The Creative Edge

She was the quintessential Renaissance woman, A flourished mutation of success, For she flew in the skies without recess, She, the concentrated speech of motivational-ists, She, the uncompromised sermon of evangelists, She, the assertive cheer of conservationists, An embodiment of spiritual maturity, Manifested in worldly sovereignty, As if such rarity was too bodacious, Her looks a reflection in the mirror of Aphrodite, If Beauty was a law Gracefulness was her right, Alas, she lent her vocals to the dirge, “no one is perfect”, On the commandments of parenthood, Her sin was motherhood, For she was a waste bin of bad decisions, Blinded by career, Her kids wallowed in fear, Fear that mother never loved them, Fear that mother would never be there for them, Choked by insecurity, Walls were erected, Not wanting her children to be infected, With the virus of her lack of affection, Stemming from a genetic selection, For before she sang her p

The Priest blared through his homily on that hot October Morning with about as much oratory skill as an eight year old kid. In my twenty-two years in the Catholic Church I had learned to expect as much. To keep from dosing I would usually daydream. However, that morning, because of a terrible headache from a brutal hangover I was trying to get rid of courtesy of the night before, I decided against it. It would be too much work, I just blacked out into the realm of thoughtlessness. Before I knew it the Father was done and it was time for the profession of faith (creed). We all stood up and on cue began to profess. I knew the thing so well the words rolled off my tongue without any thought or any conviction either. We sat down and the Father did things I paid little attention to. Then, shortly after, the most interesting part of the service began—Offertory. Why? Simple, it was the time when many of those congregated in the chapel walked to the altar with their offering. Each