Writers' Group 2003 : First Unitarian Universalist Church of Nashville

SERMONS

Glimpses of Time

The Writers' Group
July 27, 2003

Slice of Time, Katie J. Griffith
Mom’s Casserole Cooking, Kathy Hardin
Laughter ? Millie Jenny Carman
Writer’s Shock, Kathy Hardin
Written on the 13th of September, Greg Camp
Marching to Love, Katie J. Griffith
Liberal, Irene Ratner
On the Road, Jan Robinson
As Warmth of Spring Unlocks the Bonds of Ice, Greg Camp
Youth–What Do You See, Irene K. Ratner
Talking ff Death, Patricia A. Jaworski
On the Day You Die, Patricia A. Jaworski
Three Weeks After Your Death, Patricia A. Jaworski
Off Guard, Irene K. Ratner
Vin: My Brother / Our Marionette, Millie Jenny Carman
Slice Of Summer, Katie J. Griffith
A Mystical Magical Kingdom, Jan Robinson

SLICE OF TIME

The willowy evening descends and circles me
Somewhere the sound of jazz brushes my ear
Lost in a magic moment of time Reflecting on a misty fog of memory
Dancing in the recesses of my mind
Enticing, cajoling, saying be that love dancer
The one who slowly slides and slithers
Pressing butterfly like to greet the honey biscuit
Dripping with joy.

Katie J. Griffith
2001
Copyright © 2003 Katie J. Griffith

MOM’S CASSEROLE COOKING

Mom always made yummy huge casseroles for us kids.
Chicken Divan, Hamburger Pie, Four Layer Lasagna, Chicken Noodle
Casserole, just to mention a few.
Food with several layers and scrumptious thick sauces.

There were three children, but Mom always made enough for an army.
I’m sure they were loaded with tons of calories,
I would call them comfort food, so warm in the tummy and filling.

I still make these casseroles from time to time.
Usually for a potluck dinner or a small dinner party in my home.
The recipe cards are torn and splattered with food.

Mom sure did know how to cook.
When I got married I even received a file card box full of her recipes.
But there are several dishes I can remember, without a card.

And I find I miss these special foods of delight...

Mom has been gone for three years now.
But I can still taste and even smell her cooking...in my mind.

Kathy Hardin
Copyright © 2003 Kathy Hardin

LAUGHTER ?

I just want to surge out with laughter...
Have the feeling start way down in my toes...
Tickle its way slowly up my ankles...
Snake up my legs
Wrap its wild and uncontrollable emotion
Around my too bulky mid-section...
Around and around making me giddy.
Then arch upward and climb my trunk.
Over my breasts...into my throat...
And start to bubble and gurgle
Then bellow out...
In wild and crazy peals
Of laughter...
Well... Maybe later.

Millie Jenny Carman
1/14/02
Copyright © 2003 Milly Jenny Carman

WRITER’S SHOCK

It is September 24th, 2001.
I have been too shocked to write.
Thoughts bombard me excessively.
How can I write with so many conflicting ideas
Bouncing around in my head?

Students ask me questions
I can’t seem to answer
Because I am too unsure of how to answer.
Should I tell them what I really think?
Would my answers be taken home and
Analyzed by parents and then questioned?

Do I have the right to free speech?
Why must I guard my feelings?
Is it because I am too sure that they will be misconstrued?
Will I appear too unpatriotic if I say I want no war?

Why did it take me two days to feel I could place my new bumper sticker
on my car which reads: Peace is Patriotism, strength in peace.
Should I fear someone might disagree and bash in my windows.
Bash in the windows of a car with a peaceful bumper sticker...
Most probably not...

But we have become fearful now...
Afraid of more violence.
We have become more aware...
But not in the way I had hoped.

Kathy Hardin
Copyright © 2003 Kathy Hardin

WRITTEN ON THE 13TH OF SEPTEMBER

Blue morning over Manhattan rises
As the summer turns to fall.
Below, two towers, drawing all
The world, are reaching toward the sky.

Two towers, each the counterpart—
A bit of steel and a bit of clay,
Not angels, no, nor demons they—
Are both within the city’s heart.

One will ask what have we done,
And one will ask what will we do.
But where we stand decides the view
That can be seen beneath the sun.

Rising, rising, seeking light,
Two towers rise to hide the dark,
But darkness leaves its dyeing mark,
And day must fight against the night.

Greg Camp
Copyright © 2003 Greg Camp

MARCHING TO LOVE

I’d much rather be a soldier of love not war
Marching into the hearts of men instead of battle
Throwing hugs not grenades
Shouting I love you rather than commands
Driving passion not tanks
And making the world safe for love not democracy.

Katie J. Griffith 2003
Copyright © 2003 Katie J. Griffith

LIBERAL

I’m a Liberal
Don’t want war
Against the death penalty
Prochoice
Scared of homeschooling based on Christian reasons
Support alternate life styles
Want gun control.

You espouse the other side.
Even believing that the Peace and Justice Center is a communist front.
I wonder what is wrong with you.
Why can’t you see the light?
I know you’re not stupid?
As a matter of fact intelligent and well read

Are you so brain washed,
Honestly, I am tired of your lame brained thinking
I resent your conservative outlook
No longer do I want to put up with it.
I just don’t understand why you can’t be a liberal too.
I wish you’d go away.
And take Rush Limbaugh, Bill O’Reilley and the Fox channel with you.
Do you not understand how you irritate me when you don’t think as I.
The great liberal that I am.

Irene Ratner
May 2003
Copyright © 2003 Irene Ratner

ON THE ROAD

I spend a lot of time on the road in my car, and have always paid attention to things I see from that vantage point. It helps to pass the time while getting from one place to another.

I guess it was inevitable that I notice strange and peculiar messages that people send by way of their vehicles. We are accustomed to seeing political messages, American flags of every type, logos from favorite radio stations or favorite sports teams, or boasts about our kids (My child is an honor student at __________).

Using one’s license plate to say something about yourself is fairly common. My brother, something of a stickler for truth, fact, and scientific knowledge, used to have one of my favorites: “Acura-C”. You can figure out for yourself what make of car he drove

Bumper stickers can be fun and enlightening as well. On a beat-up old blue Pontiac I saw one that said “We are the people our parents warned us about.” There are religious messages such as “Jesus is coming. Look busy.” I’ve seen a car parked in the church parking lot with one that said “I’m not lost; I’m having an adventure.” Perhaps a case of denial? I saw another one that said “Rest. Anytime. Anywhere.” (But hopefully not while driving.) Another said simply “Eracism.” I like that one.

There are other bumper stickers that make me stop and think: “I am not mad!” fortunately was not on the same vehicle as the one which declared “I love Explosives.” I could sympathize with the truck which carried the message on both of his mud guards with a picture of a gun-totin’ Yosemite Sam saying “Back off!” (I’d like to borrow that one.)

Perhaps the sight that still makes me stop and shake my head in wonder was one on Gallatin Road near my office. I saw a red Mitsubishi convertible driven by what I figures to be a middle-aged man, with a pretty young blond in the passenger seat. His car carried a sign that defined him as a Disabled Vietnam Combat Veteran, and his patriotism was loudly proclaimed by numerous American flags in every shape and size. His car also sported a cardboard cutout of Uncle Sam standing on the rear bumper waving another American flag. As I drove up beside him, however, I saw what at first appeared to be four women in the back seat (two sitting on the laps of the other two). Their apparently artificially colored hair was blowing in the wind, and they were dressed in a manner that I can only describe as (excuse the politically incorrect term) “trailer trash” style. It was then that I realized that they were not women at all, but life-sized dolls. I am still trying to figure out what message this man was trying to send us.

Jan Robinson
8/22/02
Copyright © 2003 Jan Robinson

AS WARMTH OF SPRING UNLOCKS THE BONDS OF ICE

As warmth of spring unlocks the bonds of ice,
And waxing blaze of re-born sun awakes
The storms to wreck the fragile crystal flakes,
The hotly present flames of days entice
Cool hopes–the quiet deliquescent dreams
That once with Beauty and with Truth were made,
But now by Sirens’ song to stray are bade–
To swell in softly rising flows the streams
Of conscious life. The tick, tick, count
Of time–in metronomic beat that minds
The hours uneaten, left like rotting rinds
Of wasted fruit–is faithful to account
The empty years. In silence slipping by,
True past efflues itself to future lie.

Greg Camp
Copyright © 2003 Greg Camp

YOUTH–WHAT DO YOU SEE

Youth, what do you see when you look at me? I wonder if you see as I
when I look in the mirror.

Do you count the lines on my face and think it looks like crepe paper?
Do the creases and mottled skin make you want to look elsewhere?

Does aging skin scare you and make you worry?
Do you squirm or want to shy away because it could be contagious?

I wonder after looking at me are you motivated to rush out to buy more
Face creams or a miracle moisturizer

Maybe you secretly wonder why I don’t try a face lift or go the botox route

But, to you, youth, au contraire. My face is a road map of every place
I’ve ever been. Of everything I’ve ever done.

It is like the pages of a book. If you take the time to look carefully you
Will see my historical markers reflecting joy, sorrow, smiles,
Tears, losses and gains.

I have earned this face by living life. I deserve it. My wish for you is to
Live all the days of your life so that someday you, too, can
Proudly display character marks.

Irene K. Ratner
May 2002
Copyright © 2003 Irene K. Ratner

TALKING OF DEATH

You told me what you wanted done with your body...........
Not a funeral...........
But cremation
And the strewing of your ashes at Mount Tamalpais............
The most beautiful place you’d ever seen.
You told me what you wanted done after............
Not a wake or a service,
But a memorial poetry reading
And the music you wanted us to play
As people came in............and as they left.
You told me how you wanted to die............
Not in a hospital...........
But at home if possible............if it wasn’t too great a hardship on any of us.

You told me you were not afraid of death
Death is a part of life, you used to tell me.
We all die.............

That never comforted me, Jorn............

And it still doesn’t.

Patricia A. Jaworski
Spring ‘99
Copyright © 2003 Patricia A. Jaworski

ON THE DAY YOU DIE

I feel a b s o l u t e l y nothing............
Total numbness............
Void Of all emotion............
A stone
A piece of steel

And I don’t even care.

Jorn David Hall
Died early this morning,
Monday December 7 1998.

THREE WEEKS AFTER YOUR DEATH

If I rage and rail against this universe............
Will it make a difference............
Will it help?

If I rage and rail
Against the forces that took you from me ............
Leaving me with this indescribable pain............
Against the forces that will take me My friends All the people I love...........
If I pierce the universe with my scream............
Will it make a difference.............
Will it bring you back to me?

Note: The “............” indicate that the voice is not to be dropped at this point.

OFF GUARD

I wanted to share something with you today
A force of habit–I was caught completely off guard
It was one of those insane seconds
It took me a long, sad moment to realize
That you are no longer here and never will be again
You are gone
The struggle within me keeps asking when will I get to tell you
There is no one else that will appreciate as fully as you the cute, clever thing
The dog did today.
Deep down I know there will be no more laughing together, sharing, or even
fighting and hurt
Reality brings tears to my eyes
The heaviness in my limbs makes it hard to write
When will I see you again
The answer is never, which is a long, long time
I have memories and flashbacks
Such as now
They catch me off guard and seep in
I know that death will eventually drain these away, too.

VIN: MY BROTHER / OUR MARIONETTE

The Marionette’s hand falls down...
The caretaker...fails// to see.
It remains///swaying///free
The head rolls back and forth.
Still no tug to pull it ...
Back...in place.

The wooden legs need braces...
It cannot run...
Needs others...to pull or push it along.

Vin... You were our real-life marionette
Our life-size puppet...on the stage
Your body jerked...when you walked
In premature age...
When...you could walk...

Then...you were placed in a chair with wheels.
Your hand fell...tugging//pulling
A constant...living...hell...

Wonder how it feels to have all your muscles
          Slowly disintegrate...atrophy.
Feeling weak...having your body start to slide
          Or your head fall back or forward
          Bobbing without intention...

Your chair enabled you...to get around
You seemed to accept your fate...almost...without a sound.
You needed help with every task..
But it killed you...to have to ask.
Soon muscles too weak to even breathe...without assistance.
You were placed on that machine...
It forced breath into you to sustain...
But not without further pain
Of knowing...that in this life you could never
Be truly on your own...
Never...fully...grown...

Now...
I love to envision a heavenly stage.

On it...
A handsome...coordinated figure
No longer
Tangled...in strings.
A spirit...floating...in the air
Wish...we could see you dancing there.
Walking...with grace
No longer chained to wheels...or braces...or machines...
Flying...
Soaring...
Beyond the curtain...

SLICE OF SUMMER

Sizzling heat, sultry steam
Pouring from the sidewalk
As a thunderstorm descends to quench the earth
Watermelon juicy, cold sweetness
Kissing your tongue with wonderful wetness
Grass growing higher with clover and Queen Anne’s Lace
Making daisies stretch to the sky
Swimming pools open with water to cool the skin
It’s summer, take a bite

A MYSTICAL MAGICAL KINGDOM

Today I walked Padgett’s Path into a mystical magical kingdom.

I am sitting in the mist on a bench in the rustic amphitheatre on The Mountain. No one here but me, the birds, and other unseen wildlife. I can hear the soft sounds of mist dropping on leaves and on the leaf-covered ground. The birds call quietly to each other. Occasionally a robin redbreast hops around nearby, searching the earth’s bounty for his meal.

Underneath the trees is a thick bed of ferns reaching their fronds up as if either to take a drink or to seek the sun, not yet out.

There are layers of rocks on the gently sloping forest floor covered with a dark green carpet of moss. Now and then I feel a drop of cool water on my forehead.

I can see birds in the tops of the maple and oak trees, flying from limb to limb. They are grey silhouettes against the thick foggy sky. Maybe more robins, maybe something more exotic.

Bark has fallen in huge chunks from the trees. It lays on the ground covered with grey-green-white lichen. It will replenish the earth with its nutrients, making a rich bed for the new oaks, sourwood, dogwood and maples to grow. The lichen sparkles like jewels.

As I move up the nature trail, I hear the ripple of a brook over the rocks. I stop here to fill my tiny jar with water for the water communion service in the fall. Next to the water the forest floor is covered with shiny rounded leaves out of which come clusters of tiny white flowers.

I stop on the trail to speak to a chipmunk digging into the leaves on the ground for some treasure. He glances up at me but does not interrupt his task.

All nature seems at peace today.