Deb
Reader, Thinker, Writer, Lover.
114 posts by deb
Mohamed Nohassi

God, you’ve shone your flashlight in my heart and known me.

You know each movement I make, even when I’m asleep and unaware. I can’t see you, but you get the way my brain works. Whether I’m walking into a cathedral or the bathroom, you’ve got an eye on my path.

Before I’ve said a word, you know what I’m going to say.

You’ve encircled me – past, present, and future. You’ve put your hand on my anxious heart and settled it with your touch. I don’t understand it, and never will. Read more…

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“Ugh, what is this? An AA meeting?”

She rolled in with a bravado that belied the tiny little body she inhabited. She came out swinging with an I’ll-hit-you-before-you-hit-me mouth and body language that was sharp and biting and clearly not interested in what we had to say. Read more…

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I’m not gonna lie. I still turn heads. Now, the average age of those who turn their heads to look at me has increased dramatically. It used to be 30 year olds; now it’s the 65-70 year olds at the gym who smile and try to make eye contact with me. I’m pretty sure that in 5 years, the only ones turning their heads will have one foot in the grave.

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It took me about a week to pull the trigger. All week, I have wanted to eat at the Pizza Hut lunch buffet. Not because I particularly like it, in all of its greasy, over-salted glory; but because I remembered being a kid and thinking it was the greatest treat on earth. I was feeling nostalgic. Read more…

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Let’s go back.

Before you left us. Before you thought that was the only way.

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fire

Growing up, the maternal side of my family was evangelical, fundamental Baptist and the paternal side of my family was Roman Catholic. So, to say I have guilt and debt embedded in my DNA is an understatement.

 

My parents, who were very young, were doing their best to protect their daughters from evil: namely, sex, drugs, rock and roll and, you know, the fiery burning pits of hell. I don’t blame them for having our butts in the church seats 4 times a week. Organized religion is a terrifying, responsibility-laden way to bring up children.

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In a moment of frustration, she smiles a winning smile and puts her arms around a teen with Down’s Syndrome.

He cheerfully discusses rodeo days with a 90 year old man with Alzheimer’s.

She shows up every day to teach the kindergarteners in one of the poorest school districts in New Mexico.

He grins and says he can’t believe he gets paid to drive a fire engine.

She rescues and trains donkeys, sacrificing her own personal financial comfort.

He risks his life multiple times a week on the night shift as a cop in the war zone in Albuquerque.

She works on Sundays to help victims of sexual abuse or kids who have lost a parent.

He works countless hours to take care of his extended family’s financial needs.

She believes art heals and and makes you grow and commutes to Wyoming to make sure kids believe the same.

She inspires thousands to get off the couch, pick up a barbell and win at life with her writing.

 

In just 5 minutes, I thought of 10 heroes of whom I have mad respect; heroes who will never get any press because it’s only sexy to report what’s bad, what’s wrong. I could probably think of a hundred more without much effort.

 

Who is your hero? Do they know you think so?

September 29, 2016

Dear Facebook…

Written by Posted in Blog Posts Comments 0
leaves

Dear Facebook friends ~

Do you want to know how I feel about your posts?

 

They make me seethingly jealous.

They lift my spirits.

They infuriate me. Read more…

September 27, 2016

A Fig

Written by Posted in Horse Magic, Poetry Comments 6
potato

I call myself a Teacher

but today,

the horse called me

Observer.

~~

It said, stand back.

Watch how I gather

unruly energy

and place it,

quiet, but white hot

in their bellies.

~~

Watch how I pluck

unintelligible words from the air

and make them clear.

~~

Opaque hearts,

now transparent.

Inscrutable eyes,

open.

~~

Observe, teacher,

how I take the shy

the loner

the heartbroken

the sad

and lean into them –

filling the dark holes,

demanding presence.

~~

Making them forget for a moment

their cuts

their violence

their hunger.

~~

And so, today, I am not a teacher.

Like Amos,

I am not a prophet,

nor am I the son of a prophet,

but I am a herdsman,

plucking wild figs.”

~~

I’m gathering their stories.

Hold out your hand -

I’m giving them to you.

September 2, 2016

Woman.

Written by Posted in Poetry Comments 0
WWW.JURAJBOHUNICKY.EU

Hard lines, curves.

Circles bringing you

back around,

spiraling in and out

of the heart.

Broken pieces

hidden under strength,

color peeking from

behind black and white

and black oozing

from the inner sanctuary.

And abstraction,

An Actuality –

housed in the same body.

Mindful

distracted

Holding on

looking away.

Shapes and dribbles

held up by borders

of another’s design

struggling to break

Free.

Voice lodged in the throat

head down

bent low

walking forward

Bridges in and out of

the heart

Leading to here

and to heaven

and to hell.

________________________________________

**inspired by the abstract expressionist painting  “Woman” by Judith Godwin – 1954.