I was saved once. My life came back to me one December night, in 2000. I believe, in my heart, that it was the spirit of my Mother. Somehow, she touched me that night, and I came back alive.

The wind in my heart is now gone;
the dust of my life blows away;
a cleansing takes place from the quiet stillness
from the sill of my window I speak.

she climbed upon my broken self;
a brush of breath stroked my skin
from within, she moves beyond the painful chains,
dragging my flawed molecules away,
and she remains until I am drained.
He, who has carried my end, is cowered.

She is life; she has the unbounded fury of essence
why not take it, and run to that light?
I am changed by the constant need to keep living
I don’t want to die, but I don’t want to live that way.
At the beginning my rage was this thing of any substance;
at the end the beginning was loaned to the sands.
The Lion who came is gone from that moment;
the Angel of memory placed my mind in his hands.
Yes, I could have died within his gnarled chunks,
but he left me to live and carry the lamp.
They left together, to let me live on.
I no longer could trust the evil that took me;
why not take what has been given to me;
a chance to borrow the freedom from dying the vine.
A less, that is more, is importantly all;
all is nothing, but the empty shelf of my waiting;
waiting for life to take me back to its loving hands.
Nothing becomes everything; I’m longing to shine
in my new love for a life.
The Winter wind no longer bothers my new sense of the Earth.
It is speaking to weaken the subordinate me;
the vow comes to no longer allow me a hazard to others.
I will lay my soul on the respect of the Mothers.
I am changed by the messages sent to my soul.
They are relevant to my body’s under shining sublime
I am in direct contact with my Angel of life
from cradle to now, she bestows life back to me
she has my memory, my birth, and forgiveness,
changed my self, my sins, and transgressions.
The comfort always given, still lays in this dreaming
I will never forget-never forget-that sweet loving touch
The weary one comes slowly back inward;
the basic black hands gives a sword to my heart,
to fight my way through an impending darkness;
the light of her touch still speaks the goodness of her Art.
I am!

Joe

I am so proud today. My novel is finished, and
in it's printing. They told me it wouldn't be
available until after the first of the year, but
a friend of mine ordered one from Amazon, I think.
So these are good days for me. and I had to devote
so much time to the last days, that I rarely was
able to come here. I'm happy to be back and hear
you wonderful people's blogs. (I guess you don't
hear them do you?)It sound like our little village
is happy with the holidays.
I wish all of you the best of days,
Joe

There is a song, on a CD from Kitaro called “Dream’. The first cut, “Symphony of the forest” has a line that goes: “without woman, who am I; on this island of faith, who am I?”. The parable, or metaphor, is that the Earth, our home, is the island of life, and without the hope of the Mother, none all of us would ‘fade and die’. So woman is the creator of life on Earth; in the life of the Earth, our Mother. What a blessing that song is. I remember the last moments of my Mother’s life were the thing of my soul. All of the passion I possessed came into those moments because the one true connection of my life was leaving.
We all must proceed with our lives when our hold to it, the creator, goes away. I went home after her funeral and cried for the loss-this was in 1996- and I suffered her leaving. I suppose it was a selfish beginning to the rest of my life without her because I only thought about my own personal suffering. My sisters suffered too. They went to their homes, and suffered too I suppose. Life has to continue.
Twice a year, she comes back into full remembrance, St Patrick’s Day (she was a Fitzpatrick), and Christmas. You did a wonderful job, Mother. I love you.

Joe .

Hangovers have become an important part of my life. Important in that, I can function better the next day if I am suffering incredible pain. I guess that's the way things are now that I have enlisted into His Majesty's Grand Army of Imbibing fools. I have this theory that God really loves us; probably, because we're such a crippled bunch. Human weakness seems to elicit sympathy from the good Lord. That is why, when we finally recover, food, sex, colors, sound, are all so much more enhanced. All of the Arts are so honed to diamonds.
So, I feel bad for anyone who isn't hungover today. Later, I'm going to fry up ten pounds of potatoes w/ peppers and onions, listen to Bob Seger promise me tomorrow, roll around bed with the great lady of my life, and watch Dances with Wolves on my 60" theatre TV.

I wish you all a super-heterodine, hangover today. Just make sure you have someone there to share it with you. I love you all.
Joe

I was tending bar Tuesday, at the VFW. There was one of the old guys there, waiting to die. He had his one Boubon and water and his cigarette. He's come to the club for solace, hoping he'd run into another of the dwindling number of old war-horses that could still get around. They'd always talk about the same things; 'the Bulge', Indonesia; the Phillipines, or when they faced down death in WWII. They're the great ones. People tend to forget that these guys saved the world once.
They have these things on the shelf of their brains; things they never talked about, during their busy lives, with the people they loved. They wanted to forget the War then. Now, it's all they have. They know what's going on. So do the Viet Nam boys. The VNV's didn't save the world though. They're bitter, and most never come to the club; they're still in a forgetting mode.
Tuesday was beautiful, for November. It was 63 degrees out, the Sun was shining, and the storm was coming.
"This is it Joe," Bob Follet said to me. He pointed his finger, squinting. "This is the last beautiful day of the year." There was a genuine sadness in him, as he looked out the front window.
"I love the changes in the seasons, Bob," I answered. "It's bound to come sometime. You can't hold back Nature." Some other customers came in, and Bob fell silent. He liked one-on-one talk, but he no longer had the strength to do 'the group' talks we always have. He finished his drink and got up to leave.
"See you when the Winter comes," he said and waved good bye. That night it turned cold, real cold! Thursday, the day Bob Follet died, we got eight inches of blowing snow.

His funeral is tomorrow (Saturday). Good bye, Bob Follet. You were one of the great ones, who saved the world.

Joe