room was, and hoisted me up on his shoulders so I could see my newborn brother and Mother through the window.
Father said, “Do you see him, Son? Do you see him?”
“Yes, Daddy, yes.”
“That is your baby brother.”
I didn’t quite understand what that meant at the time, until I found out that my baby brother, Donny, was someone who was going to be living with us in the same house. When my father took a job in the retail business, we moved into a house far out in the orange groves on the outskirts of Lake Wales. We lived down a long dirt road with water-filled pot holes deep enough to make the trek difficult. The house was set against the backdrop of a large lake with a shore line that reached into our back yard. Surrounded by huge orange groves, there was never a shortage of fruit. At night when the sun melted across the horizon on the lake, windswept clouds stretched for miles across the sky that cast a purplish haze, almost as if there were two worlds, the one above, and the one below. Florida was a beautiful state and the night skies were dotted with billions of flickering stars.
My father stayed out all night drinking and usually didn’t come home until the next day just in time to get ready for work. Here, nightfall brought new terror in our household. There were the orange grove pickers who scuffled along the side of the house in the middle of the night, peeping in the windows. We heard whispers drift through the night air, faceless voices that penetrated inside our house. My mother sat at a small counter all night in the kitchen. A dim kitchen light cast a silhouette of her as she sat in fear for her life and the lives of her children. Even as a child, I could tell she was scared, no matter how hard she tried to hide it.
The orange grove pickers made their regular nightly visits and we all grew to fear sundown. Mom always gathered us in from playing to get everyone inside the house before the sun began to set. One afternoon while standing in the back yard, a neighbor from across the lake was fishing and yelled out to my mother.
He rowed his boat closer and when he reached the shore line, he said, “Lady, there are all kinds of stalkers in these orange groves at night and they know that you’re alone. They are dangerous men and most of them have criminal records. Here, I have a pistol I’ll loan you for protection.”
I lay in bed and heard the men outside my window. It was a frightening experience and I could not sleep because I was afraid that someone might break in and kill us all. Often I got up in the middle of the night to find my mother sitting at the kitchen counter with a pale face that reeked of trepidation. I would look down and see the pistol lying on the counter. Somehow, this made me feel safer, but I always told her I was scared. She usually said, “Go back to bed, Son, Everything is going to be okay.”
“But where is Daddy?”
“Don’t worry, now go back to bed; your father will be in later.”
At last, daylight emerged and brought a sense of safety to the family. In the morning there was evidence of footprints in the dirt around the house and mother knew the prowlers were real and not conjured up in her imagination from being alone. My father finally moved us out of the house in the orange groves to a place that was closer to town. Once again, he managed to find a house with a lake in the back. Lake Wales was a beautiful city. There was the famous “Singing Tower” surrounded by botanical gardens that contained ponds with hand-size goldfish. There were winding paths that surrounded the tower like a labyrinth. A variety of colored trees stood at any turn. A soft wind haphazardly picked itself up and gently blew tumbling leaves that brushed across one’s face and arms. The tower reached into the sky with imploring arms. It was a place of frequent field trips in school.
The home front was a war zone of regular wife beatings. My brothers and I often awoke to the sounds of my mother screaming in the middle of the night like someone being tortured. We had no choice but to lie there in quiet agony until the silence and calmness edged out the sweltering anxiety inside of us all. Finally, relief swept through the house and at last everyone could go to sleep.
Mother became friends with a woman while working at the bank. Her name was Jody and she suffered at the hands of a violent husband as well. The similar experiences with their husbands created an immediate bond between mother and Jody. Mother’s supervisor was very impressed with her work ethic because she worked hard and was never late. Living with an alcoholic husband didn’t just put an emotional strain on the marriage, but a financial one as well. Mother came home from work one afternoon and put her hand on the door knob to open it and found it locked. She yelled through the door for my father to open the door. He wouldn’t let her in the house until she promised to quit her job.
She told him, “No, I am not going to quit my job. The kids needfood and clothing.”
Mother pleaded and begged him to let her in, but my father still refused to open the door until she made a promise to leave her job. When she continued to refuse his demands he became so angry that she finally opened the door and was met with a beating while being dragged around the house by the hair until she gave into him. She went to work the next day and gave her notice of resignation. The supervisor inquired about her reason for leaving. The family secret had to be kept and she answered, “My husband got a pay raise and I no longer need the job.” Her supervisor and the rest of the employees were sad to see her leave.
Jody and my mother spent a lot of time together as their friendship grew closer. Jody lived on a highway that was notorious for speeding drivers. One day, at age seven, I was playing in the front yard and decided I wanted to walk across the highway to the orange grove and pick some oranges. I made it half way across the road without noticing the oncoming car. The driver, however, saw me in time to slam on his breaks. Frozen in that moment I didn’t know what to do and stood there while I watched the car become larger and larger. Mother and Jody heard the screeching sound and came rushing out of the house. Mother scooped me up into her arms and held on tightly as she kissed my face. I was still limp from the shock as my arms and legs hung from Mother’s grasp. The driver got out of the car to make sure I was okay. He told mother that I was white as a sheet as I stood there in front of his windshield. Everyone thanked God that my life was spared.
Though I managed to avert a head on collision with a car, I didn’t avoid the confrontation with report card time as this was a day of particular dread in the household. My father was a superb student, as well as a scholar and a mathematician. His Irish blood ran thick with mathematical savvy and rhetoric. In addition, he had an extremely high work ethic, and like my grandfather, he had no tolerance for laziness. He had dropped out of high school in the twelfth grade and joined the navy for two years. He returned home to finish school and get his diploma and my father was not about to raise ignorant and unlearned children. He sat back in his recliner in the living room and started with my older brother, William. “Okay, Son, I will examine your report card now. F’s! This is unacceptable! Go to the bed room and spread eagle over the bed!” He followed William into the room. He pulled off his belt and gave him five licks.
I waited in the living room gripped by silence as I listened to the howls and moans of William. It was now my turn to have the same punishment and I knew that I didn’t have anything positive to report either. “Straight F’s, Bruce! All right! That is the second bad report card tonight! Go to the room and spread eagle!” I felt a drop in my stomach. I followed my father into the room spread eagled and then felt the sharp and bitter sting of the belt lashing across my butt.
Whew! Finally it is over! I thought to myself.
In spite of my bad grades and though I didn’t deserve it, my father allowed me to have a dog. Grandmother Herrington had given me a little fox terrier dog. His name was Hoss and he was white with big black spots splattered on his body. Hoss and I were each other’s shadow. At last, I had a loyal friend who would never leave nor forsake me. Hoss, like most fox terriers, had a feisty temper. He growled at anyone who came near me to let the person know that he was willing to die for his companion. Hoss would not even let my father harm any of us by confronting him with growling and a show of his fangs. Father came to resent Hoss and he had to be put outside when it was time for our discipline.
While Hoss and I bonded, my father made his own new friend. There was a shoe store next to where Father worked that was owned by a man named Mr. Turner. My father and he became good friends because Mr. Turner kept a fresh bottle of whiskey on hand. They would sip whiskey together when they were alone. The Turners became close friends and there were regular outings between my parents, Mr. Turner, and his wife, Amy. Of course, drinking was the primary connection that formed the friendship bonds between my father and Mr. Turner.
Mr. Turner and Amy developed a real love for me. They told my father and mother that I was going to go far in this life. I had a mutual love in return for Mr. Turner because he was such a gentle and nice man and enjoyed taking up a lot of time with me. Quite often, Mother would peep through my bedroom door and find me talking and playing with my Tonka cars. I had found myself a new friend and invited Mr. Turner into my imaginary world of play where I could keep him close at all times.
It wasn’t long before my father was promoted from Assistant manager to Manager. The promotion required that we move to Orlando. He promised Mother that this would be their last move. I attended a grammar school called Spook Hill Elementary. Lake Wales and Orlando were not far enough apart to keep Mr. Turner and my father’s friendship from fading, even though their outings became less frequent.
Spook Hill derived its name from a hill with a steep incline where one’s car rolled up the hill from the bottom when it was in neutral. Father often took us to the hill on Sunday afternoon. He parked the car at the bottom of Spook Hill, put the gear in neutral, and my brothers and I filled up with amazement as we watched the car move up hill through the back window. Usually we were the only ones there and I always wondered why there were not lines of cars waiting to experience this phenomenon. Maybe it was only known to the locals?
By the time I reached the third grade, school work had become too difficult. I had no desire to do homework and would not listen in class. I frequently drifted off and got lost in myself by looking out the windows. I became fixated on the trees and the gentle breeze that lifted up their leaves. I was deep in thought as I heard the teacher’s voice that was outside of my own inner world. All of a sudden, I was awakened from my dream state by the sound of the recess bell. My teacher said, “Okay class, everyone must turn in his homework before you can go outside to play.”
I did not have my homework prepared and I also knew that my teacher, Mrs. Rosenburg had it in for me. She had a voice that sounded like the “church lady” on the old Saturday Night live show.
“Okay Bruce, give me your homework. Oh, you haven’t done it! I see, well, you will have to stay in from recess and complete your assignment before you can go outside.”
I pulled out a sheet of paper and my pencil to begin writing as Mrs. Rosenburg went back to her desk. I kept a sharp eye on her as I pretended to be writing on a sheet of paper. Her head was down and she paid me no attention, this was my chance, I scribbled on the sheet of paper, folded it in half and then walked up to the desk to hand it in.
“Okay, you can go outside and play now.”
“Thanks, Mrs. Rosenburg.”
I knew that when she opened the paper she would see the scribbling and be furious with me, but it was of no concern to me at that time. All I could think about was getting outside and onto the Merry- Go-Round. And if this took scribbling on a piece of paper and getting punishment from Mrs. Rosenburg later, then so be it! I quickly ran out to the playground and got on the Merry-Go-Round. It was so much fun to see how fast the other kids and I could make it go. I clasped both of my hands on the outer bar and wedged my feet to brace myself, then, I let my head drop back as it spun so fast that the trees around me looked like a blur. I closed my eyes and once again my inner world of dreams overtook me until the Merry-Go-Round slowly came to a halt. The bell rang signaling that recess was over.
Mrs. Rosenburg was angry that she had been tricked by me with some scribbling on a piece of paper. And worst of all, I had my cake, ice cream, and ate it too. Not only did I not have to do my assignment, but I got rewarded for not doing it by getting my recess time. She called me up to her desk and gave me a good tongue lashing. Then she moved my seating from the front of the class to the rear. She called a meeting with Mother and asked her if I had suffered some type of brain injury when I was a baby.
“No, he did not suffer any damage as a baby!” Mother exclaimed.
“Bruce acts like he can’t even hear me and is a very low functioning boy. It is almost as if he is in another world.” Mrs. Rosenburg said. The meeting with Mother was short.
Mother was not going to take this lying down and she retaliated the next day by going to the principal in tears to tell him about Mrs. Rosenburg saying that her son had brain damage. There is something about a crying woman that moves a man because mother captured the principal’s undivided attention as he listened intensely to her story. She must have been pretty convincing because by the time she got through making her case, Mrs. Rosenburg no longer had a job. He called her into his office and fired her the next day.
Mrs. Rosenburg also did something else that was strange. On several occasions she lined all of the boys up in the back of the classroom. The girls were placed in the front of the classroom, then, she stood in the middle towards the side wall and explained to the girls that they were to attack the boys in the back of the room on her command. My friend, Johnny and I, stood next to each other.
Johnny told me, “Okay, when they come at us, we will both swing with our right hand to keep from hitting each other.”
Mrs. Rosenburg said, “Girls! Ready! Get ‘em!” The girls make a mad rush towards the boys in the back of the classroom. Johnny and I were swinging at each of the girls.
Mrs. Rosenburg exclaimed, “Everyone stop right now! Okay, everyone back to their seats. We have work to do.” Fortunately, no one was hurt. Nobody ever knew about the incident outside of the class. It must have been that the other kids never talked about it to their parents. I certainly never mentioned it to mine.
I hated school and it continued to be problematic for me. I struggled with all the course work and couldn’t learn how to read. I had to be put in the “slow learners’ class.” It was just a name for the kids who were “dumb” in my mind. It was later called “special education.” But there was nothing special about being slow and such a term did not do justice to the actual condition of such students. The fourth grade came and went just like the year before and I found myself just barely getting by.
In addition, my name was a lightning rod for the classroom bullies. Batman was an extremely popular show then and had emerged from the comic books as a TV hit series. The name of the chief character was none other than, “Bruce Wayne, a millionaire play boy,” as he was known on the show. I loved the series. In fact, I never missed a show and had collected every batman comic book I could find. And how many kids in the school had the name Bruce Wayne? None! How many kids in Orlando, Florida had the name Bruce Wayne? None! And how many kids in the whole state of Florida had the name Bruce Wayne? I doubt there were any.
The bullies thought they had died and gone to bully heaven. I was the perfect target for teasing and abuse.
“Hey Batman, ya gonna be on TV tonight?...da da da da da da… Batman! BAM! WHAM! Holy punk Batman!” they would hurl at me. After this the shoving and pushing came. Being small in frame, and in addition, timid by nature, I was in no position to defend myself physically. That task went to none other than my big brother, William, who was more like my father. It wasn’t so much that William wanted to defend me, as it was, an opportunity to fight.
When William walked onto the scene, they would all scram. He had a reputation, like my father, for not backing down from a fight, and winning the ones he engaged in. On one occasion, a much older boy picked William up by his feet and swayed him in the air while he was dangling off of the ground upside down. William shifted his weight to get close to the boy while he was suspended in air, and as soon as he was close enough, he slugged the boy and broke his nose. The boy dropped him to the ground and rushed away in tears.
All I had to do was tell the bullies that my older brother was going to pay them a visit. Mostly, this thwarted their efforts, however, at times, this didn’t even deter them. They would rather take a thrashing than miss such an opportunity to beat up on me. I began to hate school and lived in fear the whole time I was there. Being in the “dummy class” was my refuge because there were no bullies in this setting. The real times of dread for me, were recess, home room class, and in between classes. These were the opportunistic times for my Neanderthal counterparts and they were always waiting on me.
Baseball was the sport that gave me an outlet from School. I was able to go from the place I hated most, the classroom, to the place I loved most, the baseball field. I started playing when I was six years old. My favorite team was the Los Angeles Dodgers and I was especially inspired by their side arm pitcher, Sandy Cofax, who had a blazing fast ball that exceeded a hundred mph. I was the pitcher and third baseman for a team in Orlando called Emery Masonary Construction. The name didn’t exactly have a catch to it. It wasn’t like saying, “I play for the New York Yankees or the Atlanta Braves.” Just plain “Emery Masonary Construction.” When asked what team I played for, I could have just as easily said, “I play for the Buffalo Beatle Weeds.” The response would have been, “Oh, that is really nice.”
Nevertheless, I enjoyed being out on the baseball field, especially when I was pitching one of my no hitter games. I had a fast ball and a knuckle ball that few could even get a piece of; however, I didn’t always pitch. Sometimes I played third base and I played this position equally well that when I demonstrated this one afternoon in a playoff game.
The game was winding down with two outs at the top of the last inning. When the hitter popped an infield fly, the short stop and I ran for the catch at the same time. What should have happened with this type of play was, one of the fielders called “mine!” and the other fielder backed away. But for some reason, this didn’t happen on that day. The short stop and I had a head on collision and knocked each other flat on our backs.
We both lay there motionless while the dust cleared from third base. An incredible scene captured me laying there with the ball on top of my chest without ever touching the ground. The coach and the rest of the team jumped for joy and the crowd went crazy. One would have thought he was in Yankee Stadium and Hank Aaron had just hit a home run. My coach came rushing out on to the field laughing his head off because such a thing might be labeled as a Class B miracle. A crowd of people closed in around me. My coach picked up the baseball and helped me onto my feet, put his arm around me, and gave me a big hug while he was still laughing with disbelief.
The coach never lost his cool or temper with his players at anything that happened during the game. If a player began beating up on himself because of a mistake, the coach encouraged him with, “Shake it off, now! Don’t worry about that. We have a game to win here.” or, “We‘ll get ‘em next time.”
It always made the team feel good and kept me at my best. Being a sensitive type boy, I did not need to be beat over the head about a mistake. I did a good job of that on my own. And of course, who was my biggest fan? My mother. She was at every game jumping up and cheering for my older brother and me at our games. Not many kids had their own personal cheerleader.
I continued to play baseball every season and did extremely well. My coaches predicted that I would someday turn pro, but, such illusions always had a way of crashing in when I realized that I had been a big fish in a small pond. At age fifteen, the competition stiffened when all of a sudden, I was not the baseball star I had been accustomed to being. I did get to play, but not as a starter. I might be put in the last few innings if my team was ahead.
Click Here to View & Purchase
Reflections from the Other Side
Click Here to View & Purchase
The Helplessness of Man
Who will comfort his lonely soul
when there is no one else left to hold?
And at the end of life
who will give a gentle touch
to calm his inner strife?
When his parents have passed
and all else dear to him has parted at last
how will he once again capture
those youthful feelings of rapture?
And when entropy has done its deed
how will he find to plant another seed?
Who will protect him from all the memories
of his loved ones that uninvitingly, like swaying trees
move his thoughts effortlessly?
Who will cry for him in his despair
when there is no one around with any time to care?
Should his fate be a nursing home
who will come visit when he is all alone?
And when he misses the tender touch of his mother
how will this longing be filled by any other?
And the love for his woman of long ago
who left before he
she is a phantom that sometimes he sees.
In all his glory
he ends with a sad story.
He has a beatific smile
pouring your drinks? Ha! He’ll go the extra mile.
His customers he endeavors to assist.
Many feel his life to be one of bliss.
He can call the bluff of a con,
you’ll find his knowledge to be far beyond.
In a few hours your vision is a blur,
the question you must answer,
“would you like another one sir?”
He controls the large masses,
those who step out of line
he can kick their asses.
When you feel damn near insane!
He is a friend who understands your pain.
After the lights go down above
he runs the marathon of love.
Who else would qualify as legal tender?
The one with the beatific smile.
He’s the bartender.
Behind our faces where thoughts collide
lives a world we mostly hide.
Beyond a smile there may reside
ash heaps from a burning fire,
all that remains from unfulfilled desire.
Anger, resentment and even envy
may hide themselves deceptively
behind these shrouds with windows
that can pose as friend or foe.
What faces we may possess
while lurking ….
In the shadows of loneliness.
It must be our true selves we seek to hide,
or perhaps invisible faces that live inside.
Man’s Best Friend
The oncoming car
hidden from her sight
her three year life
ended with a fight.
Head and legs drooped over my arms,
her warm body I cuddled
as I thought ….
Of the undeserved harm.
A kiss good bye,
parting words I said, remembering her birth
her place of rest
was down in the earth.
The tears that fell
on soft black fur,
the memory evokes pain
as I think of her.
No one could ever find a friend
with such unwavering loyalty to the end.
She sought not her own,
only to please her master,
a quality most humans have never known.
This story I tell
to those who know it well
and have been privileged to depend
upon man’s best friend.
Silence yourself questioning mind,
you search for that which you will not find.
Secure in the knowledge you have held fast,
how long will your abysmal descent last?
The abuse of reason has made you a culprit,
an offense that the heart does not commit.
Abasement may well be your fate
across the battle lines where your enemy awaits.
Be quiet now!
Call forth your vessel from out of the deep,
join your companion and at last enter sleep.
Lay down your weapons, your kingdom you cannot gain,
render unto the heart and share in the domain.
Clouds adrift ....
off their course
over some lost love
the jealous sun.
Amused by the
activity on earth
over the terrain.
fills the air
down the tears
of unwanted love.
Click Here to View & Purchase