After Her Prayer: something beautifully strange

Standing quietly, a daddy watches as his son sleeps. You see, it was not too long ago that this handsome child faced death. An unknown form of cancer first attacked his right and then his left lung, however, Johnny survived. The doctors were at a loss to explain the origins of the disease; they knew not from where it came, but the horror had found a host inside the boy’s body. Weeks passed without improvements, and as the child’s condition worsened, even hope, it seemed, was left without a comforting place.

Then one night: something happens, something beautifully strange.

A woman enters Johnny’s hospital room, she is unknown to the nursing staff; and of course, to the boy’s family. She seems demure, but then who could tell, really. Strolling across the floor, she slightly glances over at Johnny, and then makes eye contact with his parents. Un-remarkably, she says, “Hello, I am Joanna,” but offers no last name. A lovely cloak lightly graces her thin shoulders; although something of her assures strength, power, presence. Hello, says the child’s parents, and then asks Joanna what she wants, here.

The physiognomy of this woman is precise; she appears as poured from archaic molds, creatively constructed by the ancients. Nothing seems left to chance. Surely, any man knowing her tenderness is the envy to any woman with imagination. To every eye, fleeting glances are merely phrases.

Speaking quietly, softly, Joanna explains, “Your son’s sickness alerted me, and I want to help him.” Naturally, Johnny’s parents are reluctant to permit a stranger closeness to their son; and yet, after attentively listening to her, and appreciating that the woman desires only to pray for him, Nigel and Julia relent; however, they feel and exact caution. The woman is closely observed.

Leaning nearer to the sick boy: Joanna extends her hands above his chest; after which, she halts, looking to the boy’s father. Holding out her palms, she then asks that daddy rests his palms inside hers. Reluctantly, the man follows her instructions. Immediately, Johnny’s dad withdraws his hands, the woman’s palms are quite warm, although not of a burning warmth; still, the sensation surprised Nigel, caught him off guard, but then shaking it off, he replaces his palms.

“Yes,” Joanna says, “you feel the warmth.” The woman demonstrates such comfort, and confidence, so much so that Johnny’s parents relax, and then believe that they feel, perhaps, what this strange woman feels. Placing her hands atop the boy’s chest, the mysterious woman softly speaks. Some words are unfamiliar, of a different, and archaic language and others are in English.

After her prayer, Joanna opens her eyes, leans closely, and then lightly kisses Johnny’s right cheek; as she gently presses his forid, with her opposing hand. “I must go, now.” “Bless you.” Uncertain as to whether they briefly looked away, and in a blink, it seems, the woman no longer stands before them.

The event occurred three years ago; and his loving parents, his family and friends have the strange woman to thank for Johnny’s health; and because he comfortably rests at home. The boy’s team of doctors remains amazed by what “…appears as good fortune, and luck.” Such events, imply the doctors, have little to do with “… ‘mere prayer,’ anything foreign to medical science.”

Somehow: The strange woman departed, unseen; additionally, the Elevators never arrived to the floor. Nigel, and Julia feel deeply indebted to Joanna, the woman is outstanding, special and because the boy’s parents ‘believe,’ they wonder, “Could she be ‘more’ than special?” In her memory, Julia scripted a poem; it hangs above Johnny’s bed:

 

Mother

Of you, I seek compassion
Your shoulders bear my weight
Eyes forever watching
Your smile endures my fate

To life, you are mysterious
To me a hand to hold
My sunshine every morning
My cover when I’m cold

Troubles are your homeland
Sorrows dark and deep
Your love consoles my pillow
My dreams in restful sleep

The mother to a daughter
Alone you raise the son
If lost and needing hope
To you our spirits run

Hunger understands you
Thirst you pacify
Desire to help commands you
To you all children cry

In church, I often see you
Your stare a glancing gaze
Stillness speaks of wonder
You light my nights my days

In school you sit beside me
At lunch, you share my food
Forever I can call you
You’re always in the mood


Outside: The pleasant roar of the rains, the artistic crackle of thunder wrinkles the fabric. Lightning brilliantly, beautifully paints the skies; and beneath it all a son peacefully sleeps as his father, watches.

Copyright (c) 2003-2017 Delbert H. Rhodes

I Write About You

1343536-1440x900-[DesktopNexus.com]Love touches in many ways, sometimes it flows, brushing the heart as would winds whoosing the fields; and then other times, it is harsh, and cold and hurtful. Nevertheless, if love is true then lovers overcome; and suffering blends sweetly, sourly: an untethered force, driving sweethearts together while ripping them apart. Other than life, the greatest gift is love; and absolutely, it is worth and worthy of sharing.

 

 

True to love, a relationship ended: She lost him; however, the memories of him stay with her, filling the empty spaces in every moment of every day, she loves him.

——-

I Write About You

I’ve always wanted to write a song
I never knew what words I should use
I know very little about life
But I know something about the blues

They say when writing a song
You must always have a good hook
Maybe I’ll happen into a Library
Sit and stare at a good book

Mumbling through the words
No fancy phrase comes to mind
Well, just a few more pages
Perhaps, just a little more time

The Library walls whisper my name
And still I’m sitting here
Like so many others before me, came
I’m Mach Five going nowhere

Bookshelves echo tinkering mites

Tirelessly meeting the task
I’d question my reasons
For trying too hard
But there is no one to ask

So, I grumble my way out the door
Agonizing from disappointment
Like a spider’s endearing medicinal sting
What foolish fly would want it?

Chasing the Jester’s piper-less flute
To an unknown distant place
The more I think about writing a song
The more I see your face

A lovely sight if ever I’ve seen
As I pledge to shoulder the fight
I sell my soul to diamond dark eyes
In a lost and nothing night

A quest for unyielding passionate thirst
Consumes my weary mind
Suddenly, the words for which I search
Are no longer hard to find

For when I want to write a song
And find it difficult to do
I think of someone oh so special
Then… I write about you

© 1999 D. H. Rhodes

“Someone He Loved”

Vintage-Printable-Botanical-Rose-GraphicsFairy-sm-664x1024Ninety years since his birth and the old man thinks of his life. In many ways, living blemished his heart; still, he holds no malice. His body, once strong and powerful, is broken and tired. Years ago, vessels burst inside his eyes, he sees only shadows. The old man hears acutely; and his ability to identify voices, quite good.

The hands remain strong and powerful, able to give a hardy handshake or delicately caress a flower. The knees, sickened by osteoarthritis, are puffy and inflamed; his health declining, life ebbs away. Awakening him, soft hands touch his face, a kiss to his cheek.

“It’s been a long time, Xavier.” “I heard of your illness and wanted to visit you.” The woman’s tone, her touch, her closeness seems as memorable curiosity. “I am married now, and have four children.” “Do you remember me?” Xavier’s brow bends, “Who are you, how do I know you?” “I see only shadows.” Leaning closer, the woman says, “We once worked together, a long time ago.” “When…where?”

Xavier hears nothing and then recognizable words. Written about thirty years ago, the words and phrases, the metaphors, the style, his; a poem written for someone special, someone he loved.-“D’na?” “Is it really you?”

Although from the shadows, her eyes touch him; her smile warms him-the ravages of death nearby-holding him, shielding him from fate, D’na’s tears slide down Xavier’s cheek. “Yes, yes.” “I have missed you, D.” “I have missed you terribly.” For long moments they tremble.

“I’m sorry, Zavier.” “I should have talked more about it.” “That was a long time ago, and I never blamed you. We loved each other, things and people got in the way. Sometimes, even loving is too difficult.” “I know,” she sadly agrees, “you’re right.”

“Tell me about your children.” The weary man reclines, her lovely voice relaxes him. D’na returns to the beginning, her life and family clearly before him. She speaks of marriage, husband, job, pregnancy and excitement; but, does she truly know happiness. D’na sketches the faces of her children and a mother’s impregnable love-somehow, Xavier stares beyond the shadows, blue eyes, greying blond hair, lithe, and a lovely face-and her hands, Xavier always loved her hands-gorgeous. Customarily, D’na’s hands rest inside his, sweetly, she leans forward.

Still, Zavier’s kiss electrifies the woman-his lifeless body collapses in her arms-even after thirty years, she could not talk more about it; she could not tell him about Bobby.
Copyright©2014 Delbert H. Rhodes