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Poems
and Writings by Thomas A. Battle
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- My Son, The Light
- Do you see?
- LOVE
- Quiet Desperation
- All That's left of Yesterday
- Pearls for her little girl
- Choices
My
Son, The Light
Every now and again in a persons’ life
A light will shine
And for a few moments in time
Everything seems fine
There’s so much pain in this dark, cold world
That I can’t ignore
So when I see light in the distant horizon
I know I must explore
Harder and hared it gets
To forsake the life I’ve come to know
Looking at photographs of lost memories
Wishing the pain would just go
But every now and then
That light again shines
Telling the darkness does not control me
That my life, my love defines
The light that I have come to know
Has been my friend–tried and true
And now I look forward to the light
For my light is YOU.
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Do you see?
Do you see that woman there,
She’s pregnant with a child
And now suffers the consequences
Of living her life so wild.
Do you see that woman there,
She’s pregnant and pain
Never having in her adult life
A day without rain.
Do you see that woman there,
She’s pregnant and alone
Always doing things her way
So far away from home.
Do you see that woman there,
She’s pregnant with no slack
No family to support her
If her baby’s born black.
Do you see that woman there,
She’s pregnant and confused
The careless love she sought after
Left her physically and mentally abused.
Do you see that woman there,
She’s pregnant, but no longer the same
Her mind is made up
She’s no stronger to shame.
Do you see that woman there,
She’s pregnant as can be
Though the road for her was rough
She still chose to have me.
Do you see?
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LOVE
LOVE takes time. It needs a history of giving and receiving, laughing and crying…
LOVE never promises instant gratification, only ultimate fulfilment.
LOVE means believing in someone, in something. It supposes a willingness to struggle, to work, to suffer and to rejoice.
Satisfaction and ultimate fulfilment are by-products of dedicated LOVE. They be long
Only to those who can reach beyond themselves; to whom giving is more important than receiving.
LOVE is doing everything you can to help others build whatever dreams they have.
LOVE involves much careful and active listening. It is whatever needs to be done, and saving whatever will promote the others’ happiness, security and well-being.
Sometimes LOVE hurts.
LOVE is a constant journey to what others need. It must be attractive, caring, and open, both to what others say, and to what others cannot say.
LOVE says “NO” with great empathy and great compassion.
LOVE is firm, but when needed, it must be tender.
Who others have tried and failed, LOVE is the hand in yours in your moments of discouragement and disappointment.
LOVE is reliable.
LOVE is choice and commitment to others’ true and lasting happiness. It is
Dedicated to growth and fulfilment.
LOVE is not selfish.
LOVE sometimes fails for lack of wisdom or abundance of weakness, but it forgives, knowing the intuitions are good.
LOVE does not attack conditions, unconditional LOVE is always a free gift.
LOVE encourages freedom of self. LOVE shares both positive and negative reactions to warm and cold feelings.
LOVE realizes and accepts that there will be disagreements and disturbing emotions; there may be times who miles lye between, but LOVE is a commitment. It believes and endures all things.
LOVE, unconditional LOVE, will never reject others. It is the first to encourage and the last to condemn.
LOVE is commitment to growth, happiness and fulfilment of one another.
LOVE is the strongest and deepest world in all languages and yet it could never measure up to the way I feel inside about you, because a mere word, could never truly express the way I feel for you.
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Quiet
Desperation
I was much more naive and trusting two years ago than I am today. I
believed that all policemen were good, all doctors were caring and all
people shared my concern for their fellow man. I realized with anguish
the folly of making such generations when my trust friend, Erin, was
murdered.
I
was not only angered about my own naiveté, but also outraged by the
uncaring attitude of the people would enchanter following the tragedy.
My
own lack of understanding left me unprepared for her death. I often
visited her when committing to my own issues. Whenever I was with her,
she
appeared
to be relatively happy. I realized after her death, the tremendous
effort she made to appear that way for my benefit. I know she had been
involved with the wrong crowd; I did not understand the extent of her
involvement. Although
Erin
had had previous attempts on her life by these people she was once
involved with, she had assured me that is was over with. I should have
realized how desperate she was because, in her usual protective way, she
tried to prepare me. I received a letter shortly before she died in
which she had written “All the panic and desperation is to
overwhelming to bear. I must finish this. I love you and I’m sorry.
Goodbye”
How
could I be so blind…
By
looking at the window of the ambulance, I can see we are getting closer
to the hospital. As we speed by the familiar buildings, the flashing
emergency lights turn them into hundreds of freeze-frame photographs.
The strobe lights turn everything that their light falls on a monotone
hue of either red or blue. The sirens’ only rival is the imprinted
memory of
Erin
’s screaming as it happened. Her scream had pierced the air like an
explosion in the night sky.
Holding
her blood-soaked and bullet-riddled body in my arms will haunt me for
the rest of my days. Suddenly, I’m struggling for balance while
crouched on the floor as the vehicle makes a sharp turn into the parking
lot. Finally the ambulance jerks to a stop. I know that we have arrived
at our destination, the emergency department. I just pray it’s not too
late…
In
hindsight,
Erin
’s life was one of quiet desperation. She mutely screamed out of agony
for her existence through her actions, but no one listened. She silently
pleaded for help through a glance or a touch, but no one heard, or
cared. At least not enough. Not even me. As I saw the doctor come out of
the operation room, it was as if someone had hit the slow motion button
as he began walking towards me. What does it matter when they say,
“I’m truly sorry,” before they tell you that your loved one is
dead? They boldly lie to your face in a moment of such great tragedy and
despair. But none od that matters now. She’s gone, and there’s so
much I never got to tell her. I never got to tell her how much I have
always admired her courage, which was far greater then my own. I never
got to tell her how grateful I am for her friendship and her standing
beside me when on one else would. I never got to tell her just how much
I love her and care for her and would trade my life for hers in an
instant, just to see her smile one more time. And I never got to tell
her goodbye. Someone once said that the bitterest words spoken over
death are for words that went unsaid and for deeds that went undone.
Now, they are all I have left in the dark despair of my quiet
desperation.
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All That's left of Yesterday
The playground school bell rings,
Again.
The rain clouds come to play,
Again
Has no one told you
That she's not breathing?
Hello,
I'm your mind, giving you
Someone to talk to
Hello.
If I smile
And don't believe,
Soon I know,
I'll wake from this dream.
Don't try to fix me,
I'm not broken.
Hello,
I'm the lie, living for you
So you can hide.
Please, don't cry.
Suddenly, I know
I'm not sleeping.
Hello,
I'm still here,
And all that's left
of yesterday,
Is me.
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Pearls for her little
girl
There is a woman in Somalia
She is scraping for pearls on the roadside
There is a force stronger than nature
That keeps her will alive
This is how she is dying
She is dying to survive
I don't know what she is made of
But I would like to be that brave
There is a woman in Somalia
The sun gives her no mercy
The same sky we lay under
Burns her to the bone
As long as afternoon shadows
It will take her to get home
Each grain she carefully wraps up,
Pearls for her little girl.
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Choices
Please don't pity me. Understand me, but do not pity. We all have choices to make in life, and we must all live with the choices made. I do hope that you will pray for my children. They truly deserve so much more than a father like me. I promised them that I would not be like my father. But I am just like him. Because I am not here for them. It hurts, more than words can say. I miss them. Choices.
By Thomas A. Battle
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