Once I walked upon the sand,
my brother and I hand in hand.
Made fires and camped you know,
where no longer any one can go.
Ate fish that washed upon the sand,
from shrimp boats we could see,
when we would stand.
Dug holes so deep,
so children we could see.
So we could protect them you know,
from the depths from down below.
Woken up late at night,
to be told we had no right,
to dig holes that might,
hurt others within their right.
So we laughed and laughed you know,
as we refilled the holes so no one would know.
The fun we had on the sand,
my brother and I hand in hand.
Once I walked upon the sand,
my lover and I hand in hand.
Snot nosed sister walked behind,
knowing that our relationship ,
was something fine.
My lover and I talked upon those sands,
knowing that we would always be,
hand in hand.
We loved each other,
as lovers should,
and hoped one day
we could have children,
maybe not so soon.
The children they did come,
and for a long time,
I was not able to walk upon the sands,
with my lover hand in hand.
Once I walked upon the sand,
my Parrin and I hand in hand.
Drank beer so slow,
knewing that he would know.
How we felt upon his death,
as we realated on his life,
and what he ment to us this night.
How I remember his hands,
showing me the things,
I didn't understand.
He was one heck of a man,
my grandfather,
whom I called Grandpaw.
He showed me how to use bread,
to catch fish instead,
of using other things that I had read.
He showed me how to trap,
nutria and other things,
still in their beds.
As strang as this my seem,
he was the world to me.
And although I never walked,
upon the sands,
with him hand in hand,
I will always know,
he loved me so.
So I hope for all of you,
to one day walk,
with some one you love,
hand in hand,
upon the sand.
By Peter Collins
Sunday, May 31, 2009
Saturday, May 30, 2009
"OH HOW THEY DID FLEA"
HI GANG,
This is one of my uncompleated works. I had it finished at one time but loss the entire thing when my computer crashed and I didn't have a backup. I worked on it for almost two years. What a loss it was to me, I cryed. So this is the first part of it. I don't have any idea when I'll complete it again. I thought you might like to see something I'm currently working on. And I would like to get your openion on what you think it means and where you believe it will go from here.
“Oh How They Did Flea”
Oh how they did flea.
Some put the blame on mankind,
some put the blame on Mother Nature,
some put the blame on God,
some put the blame on themselves,
to some degree.
But ALL did flea.
You could no longer see the Sun,
through the darkened skies,
filled with things,
some even alive.
You could hardly breath,
the air so thick.
Yet time went on,
like a clock that tics.
Oh but how they did flea.
The beautiful blue waters,
you could no longer see,
for they turned in color,
even in the seas.
They turned to black ,brown and green,
like a man bruised,
who was beaten down to his knees.
Oh but how they did flea.
The birds no longer sang,
no longer spread their wings.
For in the skies,
there was just too many things.
So they sat in the barren tree tops,
and looked down below.
Knowing sooner or later,
Man would surely, just have to go.
Oh but how they did flea.
They fled from mountains,
into the valleys.
They fled from the valleys,
to the highest mountain tops.
All looking for a place to hide,
but there was no relief,
not even inside.
Oh but how they did flea.
Some fled to the waters,
where large bubbles waited for them,
down below.
Some fled to the skies,
and beyond you know.
In large cylindrical objects,
they would go.
Oh but how they did flea.
Some were chosen to go to be leaders.
Some were chosen to go to be breeders.
Chosen by whom,
no one seemed to know.
Some were chosen for their Race,
some for their creed.
Some were chosen for their Color,
some for their religious beliefs,
to try and preserve,
what was now being destroyed.
why,,, is beyond me.
Oh but how they did flea.
The poor fled from the rich,
for fear of losing the little bit,
they had left and wanted to protect.
The rich fled from the poor,
for fear of having to support.
Having to give any thing,
to any one any more,
just seemed like a repeat.
Oh but how they did flea.
The weak fled from the strong,
for fear of being overpowered.
The strong from the weak,
for fear of their numbers.
The good from the evil,
for fear of being converted.
The evil from the good,
for they knew not where they stood.
All looking for a place,
down below or for a ride up above,
but this was not to be,
for they were not of the chosen few.
Oh but how they did flea.
Hope you like it. Let me know one way or the other.
L-U-A,
Later,
Peter
This is one of my uncompleated works. I had it finished at one time but loss the entire thing when my computer crashed and I didn't have a backup. I worked on it for almost two years. What a loss it was to me, I cryed. So this is the first part of it. I don't have any idea when I'll complete it again. I thought you might like to see something I'm currently working on. And I would like to get your openion on what you think it means and where you believe it will go from here.
“Oh How They Did Flea”
Oh how they did flea.
Some put the blame on mankind,
some put the blame on Mother Nature,
some put the blame on God,
some put the blame on themselves,
to some degree.
But ALL did flea.
You could no longer see the Sun,
through the darkened skies,
filled with things,
some even alive.
You could hardly breath,
the air so thick.
Yet time went on,
like a clock that tics.
Oh but how they did flea.
The beautiful blue waters,
you could no longer see,
for they turned in color,
even in the seas.
They turned to black ,brown and green,
like a man bruised,
who was beaten down to his knees.
Oh but how they did flea.
The birds no longer sang,
no longer spread their wings.
For in the skies,
there was just too many things.
So they sat in the barren tree tops,
and looked down below.
Knowing sooner or later,
Man would surely, just have to go.
Oh but how they did flea.
They fled from mountains,
into the valleys.
They fled from the valleys,
to the highest mountain tops.
All looking for a place to hide,
but there was no relief,
not even inside.
Oh but how they did flea.
Some fled to the waters,
where large bubbles waited for them,
down below.
Some fled to the skies,
and beyond you know.
In large cylindrical objects,
they would go.
Oh but how they did flea.
Some were chosen to go to be leaders.
Some were chosen to go to be breeders.
Chosen by whom,
no one seemed to know.
Some were chosen for their Race,
some for their creed.
Some were chosen for their Color,
some for their religious beliefs,
to try and preserve,
what was now being destroyed.
why,,, is beyond me.
Oh but how they did flea.
The poor fled from the rich,
for fear of losing the little bit,
they had left and wanted to protect.
The rich fled from the poor,
for fear of having to support.
Having to give any thing,
to any one any more,
just seemed like a repeat.
Oh but how they did flea.
The weak fled from the strong,
for fear of being overpowered.
The strong from the weak,
for fear of their numbers.
The good from the evil,
for fear of being converted.
The evil from the good,
for they knew not where they stood.
All looking for a place,
down below or for a ride up above,
but this was not to be,
for they were not of the chosen few.
Oh but how they did flea.
Hope you like it. Let me know one way or the other.
L-U-A,
Later,
Peter
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
IRISH / CELTEC COLLINS FAMILY CREST, COND.
According to an old saying, there are two types of Irish-those who actually are Irish and those who wish they were.
This sentiment is only one example of the allure that the high romance and drama of the proud nation's history holds for thousands of people scattered across the world today.
It's a sad fact, however, that the vast majority of Irish surnames are found far beyond Irish shores, rather than on the Emerald Isle itself.
The population stood at around eight million souls in 1841, but today it stands at fewer than six million.
This is mainly a tragic consequence of the potato famine, also known as the Great Hunger, which devastated Ireland between 1845 and 1849.
The Irish peasantry had become almost wholly reliant for basic sustenance on the potato, first introduced from the Americas in the seventeenth century.
When the crop was hit by a blight, at least 800,000 people starved to death while an estimated two million others were forced to seek a new life far from their native shores--particularly in America, Canada, and Australia.
The effects of the potato blight continued until about 1851, by which time a firm pattern of emigration had become established.
The above is the Origins of Irish surnames.
On The World Stage:
Mary Cathleen Collins, Bo Derek
Pouline, Ray, Stephen, Annie, Bill, Tai,Jackie, Joan,Wilkie,William,Andrew,Billy,Ann, Phil,Bootsy,Catfish,Edwyn,Judy,Allen.Albert,John,Joseph 'Lighting Joe',Michael,Kate,,Doug,Jerry,John,Paul,Steve,A.E.J. All these important people had the last name of Collins.
If you want to know the history of any of them, let me know and I'll blog it to ya'll.
Hope ya'll like this. I don't think we have any Irish blood, I just think this is interisting.
LUV-ALL
Later,
Peter
This sentiment is only one example of the allure that the high romance and drama of the proud nation's history holds for thousands of people scattered across the world today.
It's a sad fact, however, that the vast majority of Irish surnames are found far beyond Irish shores, rather than on the Emerald Isle itself.
The population stood at around eight million souls in 1841, but today it stands at fewer than six million.
This is mainly a tragic consequence of the potato famine, also known as the Great Hunger, which devastated Ireland between 1845 and 1849.
The Irish peasantry had become almost wholly reliant for basic sustenance on the potato, first introduced from the Americas in the seventeenth century.
When the crop was hit by a blight, at least 800,000 people starved to death while an estimated two million others were forced to seek a new life far from their native shores--particularly in America, Canada, and Australia.
The effects of the potato blight continued until about 1851, by which time a firm pattern of emigration had become established.
The above is the Origins of Irish surnames.
On The World Stage:
Mary Cathleen Collins, Bo Derek
Pouline, Ray, Stephen, Annie, Bill, Tai,Jackie, Joan,Wilkie,William,Andrew,Billy,Ann, Phil,Bootsy,Catfish,Edwyn,Judy,Allen.Albert,John,Joseph 'Lighting Joe',Michael,Kate,,Doug,Jerry,John,Paul,Steve,A.E.J. All these important people had the last name of Collins.
If you want to know the history of any of them, let me know and I'll blog it to ya'll.
Hope ya'll like this. I don't think we have any Irish blood, I just think this is interisting.
LUV-ALL
Later,
Peter
Friday, May 22, 2009
VERONICA ANN, DO YOU REMEMBER
LOL,LOL,LOL SERIOUSLY LOL.
Was again thinking about some of you and I's good times to remember. Do you remember THIS: (don't know if this is spelled right and there is no spell check for this.) Hint; put a little music to it.
Mu Nu Ma Nu,
Do Dooo,,,,Do Do Do,
Mu Nu Ma Nu,
Do Do Do Do,
Mu Nu Ma Nu,
Do Dooo,,,,Do Do Do,
Do Do Do,,,,Do Do,,,, Do Do Do Do.
If you do remember,,,,, again,,,,,LOL, LOL,LOL. I'm in happy tears right now.
LUV-U
Later,
Peter
If you do remember, explain it to the rest of the clan.
Peter
Was again thinking about some of you and I's good times to remember. Do you remember THIS: (don't know if this is spelled right and there is no spell check for this.) Hint; put a little music to it.
Mu Nu Ma Nu,
Do Dooo,,,,Do Do Do,
Mu Nu Ma Nu,
Do Do Do Do,
Mu Nu Ma Nu,
Do Dooo,,,,Do Do Do,
Do Do Do,,,,Do Do,,,, Do Do Do Do.
If you do remember,,,,, again,,,,,LOL, LOL,LOL. I'm in happy tears right now.
LUV-U
Later,
Peter
If you do remember, explain it to the rest of the clan.
Peter
COLLINS,O'Coilea'in,O'Cuillea'in
While in Tenn. in a Irish /Celtic shop I found a Family Crest of the Collins Family. Although we all know that our heritage is French, I found this interesting. In writing I understand the Crest is a Pelican. How ironic a Pelican, Louisiana, so fourth and so on. But the Crest I purchased was two lions facing each other on their hind legs and each touching the others front paw. The best I can understand, it all depends on what Collins family you follow or understand.
But here we go. COLLINS,(Coilea'in.) The surname Collins has a dule origin,it can be of Irish Gaelic origin, as an anglicised from of O'Coilea'in, a sept, who were located in Co. Limerick, as well as, the O'Cuillia'in who had their stronghold in west Co. Cork.(What all this means I don't know.) Then it says Bla,Bla, Bla Bla Bla. Collins now ranks as the thirtieth most numerous name in Ireland.Bla,Bla,Bla. The name being sixth most numerous in Co.Limerick.
MOTTO: The wounds of life (and) By valour and skill.
NAME variations include: O'Coilea'in(Gaelic), O'Cuillea'in(Gaelic),O'Collins, O'Cullane, Cullane, Collinson.
There is a lot more but that's enough for now. If you want to know more let me know and I'll blog. other information from time to time.
LUV-ALL
Later,
Peter
But here we go. COLLINS,(Coilea'in.) The surname Collins has a dule origin,it can be of Irish Gaelic origin, as an anglicised from of O'Coilea'in, a sept, who were located in Co. Limerick, as well as, the O'Cuillia'in who had their stronghold in west Co. Cork.(What all this means I don't know.) Then it says Bla,Bla, Bla Bla Bla. Collins now ranks as the thirtieth most numerous name in Ireland.Bla,Bla,Bla. The name being sixth most numerous in Co.Limerick.
MOTTO: The wounds of life (and) By valour and skill.
NAME variations include: O'Coilea'in(Gaelic), O'Cuillea'in(Gaelic),O'Collins, O'Cullane, Cullane, Collinson.
There is a lot more but that's enough for now. If you want to know more let me know and I'll blog. other information from time to time.
LUV-ALL
Later,
Peter
Friday, May 15, 2009
"THE SISTER FLUTIST"
Hi Ya'll, IIIIII'M Baaaaaack.
Cheryl and I had such a wonderful, GREAT time in Tennesse with our two Girls and our two New Sons. Too GOOD to explain at this time fore that is not what this blog is all about. But stay tuned for other blogs or E-mails about our trip.
This blog deals with a story I wrote quite a long time ago. Believe it or not, it took me about a year to write, and it still is not perfect. You will notice some of it you read in my blog titled, "SOUL TO SOUL." That is because that writting was my foot notes to this story. Sorry for the repeat.
I believe this is the best I have ever written. I hope you enjoy it.
LUV-YOU-ALL
Later,
Peter
The difference in her usual, predictable entrance was immediately recognizable and noticed by all whom new the routine. The dress changed from casual to beautiful lady like. Her slight smile showed strength, courage and strong will. Her stride even seemed sturdier and more sure footed. Her soul radiated conference and determination. The same soul that is so closely united with the other three. Two names on the tombstone and the unconscious, helpless, lifeless patient, she has been playing and praying for sense the very first day of admittance to this unit. Above all this, what was even more curious, is the absences of the black leathery looking case which housed the flute. Instead there is a flute in each hand. The very shiny silvery one everyone had seen and heard her play. So shiny it seemed you could see your reflection as well as looking into a mirror. The other was just as shiny, but the most impressive color of gold ever witnessed by the human eye. Across one arm is another change of clothing identical to the outfit she is wearing.
Just past the nurses station she pauses then turns back and announces that first thing in the morning the patient in the private room, and herself would be leaving the hospital. Please notify the doctor, nursing staff and any other concerning personnel. Although it was very nice to ask and offer, but no doctor referrals, transport arrangements or any other assistance would be necessary. This has been by far the most information voluntarily conversed by her to anyone. The physician is called, security is called and every one is put on alert to any number of possibilities. To observe, listen and wait for morning when the physician makes his rounds.
The music begins again. The sound is just as beautiful as ever. There is a calm which settles among all the employees who come within an ear shot of the room.
The music goes on thru the night. And just as dawn is braking thru the clouds, there is a hush amongst the staff. The physician walks onto the floor. Straight to the nurse’s station, very much confused and asking questions about the previous night’s performance and phone call his answering service received last night. A report is given and he proceeds down the long corridor. Half the distance between the nurse’s station and the patients’ room, he stops. Left foot forward, body slightly twisted to the right. He bowels his head forward and his ear turns to the only private room on the floor.
Cheryl and I had such a wonderful, GREAT time in Tennesse with our two Girls and our two New Sons. Too GOOD to explain at this time fore that is not what this blog is all about. But stay tuned for other blogs or E-mails about our trip.
This blog deals with a story I wrote quite a long time ago. Believe it or not, it took me about a year to write, and it still is not perfect. You will notice some of it you read in my blog titled, "SOUL TO SOUL." That is because that writting was my foot notes to this story. Sorry for the repeat.
I believe this is the best I have ever written. I hope you enjoy it.
LUV-YOU-ALL
Later,
Peter
THE SISTER FLUTIST
The beautiful young woman sits at the bed side as her tears fall upon her shiny silvery flute. The notes float pass every closed door down the long corridor, all the way to the nurses station. Not one person is able to ignore the lovely sounds coming from the only private room on the floor. No one listens to their hospital supplied radios or televisions. They are all too mesmerized by the girls amazing ability to capture her audience. And wondering how her life’s outcome will be, at the end of her performance.
As the gentle early morning rain drips upon the smoked colored glass, you can’t help wonder if the dawn will rescue her, from her deep pain and troubled thoughts. The long, black clouds are very low. It's dark, almost too dark to see. And the rain falls down upon her consciousness. She sits and plays her magnificent music, her mind wondering to another simpler situation, long ago, when she was just a child in the eyes of her loved ones.
The sun raises high above the dense clouds. The light is dull. And as the night ends, so does the music. She stands up from her bed side chair, bends over the bed and whispers into the ear of the patient. Then she straightens up and begins to separate the pieces of her instrument and pack then carefully into the black, leathery looking case. As religiously as a Christian goes to church every Sunday, this event takes place every night until the Sun rises. No one seems to know exactly who she is or specifically why she is there. But she knows. And although there isn't anyone else to notice, the unconscious patient, smiles as tears run down her pale cheeks.
Through the large revolving doors, down the old, gray, cracked up sidewalk, straight to the cemetery is where her walk ends. In front of the two identical tombstones is when the reflections of that similar situation long ago begin to stir her senses, again. The carved names are the focus points as she flashes back to years gone by, but not unnoticed. One reads “Mommie”and the other reads “Poppa." She wonders and questions the true safety and possibility of no return to this world and life of her one person audience. The words become crystal clear in her mind. Written by the person she refers to as “ Poppa.”
"I knew a man, knew him since before I was born. I knew this man by many different names. But for me, there was but one name. I always did and I always will call this man my Poppa. As a child when I was asked why this and not Father, Daddy or Dad. I would simply say because he's special. When I grew older and I was asked what makes him so special. I would simply say because he makes ME feel special, so very special to Him.”
As the young woman reflects on the past she remembers one day as she entered her home she saw her worst fear in her Mothers tears. As she said to her "Your Poppa is no longer near.”
Even as young as she was then she can still remember asking her Mother,“Oh, Mommie please can you tell me why, why did my Poppa leave?” Thru weeping eyes she responded to her daughters question by saying, “Death is only one of God's many mysteries.”
The child replies, “ Oh, Mommie I don't want to be mystified, I just want to know why, oh, why did my Poppa die?”
He always told her neither the havens above nor the fires down below could ever part their souls. She knew him well this man she called Poppa. The love he had for them and for the things that they did together is still as clear in her mind today as they were when she was a child growing up. He believed in hugs, kisses and tender fare wells. Just in leaving for work or saying good night right before bed. This he believed as we all do and he practiced it religiously as we all should. A day never went by that the children didn't hear "I love you." coming into their tender ears. She still remembers how he loved to hear her play. Music from her flute would make his whole day. Music unites our souls, he would say, even if we are separated miles and miles apart he would always reinforce. If ever either of them was lonesome or feeling blue. If ever they needed comport or to be reassured they need only to, "air their flute."
The beautiful young woman sits at the bed side as her tears fall upon her shiny silvery flute. The notes float pass every closed door down the long corridor, all the way to the nurses station. Not one person is able to ignore the lovely sounds coming from the only private room on the floor. No one listens to their hospital supplied radios or televisions. They are all too mesmerized by the girls amazing ability to capture her audience. And wondering how her life’s outcome will be, at the end of her performance.
As the gentle early morning rain drips upon the smoked colored glass, you can’t help wonder if the dawn will rescue her, from her deep pain and troubled thoughts. The long, black clouds are very low. It's dark, almost too dark to see. And the rain falls down upon her consciousness. She sits and plays her magnificent music, her mind wondering to another simpler situation, long ago, when she was just a child in the eyes of her loved ones.
The sun raises high above the dense clouds. The light is dull. And as the night ends, so does the music. She stands up from her bed side chair, bends over the bed and whispers into the ear of the patient. Then she straightens up and begins to separate the pieces of her instrument and pack then carefully into the black, leathery looking case. As religiously as a Christian goes to church every Sunday, this event takes place every night until the Sun rises. No one seems to know exactly who she is or specifically why she is there. But she knows. And although there isn't anyone else to notice, the unconscious patient, smiles as tears run down her pale cheeks.
Through the large revolving doors, down the old, gray, cracked up sidewalk, straight to the cemetery is where her walk ends. In front of the two identical tombstones is when the reflections of that similar situation long ago begin to stir her senses, again. The carved names are the focus points as she flashes back to years gone by, but not unnoticed. One reads “Mommie”and the other reads “Poppa." She wonders and questions the true safety and possibility of no return to this world and life of her one person audience. The words become crystal clear in her mind. Written by the person she refers to as “ Poppa.”
"I knew a man, knew him since before I was born. I knew this man by many different names. But for me, there was but one name. I always did and I always will call this man my Poppa. As a child when I was asked why this and not Father, Daddy or Dad. I would simply say because he's special. When I grew older and I was asked what makes him so special. I would simply say because he makes ME feel special, so very special to Him.”
As the young woman reflects on the past she remembers one day as she entered her home she saw her worst fear in her Mothers tears. As she said to her "Your Poppa is no longer near.”
Even as young as she was then she can still remember asking her Mother,“Oh, Mommie please can you tell me why, why did my Poppa leave?” Thru weeping eyes she responded to her daughters question by saying, “Death is only one of God's many mysteries.”
The child replies, “ Oh, Mommie I don't want to be mystified, I just want to know why, oh, why did my Poppa die?”
He always told her neither the havens above nor the fires down below could ever part their souls. She knew him well this man she called Poppa. The love he had for them and for the things that they did together is still as clear in her mind today as they were when she was a child growing up. He believed in hugs, kisses and tender fare wells. Just in leaving for work or saying good night right before bed. This he believed as we all do and he practiced it religiously as we all should. A day never went by that the children didn't hear "I love you." coming into their tender ears. She still remembers how he loved to hear her play. Music from her flute would make his whole day. Music unites our souls, he would say, even if we are separated miles and miles apart he would always reinforce. If ever either of them was lonesome or feeling blue. If ever they needed comport or to be reassured they need only to, "air their flute."
So, she “airs her flute.”
" Mommie " was easier to understand. There were no written words to decipher. And, the bonding was unmistakably the most loving, the most caring, and the most true unconditional love that could ever be between a mother and her daughters. And so unusual was the fact that they both considered their mother their best friend. These are the things which bonded the three of them soul to soul for all eternity. Yes literally soul to soul. Words and music, yes, words and music. The words shared between the three of them and the music the two of them played is what made it all possible. Possible for them to receive comfort and reassuring from “Poppa” and the best of love and friendship from “Mommie.”This is throughout all eternity simply by “airing their flutes.”
So, she “airs her flute."
" Mommie " was easier to understand. There were no written words to decipher. And, the bonding was unmistakably the most loving, the most caring, and the most true unconditional love that could ever be between a mother and her daughters. And so unusual was the fact that they both considered their mother their best friend. These are the things which bonded the three of them soul to soul for all eternity. Yes literally soul to soul. Words and music, yes, words and music. The words shared between the three of them and the music the two of them played is what made it all possible. Possible for them to receive comfort and reassuring from “Poppa” and the best of love and friendship from “Mommie.”This is throughout all eternity simply by “airing their flutes.”
So, she “airs her flute."
The difference in her usual, predictable entrance was immediately recognizable and noticed by all whom new the routine. The dress changed from casual to beautiful lady like. Her slight smile showed strength, courage and strong will. Her stride even seemed sturdier and more sure footed. Her soul radiated conference and determination. The same soul that is so closely united with the other three. Two names on the tombstone and the unconscious, helpless, lifeless patient, she has been playing and praying for sense the very first day of admittance to this unit. Above all this, what was even more curious, is the absences of the black leathery looking case which housed the flute. Instead there is a flute in each hand. The very shiny silvery one everyone had seen and heard her play. So shiny it seemed you could see your reflection as well as looking into a mirror. The other was just as shiny, but the most impressive color of gold ever witnessed by the human eye. Across one arm is another change of clothing identical to the outfit she is wearing.
Just past the nurses station she pauses then turns back and announces that first thing in the morning the patient in the private room, and herself would be leaving the hospital. Please notify the doctor, nursing staff and any other concerning personnel. Although it was very nice to ask and offer, but no doctor referrals, transport arrangements or any other assistance would be necessary. This has been by far the most information voluntarily conversed by her to anyone. The physician is called, security is called and every one is put on alert to any number of possibilities. To observe, listen and wait for morning when the physician makes his rounds.
The music begins again. The sound is just as beautiful as ever. There is a calm which settles among all the employees who come within an ear shot of the room.
The music goes on thru the night. And just as dawn is braking thru the clouds, there is a hush amongst the staff. The physician walks onto the floor. Straight to the nurse’s station, very much confused and asking questions about the previous night’s performance and phone call his answering service received last night. A report is given and he proceeds down the long corridor. Half the distance between the nurse’s station and the patients’ room, he stops. Left foot forward, body slightly twisted to the right. He bowels his head forward and his ear turns to the only private room on the floor.
The music has changed and the physician turns to his followers and says, '' That is not one instrument, that is, '' he pauses and listens. '' that is two flutes being played,,,, listen! '' The music was magnificent before but now it was unbelievable. None of them had ever heard such tones and notes. Not from just two instruments any way and for sure never in the hospital.
They all rush to the door their anxiety at very high levels. The Physician slowly and quietly pushes the door open without even thinking about knocking, which is not his normal routine. As they all enter they can’t believe their eyes. Both women are sitting on the bed playing their flutes together like nothing has happened.
This patient has been basically in a coma for almost a week. The battery of test, physician consults, and phone calls throughout the world, everything that could be thought of was done and no diagnosis could ever be made. There wasn’t any medical reasoning why the patient could not or would not respond. And now here she is sitting on the bed playing her flute. Everyone just stands there listening kind of dumb founded until the song ends.
There would be no answers or comments to all the questions being bombarded at the two of them by a very confused staff. The two beautiful young women stand up from the bed each holding their flute in one hand and joining their other hand with each other. They walk to the door whispering to each other. Although there were some attempts to delay them they continued on their way as if nothing had happened until they reached the opening to the corridor. There they stop, turn to face each other, nod and smile at each other. Then the woman who had been playing her flute all week turns her head to face the astounded doctor and nurses in the room and smiles to them. Her only words were, “We’ll be back soon, but next time it’s going to be MY turn.”
As they walk towards the elevators whispers of speech between the two of them can barley be heard. One asking questions so rapidly she could hardly be understood. And the other was attempting to answer her as quickly as she could. There seem to be many questions. “How are they? How was it there? Could you actually hear me playing ? Did they like what I played ? Did my playing help your time there ?” Were you in Heaven? Did you see other people there? When can I go?”
“Wait, wait, wait, hold on a minute.” The other one says. “They are very well. Yes you will go, they are waiting very excited to get to see you. We heard you playing the whole time I was there.” “But I didn’t play the whole time, only from the time I got off work till dawn.” “Time is very different there so we were able to hear you the whole time. And no it’s not Heaven but a place between here and there. Only under special circumstances can any one do what we have done. It’s a very rare and beautiful experience. I’ll explain everything to you within time but there is something very important we must do first.” Then the elevator doors close and they are gone.
Through the large revolving doors, down the old, gray, cracked up sidewalk, straight to the cemetery is where their walk ends. In front of the two identical tombstones is when the two young women simultaneously raise their instruments to their lips.
And The Sister Flutist, “ Air Their Flutes.”
The Beginning,
They all rush to the door their anxiety at very high levels. The Physician slowly and quietly pushes the door open without even thinking about knocking, which is not his normal routine. As they all enter they can’t believe their eyes. Both women are sitting on the bed playing their flutes together like nothing has happened.
This patient has been basically in a coma for almost a week. The battery of test, physician consults, and phone calls throughout the world, everything that could be thought of was done and no diagnosis could ever be made. There wasn’t any medical reasoning why the patient could not or would not respond. And now here she is sitting on the bed playing her flute. Everyone just stands there listening kind of dumb founded until the song ends.
There would be no answers or comments to all the questions being bombarded at the two of them by a very confused staff. The two beautiful young women stand up from the bed each holding their flute in one hand and joining their other hand with each other. They walk to the door whispering to each other. Although there were some attempts to delay them they continued on their way as if nothing had happened until they reached the opening to the corridor. There they stop, turn to face each other, nod and smile at each other. Then the woman who had been playing her flute all week turns her head to face the astounded doctor and nurses in the room and smiles to them. Her only words were, “We’ll be back soon, but next time it’s going to be MY turn.”
As they walk towards the elevators whispers of speech between the two of them can barley be heard. One asking questions so rapidly she could hardly be understood. And the other was attempting to answer her as quickly as she could. There seem to be many questions. “How are they? How was it there? Could you actually hear me playing ? Did they like what I played ? Did my playing help your time there ?” Were you in Heaven? Did you see other people there? When can I go?”
“Wait, wait, wait, hold on a minute.” The other one says. “They are very well. Yes you will go, they are waiting very excited to get to see you. We heard you playing the whole time I was there.” “But I didn’t play the whole time, only from the time I got off work till dawn.” “Time is very different there so we were able to hear you the whole time. And no it’s not Heaven but a place between here and there. Only under special circumstances can any one do what we have done. It’s a very rare and beautiful experience. I’ll explain everything to you within time but there is something very important we must do first.” Then the elevator doors close and they are gone.
Through the large revolving doors, down the old, gray, cracked up sidewalk, straight to the cemetery is where their walk ends. In front of the two identical tombstones is when the two young women simultaneously raise their instruments to their lips.
And The Sister Flutist, “ Air Their Flutes.”
The Beginning,
By Peter Collins
Sunday, May 3, 2009
SOUL TO SOUL
Hallo Avery Body,
I wrote this many years ago. It began as foot notes for a story I wanted to write. But I ended up writing a poem instead. However, there is a story which came from it. And I'll probably be posting when we get back from our vacation in Tennesse. Hope ya'll like it.
LUV-U-ALL
Peter
“SOUL TO SOUL”
I knew a man.
Knew him since,
before I was born.
I knew this man,
by many different names.
But for me,
there was only,
but one name.
I always did,
and I always will,
call this man,
my Poppa.
As a child,
when I was asked,
why this and not,
Father, Daddy, or Dad.
I would simply say,
because he's special.
Oh, so very special,
to me.
When I grew older,
and I was asked,
why is he so special.
I would simply say,
because he makes,
ME feel so special.
Oh, so very special,
to him.
Than one day,
as I entered my home,
I saw my worse fear,
in my Mommies tears.
As she said to me,
your Poppa is,
no longer near.
Oh, Mommie please,
can you tell me,
why did my Poppa leave.
Thru weeping eyes,
she said to me,
death is only one of,
GOD'S many mysteries.
Oh, Mommie I don't want to be mystified,
I just want to know why,
oh, why did my Poppa die.
He always told me,
“Neither the havens from above,
nor the fires from down below,
could never, ever part our SOULS.”
Oh, Mommie, Mommie please,
I don't want to be mystified,
I just want to know, why,
oh, why, did my Poppa have to die.
I knew him well,
this man I call,
Poppa.
The love of us,
and for the things,
that we did.
He believed in hugs, kisses,
and tender fare wells.
Just in leaving for work,
or saying good night,
right before bed.
This he believed,
as we all do.
And he practiced it,
religiously as we all should.
A day never went by,
that I didn't hear,
" I love you, "
coming into my tender ears.
I will always remember,
how he loved to hear me play.
Music from my flute,
would make his whole day.
“Music unites our spirits,
even if we are separated,
miles and miles apart,” he would say.
If ever I was lonesome,
or feeling blue.
If ever I needed comfort,
or to be reassured,
“I need only to air my flute.”
Dedicated to My Girls.
By Peter Collins/Poppa
I wrote this many years ago. It began as foot notes for a story I wanted to write. But I ended up writing a poem instead. However, there is a story which came from it. And I'll probably be posting when we get back from our vacation in Tennesse. Hope ya'll like it.
LUV-U-ALL
Peter
“SOUL TO SOUL”
I knew a man.
Knew him since,
before I was born.
I knew this man,
by many different names.
But for me,
there was only,
but one name.
I always did,
and I always will,
call this man,
my Poppa.
As a child,
when I was asked,
why this and not,
Father, Daddy, or Dad.
I would simply say,
because he's special.
Oh, so very special,
to me.
When I grew older,
and I was asked,
why is he so special.
I would simply say,
because he makes,
ME feel so special.
Oh, so very special,
to him.
Than one day,
as I entered my home,
I saw my worse fear,
in my Mommies tears.
As she said to me,
your Poppa is,
no longer near.
Oh, Mommie please,
can you tell me,
why did my Poppa leave.
Thru weeping eyes,
she said to me,
death is only one of,
GOD'S many mysteries.
Oh, Mommie I don't want to be mystified,
I just want to know why,
oh, why did my Poppa die.
He always told me,
“Neither the havens from above,
nor the fires from down below,
could never, ever part our SOULS.”
Oh, Mommie, Mommie please,
I don't want to be mystified,
I just want to know, why,
oh, why, did my Poppa have to die.
I knew him well,
this man I call,
Poppa.
The love of us,
and for the things,
that we did.
He believed in hugs, kisses,
and tender fare wells.
Just in leaving for work,
or saying good night,
right before bed.
This he believed,
as we all do.
And he practiced it,
religiously as we all should.
A day never went by,
that I didn't hear,
" I love you, "
coming into my tender ears.
I will always remember,
how he loved to hear me play.
Music from my flute,
would make his whole day.
“Music unites our spirits,
even if we are separated,
miles and miles apart,” he would say.
If ever I was lonesome,
or feeling blue.
If ever I needed comfort,
or to be reassured,
“I need only to air my flute.”
Dedicated to My Girls.
By Peter Collins/Poppa
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