"INNER TRUTHS & SOLEMN WORDS"

I Had a Dream Today

2011-10-18T10:34:00.000-07:00

By Michelle Longo-Bloom

I had a dream today,
so real and so true
the doctors said
there’s a ball on my brain.
It’s at the upper tip
and it’s completely benign
it’s easily accessible
with no “probable” harm.
This ball in my head
blocks a gateway to dreams,
it stops chemicals from getting
where they need to be.
Once removed from my brain
my life would be free,
free to live on and free to be me.
No darkness, no sadness
no tunnels of black
no more despair
and complete lack of faith.
No more crying and sobbing
no more shame, no more guilt
no hopeless days
and no wretched nights.
Upon hearing the news
my son fell to the floor
my parents cried out loud
and I thanked God more and more.
I will be so happy now,
I will be able to smile,
I was given incredible hope
…and then I suddenly woke.

A Wide Open Range

2010-12-16T23:27:00.000-08:00

By Michelle Longo-Bloom

The wind blows strong
Time passes long
The wind blows high
Time passes by
Straight into the wind
I pass a sunset
And some feelings of sadness and slight regret
I fly on by
Some tears I cry
I drive my car
To the nearest bar
I nurse a drink
And begin to think
As I watch the greenhorns begin to connect
And the local townies disconnect
I think real hard
I sit and reflect
Yes, the time just swiftly flies; it flies
And I think of all my special loved ones
When “He” decided it was their time
Their final “Goodbyes”
And who now resides
In the hands of the Angel’s and Heaven’s tides
I think about my life
The struggles and the strife
The things I would exchange
It’s a wide open range
My watered down “Bloody”
At a snail's pace I drink
And in my “Mary” my sorrows I sink
I continue to nurse
And how badly I want to scream out and curse
But I bottle it instead
Letting it fester inside my head
I pay the bar tender
A quiet “Thank you” I render
Along with a most fraudulent smile
And drive back into the raging wind
Suddenly, the speedometer dial
Am I reading it right?
Thirty seconds per mile
Time flies by
And so do I
In the gusting wind
Feeling something strange
It’s a wide open range.

From A Photograph

2010-12-16T23:15:00.000-08:00

By Michelle Longo-Bloom

November 26, 2007

It’s your tender words
in your deepened voice
it’s your sweetened style
and your protective choice.
It’s your eyes that see the depths of me
so mystically and clairvoyantly.
Your deep, dark eyes, they radiate,
they see my being; they see my fate.
They perceive straight through me
your deep, dark eyes
and see all my strife and life’s demise.
It’s your deep dark eyes somehow, someway
they tell me everything’s going to be okay.
And in some strange way they make me feel
undeniably whole and undoubtedly real.

It’s the way they see
from a photograph,
it’s what they see
the way your eyes; they glare and cast.
Does your heart see what your eyes, they see?
And will they both see us; you and me?

It’s the gestures that you often make
so genuine and never fake.
They open up my heart so wide
at the risk of losing all my pride.
So unadulterated like a child’s
across the many, many miles.
It’s your inner soul’s untainted truths
that come gaping and prancing through and through.
It’s with the deepest honor and respect
so dearly I admire you.

It’s the way they see
from a photograph,
it’s what they see
the way your eyes; they glare and cast.
Does your heart see what your eyes, they see?
And will they both see us; you and me?

Your character, it shines so bright
your compassion exudes such beaming light.
You’re sensitive to the center core
a gift to hold; savor and adore.
A gift of delicacy, of sheer distinction;
to be treasured forever and ever more.
There are no facades; no pretenses
everything is real and greatly cherished.
Always honest; warm and true
special is what I feel with you.

It’s the way they see
from a photograph,
it’s what they see
the way your eyes; they glare and cast.
Does your heart see what your eyes, they see?
And will they both see us; you and me?

The Bus Ride (The 1970's)

2010-12-16T22:34:00.000-08:00

By Michelle Longo-Bloom

A vacant seat on a bus,
the only one;
out it stood.
“I need to get on,
I need to get home,
Mama needs my help,
She’s all alone.”
Onto the coach, the boy stepped up,
and through the aisle he did pass.
Now, while standing and passing by
through rows of seats all occupied,
each one taken; each one gone,
he continued to look further on.
It caught his eye from ranks beyond,
he spotted one space, not yet had,
the vacant seat, no longer vacant,
now sat there, another lad.
He sat down beside him,
people staring; looking grim,
anticipating something dark and dim.
They stared some more,
everyone about;
double takes and looks to see for sure.
What they saw; what a sight,
two boys enthralled, recanting last night’s fight.
Smiling, laughing, conversing, engaging…
a grace to hold, a blessing true;
a picture worth forever saving.
It finally happened; it’s finally here,
to look at one’s skin and see the color, bare.
Together sitting on a bus,
such lack of conflict;
no erupting feuds,
not one fuss,
interacting …together sitting on a bus;
kidding, playing, respecting each other,
treating each other equally.
What they saw; what a sight,
one boy was black and one was white.
A vacant seat on a bus,
no longer vacant;
out it stood.

The Poor Man

2010-12-16T22:29:00.000-08:00

By Michelle Longo-Bloom

Far be it to know, to grasp and to learn,
just what he can do, what the poor man can earn.
Great honor and pride deep in the core,
in this man so ordinary, common place, nothing more.
He possesses no great riches, no jewels; no fame,
just an average, poor man; simple and plain.
The clothes on his back, torn and tattered, if you will,
the usual, common, poor man; run of the mill.
But the things that he holds deep in his heart;
the honest hard work everyday that he does,
the nickels and dimes he works for; the people he loves.
These are the things that mean a great deal,
these are the things that make the poor man feel real.
A sense of honor and pride to the poor man, you see,
is the gift that he treasures; so special, so simply.
The gift to appreciate what he has indeed,
a life filled with riches, for him there’s no need.
No top of the line, expensive clothes or cars,
or two or three other vacation homes.
Content with his family and friends so devoted,
perfectly happy with just what he owns.
A wonderfully sincere and true ability,
a wonderfully loyal and great quality:
the gift to live so simply and happily,
without riches and wealth; material free.
So now we know, we’ve grasped and we’ve learned,
just what the poor man so humbly earned.
He’s earned a life filled with wealth, whether rich or not,
with only nickels and dimes, true pride he’s got.
So, maybe the poor man isn’t poor at all,
he may have no money, but he’s the one standing tall;
and maybe the poor man is the richest of all.

MY MAGICAL FANTASY : (An Abecedarian Poem)

2010-12-16T22:25:00.000-08:00

By Michelle Longo-Bloom

Aladdin thrust away in mid air
Beached on his carpet of colors, going nowhere
Cinderella, in rags, so sad and lonely
Demeaning step sisters, so mean and homely
Enticing fairies spinning amidst
Fantasies draw close; come see, I insist!
Genies grant wishes for each and all,
How enchanting to be at this fairy tale ball
Imaginary figures evolve and erupt
Jack-in-the-Box comes in and pops up!
Kings and Queens, in castles so many
Leprechauns leaping by tons and plenty
Mystical adventures, his soul he bares
Neverland suddenly shows and appears
Outstanding stories, the lad’s eyes widen,
“Peter Pan is here! He’s behind me hiding!”
Quivering, some folk tale wars; unrelenting
“Revenge” is what it’s about; no repenting
Silver and gold chests of treasures and jewels
Tumultuous battles, pirates brawling; such fools
Unanimous vote of children all toll
“Vengeance” it is; don’t sell the secrets of your soul!”
Winding down now and oh what a treat, the faces of clowns and sprites reappeared
X, marks the spot, now here’s Beauty’s Beast we all so feared
Yes, each delightful figure; one by one
Zip; how quick my magical fantasy is over and done.

~Krissy~

2010-11-02T16:17:00.000-07:00

By Michelle Longo-Bloom

She’s the sun and the moon all wrapped up in one.
She’s a breath of fresh air and so much fun.
She’s a smile and laugh a phone call away.
She’s moody and pissy after a long hard day.
She’s fragile and mild once given a break
And completely content once home with Drake.
She’s a writer and singer so packed with brilliance.
She’s always forth coming and filled with resilience.
She’s had a world of upsets and her share of regrets,
but she gets up and goes on; that’s just who she is.
She’s a child at heart always aiming to please.
She’s determined and motivated to always succeed.
She’s a girl and adult playing the life game.
She’s not mine by birth, but all one in the same.

Happy Birthday and Many, Many More to Come!!!
Love Always,
~DrAgOnFlY~

BASKETBALL ESCAPE

2010-10-07T22:26:00.000-07:00

“Mommy, what time is it when the big hand is on the twelve and the small hand is on the three?”
“Well, that’s the time children, just a little older than you, are finished with school.”
“I’m never going to school.”
“Why is that?”
“I just like to stay home with you.”
… And when the big hand on the twelve
and the small hand on the five
he waits by the door with such anticipation -
waiting, watching, waiting
for his one and only – his Daddy…

He walks through the door at half past three
his face pensive with emotions soaring
needing desperately to be set free
yet still trapped inside.
He’ll never tell
where his anger hides
for him a living hell
and to display such vulnerability
in his early eyes
is to lose all credibility.

He drops his backpack to the floor,
delivers a “well enough” greeting,“Hey”
and proceeds right back out the door.
The ball is bouncing
each times it hits the ground
comes a new-fangled, novel sound.
I continue to listen and now the sound of his beloved sanctuary grows louder and more malicious …and the swish of it gliding perfectly through the hoop provides only a pseudo arrogance that he hides behind, but it’s all the same to him and it all gets him through ...
yet he is filled with rage
and I feel helpless.

At thirteen, he despises his home and the memories it holds.
Haunting visions in the dead of night of what use to be,
the happiest and most secure times for him
now gone, wrecked, over; taken away.
Yet, he must learn to make the best of it; see the light
beyond the darkness of each new day.
He is in un- Godly pain,
yet he cannot show weakness
to admit to the injure, he is much too vein
so he continues to ache
and to the world he shows a smile fake.

He is now the Alpha-male
as he refuses to step down,
my actions under steady scrutiny
until his way is found.
It is I who is faced with his path
it is I whom he will lash out
and I who will receive the force of his tangled wrath
for the mother usually does.

As my patience wears thin
reality sets in
confronted with the cold harsh truth of it all
no matter the sound it makes
or the swish it scores
it is the ball that helps him fight his strife
and gets him through his mangled life.

"Mommy, what time is it when the big hand is on the twelve and the small hand is on the three?”
“Well, that’s the time children, just a little older than you, are finished with school.”
“I’m never going to school.”
“Why is that?”
“I just like to stay home with you.”
…And when the big hand on the twelve
and the small hand on the five,
he waits by the door with such anticipation
waiting, watching, waiting
for his one and only – his Daddy…

My child now jaded
memories, once pinnacle
now foggy and faded
and nothing but cynical.
Time rearranged his former perfect life
how ironic now -
school, his favorite place to be
with mentors and role models who fill up the gap
of his once “one and only” best friend and Daddy.
An unexpected course,
a sudden turn and jolt as he wonders if his father
feels any sort of remorse.
There was a time when his family meant the world
now just the bounce of the ball and at times a pretty girl.

A mothers’ grief is always unyielding
as she looks on with great fret
to see her child suffer
there can be no worse upset.
A mother's sorrow is unrelenting
as she watches in dismay
“Please God, make his pain go away.”
His nostalgia slipping
his happiness disappeared
for every child of disconnection
I hope I have spoken
because my heart is in two
and my child is broken.

Matthew, I love you and I am so proud of how far you have come from this.
Your father adores you;
he could not go on without you and I'm so glad
you have him back in your life.
Always,
~Mom~

2010-02-17T02:28:00.000-08:00

SLEEPING WITHOUT YOU

By Michelle Longo-Bloom

The night so long
morn not far off
in my mind, there plays a song
..."First Time"
before I wake to a crisp, cold frost.
I close my eyes
clenched; shut tight
with each restless breath
my heart it dies.
His touch, his smell - so vivid; so clear
no longer now
what once was there.
Absent space
once filled my muse
his tender hand,
his breath; his face.
My body won't rest
my soul it cries
a hole in my chest
my heart it dies.
As I lay and as I pray
my mind so longs
I hear them play
our chosen songs.
I lay so still
my silence screams
"no space" to fill
I close my eyes
and my heart just dies.

Waking to the morning dew
my body frigid; my being lost
as I sleep void of you
I feel the air; the crisp, cold frost.

I close my eyes
and my heart; it dies.

A CHRISTMAS POEM

2009-12-15T22:38:00.000-08:00

Photograph by Michelle Longo-Bloom

Photograpy by Michelle Longo-Bloom

CHRISTMAS MORNIMG

-For a Six Year Old Boy-

By My Son,
Matthew Edward Bloom

Waking this blessed morning as excited as can be,
believe your own eyes, what they witness; what they see?
There are so many presents under that tall Pine,
some large, some small, wrapped eloquently; so fine.

The feeling in your stomach; one of true anticipation,
so eager, energetic and filled with exhilaration.
Your excitement and enthusiasm is driving you wild.
You must wake all the others sleeping calm and so mild.

You tell them you feel like you’ve been waiting for days,
“Okay, just a minute give us, to come out of our haze.”
Leisurely, they’re all washing and putting robes on.
“How can they do this, to what planets have they gone?”
“I’m a six year old boy and it’s Christmas morning!”
“Hurry, please hurry”, I scream and I shout.
“Just what are they doing, all lingering about?
“I’m a six year old boy and it’s Christmas morning!”
“Just what are they doing, I’m in utter doubt!”

Finally everyone there and all under the tree,
looking quite excited, but not half as much as me!
The thrill and the laughter, the fun of it all,
It’s so magical and delightful; I’m having my Christmas ball!

With each present we unwrap, each box, each gift,
our hearts they open, they rise and they lift.
For everything I love and I truly adore,
It’s a wonderful Christmas; I couldn’t ask for more.
All that Santa brought, each game and each toy,
superb and faultless for a six year old boy.

But, while emerged in such delight, I must say and admit,
my eyes couldn’t have been any more lit,
than when it came time for “HER” to unwrap and see
what I had gotten myself; just from me.

When she opened her gift, she couldn’t believe her eyes,
she was filled with amazement and such great surprise.
Her face was so bright, her smile so wide,
to make her this happy, I felt such joy and such pride.

I thought I was excited about all the presents for me,
but really, it was something more sitting under that tree.
What had me so eager and so raring to go;
it was the gift for my mother that I had to bestow.

This is what gave me the most pleasure indeed,
Because “SHE” is the angel God sent down to me.
She’s always there no matter what; for whatever I need,
and she gives and she loves so whole-heartedly.

In spite of every present; every toy there for me,
the big ones, the small ones and all I could see,
giving her this gift on this Christmas morning,
without her knowing, not even a warning,
it made me so happy and so filled with joy;
the finest gift of all for her six year old boy!

Photograph by Michelle Longo-Bloom

THANKSGIVING

2009-11-25T22:53:00.000-08:00

By Michelle Longo-Bloom

A rainy morning
And all settled in
The bird in the oven
Spices in the bin
The Macy’s Parade on the TV
High in the sky, big balloons and floats
The Rockets dancing and prancing with glee
Every person and tourist in their yellow raincoats
The turkey’s still cooking
We’ve just set the table
We all thank the Lord
For being well and able
We each say some words for what we are thankful
And to all we tell what this day so means
With our homes so warm and our plates so plentiful
As we speak of the value this holiday so deems

A THANKSGIVING POEM

2009-11-25T22:28:00.000-08:00

By Michelle Longo-Bloom

A time honored day
Way back; long ago
The Indian and the Pilgrim
In the meadow
No longer are they foe
The Pilgrim lay down his rifle
The Chief put down his bow
Their hatred now trifle.
Our books and our teachers tell of it all
Of this notable time
One day in the Fall
Obliged and grateful for what took place on that day
We bow our heads
And give thanks as we pray.

ANSWERS COME FIND ME

2009-11-12T04:31:00.000-08:00

Photograph by AudreyLynne Waldbaum Castiglione

ANSWERS COME FIND ME

By Michelle Longo-Bloom

Wondering about the wind
With out focus or destination
Aimlessly en-route
Pondering hesitation
Floating through the air
Deciding, should they reach me
Answers seem so bare
What’s meant to be will be.

A VETERAN'S DAY POEM: "THE UNKNOWN SOLDIER"

2009-11-11T20:45:00.000-08:00

Photograph by AudreyLynne Waldbaum Castiglione

THE UNKNOWN SOLDIER
By Michelle Longo-Bloom

He was fighting for his country while seeking the hope of peace some day.

He truly believed it was not too long away.
With implausible bravery he forged on in his world of terror and fear.
When he saw the inevitable danger ahead,
he knew his troops would be loyal and near.
But now he sits scared and alone
and as the enemy approaches
he wonders if he’ll ever see the likes of home.
His troops were not near this time,
while he contemplated
turning back or surrendering and crossing the enemy line.
He never did find what he was seeking,
but as he lay still and breathless beneath the earth
his mother sits home weeping.
Perhaps the next soldier will find that peace,
and while his mother rejoices
and thanks The Lord to have her son alive and home,
they will both remember the one before him
on the battle field, all alone.

BRANCHES

2009-11-08T19:40:00.000-08:00

Photograph by AudreyLynne Waldbaum Castiglione

BRANCHES

By Michelle Longo-Bloom

Its branches spread out
like that of the clothes broadened on her bed.
“Her,” trepid femella; femmina;
embarking on the lively waters of her adolescent years.
Each article of clothing signifying something so diverse,
each piece denoting experiences, so sundry:
some old and frail; a torn and tattered blouse,
some new and fresh; her latest silk slacks.
Like that of her clothes…
each branch conveys occurrences, varied,
with lines gnarled deep; embedded with in,
lines which speak,
of the lips, cheeks and foreheads they’ve been.
Each one with streaks
of smirks and frowns they’ve been around,
laughing faces; mouths they once did surround.
With age each branch becomes feeble; fragile,
now comes a new face, the face of a child,
and all of the lines,
they leave; disappear,
and laughter, giddiness, more smiles appear;
innocence for new lines to bind.
As her clothes were worn and then replaced…
so were the branches.
Now, unsullied kindling with new features to be encased;
new facades and grimaces to be encircled.
The branches, they lived lives of their own,
lives of all things, wise and fully grown.
As did she live a life of her own,
“Her,” trepid femella; femmina;
now wise and grown.
Like that of the branches…
with streaks around grins,
with lines around chins,
wisdom and gaiety,
and all that beamed,
in spite of all storms and strife, it seemed.

Photograph by AudreyLynne Waldbaum Castiglione

LOVE'S PRICE

2009-11-05T21:39:00.000-08:00

Love's Price
By Michelle Longo-Bloom

To win or lose
it’s what we choose
it’s nothing more at the end of the day
it’s nothing more than how we play
do we lose the game
give up the reign
is it all the same
are we to blame
a liberty once our very own
either we let it go or we’re all alone
why should it be
please help me see
why myself, I must sacrifice
why my beliefs don’t suffice
why does love have a price

Love & Lost:

2009-11-01T04:23:00.000-08:00

BELOW ALL FACADES
By Michelle Longo-Bloom

Deep beneath the most inner truths,
far below all facades,
lurking behind what may appear real,
all smiles and gestures
to seemingly deal.
In spite of what we truly feel,
lay a quandary of wonder,
and questions to peel.
Hiding in the inner soul,
masking the ravaged essence tame,
the shattered psyche and spirit whole,
a masquerade of undying pain.
Reservations, self doubt
and unwarranted guilt,
so strongly, strategically;
so beautifully built.
Torn at the seems and shredded at the heart,
forever marveling why today we’re apart.

Love & Lost: "The Face of an Angel"

2009-10-31T10:04:00.000-07:00

By Michelle Longo-Bloom

(For Penn)

Sometimes wearied
Sometimes frayed
A boyish look
Taken; dismayed
Still so amazed
At a person’s wretched craze
Needing so badly to be freed
Of the dire sights and dreadful deeds
His lady’s past and their selfish needs
Innocence appeared at my doorstep
And vastly chipped my guarded soul
Within days my being; swept away
My thoughts, my convictions, my body; whole
The face of an angel came to me
My jaded spirit, broken apart
He gave it back to me
Untainted, untouched
He gave it back to me
My soul; my heart

FOR MY SON: LIFE MOVES ON

2009-10-25T15:53:00.000-07:00

Photograph by AudreyLynne Waldbaum Castiglione

LIFE MOVES ON

For Matthew

By Michelle Longo-Bloom
2007

Years ago when my son was two,
I watched him ride the carousel.
I watched him ride the helicopter,

the airplane, and then the train.

I watched him eat an ice-cream cone
and wiped his chin when it dripped down
covered in sprinkles of blue and red;
how I wish I took a picture instead.

Oh, how fast the time went by
and what I’d give for another try.
There are things I didn’t say and do,
what I’d give for that day with you:
a day just like that very one.
Now growing fast and on the run…
but life moves on; what’s done is done.

Some time ago he turned four at last
I watched him picnic on the grass.
I watched him lay a blanket down
and in circles he ran around and around.
It must have been three dozen times,
he circled that blanket then fell to the ground.
He ate from his basket of treats; so fine
his candies of every sort and kind.
And then I watched him laugh so dear;
his smile spread from ear to ear.
I made him eat something healthy
and suddenly, his smile bare;
his laughter gone; no more to hear.
Oh, how I wish I left him alone.
I wish I wasn’t caught up in the fear.
Oh, how I wish I let him laugh.
I wish I let him be so dear.
I wish I didn’t interfere.

Oh, how fast the time went by
and what I’d give for another try.
There are things I didn’t say and do,
what I’d give for that day with you:
a day just like that very one.
Now growing fast and on the run…
but life moves on; what’s done is done.

It seems like yesterday when my son was six
on a breezy day with dark clouds amidst.
Way beneath the dark cloud beds,
he was running through the sprinkler heads.
Laughing hysterically, and “oh so cute!”…
a fact I simply can’t refute.
Dashing back and forth he’d go,
over and over, fifty times in a row.
Each time I’d follow with a towel to wrap him
so afraid that he’d catch a cough or cold.
Now how I wish I threw that towel in
and ran along side him getting wet.
I was just too afraid he’d catch a cold.
How wrong I was, you can bet
because now at thirteen, he’s just a little too old.

Oh, how fast the time went by
and what I’d give for another try.
There are things I didn’t say and do,
what I’d give for that day with you:
a day just like that very one.
A pre-teen now and on the run…
but life moves on and what’s done is done.

I love you Matthew, you are my life!!!
~Mom~

This is where Matthew picnicked on the grass that day.

Photographs by Michelle Longo-Bloom

Photograph by

AudreyLynne Waldbaum Castiglione

LOVE & LOST

2009-10-25T02:06:00.000-07:00

Photograph by AudreyLynne Waldbaum Castiglione

WALK WITH ME

By Michelle Longo-Bloom

Take me with you
Can I come along?
Let me be by your side
Together we will walk on
Take my hand
As one we will listen
To the sound of Fall breaking
Crackling;
As our feet press down on arid leaves
Walk with me
To see the weeping willows
Drench the meadow with their tears
Stay with me
As we settle down to rest
And watch each sun rise and set
Wake with me
To the smell of each morning’s dew
To skies of blue and gray, and yellow too;
Walk with me.

Photograph by AudreyLynne Waldbaum Castiglione

LOVE & LOST POEMS:

2009-10-23T01:23:00.000-07:00

Photograph by AudreyLynne Waldbaum Castiglione

I STILL LOVE YOU,
BUT
NOT IN THAT WAY

By Michelle Longo-Bloom

When you’ve loved someone for over twenty years

They’ve stood by your side and eased all your fears

So devoted they’ve been through all of your strife

For the entire time shared of your together adult life

In such ultimate love you created a child

A pre-teen now, but still precious and mild

You brought him into this world with inconceivable joy

And you remember him thanking you for his beautiful boy

The proudest father right before your eyes

The happiest husband; his smile lit up the skies

The times you shared so special and true

So blissful to be with his son and you

Then twenty years later come these words from nowhere

And you feel as though you can’t live and can’t bear

When he told you, “Sit down, I have something to say,”

The words from his mouth on that life altering day

That unspeakable, dreadful, horrendous phrase:

“I still love you, I do, but not in that way.”

HEAR THE BIRDS

2009-10-22T22:51:00.000-07:00

Photograph by AudreyLynne Waldbaum Castiglione

Hear the Birds

By Michelle Longo-Bloom

Just once upon the early morn
I want to hear the birds at dawn
Hear them chirp on my front lawn
And I want to really concentrate
On what they’re saying; let penetrate
On whom they like and whom they hate
Which house’s trees they do prefer?
And whose lands and roofs they better rate
If Five Medford Lane is of high preference
Or mine, number Three, does more for their taste.
Which branches do they seek and search?
And how high do they enjoy their perch?
Are they happy in number Four’s Dogwood?
Or is number Two’s Maple equally good?
The big Cherry Blossom across the street
Is that where they fancy each day to meet?
Just once I want to wake and hear
The words of all the birds, so near
But what a feat when each waking day
My mind is overwrought with fear.
Just once, I want to wake and hear
The talk of all the chirping birds
But how impossible when my head is filled
With constant ruminating words.

Photograph by AudreyLynne Waldbaum Castiglione

A LETTER TO DAD

2009-10-22T11:04:00.000-07:00

Photograph by AudreyLynne Waldbaum Castiglione

Dedicated to all our soldiers who thought it was almost over and are now risking their lives even more! You are all in our thoughts & prayers each and every day. God bless you.

A LETTER TO DAD

By Michelle Longo-Bloom

I’m writing to you today Dad,
because I know you’ll understand.
There are endless sounds of gun fire,
bombs blasting and wind blown sand.
I don’t mean to make you sad Dad,
but I’m feeling very scared,
the courage and the bravery, little I have had;
much less than I was seeking;
when I was leaving for this war
perhaps it was my “bravado” speaking.
I felt so gallant, I felt so proud,
“I will serve my country”, I did shout out loud.
Whatever you do Dad, don’t lose your faith,
don’t lose your pride or your trust in me.
No matter how much blood shed and terror that I see,
I vow, in the name of freedom, this war, we shall beat.
If I come home, alive or not,
I will tell you this, straight from the heart.
You can tell the world; shout it out loud,
“My son served his country and I feel so proud!”

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