Terre's Blog – Women of All Seasons
Busy Women on Life's Journey
Let's Not Pretend
To know you,
or really anybody for that matter,
I need to see you,
spend time with you,
face to face.
To see what you are saying,
with your body,
your eyes,
the timbre of your voice;
at times more important than your words.
To know you,
or really anybody for that matter,
I need to see you,
face to face.
We need this,
to really know the essence of you
and you, me.
c.2019 tch
Rose
Today my friend you’ll be laid to your final rest.
Yes, you will be sorely missed.
But when I think of you,
I will smile
and remember your laughter,
you dancing,
you tending to your garden
and smelling your flowers.
Your love and friendship
that you so readily gave.
I will remember you in your joy
and acceptance.
I will remember you with happiness.
I have this disease called “Books”
they’re hidden in
every cranny and nook.
I’ve run out of room,
—it’s true,
but still I go
aborrowin and alookin
to find just one more book.
The basement is full
the attic too
shelves line the garage
they’re on the ceiling too.
I guess I’ll have
to dig a well
one without water
but “very” deep
and there more
new books
I will keep.
Many more books, I can seek,
have no doubt
I will find them very well.
And when that well is full,
you will see,
I’ll dig a new well
for my disease.
tcholland c. 2018
Respect, you and me ~ mutually caring, wanting ~ no room to pretend.
Requiem for the American Worker
I hear America crying
across the flatlands, hill and dale.
Embittered tears of weary souls
the beaten down, the proud.
American workers holding on
with a cry in their voice.
Fighting hard to not be counted
among the growing poor.
The waitress at night with a babe upon her breast,
The coalminer tired of his long rest.
The automobile worker doing her best,
The bakery is closing, the baker is next.
The bus driver without a human load,
The young black man never given a chance.
The hospital worker called off, worries how to pay the rent.
Telephone workers marching, out in the cold.
Voices, hands, and hearts
traded for those across the seas.
The small, American farmer
still fighting hard to believe.
I hear America crying,
as those “who have”,
with no remorse, no guilt,
build empires upon the workers backs.
Americans trying, trying, and trying.
I hear America crying.
Written by: T.C. Holland c. 2006. Published with Permission.
*Originally published in the Labor News, Indianapolis, In., Feb. 2006
