Sunday, September 22, 2013

THE MESSAGE IN THE LEAVES




         
   The Message In The Leaves          (in memory of grandpa)

    By  Amarilys G. Rassler                  Dec. 1920- Oct. 2007

                                                          

 

The leaves, the leaves they speak to me,

Of changes that are bound to be.

The happy orange colors shout,

Enjoying winter’s waiting pout.

 

The autumn foliage reigns today,

In robes of golden-red array,

As crowns of amethyst drown their jade,

The cheerful leaves don’t plan to fade.

 

The leaves, the leaves they hum a tune,

A sacred message in their croon,

Of glorying in each moment’s feast,

Of   “carpe diem” in their midst.

 

The leaves, the leaves, they speak to me,

Of present fall I now have reached.

I must not sleep in sweet denial,

For winter awaits, the impatient child.

 

The message of the leaves is strong,

Come help me then, to sing their song.

Embrace this instant, Oh, joy prolong,

But at our winter, leave work for Him, all done!    

                                 

                                                                            

 

“He has made everything beautiful in His time, He also set eternity in the

  Hearts of men;”                           Ecclesiastes 3:11

 

“…no man knows when his hour will come…”

                                                      Ecclesiastes 9:12

 

“I have brought You  glory on earth by completing the work, You gave me to do.”                                                John 17:4

Friday, September 6, 2013

CUBAN-AMERICAN WAR DANCE ON THE HYPHEN



       Another Side Of AMARILYS GACIO RASSLER / Out with the fangs!

         "Speak up for those who cannot speak for themselves, for the rights

                   of all who are destitute."  Proverbs 31:8  (NIV)
    
                                       CUBAN-AMERICAN WAR DANCE ON THE HYPHEN

           Fumes rise through every inch of my Cuban-American body and I war dance on my hyphen after sitting on a major sandspur today and not being able to pull it out. The sandspur being  the new  La Gaceta article where the editor, Patrick Manteiga, continues to deceive people with his encouragements for better relationships with Cuba and his lies about Cuba being so much better today.

           "Our first trip with the Alliance ... opened our eyes to the many falsehoods that had been propagated in our opinion of Cuba due to the one-sided propaganda in this country." These are Patrick Mantega's words from his As We Heard It, column in this week's La Gaceta, his trilingual newspaper here in Tampa.  

           Manteiga is part of this Alliance for Responsible Cuba Policy Foundation who is planning to meet in a private cocktail party this weekend  to reunite those who have gone to Cuba. Former Tampa Mayor, Dick Greco, was one of these persons who went to Cuba in 2002.  Albert A. Fox, Jr., is another leader in this open door policy for Cuba, the voice that speaks of Castro not being such a bad guy. I've heard Mr. Fox speak  in front of an audience of mostly American citizens at a meeting in a cafe here in Tampa, of the many trips he's made to Cuba and the embraces he received from Fidel Castro.

            Both Manteiga and Fox, have the same opinion from the speeches I've heard them give. They share of their visits with Castro and feasting at his banquets. According to them, Castro is not the devil people say he is and Cubans in exile are still emotionally handicapped. They need to get over it.  Cuba has changed. American tourism should be opened. Consider  the financial gain for the U.S., Tampa  especially, and Cuba, they say.


WHAT ARE THEY TALKING ABOUT?   I speak with those coming from Cuba continuously  and conditions there are still horrible.  A man who visited with me recently, who went back to Cuba after a short stay to see his family here, had to take his father to chemo therapy in Cuba on a bicycle because he couldn't afford a car and he's a psychologist ... a  psychologist who gets paid $20 a month.

   Gruesome stories came out of him and his wife, one after another. The shortage of food, the rundown buildings, the medical help for the Cubans in Cuba that lacks cleanliness and medications, the  recent fears of diseases ...  and you even have to bring your own water and linen for your bed in the hospital.

 WHAT ARE THEY TALKING ABOUT? 

    They speak of safety but ANYONE can get arrested. In Cuba there's no guarantee of justice. Look how they placed that poor Jewish fellow in prison for bringing in cellular phones and computer to his family. If they need to make an example out of you, you're gone. AND, what U.S. government can save you? The fellow is serving 20 years in prison and has lost 100 lbs.


 WHAT ARE THEY TALKING ABOUT? 

  You can't say what you believe. There're still ears on walls and you might be the next one to be made an example of even as an innocent tourist. You might be the one they choose to try  to make some exchange with for their own gain.  AMERICANS BEWARE!

WHAT ARE THEY TALKING ABOUT? 

 PATRICK MANTEIGA AND ALBERT FOX, JR.,:  Are Castro and his government really good?  Have things really changed?  THE DEAD CRY OUT FROM UNDER THE WATERS OF CUBA TO KEY WEST ... LIBERTAD, LIBERTAD!

     

               

Wednesday, September 4, 2013

C.S. LEWIS ... WHAT INTRIGUES ME




                                           ATHEIST ONCE?  WHY?

                          My Intrigue With C.S. Lewis 
                                         
                                         
        
   Militant atheist turned believer, author with stellar imagination, creator of books that delight young and adult, deep insights into the spirit realm hidden in his subtext; all of this draws me like a magnet again and again to his writings and the life experiences and people that molded him.  

                                                       

                                                               C.S. Lewis as a boy
   Did you know?

   1. C.S. Lewis lost his mother to cancer three months prior to his tenth birthday. (I came to the United States as a ten year old.)

   2. His father never recovered from her death. He and his brother, Warren, for many years felt estranged from their father.

   3. He was convinced, as a child, because of his mother's death, that the God he encountered in church and in the Bible she gave him was, if not cruel, a vague abstraction.

   4. A few years later, with the influence of a spiritually unorthodox boarding school house matron, C.S. Lewis forsook Christianity and became an avowed atheist.  

3. Digory, the boy in C.S. Lewis's, The Magician's Nephew, had a mother who was seriously ill. (Did the author write himself into that story?)

 

    So after such information, what captivates me most about Lewis? The amount of pain experienced as a child from the separation from his mother and then his father. As many of you know, I was an Operacion Pedro Pan child. I know of that parent/child separation.

    What else fascinates me about this author? The people that came later into his life. They made such a difference.

    Who were they? The people that made the difference?  

     And how did that difference contribute to his classic writings?
         (To be continued.)
 
                      
                   Jack Lewis - Clive Staples Lewis (CS) Lewis
 
             

 My research and study of this author's life has been ongoing for years.

     Credit, in preparation for this material, goes to: 

       Narnia Beckons, by Ted Baehr and James Baehr.  

       Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

       The Narnian, The Life And Imagination Of C.S. Lewis,

        by Alan Jacobs

                 Picture Credits -  C.S. Lewis as a boy,

                                                Image on line, 

                                                 C.S. Lewis Centenary Group

                                                 C. S. Lewis as an adult,

                                                   Wikipedia

Saturday, August 17, 2013

After Loss ... The Journey


       After Loss ... The Journey
     
            
  Grief ... My Journey        By Marggie Rassler


           
               For those who have not read my other writings on grief, I'm processing the grief of the sudden loss of my mother. With each day I sense a difference, more steps forward less steps backward. Thank you, to those who pray for me. 
       What am I learning?
      Grief seems more of a teaching journey this time. I'm relearning some lessons and digesting new ones.
I've found out that there're variables that make grief different on this ocassion. With me being older, grief  brings closer the day of my own final goodbyes. There's even more of a need to leave things here

on earth done ... whatever I feel I've been call to do. Life has become even a more precious treasure, family and friends of the utmost importance, while the emotions that arise through triggers at times seem unbearable.

      Here's my latest finding about grief. Again, I hope it helps someone. That really matters to me.


                
Grief ... My Journey     by Marggie Rassler

Grief has rabies.

He growls and sinks fangs

into hearts. Unexpectedly.

His ambush rapes composure.

After, Reasoning rushes to help

And stands you back up while

Grief cowers, crawling into

His subterranean home,

awaiting that trigger,

which summons him,

to his next assignment.

So Grief labors sharpening

His weapons of torture,

Incognizant that each

of his assaults wrestled

by Time and Faith,

do shrink him ... some.

Tuesday, June 25, 2013

GRIEF ... MY JOURNEY



     
          Grief ... My Journey      by Marggie Rassler

           This is a continuation of processing grief ... the grief of
dealing with my mother's recent death. At first I didn't want to let go, even of the memories of the night she died. She experienced cardiac arrest.

I felt that if I let go of those memories she would slip away from me. The acute sense of her fading from my life and memory became very painful. So I made myself relive it again and again. That, holding on to sadness, is depicted in my previous poem. After I was willing to let her go and worked at letting the memories normally drift  away, in came other companions of grief. Those brought in  thoughts of when will the next shoe drop? Who's next? Sudden death smacked me with the sober realization ... life is fragile. 

   I took out some of my books that deal with grief. I was glad to see what I experienced and I am experiencing is normal.
   
    Remember the stages of grief I mentioned before? I think some of those stages run through this poem.
    It's surprising to me when I check the statistics of who reads my humble blog, the diversity of countries that read it. Friend, whoever you are, if you're going through grief you're not alone. Again, I hope and pray this helps in some way.

           
        Grief .. My Journey    by Marggie Rassler



        
Grief has pals.

Along with him

come Doubt and Fear.

Doubt trickles in,

softly playing

notes of tearful harp,

lulling me,

into the selfish arms

of sirens of Despair.

 

Fear sings grey tunes

of futures without suns,

And paints portraits

of empty vases of flowers.

He wraps his arm around

Doubt and laughs while I,

Stare at the final numbers

inscribed on tombstone.

 

Grief....


 

Monday, June 24, 2013

GRIEF ... MY JOURNEY






               GRIEF ... MY JOURNEY   by Marggie Rassler
 
 
                      On the day before Mother's Day, 2013, my mother passed away. Grief returns. 
    I have been with others going through the same. I studied grief counseling and led some, in the past, through that work even my own mom. Now, it's my turn. Again. 
 
                      Grief is due to loss, of any kind. Each person has his
              own way of experiencing it. Some stages are common among most of us.
 
         Common Stages Of Grief:   Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression and Acceptance
               (I personally will add to that the "Stuck" stage, somewhere between any
                    of these mentioned. Grief can be complicated.)
 Here's what I'm experiencing and how I'm handling it. I believe my writing reflects my being in these stages. I hope and pray my sharing will help someone. Please, let me know if I can help.
    


                                                                      
                           Grief ... My Journey                             
 
Let me hold this my baby,
Called Grief,
Do not tear him away
from my breast.
Let him feed on my fears
While I weave him
Dark blankets with tears.
No, don't pull him away,
In my arms let him
 Cuddle and stay.
 
Through this pain,
I'm connected
To that which I lost,
And though sharp
Piercing cost,
Their memory's not faded
Or buried or snuffed,
By the presence
Of Destiny's frost.
 

Wednesday, June 19, 2013

JOSE MARTI



                 JOSE MARTI                                           Reflections by Marggie Rassler

                   My mother told me a woman committed suicide for love of Jose Marti.      

    A few years back the leader of my poetry group asked us to bring any favorire poem and poet information to the group for discussion. I brought the poetry of Jose Marti. A fellow poet there said,                
   
           "Marggie, my father met Marti when he was here in Tampa. He gave Marti money toward the liberation of Cuba from Spain! I know who that great poet is."

             If you go to Ibor City, part of Tampa, Florida, you will find a park dedicated to Jose Marti.

      My mother told me a woman committed suicide for love of Jose Marti. I visited the house where he was born, in Cuba, when I was a little girl of eight. Never knew the genius that had lived there with heart full of Cuba. He died fighting for her liberation from Spanish rule. He lived to touch my life like not many others have. He wrote like I want to write.




                                                                         

                                                                         1853- 1895                            

             Jose Marti wrote verses for a song that does not die, Guantanamera!  One of his most famous poems is still studied in universities, Los Zapaticos de Rosas. That one is a heart wrenching story of a well-to-do little, rich girl filled with compassion for a very sick girl she finds at the beach. She gives her own shoes to the little girl in need. She goes home with bare feet. A social statement, a moving drama, sculptured in poetry ... a lesson never to be forgotten. Ah, Marti, how you make me love you.

             He wrote a poem to a woman who fell in love with him. It grips one to sorrow ...
  
 stirs one to tears. La Nina de Guatemala. Here it is:



               
                   La Nina De Guatemala                     AN ENGLISH TRANSLATION:

The Girl of Guatemala
At a wing’s shade, I want to tell  This story, like a flower:
The girl from Guatemala,  The girl that died of love.
 
The flowers were lilies, And mignonette ornaments
And jasmine: we buried her  In a silk casket.
She gave to the forgetful A perfumed sachet:
He came back, came back married: She died of love.
She was carried in a procession By bishops and ambassadors:
Behind were the town’s people in groups
They were all carrying flowers.
She, wanted to see him again,
She stepped out to the balcony:
He came back with his wife: She died of love.

She went into the river at dusk,
She was dead when the doctor pulled her out:
Some say she died of coldness: But I know she died of love.
 

Quiero, a la sombra de un ala,
contar este cuento en flor:
la niña de Guatemala,
la que se murió de amor.

Eran de lirios los ramos;
y las orlas de reseda
y de jazmín; la enterramos
en una caja de seda...

Ella dio al desmemoriado
una almohadilla de olor;
él volvió, volvió casado;
ella se murió de amor.

Iban cargándola en andas
obispos y embajadores;
detrás iba el pueblo en tandas,
todo cargado de flores...

Ella, por volverlo a ver,
salió a verlo al mirador;
él volvió con su mujer,
ella se murió de amor.

Como de bronce candente,
al beso de despedida,
era su frente -¡ la frente
que más he amado en mi vida!...

Se entró de tarde en el río,
la sacó muerta el doctor;
dicen que murió de frío,
yo sé que murió de amor.

Allí, en la bóveda helada,
la pusieron en dos bancos:
besé su mano afilada,
besé sus zapatos blancos.

Callado, al oscurecer,
me llamó el enterrador;
nunca más he vuelto a ver
a la que murió de amor.
 
 
  

LOS ZAPATICOS DE ROSA

Hay sol bueno y mar de espumas,
Y arena fina, y Pilar
Quiere salir a estrenar
Su sombrerito de pluma.
"¡Vaya la niña divina!"
 Dice el padre, y le da un beso,
 "Vaya mi pájaro preso
A buscarme arena fina!".
"Yo voy con mi niña hermosa",
Le dijo la madre buena:
"¡No te manches en la arena
Los zapaticos de rosa!"
Fueron las dos al jardín
Por la calle del laurel:
La madre cogió un clavel
Y Pilar cogió un jazmín.
Ella va de todo juego,
Con aro, y balde y paleta:
El balde es color violeta,
El aro es color de fuego.
Vienen a verlas pasar,
Nadie quiere verlas ir,
La madre se echa a reír,
Y un viejo se echa a llorar.
El aire fresco despeina
A Pilar, que viene y va
Muy oronda:"¡Dí, mamá!
¿Tú sabes qué cosa es reina?"
Y por si vuelven de noche
De la orilla de la mar,
Para la madre y Pilar
Manda luego el padre el coche.
Está la playa muy linda:
Todo el mundo está en la playa;
Lleva espejuelos el aya
De la francesa Florinda.
Está Alberto, el militar
Que salió en la procesión
Con tricornio y con bastón,
Echando un bote a la mar.
¡Y qué mala, Magdalena
Con tantas cintas y lazos,
A la muñeca sin brazos,
Enterrándola en la arena!
Conversan allá en las sillas,
Sentadas con los señores,
Las señoras, como flores,
Debajo de las sombrillas.
Pero está con estos modos
Tan serios, muy triste el mar:
¡Lo alegre es allá, al doblar,
En la barranca de todos!
Dicen que suenan las olas
Mejor allá en la barranca,
Y que la arena es muy blanca
Donde están las niñas solas.
Pilar corre a su mamá:
"¡Mamá, yo voy a ser buena;
Déjame ir sola a la arena;
Allá, tú me ves, allá!"
"¡Esta niña caprichosa!
No hay tarde que no me enojes:
Anda, pero no te mojes
Los zapaticos de rosa."
Le llega a los pies la espuma,
Gritan alegres las dos;
Y se va, diciendo adiós,
La del sombrero de pluma.
Se va allá, donde ¡muy lejos!
Las aguas son más salobres,
Donde se sientan los pobres,
Donde se sientan los viejos!
Se fue la niña a jugar,
La espuma blanca bajó,
Y pasó el tiempo, y pasó
Un águila por el mar.
Y cuando el sol se ponía
Detrás de un monte dorado,
Un sombrerito callado
Por las arenas venía.
Trabaja mucho, trabaja,
Para andar: ¿qué es lo que tiene
Pilar que anda así, que viene
Con la cabecita baja?
Bien sabe la madre hermosa
Por qué le cuesta el andar:
--¿Y los zapatos, Pilar,
Los zapaticos de rosa?"
"¡Ah, loca! ¿en dónde estarán?
¡Dí dónde Pilar!" –"Señora",
Dice una mujer que llora:
"¡Están conmigo, aquí están!"
"Yo tengo una niña enferma
 Que llora en el cuarto obscuro,
 Y la traigo al aire puro,
 A ver el sol, y a que duerma.
 "Anoche soñó, soñó
 Con el cielo, y oyó un canto,
 Me dio miedo, me dio espanto,
 Y la traje y se durmió.
 "Con sus dos brazos menudos
 Estaba como abrazando;
 Y yo mirando, mirando
 Sus piececitos desnudos.
 "Me llego al cuerpo la espuma.
 Alcé los ojos, y ví
 Está niña frente a mí
 Con su sombrero de pluma.
"¡Se parece a los retratos
 Tu niña"--dijo:--"¿Es de cera?
 ¿Quiere jugar? ¡si quisiera!…
 ¿Y por qué está sin zapatos?
 "Mira, ¡la mano le abrasa,
 Y tiene los pies tan fríos!
 ¡Oh, toma, toma los míos,
 Yo tengo más en mi casa!"
 ¡No sé bien, señora hermosa,
 Lo que sucedió después:
 ¡Le ví a mi hijita en los pies
 Los zapaticos de rosa!"
 Se vio sacar los pañuelos
 A una rusa y a una inglesa;
 El aya de la francesa
 Se quitó los espejuelos.
 Abrió la madre los brazos,
 Se echó Pilar en su pecho,
 Y sacó el traje deshecho,
 Sin adornos y sin lazos.
 Todo lo quiere saber
 De la enferma la señora:
 ¡No quiere saber que llora
 De pobreza una mujer!
"¡Sí, Pilar, dáselo! ¡y eso
También! ¡tu manta! ¡tu anillo!"
Y ella le dio su bolsillo,
Le dio el clavel, le dio un beso.
Vuelven calladas de noche
A su casa del jardín;
Y Pilar va en el cojín
De la derecha del coche. 
Y dice una mariposa
Que vio desde su rosal
Guardados en un cristal
Los zapaticos de rosa.