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On Wednesday, May 27th, 2009, our sweet sister and her husband, Jackie Carroll, laid to rest their prematurely born infant child.
To my knowledge, she has not before now, known exactly how she was going to bear to part with this sweet child, who came to be known to us as her "beanie baby". The gender unknown for sure, this child was called to me by the proper name "Bambino", which, when translated, literally means, "little boy", or "little child". In art, it is used to refer to the the to the image of the infant Jesus in swaddling clothes.
The very fact that she has held on to this child for so long without knowing when and where she would give him a final resting place speaks volumes to me. It speaks of the sincerity in her heart and in her belief that all life is sacred. It speaks to me of her knowledge that life is given, and life is also taken away. The purposes and means of this is not always in our understanding,  so we trust in our instinct, in belief that there is a special place we can call "home".  This is Faith.

To this end, as the words fail to pass my lips, I am compelled to write this psalm, so that even though speech may elude me, my heart does not.  

Home
I've laid two souls to rest today and how reluctantly,
 for if I had another wish, they would still be here with me.
For into me the seeds of life had bloomed so vibrantly,
 this little life that glittered, like a star so brilliantly.
How seldom do we get this chance of opportunity,
 to have a child to call our own for all eternity.

And how the time has quickly come, to send him on his way,
 there are children there awaiting, where he can run, and play.

I know you loved your children, your grandchildren were your prize,
 so into your arms I've laid this one, while you close your eyes.
I cannot give a greater gift than this last child of mine,
 to take him home to Jesus, where he can truly shine.
I know he's not a burden, you loved your children so,
 so into your grasp I'm trusting, to heaven he will go.

Into your hands I've placed my child for all eternity,
 to take him home to Jesus, where he will wait for me.
Take and show our Father, the gift he gave to me,
 the seeds of life within me, how briefly that may be.
Tell him I will miss him but this is best you see,
 the little child that was once here, can now my angel be.  

And how the time has quickly come to send him on his way,
there are children there awaiting, where he can run, and play.

In loving memory of our
beanie baby Bambino, 'John'
and Ma Betty Carroll
© 2009 byronc

Viola - Countless Hours

http://violahayes.multiply.com/journal/item/3/Countless_Hours
Wonderful poem for all fairy princesses and little girls dreams.

Landscape Gardner

Work, work, work. All we ever do is work around here.

I love to help my grandpa,
he shows me what to do.
He never says don't do that,
My grandpa's awfully cool.

Work, work, work. All we ever do is work around here.

I guess I'm pretty good at it,
he always tells me so,
I think he likes it just so much,
he hates for me to go.

Work, work, work. All we ever do is work around here.

the sad little footstool

i'm a sad little footstool, what's wrong with me?
I was perfect and beautiful, when i left the factory.

upholstering is not one of my strong suits

it's about me, a poem

It's about me

I hurt my child again today, but that's all right you see, she was talking very loudly, and irritating me.
So I whacked her pretty smartly, across the arm or face, it doesn't really matter, to me it's no disgrace.
I've done this so many times, it just comes naturally, just like my mother raised me, it's the fool in me, you see.
I've told her not to spill her milk, about a hundred times, never mind the floor is filthy, I don't have to make it shine.
So I slapped her very smoothly, and made her cry once more, I'm immune to her whining, she makes it such a bore.
You've gotten ketchup on your shirt again, don't look at me and pout. I don't know how to get it off, I can always throw it out.
Washing clothes is not important, I have better things to do, if you weren't such a messy eater, if you would only chew.
There'll be no more food for you today, I'm really bothered see? Can't you understand simple English? I said get away from me!
I care about my child, I do, and I'll prove it in a minute, why just last week a playmate pushed her, and skinned her little knees, and boy I was so upset, I put my two cents in it!
I was yelling and screaming, it's the teacher's fault, you see?
She didn't watch the other kids, all much bigger than she is, she can't take care of herself because she's not yet three.
Don't let the children hurt her, that's reserved especially for me.
I hurt my child more than anyone, but it never dawns on me,
I'm hitting my own children, I'm the mother, can't you see?
She cries when she is hungry, or if she's cold or wet, I swear she's getting on my nerves, I'll have to beat her yet.
Sometimes she reaches out her little arms, begging to be held, but since I mustn't spoil her, a slap is what she'll get.
I'll put her in her little crib, she can't get out of there, and I'll just turn out the lights and leave her crying there,
when she's too tired of crying, we won't hear her anymore, if she wakes up again, I'll have to close the door.
Spare not the rod and spoil the child, is what my mother said, I think God made her an expert, I must listen to what she says.
It must be right, just look at me, it doesn't hurt a bit, this is the way that I was raised, and nothings wrong with it.
I am immune to those weak cries, and surely God don't care, I was also beaten as a child, and no one raised a prayer.
One day when social service comes knocking at my door, I'll make up some excuses, it's the neighbors, nothing more.
They spoil my child, they pick her up, they give her what she wants, she laughs too loud and plays too long, she's happy all at once.
They just can't stand my discipline, I can see it in their face, every time that I hit her, while we're over at their place.
Somehow it gives me pleasure, to be in such control, its perversion at it's finest, I'm enjoying this I know,
they better not say anything, we'll just get up and go.
I wont let them visit her, that'll teach them, yes it will, then they'll start to see things my way, it's my way or the hills.
Who are these people anyway, who raise their kids so kind, and do they think that they are perfect, that their children always mind?
They've never spanked their children, or maybe once or twice, all of their kids are well behaved, their son is very nice
He hasn't ever hit me, I wish he would sometimes, then I could get attention, and this would be just fine.
I may have Munchausen by proxy, sometimes my child is ill,
if another child has fallen sick, mine will too as well, but I don't know how to fix it, its a very bitter pill.
I'll have to call my mother, she'll answer right away, doesn't matter if I call her, thirty times a day.
I wouldn't have to call so much, every time I try, if only she had picked me up, and held me when I cried.
My child hit a teacher, and I spanked him very hard, I yelled you can't hit people, this is what I said.
My child then hit a playmate, just like I showed him to, I then had to hit him, and remind him what to do.
I don't know where they're learning this, it's from the other kids, I said you can't hit people, you're not people, don't you know?
You're just my little angel, and now it's time to go.
This poem as I have read it, has made me very mad, they're sick the ones that read it, and are smitten very sad.
There is only one thing more, that's left for me to do, I must stop that incessant whining, they don't have a clue.
Although the sun's still shining, I can see it through the door, I must put my child to bed, because my hands are sore. It's about me.

 Its about me, a poem©Copyright Dec 2005, byronc, All rights reserved.

Re: Slowing Down, by Charles

slowing down
Yesterday, October 16, 2004

We are spending the day indoors, nothing pressing. Darrell & Heather
has gone to the Balloon Festival and flea market in Vidaila, he was in
charge of the river barge for the firewiorks show Friday night. My
grandbabies are with their other Grandma, i suppose. Anthony has chosen
to go to his Grandpa's house early this morning. My baby boy Curtis
spent the night with his friend and doesn't come home till late
evening. When he returns, I sing him a few phrases of the song "It's
Only the Wind" (your children are not at the door) by the Areno Bros.,
and ask him if he knows the song. He doesn't. We have slowed down
enough to watch the DVD 'The Passion' which we have had for a while.
Ah, melancoly.


A house so empty,
where have they gone?
Where are my children,
so far from home?
My heart is longing,
for thier voice so near.
No need for rushing,
don't shed a tear.
They will return
in a moment or two.
Meanwhile thou,
I feel so blue. Sigh.

bc

labor day

Just took it for granted up untill i was asked what it was about.
"..Labor Day...is devoted to no man, living or dead, to no sect, race, or
nation." said Samuel Gompers, founder and longtime president of the
American Federation of Labor.
I guess i could have never learned that and not missed anything.

Checked on the new outdoor restaurant where i will be installing my newest
fountain thursday and the guy wants me to erect an antique streetlamp
in another area of the courtyard. Needs re-wire, retro-fit light,
paint, and mostly just make it stand up, weighs about 300lbs and top
heavy. Told him i'd think about it. sounds like work.

Why does today seem to be plodding along? must be because i left work early.
Thought I'd give you all one of my cheesier poems, cause i know you guys are starving for the arts:

          The Artist

I am an artist, tis plain to see,
everything is a must to me.
I can plunge toilets with both art and style,
I'm most times willing, for that extra mile.
I challenge anyone, to walk in my shoes,
for they would beg God, to take what they choose.
For no one in a right frame of mind,
would choose to walk, in this state of mine.
I walk it alone, and I'm proud to say,
I would do it again, any old day!
The Plumbers Prayer
by byron c.

i penned this one when my bosses fiance asked me if I were an artist
(I was finishing up the touchups to the ceiling mural at the time).