Through these Eyes Part 64

And a splendid reward...

For several hours spent With his back bent to the sun.

'Twas a shame he could not see The wealth amid the shining trees...

The leaves turned golden by the sun Falling near his outstretched wand Yet of no value in his eyes.

After all his sightless quests Are only shreds of memory, This man shall have no h.o.a.rd of wealth...

Only pennies in his hand.

The golden fragments in my mind Are wealth beyond an earthly price; For ten million copper pennies I'd not trade a single thought.

Lauren Isaacson October 24, 1984

Oct. 25, 1984... I made Mom and Dad's bed, but neither seemed to take note. That's OK, each probably thought the other did it!

Oct. 31, 1984... I love Halloween... I carved two pumpkins after Dad cleaned out the internals for me. Sick, sick, sick after supper; I get so depressed. I decided to write a poem; I wanted to cry, but it would've taken too much effort. Time is better spent writing.

Yesterday's Dreams

My heart is filled with salty tears My eyes shall never shed And my mind reflects the many roads These feet will never tread...

Forgotten and exhausted dreams And those that cannot come to life Are buried like the husband Of a newly widowed wife; So while the dreams of yesterday Shall never be exhumed Perhaps those of tomorrow Shall defeat the moldering tomb.

Lauren Isaacson October 31, 1984

I've been thinking about Halloween as I knew it. I loved it so, even though I didn't care much for the candy. It wasn't such a worry then.

Now everyone's scared; afraid some weirdo will put a pin or poison in the candy. They even X-ray the treats. Dear Abby feels "trick or treat" is a threat! Most kids wouldn't know how to trick someone. . .

when Dad was a kid they put entire hay wagons on top of barns or tipped over the out-house. . . soaped windows and often were dunked by the inhabitants of the house as they stood under an upstairs window pulling their rat-a-tat-tats! They deserved the cold soaking.

Nov. 1, 1984... My stand on immigration, abortion, and criminal justice would probably cla.s.sify me as nothing short of an inhumane and prejudiced killer. I have my reasons, however. I believe there must be quality in life or life is simply existence. Population growth hinders peace within humanity, and chaos results, not happiness. Abortion saves children from neglect, inherited negative patterns of behavior such as moral outlook and personality traits that would be given from the mother and the erstwhile father. Finally, one who violates or murders another person does not deserve life, for he gave his subject no choice; in innocence the victim lost his life.

Nov. 5, 1984... Mom and I enjoyed an amusing situation today while running some errands. Moline's 23rd Ave. is under construction, and a truck hauling tar pulled in front of us. A red light stopped us behind the truck, it's exhaust chokingly black. A workman was standing along the curb, engaged in conversation; when the truck started up again, it blew black smoke directly into his face. He noted our sympathetic amazement concerning his predicament and immediately stuck out his tongue in the direction of the truck, thus portraying his disgust of the entire affair! Some of those little shared moments can "make the day"!

Nov. 13, 1984... Sometimes I wonder if at least a good third of my life has been spent sick. . . whether from Big C or other junk!

The Wings Of Time

Bourne upon the wings of time Memories cloud my eyes today, Masking o'er the tempting sights Which seek dominion of my mind...

Childhood years that mocked The very pa.s.sing of the days, Wishing time would hurry on Quickly, as the setting sun.

I smile upon those early years, Fueled by futuristic dreams, For long I did not have to wait 'Ere time clipped short the youthful flame.

One need not beckon unto time, Master of the endless hours Both pa.s.sed and yet to come...

When life is gone, time remains, Ancient, yet forever young.

Pa.s.sed moments and tomorrows I live only in my dreams.

Today is all I truly have, Bourne upon the wings of time.

Lauren Isaacson November 24, 1984

I've thought so much about the "givers" and "takers" in a society. It is amazing to me that there are actually those who feel no obligation whatsoever to help or to give to others. Unbelievable! Most people at least feel a twinge of guilt about being so selfish. If everyone was a taker, the world would be nothing but "existers." Nothing would be accomplished or invented. Why is it that a taker must always be asked to perform a duty? Perhaps selfishness breeds laziness... let George do it!

A child cannot give except with the knowledge that he will at a later time be amply rewarded. Maybe this trait cannot he overcome if the awareness factor is not there to aid in "overcoming."

When one gives freely and without expectation, it is beneficial to both self and others. Givers do not hinder.

Why do takers think they are so special that they don't have to offer conversation, aid, or show grat.i.tude? What contributes to their lack of obligation? A lack of conscience, or is it a lack of conscience awareness???

The lazy and the selfish will not put themselves under any strain...

neither will the inherently low-esteemed. Perhaps a low self-image combined with an inability to face that image leads to ingrat.i.tude...

grat.i.tude would compliment the other, thereby raising his (the"others") status. . . and lowering one's own. No matter how old this kind of person grows, he will never mature. It inspired another poem...

Aged Child

Possessed of apathetic eyes Which mirror only childish wants, He kindles flames of disbelief When thoughts bereft of rationale Are thrown amid the unspoiled breeze.

The unrivaled child of woe Amongst the realm of thinking man Exerts naught but vehemence Toward duty and concern.

Ill mannered and unkempt, An animal regards itself More frequently, indeed.

Demands spill forth, Yet aid will never be returned.

The mind, developed, yet constrained By ropes he will not cast away, Displays a blatant haughty show And retreats behind a stagnant pool...

A silent product of neglect.

Lauren Isaacson November 25, 1984

Nov. 26, 1984... I put the lights and decorations on the Xmas tree.

It's nice to have the house look like Christmas. Mom and I went to Dr.

M. She had some growths burned off and I had some questions. I feel so stupid. Nothing can he done. My heart races, I have that b.u.mp on my leg, swelling, nausea, the runs, heat problems, low lung capacity, emotional weakness, tire easily, appet.i.te fluctuates as does food appeal, thirst, and water retention. All that can be said is that my case is very unique. . . questions really have no answers.

Nov. 30, 1984... I have another dissertation to expound upon. . . to those needing to "find themselves," let me say this: It cannot be done by cheating on your spouse, or hitting the honky-tonk bars; rather, go away in a remote wilderness or park, and all alone, spend time getting to know who you are and what you believe in. There is no turning yourself away when you are alone. . . you must face who you are.

Should you find that you do not like who you see, trust your judgment.

Don't go running to a "shrink" to have him tell you "you're OK."

Chances are, your own opinion is right; take the traits you dislike and try to improve your disposition. Find the love you buried under trivial matters. Trying to improve is better than hiding behind a mask you loathe and despise.