Dream again about the Dreamers

Dream again about the dreamers;

Write me a story about the saints.

Sing me a song about the singers;

Paint me a picture with dreamed up paints.


Tell me about the broken children,

The ones who went astray;

Tell me about the lost, forgotten sinners,

About the ones who found the way.


Remember the shadows of the people

Hidden in the darkness of time;

Remember those old wise prophets

Who traced the scarlet rhyme.


Do not forget the fallen martyrs;

Or the children of the elder days.

Do not forget the Seraphim

Who wrote the old pathways.


Don’t forget humanity

Which everyone forgets.

Don’t forget the beauty

Exhausted, it desists.


There isn’t much to say

At the end of all of time;

There isn’t much to say

When the world has lost its mind.


But keep dreaming, darling dreamers;

Keep singing silent songs;

Keep beating, broken heartbeats;

Your home is singing strong.

This one doesn’t have a very strong rhyme scheme and definitely not a very strong rhythm, but I like it.

I’d love to hear from you in the comments, all you lovely folks! Thank you all for the time you spend in reading my blog. I hope it’s worth your time.
God bless and have a frabjous day!

Funny Family Story Time

I have two aunts, my dad’s older sisters. Dear old ladies. One of them is a gardener, and one of them is into jewelry. But this is a story about when they were kids. They used to answer the phone, see. And you know how they’d answer, for those annoying telemarketers benefit?
“Hullo, this is the _______ Mortuary. You stab ’em, we grab ’em.”
It’s easy to see where my parents got me, I think.

Another funny story. My big brother. He used to be part of this little boy’s Christian group. So there was this one skit they did–can’t remember which Bible story they tore apart and put back together little boy version (I’ve heard wild stories about Noah’s Submarine) and there’s this one quote, this one thing that we still joke about even now.

“HELLO! This is Achmed the terrorist, how are you doin’?” (This, of course, must be said with great enthusiasm and a Turkish accent.)

Last funny story for today (Enough is as good as a feast) is about me, while I was at summer camp. (All girls.) We did a skit. It was supposed to be a funny, Christianized version of Cinderella, with an angel instead of a fairy godmother, and with Cinderella entering a convent rather than marrying the prince. There were some really great lines (“This is Trippy, the rock angel.” “Yo.”), but my favorite still remains the one where the Prince (a hilarious girl named Chloe who did this absolutely fantastic, ridiculous, Russian accent) says “Hello ladies” and accidentally tosses her sword across the stage. This was not intended, though it was really great. Then I (I was a servant) scolded the Prince, and she said the line that made the entire skit great; “But I was just trying to make a dramatic entrance!”

Starfleet Files Snippet

Fisk swore at me politely for a minute to get it out of the way.

Then he offered me a cup of tea. I responded to the affirmative.

“It’s good to see you, Rogers. I hardly see my inferiors just now.” Fisk said.

“Thank you, Sir.” I said. “It can only get worse from here, though, I imagine.”

“You imagine right enough. If I ever make Admiral, it’ll be dreadful as dreadful can be.” Fisk sighed and slouched in his chair. “Have a seat, Rogers.”

I obeyed.

We sipped our tea for a minute, and I waited patiently. Fisk would tell me why I was here in his own good time.

“Kyle,” Fisk said. He said Kyle in the way you say a boy’s name; Ky-ll, not like my name, Ky-lee, but I didn’t mind that awfully. It was just his way of addressing me, like a Sergeant in an infantry outfit affectionately and pugnaciously calling his charges ladies.

Eh, I’m bad at titles.

To give this scene context, August is blind.

            Violet waved a hand at him, just to see what would happen if she didn’t accompany it by sound. August turned to her with a raised eyebrow, and smiled at her. “Hello to you too, Vi.” He said.

            Violet stuck out her tongue at him.

            August stuck out his tongue at her.

            Arvin turned to look at him. He gave her his most innocent look.

            Arvin gave him the same quirked eyebrow he’d given to Violet. “Oh dear. I do believe I have missed my friends’ antics completely. I have been bamboozled.” She deadpanned. Then she handed August his plate and sat down on the counter to eat her toast.

            “How does she do that?” Violet asked.

Funny Story

So, my little sister is a regular kid, right? Says unbelievably funny things, really.

For example, my Dad told her that if he did a certain thing, Mom would have kittens.

Know what she said?

“What kind of kittens? You’d better do it then. I want to see her kittens.”

I think this encapsulates the kid’s character pretty well on the whole.


With the earth as my companion

And the sun as my friend

I follow the wind

Guided by the unchanging sky.

I am as mist

Or dust

Moving forever

Never stopping

Always moving on.

Rivers flow ever onward

Hearts begin and end

But the same pulsing rhythm remains

And I wander on.

So lead on, wind

And darken, sky

And wander, wanderer

Brethren we find.

Blood is thicker than water

They say


The blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb

Is what it means.

So I find my own kindred.





Wander, wanderer.




To wherever

The morrow


Mind, Body and Soul

I rarely post personal stuff or stories about my life. However, these past couple months have brought some great experiences, and I thought I’d share some of things I learned with you. I spent the past four weeks getting up early and going to my ballet studio to spend around three or four hours dancing. I danced every day, Monday to Thursday.

I danced and did push-ups and sweated and worked. I am far more physically fit than I was then, but strangely enough, the experience was far more than physical. It was, surprisingly, a little bit spiritual.

I’m going to tell you how this past month affected me, and what I learned.

Just a background sketch, so you know what happened. I danced with two amazing  ballet teachers, one who is very nice and one who pretends to be mean, but who is really fantastic. I danced with two amazing jazz teachers, both of whom are nice, and one of whom is maybe a little bit crazy, but still nice.

I spent my time with the girls I have befriended, and girls I have only been mildly acquainted with, during the past three years I have spent at this studio.

After I danced, I would go home, plank with my mom, shower and study. My days were packed, and I didn’t get nearly as much studying done as I would’ve liked to. Still, I feel that this experience was extremely positive.


How did it change me mentally? Well, for one thing, I was able to release some of the baggage I’ve been carrying around. I learned a little better how to let things go. I learned how to get along and be friendly with people I don’t really like as well. I was able, through exercise, to let go of things which depress me. It’s startling how good I feel after I do sixty four jumping jacks without pausing. I also feel more ready to start working on my goals, and more ready to study after I’ve exercised. I’ve been able to do well, and to understand that I am doing well.

It also has helped me to be more self confident, to feel more comfortable in my own skin. I don’t worry what other people think of me very much, but I do have a tendency to think of myself as not pretty, not smart, and not good at anything, though I am not ugly, quite intelligent, and good at several things. I have been able to conquer a bit of this mental self-belittlement. I have been able to see that I am where I am, and that where I am is good. I can try to do better. But I’m not bad because of where I am.


I lost probably an inch or more from my waist. I haven’t measured, but I know it. I also am far stronger than I was, and far more aware of what my body can and cannot do. I have impressed myself with my progress. I also feel so much better. Much more in control, much more alive, much more worth something. Much more able to say ‘Domine non sum dignus,’ and mean it, but still able to see that God wants me, and that I can try to be more worthy, even though I’m not.


These past few months have been, I feel, extremely important for me.  They’ve been a sort of turning point, where I’ve started to see where I want to take my life. The experience I’ve been describing to you has showed me that I can want things for myself and do things for myself, and be following God’s plan every inch of the way. I’ve been able to place events and people in God’s hands and not worry as much. I’ve been able to find a little more peace with my soul.

I can’t say that I have become perfect, or that I have eliminated all sin and rebellion from my life. I can’t say that I have suddenly started loving everyone or being humble and entirely unselfish. I am still too proud. I am still too selfish. But I have made progress, and for that I am very grateful.

I am also grateful for how amazingly patient my Saving God is, and for the fantastic, holy people who have been placed in my life.

I feel so much more prepared to face my life right now.

I know I will face setbacks.

I know I will sometimes fail.

I also know, that God willing, if I try, I can succeed.

I have begun to be more satisfied with where God has placed me, and more able to thank him for everything. I have found joy in serving the Lord, and that is, right now, all I could ask for.

I’ve still got a lot of studying to do. I still have a lot of progress to make before I find my way to the Celestial City. I can’t see where the road ahead of me leads. But I have his word for a lamp unto my feet and a light unto my path. And that makes me feel very good indeed.

It’s been amazing, and I’m so glad I could tell you about it. Please pray for me, if you are a praying person, that I will work even harder and trust God and submit to him more. If you aren’t a praying person, I’ll pray for you. If you are a praying person, I’ll be praying for you.

Thank you all for sharing in my journeys with me. Thank you for your encouragement, and for being there. I really appreciate it. You are wonderful, fabulous people. God bless, and have a beautiful day.

Sky ships are sailing

Well, look at that! Listening to a song from a movie I’ve never even watched inspired me to write a poem. “I’m still here,” from Treasure Planet inspired this one. I want to watch the movie, but haven’t yet.

I’m not very good at rhyming poetry yet, so be warned.

Sky ships are sailing

Dreams they sell

My heart is not failing

From the stories they tell.

I am left standing

When all falls away

I make the hard landing

I march off today.

I am not a commander

I order no men

I follow my heart

No one’s knows where I’ve been.

I walk older paths

I stand on the edge

I defy men’s wrath

I speak from the edge.

I sing the returning

Of Lords and of life

I see the burning

I see the strife.

Yet I shall walk on

My ship will still sail

I’ll still tell my stories

All others shall pale.

I laugh at time

I laugh at mystery

The masters of the rhyme

Serve those who are like me.

Sky ships are sailing

Dreams they sell

My heart is not failing

From the stories which they tell.

Thank you all, by the way, for being so awesome and supportive. It really means a lot.

God bless you all, and have a fantastic day!

Into the West

Turn the music on and start reading. Listen to the music all the way through, even if you finish the story first.

Your eyes are closing in sleep, and I am crying. I don’t know why; I feel no pain. I feel triumph. The scars marking my skin glisten in the fading sunlight. The trees above us link their arms, sheltering us.

                I can hear the crying of sea birds in the distance. The eagle is sweeping its wings above us in broad, deep strokes. Water in the stream nearby is chuckling a quiet lullaby. The wind lifts my hair off my forehead, and I can smell salt air upon it.

                Your lashes are dark as ink, sweeping your cheeks. Your smile is tired, but it still makes me want to smile down at you.

                I wonder what you are dreaming of.

                The world around us is merging with something else, something bright. The trees of another forest rise higher than ever, yet I can see over them. You are waking up. You sit up and stare into the light. The sky is bluer than I have ever seen it. The wind, which was gentle, is now strong and proud, sweeping the branches of the trees overhead into a merry verdant dance.

                I can see the sea, and smell it, and the light is getting brighter, yet I can somehow stand it. Our clothes are changing, clean and white and silver where they were red and wet and brown and grubby. I pull you to your feet and we hold hands, staring together toward the horizon. The light is coming, but it can’t be soon enough.

                You are pulling me, or I am pulling you, and we are running, laughing, crying, ‘Come, Come, Come!’

                I am half afraid that this is a dream.

                But then I know it is not. The light comes ever closer, and I run faster than I ever have. It would hurt to run like this, in the old world. Now it is overwhelmingly wonderful, a pounding in my chest and a gasping which does not hurt.

                Then the light is all around us, and we see nothing but a waterfall of the sea, a far green country under a swift sunrise.

I keep writing things like this when I should be working on something else.

Oh well. God bless you all, and have a wonderful day.


Devaro was the only name anyone ever called her. Rosy didn’t go over well. Rosemond—what were her parents thinking, really?

Devaro was not a remarkably loud person. She wasn’t ugly or anything, but while she knew everyone, nobody really noticed her. They were friendly with her, sure, but never really noticed her.  She had friends, wasn’t the leader, wasn’t the one everyone forgot about. She wasn’t a punk or a Goth, didn’t do drugs, was the designated driver at parties.

She had normal colored hair—the sort which hasn’t got enough brown for brunette, isn’t pale enough to be blond. She had these dark striking brown eyes, which seemed to stare straight into your soul. That was the most abnormal thing about her, those eyes. Also the way she dressed.

She wore skirts almost every day, long and dropping below her knees. They were mostly attached to vintage dresses. She wore a leather jacket whenever it got cold, and beat up tennis shoes nearly every day of the year. Her hair was always in a bun stabbed through with hair sticks.  Her nose was liberally splattered with freckles, but she never covered them with makeup or wore makeup at all. Her ears were pierced, but she seemed to forget and never changed her earrings more than once a month.

But I still liked her. We came from entirely different circles, but when most of my closest mates were sick or not there, I’d sit down at an empty table and five minutes later she’d sit down beside me, and open a lunch box. Her lunches were artistic. Her sandwiches were always whole wheat, never any cheese, but tomatoes and lettuce occasionally made an appearance with the day’s meat. She brought plenty of food, and would feed me whenever we sat together, whether I had lunch with me or I’d forgotten. She would bring turnovers and yummy fruit, and homemade candies and simply marvelous cookies she’d made herself.

I’d talk my mouth off and she’d listen. She was a good listener.

When I’d talked myself out, whined about parents and friends and nonsense, she’d talk to me in that lovely, soft voice she had. She’d definitely be an alto, if anything; her voice was low and husky and musical, and I liked to listen to it.

She’d talk about this sunset she’d seen, about other existential stuff. She almost never talked about home life other than to mention one of seven siblings. She loved traveling, that I learned.

I invited her to come hiking Europe with my family one summer. She loved it. My parents liked her far better than my crew.

But we never talked about her life. So I hardly knew what to think when, first month of senior year, the teacher announced that Devaro’s dad, who’d been in the military, had died that morning of a stroke.

Devaro called me that evening—when I gave her my number, I have no idea—and all I heard was this ghastly sobbing gasping sound. I knew who it was without asking.

“The weeping willow by the stream. Meet me there, okay?” I asked.

“Yeah,” She managed.

She was staring out over the water when I got there. She stared up at me, and suddenly flung herself into my arms. She was so fragile and I’d never even known it. I didn’t say anything. I just held her, and it seemed to help.

She left a few months later. Her mom wanted to move and make a fresh start. Devaro had plenty of credits to graduate, so she did. She told me she was going to college and gave me an address.


Devaro went into the army, from what I heard.

Or rather, I knew, because however bad of a correspondent I was, Devaro was fantastic. Weekly updates on existential stuff and hilarious anecdotes. Never anything about her, not really.

But one week the letters simply stopped coming. I waited a month, and a whole year, and then I checked the newspapers.

Lt. Rosemond Devaro, died in combat, valiant, honorable death, deepest condolences to the family.

The evening was so quiet, and the birds were chirping when I went out to watch the sunset.