Ballad to the drunken husband

Love-Lies-Bleeding, Tassel Flower (Amaranthus ...
Love-Lies-Bleeding, Tassel Flower (Amaranthus caudatus) (Photo credit: Wikipedia)


My love for you



bleeding on the cabin floor.


I have surrendered

it to you


for a century or more.


I have loved you


with a love divine.


But now


I have



To know


You have never

been mine.


The demon whiskey,


and the seducer rum


Stole you away from



in the setting sun.


My love for you



bleeding on the cabin floor


Good bye my darling husband.


My life now serves me more.


English: A modern build of a squared log cabin...
English: A modern build of a squared log cabin. Logs were milled square for this build. It serves as guest quarters. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)





Morning thunder

English: Intercloud lightnings over Toulouse (...
English: Intercloud lightnings over Toulouse (France) Français : Eclairs intra-nuageux sur Toulouse (France) (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I remember those

bygone mornings

with thunder in my head

I could not remember

where I had been,

who I was with,

and for certain not what I had said.

I no longer dance

with demon rum,

nor his enticing friend whisky.

I can be myself with laughter

replacing the thunder mornings instead.

Now the thunder in my morning

Is a wondrous electrical storm.

I watch it out my window

whilst I stay safe and warm.

The thunder in my spirit dances now with glee

As I watch the Creator dancing in lightning across the sky.

Oh,  yes,  the thunder morning of a storm  truly beckons me !


English: Lightning 1882
English: Lightning 1882 (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Magpies laughter…then and now

English: Two Australian Magpies (Cracticus tib...
English: Two Australian Magpies (Cracticus tibicen) in Victoria Park, Sydney, in New South Wales, Australia. On the left is a juvenile (note the dark eyes) calling for food. The mother on the left has just obtained a piece of apple and is about to pass it over. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

The magpies have gathered

In yonder tree 

In their laughter

I am becoming more free.

*if you have never heard magpies laugh

then read the story below.

Years ago,  we lived on a “Stump-ranch“.  Some years,  that is all we had for crops  was stumps.  Cutting down trees to build a home for the newly weds made more stumps.

 The garden was to be  placed where the corral used to be.  #MRHUSBAND said, ” There is no way in all of creation  you are going to get those posts out to make a garden.” (Those were not his exact words but this is a family friendly blog) .

#mrswife invited the neighbours to help. He did not know how much the teenagers in the Valley needed to cut loose. (He did not know how much the teenager in me wanted to cut loose).  I had been a teen-ager more recently than he had.   The children of the Valley were all hired  to  all to come and help me get the posts out of the former corral ground area.  And,  I really do mean all.  I had come to the Valley the year before as a hired homemaker for a family with four children and the recently widowed father. Driving the four children to their various events, I got to know all the kids at the school. 

 The day of the corral party, I had many helpers.  Some workers. Some partiers. Some parents.  There were “wee ones” helping me chase the chickens, turkeys, cows and pigs away from the old corral ground.   We had “teen ones ” roping the posts like a steer.  Then,  they would pull the posts out of the ground with horse, truck and ATV. Some of the posts had to be wrapped with a chain to get the tractor to pull them out. 

When the old posts were all out of the ground, they were placed  upright together like a  bonfire. The neighbour women (who had come with their truck loads of children and to help feed the crowd of helpers) were the ones who  started the fire as the men were all away working the hay fields. 

We sang.  We danced,  We played games and we drank a lot of water.  We threw buckets of water on each other

We had portable B B Q for the home-made sausages, vegan wieners, hot dogs, steaks and chops.   We had long sticks for the marshmallows when the fire burned down low enough to be safe.  We had the horse trough full of ice and soda.  We had food enough to feed an army.  The women had brought preserves and pickles.  There was a ton of watermelon and ice-cream sandwiches in their portable coolers. 

 In the evening,  the men came in from the hay fields  and we ate again.  We had some huge potato salads, more steak and their favorite cold drinks…and fresh bread cooked on long sticks in the fire.  The teenagers were chopping down trees and kicking up their heels.  The wee ones had napped and come alive again. The party lasted till sundown as there was hay-making again tomorrow.

It was a great corral party and #mrswife  had her space for a garden.

The next day, alone again on the stump ranch…I prepared the garden for planting.  It was then, the magpies came and *laughed in the trees.

Today, almost 40 years later, three magpies came and sat in the pine tree in the yard outside the house in the city.  They were laughing in joy that the flood waters had receded and that my family and I were safe.(#yyc, #yychelps, #yycflood2013)

Thank you for reading the rambling behind the poem.

How can I take you seriously?

Donkey Face
Donkey Face (Photo credit: Shean Donovan)

You  have more trauma and drama

than a donkey in a silk pajama.  

You had this happen to you !!!

You had this giant break down or break through !!!

 You have the most urgent problem.

You have to talk to me NOW.  

(This is important to me, how?)

 How can I believe any thing you say  is true?  

How can I take you seriously?

You are always so full of lies.

 You have more trauma and drama

than a donkey in a silk pajama.

You say no body loves you….

is there any surprise?  

So stop the lies, the drama and trauma…

stop acting like a donkey in a silk pajama.

 Ask what you can do for another.

Clean up your act.  

Stop acting.

Walk the walk

you are screaming from the house tops!

Be silent long enough

to hear another`s tears drop.

Be kind and considerate.

You have loans to repay.

Put on your big girl panties.

Start paying your own way.

You  have more trauma and drama

than a donkey in a silk pajama.

(I am finished with you starting today)

I am  sending you my blessings

but please stay away.

Until you can work your steps in recovery….

All you will be getting from me is the discovery…..

That I am not available to you.  

You have used me up.

 My bank is closed.

 Find a new victim.

I am done….

heaven knows. 

(Dedicated to the drama queens and trauma kings….formerly on my phone and skype  list)

Living happy the ultimate revenge ….a note to 108

so you think that you could

take my happiness away

with not granting me a divorce,

is that what you have to say

you really think after all this time,

your controlling my freedom

has anything to do with your ill health…..

it just might have  of course.

I wonder what would happen

I wonder how healthy you would be

If your heart would finally open

If you granted my freedom to me. 

Well beloved husband I have some news.

Nothing can take my freedom away.

I will go picking pop bottles if that is what it takes.

I have someone who loves me and considers my needs,

wants and desires for goodness sake.

I will be free to love and be in the middle of a great happiness.

When I get to the altar with him….

I will be come his wife, his help mate his friend

A Mother to three and a grand mother to four….

How wonderful is that for a woman

 you did not want and you did not want to let  go.

Whom you have bound with a piece of paper since 1987.

I will get my freedom and be on my way to heaven.

I forgive you for not knowing

how much I wanted to be free.

I appreciate until you love yourself

 you would never anyone to have a new joy.

I bless you for teaching me all the things

 I do not marriage to be.

I am ripping up your karma card. 

I am allowing you to be free.

The Homeless Outcast


 He slept where he stopped.

He never owned a car.

He carried no identification

He did not have hospital coverage.

He had no political affiliation.

He was clothed unlike others.
He ran with a pack.

He did not shave.
Never operated a computer.

Never carried a cell phone

His hair was long.

He did not have a place to live.

He was not employed.
He was clothed unlike others.
He moved around alot.
He was  ‘not to be trusted’.
He was not  ‘one of us.’
A loner.

Many said he had delusions of grandeur.

He really never fitted it.
He was disruptive.
He gathered crowds.
He spoke loud.
He lost his temper.

“Why would  we allow  this man on our streets?

Can’t the “city father’s ” do something about this?

This should not be allowed on our streets you say?

This is not to be tolerated by hard-working tax -payers.

Homelessness you say…too big a burden.

It is not my concern.

He was probably always a  no one.”


Would you take the time  to know him?.

Would you like to know what he is up to?

Would you like to know what he has to say?

He is someone’s son.
He is someone’s friend.
He is someone’s brother.
He matters to them.


Would you like to know his name?

His name is Jesus.


Would we crucify him the way we just did
This  homeless man ?

You never know behind whose eyes
The Master is hiding.

The man on the street

See Cendrine Marrouat’s amazing writing and poetry:  Check out her plays and books.   Contact her for translations. And They all Rejoiced!


L’homme de la rue…

Non, il ne s’agit pas de sondages d’opinion.

Je veux parler de mon frère

Qui dort au froid.

Je veux parler de votre cousin, de votre père, de votre sœur ou de votre nièce…

De celui ou de celle qui lutte contre la dépendance.

De celui ou de celle dont l’esprit est troublé.

L’homme de la rue

Meurt de froid ce soir parce qu’il faut ériger

Une bibliothèque coûteuse, un énorme musée et un centre commercial.

Ou une nouvelle patinoire.

Ou pis encore, un autre lieu de débauche.

Quand entendrons-nous la détresse d’autrui ?

Et mon frère, alors,

Celui que l’on arrête parce que son bâton

L’aide à s’éloigner de sa dernière demeure.

Il refuse notre pitié.

Il veut juste pouvoir s’abriter

De la tempête

Et du froid.

Vos édifices ne servent à rien

Pendant des mois.

Avez-vous pensé aux sans-abris ?

Et mon ami, alors ?

Que feriez-vous si c’était votre frère

Qui mourrait de froid, ce soir, sous la pluie ?

Le chasseriez-vous au petit matin,

Lui diriez-vous de « passer son chemin » ?

Pères de la ville, je vous le demande,

Vous qui professez l’amour fraternel

« Comment aidez-vous les sans-abris

Qui dorment sans gant pour couvrir leurs mains ?

Pourquoi condamner l’homme de la rue

Quand vous ne faites rien pour lui ?

Avez-vous donc oublié le vieil adage

‘C’est mon frère.

Ne suis-je pas son gardien ?’ »

Faites au moins une prière pour

L’homme de la rue.


Signé, avec respect,

MaryHelen Ferris

(translation by Cendrine Marrouat

of Soul Poetry/And they all Rejoiced

The man on the street…


No, I am not talking about the newpaper’s opinion poll.

I am talking about my brother

Who is sleeping in the cold.

I am talking about your cousin, father, sister or your niece…

The one who is fighting addiction.

The one who is yet to find peace.

The man on the street

Is freezing tonight because we have to build

A fancy costly library, a huge art gallery and a mall.

Or another skating rink.

Or worse than that a place to buy another drink.

When will we heed another’s call?

But what about my brother

Who is being arrested for carrying a stick

To help him walk from his resting place.

He does not want your pity.

He wants a place to sleep:

Out of the storm,

Out of the cold.

You have buildings sitting empty

For months on end.

What about the homeless?

What about my friend?

What would you do if was your brother

Freezing tonight in the rain?

Would you kick him in the morning

Tell him “keep moving” again?

So I am asking you the city fathers

Who profess such brotherly love

“How are you helping the homeless

Who are sleeping barehand without even a glove.

Why condemn the man on the street

When you have no place for him to sleep.

What about that old adage

‘He is my brother.

He is mine to keep?’ “

At least say a prayer for

The man on the street.


Chicken George’s – The Pit

The Pit

Although the seasons

Come and go,

I pray that my sobriety

Will constantly grow.

For years on end

I’ve tried to quit,

To pull myself out

 Of that deep, dark pit.

It was years ago

 When I fell into the trap,

It’s filled with alcohol,

 Drugs and crap.

The walls are soaked

 With suffering and pain,

The guilt and remorse

Eat away at my brain.

I pulled myself out

 A couple of times,

But I fell back into

The stinking slime.

Each time I fell

Things got worse,

Will ever get rid

Of this terrible curse?

About a month ago,

Much to my surprise,

A rope (was) dangling

In front of my eyes.

I grabbed and pulled

So desperately,

I’d thought there was

No hope left for me.

As each day went by,

I pulled closer to the top,

The light is so bright;

 I feel my eyes will pop.

Finally, I’ve pulled myself out of that pit,

I’m a thankful sober person wherever I sit.

I pray to God, to help me with this affliction,

So I’ll never go back to that pit of addiction.

I pray and give thanks to all who helped me,

Because of your kindness, now I can see.


The rope that was thrown so lovingly to me,

Had a note at the end, I can clearly see.

It says, “Keep things simple,” “One day at a time.”

Because if you don’t, you’ll be back in that slime.


I wondered who would care about a drunk like me,

And down in the corner it read, “God is with thee.”

Thanks for my new life.

-guest poet

George M./Chicken George.

excerpt from Volume 1 Issue 4 April 2008 Vox Populus

The Community Village Newsletter

Grande Prairie, Alberta Canada.

inserted in this blog with permission of the author.