School is Too Cool

*Just so ya know… this one is a little long*

School, it’s cool, but so is the snow.
Playing and sleighing, and snowballs to throw.
But oh, wait a minute, I can’t get out.
The weather is freezing and the power went out.
How can I eat? The stores are closed.
The roads are icy and the pipes are froze.
What? No water? I can’t take a shower?
Oh well, I’d freeze in this bitter cold hour.

Friends trapped, to stay inside alone.
Thank God, for the only thing left, the phone!
Talking it through together, trying to survive.
The cruel and bitter struggle to stay alive.
Boy, it sure is dark. I can’t see a thing.
It’s been hours since I’ve heard the phone ring.
People I love are too cold to move, becoming sick.
After the radio dies, I hear only my watch tick.

I find some batteries I forgot were stored away.
Now to hear what the news had to say.
Car accidents, fires, people are stranded.
Voices talk of the streets and says they’ll be sanded.
Yet still voices beg, pleading to all,
Stay at home safe and warm. Don’t get out at all.
It’s dangerous to be exposed to this degree of cold.
Don’t try to be a hero. It kills young and old.

Now it’s hypothermia the voices start to teach.
How many homes and people will they reach?
Finally, it clears a little. The streets start to melt.
God is saying it’s okay now. Here’s the sun to help.
Temperatures rise again. How good it feels to be warm.
Now it’s off to the store. I fight within the swarm.
I see the shelves start to bare, then start heading back,
And in the empty parking lots I see a lot of tracks.

People had been playing in the snow with their trucks.
Doughnut marks and sliding streaks showed, they played without getting stuck.
Oh Hallelujah! The water’s on and the power is too.
I can take a nice hot shower… oooooooh!
My freshly dryer dried towel and warm pair of jeans.
And oh yes, how good it feels just to be clean.
Cooking something warm to eat, I lean over the stove.
Now this smells good to my thawed out nose!

I finally get to watch the news and see how bad it is.
Boy, was this worth all the school I have missed?
No, not at all. The world has fallen apart.
Let’s go back to school before things get too hard.
At least we have heat at school and the streets are good to go.
I’d much rather sit in class, than to be a prisoner to snow.
Many people are in tragedy just to feel the cold.
When it come to education over tragedy, Hey, I’m sold!!

1993 Written by Gail Brookshire
(published in Expressions, Jan.31, 1994 Issue, Front page-page 2)
(by the grace of God)

Out of the Grave

This use to be my dream
To live the live I’m leading.
All this child wanted
Was for someone to stop the bleeding.

To see a moment my attacker
Would be the one to lose
Simply by my forgiving
And living as I choose.

I never thought I’d see happiness
Or a day without a tear,
A day to stop my hunger
And ease my ruling fear.

When life was younger
It was so much weaker.
I had to give in to evil
In order to survive the seeker.

My pain was a pleasure
For someone insane,
But no one could stop
The endless rain.

I knew in my heart
From the way it all went,
It would only be my future
On which I could depend.

And now it is here,
My survival has come.
No more will I hide.
No more will I run.

The past is behind me.
The future ahead.
My freedom has arrived.
My conviction dead.

We win all along
The young ones abused.
For what you’re afraid of
Is by what we’re amused.

You can’t convict
A survivor of prison.
For when you are searching
We know the reason.

It’s all an endurance
To which you create.
You think you’ll love it,
But regret your hate.

You search for shelter,
But lose to the brave.
For those who survive you
Are out of their grave.

6-8-1992
Written by Gail Brookshire
(published in Flight magazine #3, Spring ’94, pages, 107-109)
(by the grace of God)
P.S. For those about to attack, I suggest you release your victim.
They may me the destroyer.
PSS. This was the first time I had allowed myself to speak openly about being abused in any way. I was surprised from the outpouring responses, especially the ones from an office full of male social workers… thanking me for writing it… saying so many people needed to read it and that so many people needed to be spoken for… including myself. They said it as if they were accepting personal acknowledgement for hard work that went unnoticed. It was so surprising, so touching, and unexpectedly comforting, though I wouldn’t recognize for years that it had been comforting. I didn’t even know I needed that comforting. I didn’t think I needed anything from anyone. God did. ❤ 

Longing To Be There

Over so many miles away
Someone is longing for you,
But wonders how without you,
They’ll ever make it through.

I miss you, Darling, every minute
That the clock is ticking on.
Yet I tell myself to believe
This distance will make us strong.

I just hope you’re thinking of me
And long for my touch as well.
You know if I were there with you,
Our love would set sea to sail.

Know that I am laying down,
But my dreams will be of you.
And as you start your morning off,
Say you miss me too.

1989 Written by Gail Brookshire
(published in Voices, Volume 1, NO.3, Aug.1, 1994 Issue, page 5)
3 of my others beside it on same page were
As I Watch, Forever Apart, Courtship
(by the grace of God)

Heartbreak

It came before.
It came too soon.
It came beneath
The pale lit moon.

It started now.
It started then.
It started after
The winter wind.

It went away.
It went again.
It went straight
For the end.

Was all a lie.
Was all a game.
There were no rules,
But it had a name,

Heartbreak.

1989 Written by Gail Brookshire
(published in Voices, Volume 1, No. 2, July 11, 1994 Issue, page 5)
(by the grace of God)

Forever Apart

Devastatingly destroyed.
A love of pure romance.
A heart was tragically wounded
Before given a chance.

The dagger driven by the soul
Of one who had no pulse.
Falling into his ocean eyes
Was an entrance to his cult.

No one heard the victim’s cry
So no one came to aid.
No one saw the warning signs.
the mistake had to be made.

And what a terrible waste it is
To know it’s only blood
That can save the dying maiden
Whose only crime was love.

9-30-1990 Sunday
Written by Gail Brookshire (by the grace of God)
(published in Voices, Volume 1, NO.3, Aug.1, 1994 Issue, page 5)
3 of my others beside it on same page were
As I Watch, Courtship, & Longing To Be There

Flight Within The Love

Sunday… The eagle soars high in flight. Floating through the air. He soars in peace of mind. Not a care in the world. He doesn’t notice the world below him. The world in trouble. Instead he reminisces in the midst of his luxury of quietness. All he can hear is the sound of the wind going by.

As he passes through a cloud within each flutter of his wing, it reminds him of all the souls who have came and went so quickly in his life. And just as great as the impact of the breath-taking beauty of the cloud is, so were the souls of each friend that meant so much. It’s an empty, yet fulfilling emotion to have flown through so many clouds. They were the only value of the flight. For as each one went by, they caused such wind to swift up on his face, bringing tears to his eyes. And as soon as they were out of sight, the eyes were drying, but the memory of the cloud would always linger. For each cloud had its own unique shape and form. Its very special characteristic.

As the eagle is soon exhausted by the flight of passing clouds, he remembers there is a world below without clouds. For you can’t even see through the storm of the life to view a special sentiment. But even so, the eagle also remembers that this is the storm that keeps him from having to be haunted, by the reality that the clouds have moved on without him, because he’s not of their world and as much as he wishes he could be one of them, he has to be saddened to know that there will always be passing clouds for as long as the skies hold up. And they will be new ones each time. They will never be the same. He’ll only have the beautiful memory of each cloud.

So it is only natural that the eagle chooses to occasionally touch ground with reality and shelter himself from the rain, that the clouds will bring. But whenever he misses the unique feeling of flight within the love, all he has to do is look up and they are there. And if the world below just happens to be crashing with thunder and lightning, and stealing his view of what he loves, all he has to do is keep his spirits up, to have the strength to lift those wings of his and fight his way through the rain. He will rise above the storm and be once again in the midst of his luxury of quietness.

How wonderfully exquisite it must be to have that freedom. I envy that eagle to a point, but then again feel so very sorry that he cannot bear the storm and vision what it’s like to see the rainbow after the dark. And the fresh washed soil of the land giving love to the trees, who have roots and share such beauty. They would give such support to the eagle and even have room for nesting on the arms of their limbs. They would never leave the eagle without love and support. Then again the eagle may be giving in to the fear of the tree falling or being broken by the wind. A storm can be overpowering for a tree, as the storm gets stronger and the tree gets older. If only the eagle weren’t so insecure about the stability of love, he could have the exquisite beauty of care.

As you relax and view the eagle in flight, do you see him looking down from time to time? If you were the eagle, would you continue to fly or nest in the tree? I would make my home in the tree and occasionally when I felt the need, I would fly.

1989 Written by Gail Brookshire
(published in Flight magazine # 3, Spring ’94, pages 103-104)
(by the grace of God)

Death Is The Doctor

Death is the doctor
Diagnostic and smart.
Aiming to take you
Along with your heart.

Swift and sleek
Clever and coy.
Death is the destruction,
Destruction the ploy.

Candles are burning
For those yet to see.
It may only be hours
Before it’s to be.

Can’t escape it.
It cannot be excluded.
To win the whole game
We must all be included.

Don’t take the moment.
Don’t take the breath.
Don’t give up the edge.
The victor is death.

1-31-1992 Friday
Written by Gail Brookshire
(published in Treasured Poems of America, Winter ’95, page 23)
(by the grace of God)