Terrytheterrifyc• Show poetry

Hello wonderful peeps, please sit down and enjoy a drink with me. My works are posted all the way down at the bottom of this page, just before my guestbook (17 poems and 2 short stories).

Thank you so very much for visiting my page. I am currently working on two books (one is a horror, one is a fiction based on real people, experiences, and places), maybe I'll finish one this year, lol. I write poetry off and on whenever the mood strikes me. Links to some of my works are listed below, please feel free to comment and I hope you find them enjoyable.

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To me… the Bible is only a history/reference book. Look at our own history books that cover the events that took place during our lifetime. Tell me… how many lies can you find? There you go... I rest my case.

I was born and raised as a strict roman catholic. I have been Celtic (pronounced Kel-tek, not Sell-tek like how Americans say it) Pagan for the past 10 years. I have researched much of my ancestral background.

Ár n-athair, atá ar neamh: go naofar d'ainm. Go dtaga do riocht. Go ndéantar do thoil ar an talamh, mar dhéantar ar neamh. Ár n-arán laethiúl tabhair dúinn inniu, agus maith dúinn ár bhfiacha, mar mhaithimid dár bhféichiúnaithe féin. Agus ná lig sinn i gcathú, ach saor sinn ó olc. Óir is leatsa an Ríocht agus an Chumhacht agus an Ghl/oir, tré shaol na saol.

Blessed be.

~ Arduinna (Pagan me) ~

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"Muime-Chriosd" (Christ's Foster-Mother)
BRIGHID, BRIGHT GODDESS OF THE GAEL

It is said that by repeating the genealogy of Brighid,
you will always be protected:

This is the geneology of the holy maiden Bride,
Radiant flame of gold, noble foster mother of Christ,
Bride, daughter of Dugall the Brown*,
Son of Aodh, son of Art, son of Conn,
Son of Crearer, Son of Cis, son of Carmac,
son of Carruin, Every day and every night
That I say the genealogy of Bride,
I shall not be killed, I shall not be harried,
I shall not be put in a cell, I shall not be wounded,
Neither shall Christ leave me in forgetfulness.
No fire, no sun, no moon shall burn me,
No lake, no water, nor sea shall drown me,
No arrow of fairy nor dart of fay shall wound me
And I under the protection of my Holy Mary
And my gentle foster-mother is my beloved Bride."

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I found this on eternalpoet's page from Mother Teresa, she is also one of my idols and we share the same name (mine is spelled just a little differently).

People very often are unreasonable, illogical and self-centered... forgive them anyway.

If you are kind, people accuse you of selfish, ulterior motives... be kind anyway.

If you are successful, you will win some false friends and some true enemies... succeed anyway.

If you are honest and frank, people may hate you... be honest and frank anyway.

What you spend years building, someone could destroy overnight... build anyway.

If you find serenity and happiness they may be jealous... be happy anyway.

The good you do today, people will often forget tomorrow... do good anyway.

Give the world the best you have, and it may be never enough... give the world the best you have got anyway.

In the final analyses, it is between You and GOD... it was never between you and them anyway.

~ MOTHER TERESA ~

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An excerpt from “American Deaf Culture - An Anthology” by Sherman Wilcox, regarding, in my opinion, how our Federal tax dollars are wasted on studies ran by incompetent and unqualified people:

“Did Bill come to the plant to see you?” she asks. Sam nods and adds, “And he was sore like a wounded bear.” He takes two cubes of sugar and stirs the coffee. He puts the spoon down. “It’s about the latest federal grant for a project on some problems of the deaf,” he explains. “Exactly what problems I don’t know. Bill isn’t sure either, but he does know who is going to head it.”

It’s always someone with the magic prefix “Dr.” before his name or some connection with some prestigious but distant institution. Someone Bill has run across at a recent workshop and asked:

“Have you had any practical experience, say teaching, in the field of ‘deaf education’?”
“No.”
“Have you had any professional connection with a residential school for the deaf or some large day class for the deaf?”
“No.”
“Do you know a deaf person personally?”
“No.”
“In your professional capacity, have you ever worked with a deaf person, this person being either an associate or subordinate?”
“No.”
“Have you ever been to a club for the deaf, or some social gathering of the deaf?”
“No.”
“Do you socialize with the deaf?”
“No.”
“Have you ever spent a night in discussion or chat with a deaf person?”
“No.”
“In this workshop, do you integrate with deaf participants during the coffee breaks?”
“No.”
“Did you try to?”
“No.”
“Do you know how to communicate manually?”
“No.”
“Do you believe the child should have a choice in methods of communication for the greatest stimulation of his intellectual growth?”
“No.”
“One more question, sir. Would you attribute our failures in education and rehabilitating the deaf to a lack of understanding of the subject and his problems?”
“Yes. It’s a damned shame. Let me tell you about this research I’m….”

Oh, please….and there you go! Oh forget that, now here we go again! (this line is by me I have a 90 decibel hearing loss)

Another excerpt from “American Deaf Culture - An Anthology” by Sherman Wilcox, regarding Sam’s seven-year-old Deaf son, Brian:

You never forget that frightening experience. When you were Brian’s age. You were left out of the dinner table conversation. It is called mental isolation. While everyone is talking or laughing, you are as far away as a lone Arab on a desert that stretches along every horizon. Everyone and everything are a mirage; you see them but you cannot touch or become a part of them. You thirst for connection. You suffocate inside but you cannot tell anyone of this horrible feeling. You do not know how to. You get the impression nobody understands or cares. You have no one to share your childish enthusiasm and curiosity, no sympathetic listener who can give meaning to your world and the desert around you. You are not granted even the illusion of participation. You are expected to spend 15 years in the strait-jacket of speech training and lipreading. You learn not how to communicate, only how to parrot words, never to speak your own. Meantime your parents never bother to put in an hour a day to learn the sign language or some part of it. One hour out of twenty-four that can change a lifetime for you. Instead, the most natural form of expression for you is dismissed as vulgar. It has never occurred to them that communication is more than method or talk. That it is a sense of belonging, an exchange of understanding, a mutual respect for the other’s humanity.

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... and now the inevitable task at hand... my dear AP family and friends:

To Tigerblood, my sweet daughter, I love you dearly. You are always in my heart and I appreciate you and pray for you always. Thank you for your words of encouragement and for lending a sympathetic ear when things are going badly for me.

To eternalpoet, my sweet son-in-law hmmm.... what can I say about you that won't offend others? Just kidding! I'm so glad we met, your quite a character and, just like my sweet Tigerblood, you are very intelligent and our conversations are enlightening.

Poetryality, my idol, a very strong and truly talented woman. Founder of the group Poet's Revolution, of which I am a proud member.

Thank you for being my biggest critics ... I ♥ ya!!!

My AP friends, in random order:

ronnie62, a woman with a strong and honest heart--I hope we sign together one day gf
poeticmoonlight35, very deep writer ... we share the same scars, gf
Bella Kalishi, my wonderful faerie sister (delicate lily)
Catressa, my daring and talented evil wrench sister
Modern Mistress, another daring and talented evil wrench sister
Grasshopper, very sweet and caring... totally kewl
USMCAsian, very talented writer--thank you for protecting my freedom
sodacolapop, bubbly gf where are you? I miss our laughs
staciesdreams, sweet, young talented writer--don't let the evil in this world penetrate your heart
Night Hope, wonderful writer
Grey Knight, a true dreamer... please don't ever let your armor rust

Oh, I know there are more of you... I'm not finished adding yet!

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Childe Roland to the Dark Tower Came by Robert Browning:
(I want to translate this poem into sign language maintaining the mystery and Robert Browning's writing style, I think it would be totally awesome! Surprisingly, a lot of it is already in ASL format.)

My first thought was, he lied in every word,
That hoary cripple, with malicious eye
Askance to watch the working of his lie
On mine, and mouth scarce able to afford
Suppression of the glee, that pursed and scored
Its edge, at one more victim gained thereby.

What else should he be set for, with his staff?
What, save to waylay with his lies, ensnare
All travellers who might find him posted there,
And ask the road? I guessed what skull-like laugh
Would break, what crutch 'gin write my epitaph
For pastime in the dusty thoroughfare,

If at his counsel I should turn aside
Into that ominous tract which, all agree,
Hides the Dark Tower. Yet acquiescingly
I did turn as he pointed: neither pride
Nor hope rekindling at the end descried,
So much as gladness that some end might be.

For, what with my whole world-wide wandering,
What with my search drawn out thro' years, my hope
Dwindled into a ghost not fit to cope
With that obstreperous joy success would bring,
I hardly tried now to rebuke the spring
My heart made, finding failure in its scope.

As when a sick man very near to death
Seems dead indeed, and feels begin and end
The tears and takes the farewell of each friend,
And hears one bid the other go, draw breath
Freelier outside, ("since all is o'er," he saith,
"And the blow fallen no grieving can amend;")

While some discuss if near the other graves
Be room enough for this, and when a day
Suits best for carrying the corpse away,
With care about the banners, scarves and staves:
And still the man hears all, and only craves
He may not shame such tender love and stay.

Thus, I had so long suffered in this quest,
Heard failure prophesied so oft, been writ
So many times among "The Band"--to wit,
The knights who to the Dark Tower's search addressed
Their steps--that just to fail as they, seemed best,
And all the doubt was now--should I be fit?

So, quiet as despair, I turned from him,
That hateful cripple, out of his highway
Into the path he pointed. All the day
Had been a dreary one at best, and dim
Was settling to its close, yet shot one grim
Red leer to see the plain catch its estray.

For mark! no sooner was I fairly found
Pledged to the plain, after a pace or two,
Than, pausing to throw backward a last view
O'er the safe road, 'twas gone; grey plain all round:
Nothing but plain to the horizon's bound.
I might go on; nought else remained to do.

So, on I went. I think I never saw
Such starved ignoble nature; nothing throve:
For flowers--as well expect a cedar grove!
But cockle, spurge, according to their law
Might propagate their kind, with none to awe,
You'd think; a burr had been a treasure-trove.

No! penury, inertness and grimace,
In some strange sort, were the land's portion. "See"
"Or shut your eyes," said nature peevishly,
"It nothing skills: I cannot help my case:
'Tis the Last judgment's fire must cure this place,
Calcine its clods and set my prisoners free."

If there pushed any ragged thistle-stalk
Above its mates, the head was chopped; the bents
Were jealous else. What made those holes and rents
In the dock's harsh swarth leaves, bruised as to baulk
All hope of greenness?'tis a brute must walk
Pashing their life out, with a brute's intents.

As for the grass, it grew as scant as hair
In leprosy; thin dry blades pricked the mud
Which underneath looked kneaded up with blood.
One stiff blind horse, his every bone a-stare,
Stood stupefied, however he came there:
Thrust out past service from the devil's stud!

Alive? he might be dead for aught I know,
With that red gaunt and colloped neck a-strain,
And shut eyes underneath the rusty mane;
Seldom went such grotesqueness with such woe;
I never saw a brute I hated so;
He must be wicked to deserve such pain.

I shut my eyes and turned them on my heart.
As a man calls for wine before he fights,
I asked one draught of earlier, happier sights,
Ere fitly I could hope to play my part.
Think first, fight afterwards--the soldier's art:
One taste of the old time sets all to rights.

Not it! I fancied Cuthbert's reddening face
Beneath its garniture of curly gold,
Dear fellow, till I almost felt him fold
An arm in mine to fix me to the place,
That way he used. Alas, one night's disgrace!
Out went my heart's new fire and left it cold.

Giles then, the soul of honour--there he stands
Frank as ten years ago when knighted first.
What honest man should dare (he said) he durst.
Good--but the scene shifts--faugh! what hangman hands
Pin to his breast a parchment? His own bands
Read it. Poor traitor, spit upon and curst!

Better this present than a past like that;
Back therefore to my darkening path again!
No sound, no sight as far as eye could strain.
Will the night send a howlet or a bat?
I asked: when something on the dismal flat
Came to arrest my thoughts and change their train.

A sudden little river crossed my path
As unexpected as a serpent comes.
No sluggish tide congenial to the glooms;
This, as it frothed by, might have been a bath
For the fiend's glowing hoof--to see the wrath
Of its black eddy bespate with flakes and spumes.

So petty yet so spiteful! All along,
Low scrubby alders kneeled down over it;
Drenched willows flung them headlong in a fit
Of route despair, a suicidal throng:
The river which had done them all the wrong,
Whate'er that was, rolled by, deterred no whit.

Which, while I forded,--good saints, how I feared
To set my foot upon a dead man's cheek,
Each step, or feel the spear I thrust to seek
For hollows, tangled in his hair or beard!
--It may have been a water-rat I speared,
But, ugh! it sounded like a baby's shriek.

Glad was I when I reached the other bank.
Now for a better country. Vain presage!
Who were the strugglers, what war did they wage,
Whose savage trample thus could pad the dank
Soil to a plash? Toads in a poisoned tank,
Or wild cats in a red-hot iron cage--

The fight must so have seemed in that fell cirque.
What penned them there, with all the plain to choose?
No foot-print leading to that horrid mews,
None out of it. Mad brewage set to work
Their brains, no doubt, like galley-slaves the Turk
Pits for his pastime, Christians against Jews.

And more than that--a furlong on--why, there!
What bad use was that engine for, that wheel,
Or brake, not wheel--that harrow fit to reel
Men's bodies out like silk? with all the air
Of Tophet's tool, on earth left unaware,
Or brought to sharpen its rusty teeth of steel.

Then came a bit of stubbed ground, once a wood,
Next a marsh, it would seem, and now mere earth
Desperate and done with; (so a fool finds mirth,
Makes a thing and then mars it, till his mood
Changes and off he goes!) within a rood--
Bog, clay and rubble, sand and stark black dearth.

Now blotches rankling, coloured gay and grim,
Now patches where some leanness of the soil's
Broke into moss or substances like boils;
Then came some palsied oak, a cleft in him
Like a distorted mouth that splits its rim
Gaping at death, and dies while it recoils.

And just as far as ever from the end!
Nought in the distance but the evening, nought
To point my footstep further! At the thought,
great black bird, Apollyon's bosom-friend,
Sailed past, nor beat his wide wing dragon-penned
That brushed my cap--perchance the guide I sought.

For, looking up, aware I somehow grew,
'Spite of the dusk, the plain had given place
All round to mountains--with such name to grace
Mere ugly heights and heaps now stolen in view.
How thus they had surprised me,--solve it, you!
How to get from them was no clearer case.

Yet half I seemed to recognize some trick
Of mischief happened to me, God knows when--
In a bad dream perhaps. Here ended, then,
Progress this way. When, in the very nick
Of giving up, one time more, came a click
As when a trap shuts--you're inside the den!

Burningly it came on me all at once,
This was the place! those two hills on the right,
Crouched like two bulls locked horn in horn in fight;
While to the left, a tall scalped mountain... Dunce,
Dotard, a-dozing at the very nonce,
After a life spent training for the sight!

What in the midst lay but the Tower itself?
The round squat turret, blind as the fool's heart,
Built of brown stone, without a counter-part
In the whole world. The tempest's mocking elf
Points to the shipman thus the unseen shelf
He strikes on, only when the timbers start.

Not see? because of night perhaps?--why, day
Came back again for that! before it left,
The dying sunset kindled through a cleft:
The hills, like giants at a hunting, lay,
Chin upon hand, to see the game at bay,--
"Now stab and end the creature--to the heft!"

Not hear? when noise was everywhere! it tolled
Increasing like a bell. Names in my ears
Of all the lost adventurers my peers,--
How such a one was strong, and such was bold,
And such was fortunate, yet, each of old
Lost, lost! one moment knelled the woe of years.

There they stood, ranged along the hill-sides, met
To view the last of me, a living frame
For one more picture! in a sheet of flame
I saw them and I knew them all. And yet
Dauntless the slug-horn to my lips I set,
And blew. "Childe Roland to the Dark Tower came."