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~~Quotations Poetry~~
Welcome to my webpages. Below is a legend to give you some idea
of what is here. I've been writing poetry for about eight years, it is a passion to express through words springing from hopes
and dreams.
Please take your time and enjoy what I have here.
Bette M.
~~I Never Knew~~
I never knew my life would be so
complete in the middle of such chaos.
I never knew I could love like that.
I never knew I could hurt like that.
I never knew I could worry like that.
I never knew I could be that proud.
People always warned me that my life would change so much with
the entrance of my children.What they forgot to tell me it would change more with their departure toward their own
lives.
~Author Unknown~
**Legend**
I Never Knew-This is worth reading & sharing with others
Quote-
Picture, info and link about baby seals
Quote
Link-American War Library. Very informative site
Poem-War poem-The Sound Of Red Poppies
Poem-Remembering-An excellent poem on war buddies & what they experienced
Picture & Poem-Fortune Cookies-This is about
Col.Floyd James Thompson-The Longest Held
P.O.W. in Vietnam-One of the best poem I ever wrote
Poem-War poem-Someone Knows My Name
Poem-Love from the heart-The Pen
Amber Alert Ticker
Poem-Scrambled Eggs & Whiskey-This poem is a pure gem!!
Poem-Kariama
Quote-
Poem-Poem about autism-David
Picture-Rascal Raven with info about picture
Quote-
Poem-Poem about one of the most celebrated pictures ever made by Life magazine-Islamic
Flower
Poem-Again, love from this heart-I Want You To Know
Poem-About the Snow monkeys of Japan-The Snow Garden
Bottom of page-Links
"The fate of animals is of greater importance to
me
than the fear of appearing ridiculous;
it is indissolubly connected with the fate of man."
—Emile
Zola, French author.
| DON'T FORGET PAGE2 |
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| CLICK ON PENGUIN AT THE BOTTOM OF PAGE |
Because we don't
think about
future generations,
they will
never forget us.
-Henrik Tikkanen
Click the baby seals picture and you will be taken to a page
to sign a petition, and there is a photo showing a hunter standing over one of these babies about to club him to death.
Thank you so much for your thoughtfulness.
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| Save these precious babies |
When you finish viewing my webpages would you please go to the Care2.com
link below and sign a petition to save the seals. Or go to google and look for any site that has info & a petition
to stop this inhuman act against these beautiful animals. After all man is totally responsible for their lives as much for
these acts and the global warming condition they & we now face. Something to ponder, in the years to come there will be
very few of the seals left and far too many more of us. The hunt is over now but, will begin all over again next year. This
is an ongoing effort worldwide to stop the killing in the name of greed!!
This is the largest
deliberate slaughter of marine mammals in the world; and it's driven purely for commercial profit.
Thank you so very much.
Please click on the underlined link below
Bette M.
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More than 319,000 harp seals will be clubbed or shot to death this year in Canada. 96%
of them will be less than 3 months old, and some may even be skinned ...
Please go to Care2.com and there is much information on this subject.
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People
will forget
what you said.
People
will forget
what you did.
But,
people will never forget
how
you made them feel.
Thoughts for All Time
"How can you buy or sell the sky,
the warmth of the land?
The idea is strange to us.
If we do not own the freshness
of the air and the sparkle of the water,
how can you buy them?"
Chief Seattle of
the Suquamish Tribe,
Excerpt from a
speech in Washington, 1854
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| Click on the dogtag for more information on lost dogtags. |
| A Picture To Remember |
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| The Price Of Freedom |
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| Way to many of our own have died. |
The Sound Of Red Poppies
The count went on,
the sight went on as long;
five
hundred boots and counting.
An old woman threw
red seeds toward winter
winds;
taps engulfed the square;
and April poppies sprung about
the ghost of every empty boot.
The boots sang
a tale in melodies;
a newborn's
cry;
passions never again;
a thought of crackling
chips on paper plates.
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| Iwo Jima-My All Time Favorite War Picture |
A Poem:
Remembering
How long has it been since we all were young together? Strangers
becoming more like brothers than friends. Sharing things that most will never know, building bonds that are stronger than
blood. Cat shots into a formless black night, when sea and sky are one. Only the gauges point to altitude and life. Or into
a hot, still day, when lift seems but a theory. Straining against the straps, willing it to climb. Hours strapped to a hard
seat, mask cutting your face. Seemingly alone in a universe of three. Stretching for home, fuel balanced against charlie time.
"Foul deck. Continue to hold." Can sweat replace fuel? CCA through the muck, bathed in St. Elmo's ghostly glow. Pilot on the
gauges, B/N searching for the sight of the plane guard's wake or Mustang's faint lights. Gear down. Flaps down. Hook down.
"Call the ball." Pin point of orange, two green bars. "Folder five, ball." Air speed, line up and ball. Seconds to get it
right. Pitching deck, don't chase it. "Folder five, power!" A rush of lights. Jarring hit. Scraping hook. Please catch. Full
power. Slammed into the straps. Yes! From flight deck chaos to the ready room's warmth and the LSO's dreaded review: "High
start, low in the middle. Okay three."
And there were joys that never grew old. On top of sun-blessed clouds, little
less than gods. Or high in a clear night, a billion stars humbling the soul. The low-level rush, hills grabbing for your guts.
Face in the scope, find the aim point, track. Master bomb on. "Follow BDI." Tone. Pull! Two and a half Gs. Release. Roll.
Shack! Happy hours at the club. Unplanned weekend parties. Married couples who'll feed bachelor JOs.
Off to WestPac.
Mai Tais beneath the "bang bang tree." Popcorn and "juice" in the JO bunkroom. Atsugi for hotsy baths and sake to forget night
traps. Cubi and San Miguels, "fragrant river" and "monkey on a stick." Hong Kong's good cheap suits and floating restaurants.
Pollywogs becoming shellbacks on crossing the line. Down under, where past sacrifices still bring respect. Finally, homeward
bound. "Open up those Golden Gates."
But life on the edge brings soaring highs AND crushing lows. Friends so full
of life, can they really be gone? Empty ready room chairs bring the sad truth: Fatherless kids, wives now widows and men who
will never grow old. "Glory, glory, what a helluva way to die." "And they'll never fly home again." Practicing for war until
the real thing came. The wrong war, in the wrong place, fought the wrong way. Too many good men gave their all for so little
good. Does anyone remember but those of us who loved them? The wall may be black, but the names are golden.
Now
those who remain come together in joy. So many years have flown and our bodies are weaker. But the memories and the bonds
are forever strong. And, for a moment, we all were young together again.
Author Unknown-
Floyd James Thompson, a man of undying will. He was the
longest held P.O.W. in the Vietnam War. Only recently was he duly awarded the Medal of Honor; he spent nine years as a P.O.W.,
and five of those in solitary confinement. A hero indeed.
Fortune Cookies
Am on my way to war, the stuff of cowboys and Indians.
The plane lands in a hollow cheeked plateau. The sunrises with a bayonet centered between the eyes of my life.
I think of home, my children, my wife.
My steps take a stumbling, staggering shove into an eight
foot hole; a rotten green stench crawls up my leg; vomit feasting centipedes dance around my swollen feet. And I think of
the fortune cookie handed over when I left for the game of reality. “Stay tough” the message read. I hear teasing
chopper blades, a shaft of blue through a slit in the bamboo. Too many days and years I've been caged. I've forgotten the
date, even my age.
There’s days of rat pellet rice, and days of black
tea salted for spite. The hellish heat colors my skin gray; the peeling flakes feed jungle ants till their bellies swell.
These snake eyed captors expect me to convert, to lie and
grow a long nose; I'm not Pinochhio! And, Hanoi Jane came grinning and, growing a long nose! Her ears big as
elephants listening to their distorted philosophies.
The cold spreads a numbing chill. My body curlS up
in a fetal fold; those ants begin to look good if only the earthen mud was chocolate. Stale crackers take on the scent of
steaks in a moment of starving hallucination.
And these years in isolation have driven me to a madness.
Tree roots knotted into prayer beads; I mold a pillow out of raw clay patting it smooth, laying down my thoughts exhausted.
God give me a strength, give me a sign to “stay tough." Give me honor, my dignity, give me a truth .
Talk to me God,
let me live
to be free-
| Rose Designed By Flower & Herb |
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~~~~~~~~~~~~
Remember
Those Who Gave
Their Lives For Our Freedom
Remember
Those Who Died In
Iraq
Vietnam
WWII
Korea
WWI
Civil War
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Someone Knows My Name
People walk by the tomb,
many wonder who I'm.
I can not speak.
My life is gone,
taken by sniper fire at dusk.
Nearby,
more lie silent with no name.
The sunrise,
sunset
will never change,
but someone
knows my name.
I whisper gently
into Mama's ear,
if I never return
keep me alive
with pictures and
those bronze
baby shoes.
Mama,
you stood
and waved a white hanky;
you surrendered
in a last goodbye;
I blew a kiss, and
you
caught it with a
porcelain hand.
Mama,
I sense you are here,
at the foot of this tomb.
The eternal flame
warms your touch
of the book you made for me.
Do you remember?
You cut up
a spaghetti box,
saving the plastic
for a
window pane and
wrote a story for me.
Do you recall
chocolate ice cream
running down my chin,
what a mudslide.
And, the Rudolph cherry
stuck on my nose.
We both laughed so hard
tears streamed from our eyes.
Mama, look up,
I'm here
in the heavens.
I understand your sadness but,
I'm safe in the way you
protected me until that day,
the day I took the bullet.
Mama, if I could say,
I'd tell you dry your eyes.
I've been spared shame, blame
of why you ask a war;
you have all of me
in your heart,
in memories.
I feel no pain
because
Mama, you know my
name.
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The poem below ,"The Pen" was personally written by me and not written
by -11smtIVu-as stated on the groups website BBW msn.
The poem has since been removed after I notified the webmaster
of the party who posted it on his site.
According to the definition given in the 1997 New Webster's
Encyclopedic Dictionary of the English Language, plagiarism is "the unauthorized use of the language and thoughts of another
author and the representation of them as one's own."
Please do not plagiarize my work, I will make every
effort to stop you from claiming my work as your own.
And, please remember all the poetry on this site is
my own unless otherwise stated!!
Thank You-
Bette M.
~~The Pen~~
I must tell you
the pen in this hand
has
missed terribly
the use of expressive language.
My heart and soul feels smothered,
shut off
from what was before.
There is not another
within the framework of my life nor,
will there ever be,
a replacement.
I’m most guilty of trespassing
the boundaries
of this heart,
As your own.
Today I fought against the temptation
to write
words of passion.
Lest you forget
they were ever written as you enter
the darkness; another place.
I’ve placed taboo’s and restrictions
upon my heart and lines
never to disobey the oath of a golden silence.
There are far too many
who have a gangsters
heart;
I have no need
for those who might chop me up
and use my words to feed
their laughter and dress their
ego’s.
For years before you ever were,
impatience
caused me
to take to wandering off a steady path,
in search of the person I knew existed.
For years now my patience
rooted to overflowing;
no longer do I look upon an
indifferent face as a potential night rider.
You’ve allowed my indulgence
to say all
I pleased until the
fall and winter of this year,
and a reason
given to change my ways.
How does one suddenly change habits
grown accustom to?
Yes, I’ve tumbled long ago off
the building
of common sense,
knocking out whatever sense existed..
My vocal chords useless,
the only thing left are symbols.
But, there must be a fairness in the winds
that
whisper and warn,
blow about my head, my wants.
Your passionate embers
will wander to the here
and there
to be considered and respected.
Who am I anyway to count
such days and hours
at my pen waiting.
Surely all my scratching
your booted heel has
not discouraged
thoughts regarding a common union.
Perhaps passages written have
tired your brow,
a tiring in what to
do with
such a small indolent creature.
Is it possible
the search for the other half
of you has been as long as my own?
I should never cease in the longing
of a winters
night.
Would you want that to be?
....................
Scrambled Eggs And Whiskey
~~Hayden Carruth~~
In the false dawn light. Chicago,
a sweet town, bleak, God knows,
but sweet. Sometimes. And
weren't we fine tonight?
When Hank set up that limping
treble roll behind me
my horn just growled and I
thought my heart would burst.
And Brad M. pressing with the
soft stick and Joe-Anne
singing low. Here we are now
in the White Tower, leaning
on one another, too tired
to go home. But, don't say a word,
don't tell a soul, they wouldn't
understand, they couldn't, never
in a million years, how fine,
how magnificent we were
in that old club tonight.
....................
Kariamma
Panther foot steps pad close
to her door.
The men say, it is time
to divvy up and
divide your soul.
We will take, you give
according
to the political pillow.
The night jar tinkles
with patronizing coins,
some slip a hurried hand.
Kariamma wrestles
with distrust,
a symbol bestowed on her forhead;
and she cowers with other
women curled in their silken caste.
In a dream she climbs
a ladder upward
and every step cracks before
her foot
moves; children spit, men laugh
danceing at their freedom
to taunt with visual rape.
Her molasse colored legs
sweat and divide while
clenching a finger around
a mangled bed rail;
her thoughts weave
around her heritage.
Another leopard given his cue.
The time bell rang
to hurry the pumping,
prodding
pushing and destruction of
Kariamma's dream pillow.
B.M. 2003
I've written this poetic piece to honor
Kariamma. She is a real person & you
can find out more about her in National
Geographic.
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Making the decision to have a child-
it's momentous.
It is to have your heart
go walking around outside your body-
Elizabeth Stone-
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David
David sits
A tangle of mental confusion,
On the window seat in daylight
David who are you?
Do you hear, see me at all?
Im right here in front of you
My fingers dance;
is there a way
To entertain you?
David, count them, tell me how many
Will it take forever to reach you
behind the locked door?
David, you spend hours lost in never-never land
Playing games with your hands; no light in your window
Waving shaking before your eyes
Can you tell me where,
who you are?
David, answer me. What moon star are you sitting
on?
Is it the dark, light side of that big fifty cent
piece
that hangs in the sky, is that where you are?
David, are you that far away and beyond reality?
David, let me talk to you, tell you of things unknown,
Unknown days in your yesterdays, then tomorrow
Do you have an invisible button somewhere?
Open your minds blinded eye. If I knock will that
work?
Is there an evil gremlin playing games with your
life?
David, look me in the eye; for once you will cry
today,
again tomorrow
I wonder by day, by night why you are not here
but, you are in front of me alive
With nocturnal eyes-
*******************
THIS POEM IS ABOUT AN AUTISTIC CHILD
Picture Title:
Rascal Raven-
The "Rascal Raven" is a painting by the Alutiiq Museum-
215 Mission Road, Suite 101  Kodiak, AK 99615, 907-486-7004
E-Mail: alutiiq2@ptialaska.net
All Pages
© 1999 Alutiiq Museum and Archaeological Repository - Kodiak, Alaska Prepared by the Alutiiq Museum- a nonprofit organization
that seeks to preserve the prehistoric and historic traditions of the Alutiiq peoples and promote a greater public awareness
of the rich cultural legacy of peoples of the Alaskan Gulf.
Love is an act of endless forgiveness,
a tender look which becomes a habit.
Peter Ustinov-
Islamic Flower
She sat predator still,
a red
wool scarf draped
over Arabian black hair,
cascading down a shoulder, snakelike,
coiling around her neck;
her leopard
green eyes stared fiercely
into the camera lens; a toughness
encased
her diamond-cut face.
Her lips had a fullness,
sharp
peaks like the Himalaya's.
Her raven hair dangled unkept along her jawline;
she posed, never minding her
appearance,
this flowering Islamic woman-child.
Spoken
words not needed,
only a sign to give instructions.
She obeyed in her willful glare
while I took
one last shot.
I stared for a long moment
into her roan eyes.
Click: her image perfect.
She
softly walked out into a
herd of goats nibbling at her silk skirt;
armed men paraded about bullet holes;
her world
so full of war and poverty.
Her
picture haunts me;
her eyes shadow my every thought.
In dreams I search the rippling sands for her,
to
show her the picture she’s never seen.
The
season’s year of flowers spring up,
the summer heat floats
across black-tops laughing at my sweat,
the
fall leaves drift, swishing
like the skirt of the Islamic Flower.
The winter ice storm stiffens me with her
eyes;
I will find her again.
Though,
I don’t know her name...
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