Word Springs

The Bunch of Pals who Conspired

noreply@blogger.com (Glenda_Fralin) — Tue, 25 Aug 2009 15:40:00 +0000

August twenty-first
nineteen and seventy-six
I married the man
I’d met in May, set up
on a blind date
by friends who later said
they knew.

My best friend asked
by week two
if he had proposed.
I laughed at her.
The conspiracy had begun
before we were introduced.

We spoke little
the first three dates.
He was terribly shy
and I
thought He was angry.
He kept saying no
till he did get angry.

He was angry that I asked
not at anything about me
or that I’d done. I cried
and his sister-in-law
yelled at him.
I was embarrassed.

We spent a lot of time
with our group, our gang,
that bunch of buddies.
One couple fought loudly.
My guy asked later
that we not fight
like that if we married.

I teased him
and asked what
he meant by if.
But the air was full
of a serious note.
He came back the next
week wanting a date
for the wedding.

He’d told his mother.
I was shocked. But,
in a short month
love had bloomed.
Love real, if not explosive.
Love of the soul and heart.

Now we will celebrate
our thirty third year.
Smiling, we know it has been
a life well played.
A short interval
became a lifetime
of satisfaction.

Joe, my love, my mate.

Sandpaper Kisses

noreply@blogger.com (Glenda_Fralin) — Thu, 23 Jul 2009 13:48:00 +0000

I have come across some comments on other sites where this poem is posted that it reflects some sort of abuse or inappropriate touching. I hadn't thought of anyone applying that meaning to it. This is a fond memory of my grandfather. There is nothing untoward or abusive in anyway implied. I hope it will bring back some fond memory for you the reader. Enjoy
G.K.Fralin

He would reach out for me
draw me into his giant arms
pull my pretzeled body close
tickling, laughing, hugging dance.
My writhing little body caught
“Grandpa’s got you, you can’t
get away.” Then his deep
throaty laugh rang through the house.
I’d squiggle, wiggle, squealing
pain and glee. “Let me go,
let me go, no grandpa
not the whiskers please.”
A five o’clock cheek to my
delicate skin, he raked his tough
stubble till I cried “Grandma come help.”
She would walk in, wiping her hands.
“Paul, let that child be.” He quickly
released as I rolled to the floor.
I’d jump to my feet teasing
Grandpa can’t get me.”
taunting - out of his reach.
He seemed to ignore while he plotted,
waiting a moment - surprise attack,
Grabbing and planting sandpaper kisses,
lips chewing my neck, fingers tickling
my wiggling, struggling frame
while he whiskered again.
“Grandma, Grandma help me.”
“Not this time she’d laugh.
You deserve what you get.”

"Visions In Poetry" now available

noreply@blogger.com (Glenda_Fralin) — Thu, 30 Oct 2008 19:12:00 +0000

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Give yourself and your guests a chance to relax while waiting for that meal or appointment. It is also a good conversation started.

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Pink April

noreply@blogger.com (Glenda_Fralin) — Sat, 11 Oct 2008 16:43:00 +0000

Pink April

Today I’ll buy a pink brassiere
wear under sheer white top.
Not any day would be so brash
to celebrate my breasts.
But now as April proves
my cup can yet be full.
I’ve need for outward sign
of what the doctor’s left.

Today I’ll buy pink ribbons
to turn about in bows
and join them pinned
as million others will
to celebrate woman’s gift.
The sweet milk suckled
from our nipples
by tender newborn mouth
cleave two mounds of flesh
for proud bellies filled

Today I’ll touch unashamed
the curve upon my chest.
What God endowed be as it is
no need to hide from me.
If it be gone to save my life
in time, as time unfolds,
I’ll have memory of
the soft bare flesh
of my womanhood.

As featured on Helium.com

Thistles in the Corn

noreply@blogger.com (Glenda_Fralin) — Sat, 30 Aug 2008 03:53:00 +0000

Hey, it's not as bad as it looks. I've just been cleaning up my blog from the past of stuff. So now I am going to be sharing again some of the new and old of my work, I invite you to comment as always and even leave an address please where I can find you check out your blog or site. Or an e-mail address so that I can reply to your comments.

This story is one that I wrote some time back. My guess is that this is what I get when I cross a folk tale style with a parable. Is it then a folk parable? Your guess is as good as mine, but do enjoy this short piece.

Glenda K. Fralin (author) copyright pending
Approximate Word Count 595

Thistles in the Corn

“Move faster,” the father called. “We must dig these thistles out of the corn.” The mid-day sun was beating down, and Boy’s water was running out. He’d sweat the liquid from his body. He felt dizzy, and began to reel. Drinking his last gulps he pled to the father.

“Sorry son. I think we can break until the sun drops over those trees. You don’t look so good.” The father replied with a look of concern for his son.

They took some shade under the pickup parked at the edge of the field. Boy grabbed a jug of water and downed several gulps of it, then grabbed a sandwich. Reclining on his elbows, he looked out at the corn field. It was a small acre patch of sweet corn. But, it was a money crop at the farmer’s market.

The father spoke looking at Boy, "Son, I am getting very old and will die soon. I want you to listen. You must live a very good honorable life. It will earn you respect in this world."

Boy did not want to hear about his father dying, but he asked: "Father, it is so hard to live a good and honorable life these days. I know you are an honorable man. How do I live such a life?"

The father replied, "Well, the thistles are like the things that seem small. They can grow and take over. You must keep tending to your life each day as you do the thistles in this field. Now get some rest and we will refill our water flasks and get back to those thistles."

...

Boy woke up as he felt coolness brush over his skin, and knew the sun was moving on. The light would be fading soon. “Father, think we should get back to those thistles now?”

No answer.

Boy looked over at his aged father and knew that he had died. There was no color left in the old man’s face and the eyes lay open wide. Covering the father’s body with his own, Boy cried then picked up the elder man and lay him gently in the truck.

Boy called his mother from the hospital and asked her to come and tell him what to do.

The woman came calmly in and looked at her husbands still form in the emergency room. She told the desk clerk to call Hope and Faith Funeral Home to come and prepare the body. When the body was released the boy and the mother left alone clinging together for solace.

The next morning was the funeral rites with a few friends and family in attendance. “Our brother has gone before us,” the minister said, “we’ll catch up with him in our time. Love be with you all.”

The mother and son thanked the pastor and gave their few dollars of fee. They bound for home when the burying was done to do as the father had instructed.

That night the mother told Boy, “Father left this homeland to me till I die and then it will be yours. But, to you son he left the acre and all it needs and bears.”

The morning broke early and Boy lifted his tired and woeful body from his bed. He drank some coffee and ate an egg. He kissed Mother on the cheek, smiled and left for the day. No words were needed.

Boy went to his acre, looked up to the only cloud in the sky, shed a single tear and cleared thistles from the corn.

Green Magic

noreply@blogger.com (Glenda_Fralin) — Mon, 26 Nov 2007 02:04:00 +0000

Green Magic

Green dreadlocks, like ropes
of fairy lights, splay
protection from falling
into the dark void.
A magic of half learned
incantations voice
attempts to thwart
cannibalistic legions
like a fortress of spikes.

No wizard or warlock
shall bewitch this hour
from the stalk that rises
out the depths of evil,
unseen under a facade
of carbon, burned,
dehydrated potions.

Bring on the dance
of children in masks,
the youth that spawn
innocence in a fairies’ realm
with green herbalist
maypole for small
hands to grasp - heart cords.

The above poem bears a moderate explanation. I wrote it from an image of the horsetail plant which was used in ancient Roman and Greece for medicinal purposes. There is still a lot of research about it today, but as this was written in October, I chose a somewhat different appeal for the herbs history.

THE TUNNEL

noreply@blogger.com (Glenda_Fralin) — Wed, 15 Aug 2007 19:27:00 +0000

The Tunnel

by Glenda K. Fralin

I don’t know exactly the moment we stepped into that tunnel, but I know that it was on a Sunday after church when the family was out for an afternoon walk. We loved our nature walks after church, for they allowed us to look deeply and intuitively into God’s beautiful creation. My husband and three children, Bobby, Sissy, and Kat all participated with pleasure.

This Sunday we took a path on a trail we’d never explored before. We drove forty miles north to a well known park for that Sunday’s adventure. It was a rocky path with no real markers, but landmarks were not difficult to figure out. We were experienced hikers so we had nothing to worry about.

I took the picnic cooler out of the car and my husband Robert grabbed the old plastic cloth we liked to throw over the picnic tables. You learn early on nature walks that birds love to make their droppings on picnic tables. We ate at a table near the beginning of the rough path. Simple sandwiches, pickles, chips and cola were our lunch and then we each had an insulated flask to take along filled with water.

We trekked contentedly into the trees as we followed the trail, soon surrounded by the beautiful colors of the wild. We played a game of naming the various shades of green. Some red leafy plants along the path, their shape and hues reminded me of flames. The leaves boasted intense reds in the center, then slowly and indistinctly changing to a yellow orange at the edges. I bent and stole a leaf from a plant, thanking God for the small gift to be identified later. The odors of moist tree bark, mosses growing on anything shaded from the sun, rock dust, and mud under wet leaves were sweet and sour together. I loved that smell. I could hear birds of different species: the call of a Bobwhite quail, the chirping of sparrows, and the pecking of a woodpecker on a tree somewhere out of view.

Yellow and white butterflies fluttered by, with the rare monarch joining the pallet. Squirrels scattered noisily up trees as they heard our footsteps. Their indignant little voices made me laugh at their antics.

We talked as each pointed out something that caught their interest. My son Bobby was thrilled to draw our attention to a pile of deer droppings that were still steaming. The girls each said “oooough” and punched Bobby’s arm giggling.

Robert looked ahead and saw the entrance to the tunnel. We were all elated with a sense of adventure. “That is so odd,” noted Robert. “That is a man made tunnel out here in the middle of nowhere. I wonder what its purpose is. It cuts into a hill, but the hill isn’t really all that high or steep from the looks of it. See, there is even a path to take up and over the hill if we choose.”

“The tunnel,” the children cried in unison.

“Ok,” Robert laughed and winked at me.

As soon as we entered the tunnel, something in my spirit suddenly felt lonely. I thought at first it was just me and the dimness of the interior, faintly lit with overhead bulbs. The color of the brick turned to a dull gray instead of the beautiful red and orange colors we saw from outside.

The feeling wasn’t so distinct then, it was just a kind of let down that I attributed to a creeping weariness. I worried about the children too as I tried to keep them close in a place dark as that manmade cave.

Then I noticed that the whole family was quiet. Maybe our noon meal was weighing on us. As we explored further the tunnel seemed to grow wider and at one point we stopped to sit on some benches along the side.

The children started complaining about small things at first, then fighting with each other.

My husband looked at me and we knew that we both felt the same loss of something in ourselves. It seemed individual yet all inclusive.

“Do you all want to head back the way we came?” Robert asked. “I think we made a mistake taking this route.”

More than a request it was a command and none of us argued. But, as we turned to follow our steps back to the entrance we met with a hideous blackness that was like an impenetrable wall. We then looked ahead of us at the other hiker’s in the cave. Calling out to them, we finally realized they could not hear us.

Yelling louder, we noticed one man turning back, but he obviously met the same result. We could hear him, but he could not hear us. He just attempted to turn back like we had.

We were in his black.

Robert looked at me and the kids who looked panicked. My earlier sense of dread was a warning, and now it was too late. Robert commanded. “Ok, we are never alone; we know that even if we feel we are. I don’t know what this place is, but we have to do the one thing we know to do. We need to pray.”

Kneeling Robert prayed fervently for our family and our journey through the darkness. Then I said my prayer, mirroring his words and adding a request for healing of my spirit. The children each knew Christ, and each prayed as well.

“Do you remember the poem Footprints in the Sand”?

They all answered me to the affirmative. “Think of that poem, and think of when God said ‘I shall never leave you or forsake you’.”

We began to repeat the words as a continuous prayer continuing our walk cautiously. Then I quoted scripture from Roman’s chapter eight that ‘nothing can separate us from the love of God if we love Him.’

I think we still felt the dullness of spirit, but as we looked ahead we could see other’s were weeping and tearing at their hair in despair. Parents were crying out in terror in front of their own children and the children were screaming in panic. But, they were more like echoes as we caught up to the place where each had walked before.

We heard a hum from behind and I knew there must be other’s behind us, in our black. I reasoned that if we could see those ahead, the ones behind must see us.

That meant they could hear our echoes as well. “Take heart in God, pray to Him. We have passed here before you and are praying for us all.”

My family never questioned what I said, but looked at me with complete understanding and joined in relaying the promise to those following.

We finally saw a glimmer of light. We had no idea how long we were in that tunnel.

It was at the side of the tunnel shining into the darkness ahead so that we were able to escape back into the natural world outside.

We saw those in front of us passing as though they had not seen it. We called back to those behind to look for the light at the side of the tunnel. There was an opening there.

We walked out and found ourselves on the path that had led up the hill. We were at the summit. We grabbed each other and cried, praying our thanks for anyone to hear.

Behind us we noticed other’s escaping into the sunlight with us. We all prayed together and they said that if they had not heard us, they may well have missed the exit.

Together we followed the rocky path through the trees down the opposite side of the hill. Our spirits were back and we wanted to explore on, careful to stay in the sunlight.

When we reached the bottom of the hill, we searched the entire hillside for an exit from that tunnel.

We never found one.

The Players

noreply@blogger.com (Glenda_Fralin) — Fri, 25 May 2007 19:40:00 +0000

As promised I am posting the new poem. I hope you enjoy it.

The Players

Who are the players
of the lives I planned to live?
The missionary that went to Africa
to teach the Good News, cured
the diseases of the world,
fought the battles of the weak?
I know You assigned those rolls
to other able bodies.
You gave me the life
I was intended to give
by Your perfect design.
I’ve been told
I have a mission here
to nurse the community.
and battle for the weak
by becoming weak
to gain understanding,

I am the player
of the life I hoped to live.
You, my precious Lord,
are the author of my life.

Old Timer's Disease - Reading

noreply@blogger.com (Glenda_Fralin) — Mon, 23 Apr 2007 20:49:00 +0000

http://www.mediafire.com/annmf5wzyqm

Oldtimer's Disease

noreply@blogger.com (Glenda_Fralin) — Mon, 23 Apr 2007 19:55:00 +0000

Old-timers Disease

I peeled the taters in the tub

Put them in the bowl to boil

Placed the pot roast in the hamper

And covered it all with voile

Then I went to the sitting room

To take my morning shower

Beneath a sprinkler hose that stretched

From the spigot near the flowers

Forgot to draw the curtain

Gave the neighborhood a fright

Saw pretty red and yellow lights

And men clad in crispy white

I ran into the kitchen where

I dressed up in my salad.

The lettuce was scant but tastefully worn

With some spinach and herbs for balance.

They swaddled me in a sheet of sorts

Led me to the their pretty striped van

Then off we flew to a weird sort of zoo

And I think that’s where I met you

HE (A new poem)

noreply@blogger.com (Glenda_Fralin) — Thu, 07 Dec 2006 04:49:00 +0000

HE

by Glenda K. Fralin

I cry into the wind

so no one sees the tears.

I like it that way.

But He won’t let me,

suffer alone.

Like dialing into

my heart’s number.

He calls me to pray

on His name

for the warmth

of his breath

on my spirit.

Like the morning,

I have brightness again.

And I love it that way.

My 2 year old granddaughter in a tractor pull? Yup

noreply@blogger.com (Glenda_Fralin) — Sat, 04 Nov 2006 21:44:00 +0000

To Honor our Veterans

noreply@blogger.com (Glenda_Fralin) — Tue, 24 Oct 2006 18:43:00 +0000

November 11 is the day that we honor our veterans her in the USA. I invite all who wish to pay respect to these men and women whether they served during peace or wartime to add a couple of lines in the comments. Don't feel that you have to be a Shakespear to contribute. Please leave an indicator of your lines as initials or prefered web name, or your full name if you prefer. If you need to post the comment under my name adding your initials or name to your comment will allow it to be distiguished as yours.

I will start with the following.

With love to our fighting men and women

from bygone days, peace time and war.
GF

Dizzy Dance

noreply@blogger.com (Glenda_Fralin) — Fri, 13 Oct 2006 23:16:00 +0000

Dizzy Dance.

by Glenda K. Fralin

Do you remember the dizzy dance?

Grandmother’s floor waxed to high shine.

Shoes off, in stocking feet,

the dining table pulled away.

Grandma plugged in that old phonograph

and on went tunes from ‘South Pacific’

or ‘Brigadoon’. Then we would

whirl and whirl in circles so fast,

till our bottoms met the floor.

Like clumsy ballerinas we’d fight to gain our balance

then skate and spin till we fell again

a festival of hapless vibrant talent.