To God

                                                  

                                                                 My Prayer.

                              God of heaven above and guide on earth below,
                                            Keeper of my praises and joys,
                                            Taker of all my sorrows and toils.
                                            Hear my words, for I know you always hear.

                                            Fear falls upon me like terrible, freezing rain!
                                            Fear of many things I cannot see,
                                            Fear of failure,
                                            Fear of collapse,
                                            Down, down, down into darkest caverns.
                                            Help me! Aid me for I am blind!
                                            Show me you are here in this struggle of my own
                                            Making.
                                            Give me courage,
                                            Lay upon me your almighty strength.

                                            Have faith you have said,
                                            Only a mustard seed,
                                            Here today, through these words,
                                            I put my faith in you,
                                            Knowing that all you've said is true,
                                            To you be  glory,
                                            To you be honor
                                            To you my words shall sing.

                                                                  In the name of Jesus Christ, Amen.

"That is why we can say with confidence,
           The Lord is my helper, so I will not be afraid. What can mere mortals do to me?"
                                                                                                        Hebrews 13: 6
                 

                                             Now I feel at ease.



                                                                                           E.J. Norris.


                                           

Another Rant

                                                         

                                                      Stereotypical.
                                                           
                                                  In my observations,
                                                  Many thoughts I see,
                                                  Many that don't look good to me.

                                                   The thought is: if you don't like what I
                                                   Like then you're stupid,
                                                   The thought is: I've got to get people
                                                   To notice me.
                                                   The thought is: Always need the cupid.
                                                   The thought is: I'm worthless.

                                                    The thought is: I gotta be skin and bone
                                                    Like the models
                                                    And I just couldn't imagine life without three
                                                    Layers of makeup,
                                                    Also if guys think little of me than I am little,
                                                    The thought is: stupid, trash, ugly, nothing,
                                                     Suicide.
                                                     The thought is: I need to say like in like every like
                                                      Sentence so you like understand what I like
                                                     Mean to like say and how I like know so much
                                                      Like more than like you do.
                                                      You need to "like" STOP IT!!!

                                                      First of all God made you beautiful,
                                                      He made to grow,
                                                      To learn,
                                                      To shine with what he does through you.
                                                      In a world going down hill fast,
                                                      Its become so easy to drown in all the trash,
                                                      But you aught to know better than that,
                                                      Be you in God's will,
                                                      With joy he'll fill you,
                                                       Shine like a star,
                                                      And be larger than life.
                                                                  
                                                                                               E.J. Norris

                                                            

Relatable to Writers Everywhere.

                                               

                                                            Writers have Wings.

                                            In silence I sit surrounded by strange faces,
                                            I am alone yet not alone,
                                            Its just me and my little secrets
                                            Locked inside the magic lamp that is skin
                                            And bone,
                                            Locked I am, but bound I am not,
                                            For I have the freedom: I have the wings,
                                            Not as those of birds, bats, or bugs,
                                            But invisible wings of mind.

                                            I look to the window and the beckoning sunlight
                                            Beyond,
                                            My wings are spreading now,
                                            Distractions of all kinds fade to a dull hum that
                                            Is now nothing I care about,
                                            And I simply go,
                                            Not through air or space,
                                            But through color, image, and sound.
                                            Soaring and gliding I, flying now, wisp
                                            These colors off of my wings and let them swirl
                                            Into patterns,
                                           
                                            I control them,
                                            But all at once they control me,
                                            I am not their master,
                                            And they are not mine.

                                           We as one, flap through the realms
                                           We have built.
                                           Rocky peaks,
                                           Water roaring, tumbling,
                                           Or a bird singing contentedly
                                           It all erupts into life,
                                           I ride on the sounds and sensations of
                                           The new world before me.
                                           No gravity.

                                           But then I wake to the ordinary,
                                           I've traveled so far!
                                           Yet, I never left my desk.

                                                                                  E.J. Norris.
                                           
                                          
                                          

A Funny Poem!!

                                              

                                                               I Baked Alaska.

                                           On a day when my sweet tooth troubled me
                                           I decided what the best dessert would be,
                                           I baked Alaska.

                                           In a giant shovel shuttle I dug the land chunk out
                                          With glee,
                                          Any inhabitants had long decided to flee,
                                          And Alaska was pulled up into space with me.

                                          The oven was there,
                                           Ready and open wide,
                                           And with one mighty heave I flung it inside!

                                           In the heat black soil became cookie sweet,
                                           Mountains and snow drifts melted to gooey cream,
                                           And the grasses green became pistachio filling
                                           All rising to a gelatin thrilling.

                                           When the oven went ding,
                                           Giant oven mitts I did bring
                                           And topped old Alaska with a star dust meringue,
                                            I gave it a taste,
                                           Oh what a tang!

                                            Then, the finishing touch,
                                            The final pizazz which adds so much. 

                                            Higher heat than any forge,
                                             I used a solar flare torch,
                                             Ignited the meringue with a bright flash
                                            And a bang,
                                             Finally, time to dig in,
                                             Such a sweet treat,
                                             Win, win, win!
                                             I gulp it all down with a laugh and a grin.
                                               

                                             I baked Alaska.

                                                                                 E.J. Norris.


                                          
                                                

Another Character Poem

(Poem for another character in my novel. Dedicated to little Freddie.)



              
                                                                          

                                                                   A Little Package

                                                         Of a man what does size show?
                                                         Does it provide a certain status or spectacular
                                                         Glow?
                                                         Bigger is better so the saying goes.

                                                         But the less than palm-sized package
                                                         I present in a tale,
                                                         Proves every saying an epic fail.

                                                         Hills of good humor,
                                                         Wide fields of a fine attitude,
                                                         Icebergs of impudence,
                                                        And best of all: a selfless heart,
                                                        Big things come in little packages,
                                                        Indeed souls are an art.

                                                                                                              E.J. Norris.
                                                             

Character Sketch 1

                                              

                                                                   
                                                                    Hendrick
                                          
                   On a rocky hillside filled with caves and crevices resided the old Hendrick. A hermit, a wanderer, a devious scoundrel. He called nowhere home, slept wherever, and got his every meal practically straight from the mouths of his fellow men.
                As daylight crept into the wide mouth of the cave he'd chosen to sleep in he awoke, stood, and stretched his thin limbs. He was just past middle age, his long, scraggly hair just graying. He grabbed the staff he used to compensate for his bad limp and hobbled over the rocks out into the fresh air.
                   The sun was shining on him and lighting the green grass, weeds, and shrubs sprouting on the hillsides. At the foot of the hill began flatlands, treeless and stretching for miles. Only a small village stood between the ground and the sky. Hendrick rubbed his hands together, thawing his bony fingers, and sighed,
                 "Ah, what a glorious day. Aye glorious it is for a good, honest thief." Hendrick often talked to himself, asking advice, pouring out all his problems, and partaking in his own wisdom which, in his own mind, was an endless flowing fountain of ingenious ideas. "Hmm, what'll I eat today, what trinkets shall I get? Yesterday was fun, but that was yesterday. I be bored today, bored, bored, bored!"
He pondered for a moment then reached for the magic, silver whistle he had dangling around his neck. This was his greatest prize, snatched long ago from a mystical charm maker by the sea. He put it to his lips and blew hard. There was no sound, at least none for the human ear. He waited, humming to himself as he sat, until he was joined by whom he called his little scavengers. Black ravens gathered followed by field mice and a giant, wild bull with massive horns.
                  "Good day me little friends!" Hendrick boomed heartily, "There's much a plunderin' to do. What have ye seen today?" One of the field mice scurried up his leg, over his hand, and to his shoulder. With little paws latched onto Hendrick's earlobe he whispered squeakily. He smiled, "Ya don't say? Travelers using me private road! Of all the nerve!"
His eyes locked on the road below. It was a branch off the main road and a shortcut through the hill country, but few ever used it. However on this day he spied two men on horseback riding along. They appeared richly clothed and carrying many valuables. Hendrick licked at his old, rotting teeth, one of which was gold, and cackled mischievously,
                   "Oh you fools. No matter, come to me and give me goodies for free."
As soon as they were close enough Hendrick leaped onto the bull's back, gave it a swat with his staff, and the big beast bounded down toward the road. The two unsuspecting travelers were stunned as he charged them whilst laughing maniacally. First the bull rushed between them, making their horses throw them and flee, then Hendrick steered the beast round and round the fallen riders as if herding sheep. All the while he sang out,
                    "Hoorah, hooray you've fallen into my trap today!"
Flabbergasted by the hermit, the men scrambled for their swords, but not fast enough. With two swift swipes from his staff as he rods by he disarmed them. At last Hendrick stopped, hopped off the bull's back, and proceeded to rob the travelers.
                    "First." he said. "I'll need your clothes. Yes, those lovely silks. Tunic, pants, and cape. The whole lot." They blinked at him and didn't move. "Strip!" He commanded.
Both men, outraged at this insult, leaped to their feet and threw themselves at him. Even though it was two against one he was more than a match. Like lightning he struck with the long, hard staff hitting them both on the head.
                    "Naughty, naughty." Hendrick reprimanded. "That's no way to behave." They tried again, but he only struck them down again and then gave them a sizeable beating. When they were flat on the ground, bruised, and groaning he commanded them again. "Strip, both of ye, now! Or I'll put the curse of the Wally Dally Do on ye!" He waved his staff like a wand for emphasis.
Of course, Wally Dally Do was fictitious, but the two men were superstitious and after being hit over the head so much they'd believe anything. They got to their feet and timidly undressed, tossing everything they were wearing, including money pouches, toward the giddy Hendrick. He snatched them up gleefully and muttered appreciatively, "Oooh, very nice. If I were you two I'd really miss these. But I'm not and these are mine now!"
He laughed, jumped back onto his bull, and rode away whooping crazily.

                                                                                                 E.J. Norris.

Short Story

                                           

                                                        Under the Mask

                 I sat in one of the many hard chairs filling the almost-empty waiting room of the Massachusetts General Hospital. All was quiet as I slouched there shivering in the hospital gown and purple pants that I needed to wear. Out in the hallway the floor was white, the walls were white, and the ceilings were white. Such boredom for the eyes, but I was fairly accustomed to it by now.
                    But this story doesn't begin here. It truly began eight years earlier when I was a ten year old without a care in the world. All that mattered was school, family, and friends. It was during this naïve, happy time that three little letters affected me in ways that I didn't yet understand. AVM, short for Ateriovenous Malformation, a rare mis-formation that I was born with. The details are tedious and at the time I didn't get it. All that I knew was that often times I would bleed from the inside of my mouth. It was scary to see my own blood falling into the sink in whole cup loads and to have it just keep coming, and coming, and coming. If my mother hadn't had training as a nurse, I have no idea what would have happened to me. We were all disturbed by the eerie symptom. It just wasn't natural. I needed urgent care and that care could be provided only in Boston, Massachusetts. Now, eight years later, I was waiting yet again for a surgery. How many have I had? I gave up counting long ago.
                    The first step while I waited was an I.V, which was always a sharp prick in the arm, a tube, and clear tape to hold it in place. I won't lie and say that I didn't cry. As soon as I got a whiff of the strong alcohol they use to sterilize the area before sticking the needle in the tears come. A smell is a trigger, a very powerful one.
                   A few more minutes trickled by and my tongue felt sticky and dry. Before surgery I couldn't eat or drink. Using soap of deodorant wasn't aloud either. I began fidgeting nervously and watching the clock tick. It was ticking down, down, down toward the time that I'd be...well...out. Reading a book or, more than likely, writing a book helps.
                 My mother went with me when the doctor's assistant came to get me. Together we walked through automatic double doors and down another hallway that is, to me, far more foreboding than any of the others. We turn into the last room which is almost empty except for a few large pieces of equipment. Before me was a simple, rectangular white table with a small cushion for the patient's head and it is on that table that I laid myself down, surrendering to the treatment that I didn't want, but needed nonetheless. The nurses around me, wearing masks and gloves, saw how upset I was and how many tears I was shedding.
                "It's okay sweetheart," one of them said, "This will be over before you know it."
Their smiling and encouragement always comforted me. These were people who were there to help me and although it didn't erase the fear it did help. We had short, cheery conversations about school, writing, and what kind of music I liked until everything was ready and then the anesthesiologist turned on the gas. It was a long, continuous hissing noise. In his hand he held a transparent mask connected to a bulky tube and as he put it over my nose and mouth the nurse instructed me,
                "Take deep breaths and count to ten."
I held my mother's hand while breathing in the strange smelling vapors and still hearing that hissing. From head to toe all tension vanished as I counted,
               "One...two...three...four...five." I never get passed five. As I count I feel detached. Whatever I'm looking at freezes and the background is the first to blur away then the image itself. I can still hear their voices, but they're smothered by the static buzzing in my head. Then dark. It happens every time I make that strange journey under the mask.

                                                                                                  E.J. Norris.

The Painter

                                              

                                                                The Painter
                                                   With feathery brush in hand
                                                   The painter began his masterpiece,
                                                   On a canvas of dark he painted light,
                                                   He paints a sky blue and clouds bright.

                                                   His brush slides neatly, smoothly,
                                                   Creating the green, rolling hillside,
                                                   Flowers and trees sprout from beneath his
                                                   Gentle strokes.

                                                   Leaves of flaming color decorate these trees, 
                                                   Reds, oranges, gold all glitter,
                                                   In effortless swipes he brought birds to the skies
                                                   And rushing rivers to flow.

                                                   With a first sunset his colors grew extravagant,
                                                   And with the first night he placed stars sparkling,
                                                   Painstakingly working every detail,
                                                   Perfection, beauty, magnificence.

                                                   When finally he had finished,
                                                   He stepped back looking upon it all
                                                   And he smiled.

                                                                                         E.J. Norris

                                                           

                                                                Death Worshipers

                                                  There is an altar rising from the abyss,
                                                  Not of wood or stone,
                                                  But of skulls,
                                                  Of ghosts, beauty painted demons,
                                                  Young and old,
                                                  Women and men,
                                                  They all fall before this altar,
                                                  Bending their faces low to the ground,
                                                  Drinking blood.

                                                  Repulsive?
                                                  To many, surprisingly, no,
                                                  Drinking blood is called romantic,
                                                  Skulls on T-shirts and hanging from dozens of
                                                  Ear lobes,
                                                  Video games and books for surviving the
                                                  Zombie apocalypse,
                                                  Racing in coffins. 
                                                  All worn like costumes,
                                                  Then they dance round and round the
                                                  Dismal altar,
                                                  Rattling their hands and wailing,
                                                  They're death worshipers.

                                                  I wonder oh I wonder,
                                                  Do they define it?
                                                  Death the devil's work,
                                                  Death the gate,
                                                  Some to heaven and others to burning
                                                  Eternal hell.
                                                  If they did would they idolize?
                                                  Would they kiss the feet of the grim reaper?

                                                  The sun rises,
                                                  The death shrouded worshipers flee,
                                                  Back to the darkness.
                                                  Don't follow!
                                                  Turn to the light!


                                                                                  E.J. Norris
                 

 (In honor of my parents' wedding anniversary. Happy 23rd you two!)




                                            

                                                           Love Unlike any Other.

                                               Never have observed in all my born days,
                                               A happier couple in so many ways,
                                               They laugh together in shared joys,
                                               And are each others silver linings,
                                               Bright cheer to employ.

                                               Like puzzle pieces fitting with a click,
                                               They met on a path God lit,
                                               Meant forever to be husband and wife,
                                               They travel hand in hand on the road called life.

                                                                                        E.J. Norris