Wednesday, August 27, 2014

String Quartet Movement 1, By Allan R. Emery

I am Beautiful Through God

Spoken word poetry at the corner Cafe, on Laureate Avenue had come to an end that Friday night. The last poet, Marion Moon had just finished reading his poem,  about how Jesus was his Lord and savior. I thought that it was a lovely poem, and when the poet sat down at a table next to mine to gather his things and finish his coffee, I was pleased to tell him what I had thought of his poetry reading that night.
"Your poem was beautiful tonight, your heart is big!" I said to him with a smile, and a light touch to the shoulder.
Unexpectedly, he grimaced and said, "Nope. Jesus is." and he abruptly looked away, continuing to drink his coffee. 
I felt an uneasiness inside about what the poet had said, and I couldn't resist responding to his callous reaction to my compliment on his poem.
"Jesus is part of you. If Jesus is beautiful, you must be too!" I said softly.
The poet turned to my table to look at me, still grimacing. I felt a sense of darkness about him, I could not explain, but feel. He looked at me with cold eyes, staring straight into mine, as if to say, why are you still talking to me, I have better things to do. I didn't allow his cold stare to penetrate my hopeful heart, and I continued.
"We defeat evil by believing in ourselves, and loving ourselves. Jesus' words remind us of how to do that. I never do anything good on my own, I do good through the Love of God. Accepting God's love through the teachings of Jesus is what makes us beautiful. The reason we teach ourselves to never give credit to ourselves for such good deeds, is because we can easily become corrupted through pride. This you have a magnificent understanding. You certainly have the way of the Spirit, our Lord, God deep within your heart!"
The poet sighed, and began to speak, this time, more intensely, using his hands for emphasis.
"Jesus taught us to deny ourselves, to include believing in ourselves. Even Proverbs says to not lean on our own understanding. Why would I believe in  a sinner who needs Jesus? John 2:24 says Jesus did not commit Himself to any man because He knew what was in man."
I thought this was nice, that the poet understood that Jesus tells us to be wary of confusing good with evil, but I did not see how denying evil pertained to loving ourselves through the love of God's word, and thereby believing that we were beautiful. I stared into his eyes for a few seconds, but what would begin to feel like an eternity to quiet myself, so that I could hear what God wanted to tell me in my heart, so that I would know what was the proper response. 
" So you are saying that your heart is not beautiful through God's Love?" I said exuberantly.
The poet shook his head as if in disbelief as to what I was saying and he protested;
"Apart from Christ I am nothing. If I am something it's because I chose to believe in Him and not in me."
I again, paused. It was clear that the poet was very adamant that he did not believe he could be beautiful through God's Love. Or at least, it felt like that's what he was saying. His words didn't settle right with me, as my feelings were that in order to find God's Love, I believed we must first believe in ourselves. How could one find love if they do not believe in ones self? If I did not believe in God's Love, then I would have not believed in myself. Understanding God's Love had come from within my heart, mind and soul. If I had never believed I could feel God's Love, then how could I have felt it? I knew that the poet meant well, but something about his words didn't sit right with me, I felt uneasy about what he was saying. Not believe in myself, no, I could never agree with that! Believing in myself is how I found God's love in the first place! But on the other hand, apart from Love, Christ, we are nothing. Because without love, we are filled with a void of darkness, which is lonely, and depressing!
The poet continued:
"Belief in Him/belief in me. The two can never meet. One cannot serve both God and man."
The poet continued to stand by his conviction, that he refused to believe in himself. As he spoke, I felt this dark void within him. He never smiled, his face was straight, and solemn. He shook his head again, swirled the last drops of coffee around in his cup. He made a tsk sound as he shook his head and swirled his coffee. I was in mild shock that all this had come from a simple 'well done, good job' on his poem. He went on to say;
"Let me quote something to you from the Apostle Paul when he was the most spiritually mature as a Christian:

"This is a faithful saying and worthy of all acceptance, that Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners, of whom I am chief." ~ 1 Timothy 1:15

Chief of sinners. Does that sound like he saw himself as beautiful? He wrote almost half the Bible and after being a Christian for 40 years he saw his dependence on Jesus because he saw his depravity before a holy God who loved him anyway. "
If it wasn't clear already that I wasn't going to convince the poet that we are beautiful through the eyes of God's wondrous and magical love, it was becoming pretty clear then. It was like he was separating himself from God, but he didn't know it. I wanted to  help him see the light, but I was well aware that people don't change that often, let alone that easily, by simple conversations in a coffee shop. I knew at that point, that no matter what I said, the poet was going to beg to differ, he would argue with me til the cows came come that he was in fact, not beautiful through God's love. I just wasn't buying it! it did not feel like God's love to throw in the towel and say I don't believe in myself, to believe that I was not beautiful through God's love. It just didn't make any sense! If God is beautiful, and I accept God into my heart, how could I not be beautiful too? Despite my best instincts telling me to wrap up the conversation and call it a night, I went on to say;
"Are you opposing my belief that we are beautiful through the Lord? To deny evil, we must learn to live our lives through the qualities of love, which is God. Yet we are HUMAN, we are ALWAYS going to make mistakes. Accepting this is part of the process of forgiveness. I am beautiful through the Lord. You can try to convince me otherwise, but God tells me I am beautiful through his love. You are in need of letting go of the control you so desire. Laugh at yourself! You ARE HUMAN, and you are going to make LOTS OF MISTAKES. You are always forgiven by God. That is the beauty of Love. We are denying the ego, the part of us that IS human, the sinner. Part of us is human, and part of us is connected to the divine. The point is not to beat the ego up and make it feel like a bad boy who deserves no dessert. We should love the ego just as well, but not let it control our lives. This is how we find peace, is it not?"
To which his response was, "My source is the Bible."
That was all good and well, but there were lots of people interpreting the bible. Bible verses can be taken out of context, as they can seem ambiguous. He was basically using the bible to throw at me the old, I'm right and your wrong, and therefore I must have the last word and be divinely correct, because I am speaking the word of God, because I am quoting the bible. But I knew in my heart, that this wasn't the word of Love, the word of God's love. I still stood by MY conviction, that we are beautiful through God's love. The poet's interpretation of the bible wasn't going to waiver my natural instincts of what feels right and wrong in the eyes of God's love, and that was that.
Yet again, I couldn't resist responding.
"If you have no self confidence through the Lord, how is the Lord helping you be stronger? I do agree with you that  without living a life of love, we are nothing. But you speak as if you do not have free will. There is a part of you that is in desperate need to remain in control. It does not sound as if you love yourself. If you do not love yourself, how can you let God into your heart? Have you truly forgiven yourself for everything?"
I said compassionately. I wasn't trying to argue right or wrong for my own sake, but I had become wrapped up in a conversation with a mere stranger, who was a poet in a coffee shop, simply by saying Good job on your poem! it was the light inside of me, that wanted to touch the light inside of him, although I knew better than to try to convince a bible Thumper of anything other than what his own interpretation of the bible was. Bible Thumpers do not see in any other way, other than black or white. To them, there is no gray area, no outside of the box thinking. To change this type of thinking would take way more than a conversation in a coffee shop with a humble girl and her conviction to show people the light, when they are struggling to understand it through the Lord. But I still believed in miracles, and even though such miracles are against the odds, who am I to say a little conversation in a coffee shop with a humble girl can't make a difference? if it did, it wouldn't be my own doing, but the doing of the Lord, and this is how we are beautiful through the Lord, by shining our light on others. So against all odds, I was fighting the will to give up, and carry on this conversation, in hopes to make a difference, to someone who did not believe we are beautiful through God's Love.
The poet grumbled, he did not address my question of whether or not he had forgiven himself for everything, meaning all of his sins, because what else would we have to forgive ourselves for? he got up to throw his cup of coffee away. As he did, an old man who must have weighed over 300 lbs walked in the door, passing the poet on the way. The old man sat down at a table behind me, and ordered a cup of coffee and a piece of chocolate cake. He said hello to me on the way in, and he seemed nice enough. I figured the poet was done with his conversation with me, and I went back to my sketch pad, doodling some thoughts, hoping to create a poem. I ordered a refill on my coffee. I was distracted from my grim conversation with the poet, by the old man who had walked through the door just moments before, who had sat down at a table behind me, and ordered a cake and a coffee.
He had told the waitress a joke, and she really enjoyed it. Prior to that, I had seen the waitress walk by several times with a stale look on her face. After the old man had told her the joke, she had a certain glow about her, and she was smiling more often. The poet made his way back to the table minutes later, he must have gone to the bathroom, or something that would have taken longer than tossing a cup of coffee into the trash can. I was disinterested in having a conversation with the poet at that point, and I was really enjoying the refill on my coffee, extra light, no sugar. But the poet wasn't done with me yet. Seemed he had to have the last word, as he went on to say:
"There are a lot of people who think things that seemingly sound good, even some read a Bible. Without carefully considering what the scriptures say they fail to realize their perceptions and thoughts are contrary to truth, like trusting in yourself. believing in one's own good. Most people fail to read what God has said in a critical manner because what the Truth states implies that we are ignorant, depraved and lost. God chose to pity us because we are pathetic and pitiable and need Him. My self-confidence got me into trouble. I find success in not trusting me, like Prov. 3:5 and 6. We fail to see how we OPPOSE Him."
The poet was now preaching to me, as he gathered this things and placed them into his bag. I heard a chuckle from the table behind me, the old man was laughing, like Buddha. It was rather cute. I had to wonder if he was laughing at what the poet had said, or maybe something he thought of that happened earlier that day. I saw the poet give an uneasy look towards the old man's table behind me, he seemed agitated by the laughter coming from the old man. The poet when on the preach as he gather his things
"The Gospel shows us two things: Who God is through Jesus. Who we are when we get our hands on God."
It was late, and I was growing tired of the conversation. One thing was for sure, we were at heads with what we believed God's Love truly was. I again, gave it a few seconds, and thought about what God wanted me to say, not what I wanted to say.
"I love you, because I love everyone through God. And when I feel someone's pain or suffering, I do my best to tell them what God tells me."
I felt that the poet was suffering in some way, through the way that he was so convinced he must torture himself with ugliness, because he is not a 'good person' because he is human.
"I suggest going back to your Bible. That's all I can encourage." The poet said as he stood from his chair, placing the straps of his backpack onto his shoulders.
"You are a good man, Marion. Thanks for a good talk. We'll talk more next poetry reading. I think I'll have the guts to actually get up there on stage and read one of my poems!"
He began to walk slowly towards the door as he spoke as if he was concerned for my overall well being:
"I'm telling you what God has said because He loves you and because He wants me to say that to you."
He stopped in his tracks as if he was flooded with more to say:
"Jesus said that no one is good but God. Who is opposing Who?"
It was apparent that he was proud of himself for that final statement before walking out the door. God had given him a quote from the bible that would give him the last word, and prove him right before leaving! Once he was gone he would have the satisfaction of not only getting in the last word, but proving my belief wrong, that we are beautiful through God's Love. With any luck, he must have been thinking, he would change my whole belief system, and I would be thinking exactly like him by noon tomorrow! Silly poet.
He reached into his backpack, and pulled out a book of bible quotes, to  which he ripped out a page and handed it to me proudly. 
I'm off to bed so I am giving this to you as a gift. Good night, Bernice.
It was a thoughtful gift, and so I said thank you. And I added;
"I am beautiful through the Lord. Everyone is beautiful through God. Your argument is that we cannot be beautiful through the Lord, but I beg to differ. If God is beautiful, then I am beautiful through God. Great conversation Marion! I will read this tomorrow, I am soon off to bed as well! See you next Friday!"
The poet again insisted as he opened the door:
"What I say comes from the Bible...go to the Source. Good night."
To which I responded with consistency; 
"I am beautiful through God Marion, good night!"
And yet, even though I was not trying to change him, I was simply standing my ground for what I believed in he went on to add, as he stood there holding the door;
"It seems to me we made up our minds. We both have heard what the other believes. Let's leave it at that. Take care... "
I muttered under my breath "Does he always have to have the last word? A sign of control perhaps?"
He must have heard me, because he replied:
"See how un-beautiful I am?"
I suppose he was admitting that he was human, and therefore not beautiful through the eyes of God. I certainly did not disagree that we had our human side, our 'sinners' side. But to me, believing that this is all there is to us as humans takes away from all the magic. I chose to believe we could choose to understand God's Love by believing in ourselves, to have the ability to do so. He was right, we would agree to disagree.
Just then as Marion had pointed to himself, and declared his un-beauty the old man sitting at the table behind me chimed in:
"You are full of crap. 1 Peter 3:4-6 but let your adorning be the hidden person of the heart with the imperishable beauty of a gentle and quiet spirit, which in God’s sight is very precious.
For this is how the holy women who hoped in God used to adorn themselves, by submitting to their own husbands,  as Sarah obeyed Abraham, calling him lord. And you are her children, if you do good and do not fear anything that is frightening."
Psalms 139:14  I praise you, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made. Wonderful are your works; my soul knows it very well.
Psalms 34:5 Those who look to him are radiant, and their faces shall never be ashamed.
Obviously there are Bible verses supporting almost every potential view. Stop trying to bully people like you are a prophet who alone can interpret the passages."
The old man said calmly to the poet, as his chair was facing the door, and the poet spoke:
"Well if I'm "full of crap"as you say then you have the freedom not to listen to 
me. You are so beautiful why do you need a toad like me to tell you anything. Have a great life!"
And with that, the poet walked out the door, and I never saw him at the Corner coffee shop ever again after that night, nor did I ever see the old man again either.


Tuesday, August 26, 2014

Heart and Sky

The many pigeons cooed synchronously outside of the rusty paint chipped window, of a 27th floor high rise Bronx micro apartment. Life wasn't looking good for me. Everything was overdue, including the rent. The electric had been shut off that chill morning, and my will to live was quickly rotting away, inside of a filthy roach infested 300 square foot apartment riddled with candles, and empty pizza boxes. I was anxiously pacing the worn hardwood floor, clenching my knit sweater with one shaking hand, and smoking a Marlboro red with the other; destitute of all life's happiness and magical wonders.
Chester Brinks, My beloved fiance of three years had left me three days prior, for another woman. We were to be wed that December, after Christmas. Our honeymoon was to be in Hawaii, over the course of the New Year, 2015.
Before my darling Chester had packed up all of his belongings and abruptly walked out of my life forever, I was a pretty happy girl. I wasn't sure where or when our relationship had gone amiss. I was completely oblivious to the reasons why his love for me had trickled down the tubes of no return. He had fed me some trite reasoning, such as, "It wasn't meant to be" and " Maybe this is for the best, Kas ..." His brief and heartless ramblings left totally void of any good sense. I had always been faithful and supportive.
I plopped my rear into the tattered egg chair, guzzling tequila straight from the bottle, momentarily retaining a small blink of hope that if I had drank enough of an upper, it might halt me from ending my suddenly meaningless life. The Smith and Wesson resting upon the night stand honed into my peripheral vision, which had become double vision. I had carefully placed my index finger to the cool trigger, and held it to my temple, as I glanced at pictures of us taped to the stucco wall; I busted out crying, hysterically. I then placed the gun back down onto the particle wood table, greedily gulping another swig of Jose. I had been fiddling with the gun most of the day.
There was no longer anything that I should have had to live for. Every reason that I had for being, was tied up into my relationship with Chester. I had known no other life, as we had eloped together, to live with one another at the ages of 17. Chester had made a way for us as a mechanic, and the job at the record store, was the only job I had ever known, and even that would be ending soon. I was all alone, and helpless, except for the company of a white and orange goldfish, Chester had won for me at Coney Island that summer. I was working a minimum wage job down on 5th street, at a local record store which would be going out of business in a months time. I hadn't gone into work since Monday, three days time. I was a 'no call, no show', but everyone knew why I wasn't there. Jodie my best friend, and my only friend who worked at the record store as well, had pleaded with Cisco, our boss, not to fire me for disappearing. She had left me several messages explaining her pleas with Cisco, and how it was working, and he was taking pity on my sorry ass, and that I should return to work soon.
I was estranged from my financially loaded parents. It's the old story. I had chosen not to go to college and rather drop out of high school and  move into an apartment in the projects with a 'bad boy'. I was a disgrace to them, and they had fully disowned me.
I had one sister, and one brother, both older than me. We didn't speak much, however, and Catherine, my older sister was a high powered lawyer, and Dustin, my older brother was an architect. I was the looser of the bunch. The alcoholic drug addict, with the low paying job, and the blue collar fiance, with no ambition and no real direction in life, other than to please my man.
At that point, I didn't care much for niceties, or anyone with a hand out anyway. Jodi continued to call me about thirty times a day, or at least every hour, since Monday. I ignored all of her calls. She left me several messages, alternating voice mail to text. Something like:
"Hey kas, call me"
"Hey Kas, I haven't heard from you in three days, call me"
Hey Kas, you can't hide in that shitty apartment forever, call me"
Hey Kas, I knocked on your door for like an hour, I know you're in there,call me."
Hey Kas, Don't let that ass Chester leaving you ruin your life forever! Call me let's talk!"
And such.
The sky laid out a curious crimson and gray, just like my heart was ... and somewhat, barely beating, and then, beating exceedingly fast, it would race. I much enjoyed the way the weather mirrored my emotions. I felt for the first time in three days, that the world truly understood my misery, and the sky reeked anxiety.
I continued to drink as the fall's breeze whisked through the creaking window. The rain was rolling in as the sounds of the pigeons coo began to dissipate. I hadn't spoken to a single soul except for Fishie in three days time, and Fishie was a great listener! But just like everything else in that shitty apartment, Fishie reminded me of Chester ...
I drifted off into a drunken stupor towards the balcony, thinking of Chester's blonde Mohawk tickling my shoulder and neck, as we slept on our mattress on the floor. I stupidly looked back at the mattress, loosing my balance, dropping the bottle of tequila onto the floor, and breaking it. The sound of the glass crashing onto the floor had startled me, and I jumped up, bashing the top of my head against the window pane.
I heard ambulance sirens in the background making their way down  the dangerous Bronx streets, as I had finally found my pathetic way onto the wet balcony.
"I have nothing to live for." I sad softly and convincingly to myself ... I stood at the railing of the balcony.
I was beginning to believe I was suffocating and I no longer could breathe, then came the panic attack. Not even the tequila could self medicate me enough to feel okay. The pain was getting worse, and I no longer could bare it anymore. Memories kept flooding. Memories I could not forget, and I could not move on. I had to end it. I had to end the pain.
The rain began to pour down, and my C.D. player shuffled to Fred Durst's version of Behind blue eyes. My eyes were green, but there was no doubt, that even behind the pouring rain, my tears were very real. The flashbacks of Chester would not stop. It was then I decided to jump.
I could hear the phone ringing from inside, which I ignored.
"Nobody would miss me if I went away"  I whisperd to myself . Everything was spinning, and I heard Fred Durst's voice:
"Save me, save me, before I drown ..." 
But I didn't want to be saved. I wanted the pain to end. 
I climbed the railing to the top, and helped myself over to the other side. I thought about Fishie. Who would feed Fishie?
"Save me, save me, before I drown ...." The music played.
My white night gown underneath my sweater, was flapping violently with the wind.
"Maybe love ain't what it seems, cause it's all a dream, forgive me, sometimes I feel like a fool, cause I'm so uncool, forgive me ..." 
Then, right before I hurled off the balcony, I felt a moments peace.  I took a deep breath in, and leaned forward. As I did, I saw people stopping below, gathering in drones, pointing up at me.
The next thing that happened, was very weird. I had awoken in a bright white room, strapped to a table, unable to move. I began screaming;
"Hello, hello ... is anybody there? Is this hell?" ... Was I dead, had I gone to hell for my sins, or was this real life, was I still alive? I couldn't even pinch myself to check.


Tuesday, August 12, 2014

Madison 5 Years


This drawing was originally in color, 
but I don't know where that version is at the moment.

Monday, August 11, 2014

Ali's Art Collage



I like to make abstract doodzles,
 of hearts and flowers and things,
with color pencils, and pens
paint various wooden things 
from the craft store, 
and paint horses, scenery 
and abstract things 
with acrylics on canvas'.  

Bunny Collage



Sunday, August 10, 2014

Writers Who Wish to Publish

Hi, my name is Alison Breskin, or as most of you may know me, DeviantPixie on Allpoetry. I've had a dream, all of my life, to be a published author! Well, a few years ago, I published my first poetry book, and I had so much fun publishing my book, I decided to keep writing and publish more books! As I learned about the publishing industry, and how to properly edit and design a book, I began a small partnership publishing company with Allan Emery. Since 2012, we've helped over 20 Allpoetry authors publish their books, and make their dreams come true! What a wonderful feeling! If you have a dream of being a published author, please contact us now! We'd be tickled pink to publish your work for you!

www.shoestringbookpublishing.com

shoestringpublishing4u@gmail.com

Have a blessed day friends!

Alison Breskin

Violet's Kismet





Wednesday, August 6, 2014

Free Kindle ebook Download!



In return for your awesome 
free kindle ebook, 
please leave a review! 
Good bad, just be honest, 
this author would love to hear 
what you thought of her book!

Mr. Marshmellow says Hello ...



Friday, August 1, 2014

Violet Fairy

She is the violet
mistress of the dark
the angel of love
the fire that purifies.

Her eyes are maelstroms, 
vortexes of love
hidden in frustration
longing to be set free.

She loves completely,
though she fights it,
for such love brings
disappointment and 
misunderstandings.

Yet, in lucid dreams 
she sees the answer
is always to love more.
Listening intently,
she smiles herself to sleep.

By, Joe King

Loving Someone With ADHD