Okay…Sorry, reblogged the wrong one. This one is me – Life Path 3. You should all check out this blog. It’s great!
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Why passion is important
A fantastic blog post. Take a look.
This time I would like to talk about passion. Why passion is so important in our life. I have read many books and articles about the passion. This article I summarize from some books and articles. Hopefully it might be useful to everyone.
What is meant by Passion
When I speak of passion, I don’t mean it in the romantic way. What I mean by passion is the powerful feeling of enthusiasm we all have inside of us. We are all enthusiastic and passionate about something, whether its finance, food or a favorite sport. That enthusiasm is very powerful. When we can combine it with our work, we are setting ourselves up well for achieving true success.
Why Passion is so important
When we are enthusiastic and proud of the work we do, the better equipped we’ll be to overcome the many obstacles that will surely arise in the…
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Weekly Photo Challenge: Sea
(a poem) FOR THE DEFENDERS – YOUNG AND BEAUTIFUL HEROES
A Re-blog…For Veteran’s Day:
**I began writing this poem way back during Operation Desert Storm. It was finally completed in 2009. I leave the copyright at 2009 because the poem hasn’t been changed much since. I wrote it for the people and animals who’ve died in “wars” for us since our beginning. I always like to share it somewhere on Memorial Day, Independence Day, & Veterans Day.** I hope you enjoy reading it. Someone once called this poem “profound.” I don’t know about that but I consider it the best piece I’ve ever written in my life…and the best piece I’ll ever write. I doubt I can ever top it. Nor do I want to.
FOR THE DEFENDERS – YOUNG AND BEAUTIFUL HEROES, by Wanda S. Paryla
This work was written for every hero, past, present and future, of every state and nation: “Strive to forgive me as I seek forgiveness; seek forgiveness as I strive to forgive, for we are all nothing if not humankind.” ~Winter NightTiger
Some had an easy time, maybe even a good time; many had it insane. But, they all went, never knowing for sure what consequences it might bring, and that makes them brave.
FOR THE DEFENDERS– YOUNG AND BEAUTIFUL HEROES
I wish only to hold your head in my hands
And tell you I am sorry that you were tortured on foreign lands.
But I am afraid to speak and I dare not touch your face,
For I fear you’ll look upon me with disgrace.
Young and beautiful heroes –
Defenders of a government’s cause –
Without questions,
Without pause.
Pardon me
For my naivety.
For I was not there to see;
Had I been, I’m sure I would have lost it all to insanity.
Hear my plea,
Pity me, forgive me, forgive me!
Europe, Korea, Vietnam, Somalia, Middle East, and in other places, not afar, but right here.
That’s where you’ll find their ghosts.
Ghosts of both the living and the dead,
Young and beautiful heroes,
Many Champions whom we have never seen.
People whom the Ass and the Elephant dare not look in the eye
Lest they display cowardice and for the grandest of excuses vie.
But, not I – I shall write in ode to you, to the freedom defenders, alive and dead
Who walked on many a foreign land,
Crossed many dark and watery seas,
Who, reluctantly or not, killed many a monster that, once dead, was just another man,
Like he, with unheard cries and pleas.
Oh, the things I wish to say; how they spin around in my head.
I dream of looking into your eyes,
Even as my American spirit slowly withers and dies,
For I can never be as you,
An American peoples’ Champion, true.
I recognize the heroes – I’ve seen some here, some there,
With their American spirits lost everywhere.
And then, they return to us,
Dead or living,
In boxes or for life, striving,
And the politicians only pretend to care
Because they know – hell, they’ll never ever have to go there.
So, here I am,
Sad that I cannot give you empathy
For I have not witnessed first hand
The vile acts of political man
Upon my young and beautiful heroes.
I am not even sure if I have a right to offer you sympathy,
So please forgive me,
For I cannot claim to understand
Your suffering and your woes.
I wish only to hold your head in my hands
And tell you I am sorry that you were tortured on foreign lands.
But I am afraid to speak and I dare not touch your face,
For I fear you’ll look upon me with disgrace.
I am humbled before you, Champions –
Young and beautiful heroes –
With biting souls
Wrecked with the poison of political scorpions.
Your pain could never be eased by another.
No, not by your father, mother, sister or brother, and certainly not by any lover.
Your eyes have seen a wild animal darkness,
That no other person’s sleeping mind would dare dream to harness.
Their wars become no good for anyone.
Once it is found that the crusade cannot be won –
They always leave you there then, with praise left undone,
And at just thirty, twenty-one, or as young as eighteen,
They asked you to behold things that, at any age, you should never have seen.
They leave behind the real defenders of the cause – taking with them their congressional bets.
The cowards leave you there, deep in the oceans, in stifling jungle-laden lands,
In strange desert countries strewn about their burning sands.
They leave you to die, young and beautiful heroes, without any damned regrets.
And, lest they be called failures,
They dare not turn to you a saving hand.
They leave you to your lunacy and wounds, without allowing any cares or cures.
They leave you there, burning, dreaming of easier days and helping hands.
I lived not through any wars,
But, I have shared in our government’s alleged reaped rewards.
They don’t feel to owe you a damned thing,
Even as in your head, sickening night terrors ring.
But, as – when just a child – my father fought,
I owe you everything.
However, I can offer you naught,
Save with my pen, your praises can I sing,
Through mediocre poetry –
writing being my single grace –
I attempt to offer you dignity,
As I dare imagine my hands touching your beautiful face.
You who will never be the same,
I am full of disdain
For the harbinger of your undeserved fate,
And I cry out for a cure to your pain.
It’s the only thing that might ease my hate
Lest I go guiltily insane
And end up myself at hell’s iron gate.
To the freedom defenders of now or then,
Those who risk their lives so people worldwide may live dictator free –
As our government has always claimed to us it should be –
Wherever you are, wherever you roam, wherever you die – I pray you’re not alone,
And for you, to the gods of warriors I beg for a safe return to your memories of home.
No matter how much time has passed us
Since your terrible war left you restless,
On my heart, you’ll forever be –
Young and beautiful heroes –
As I know that your night terrors
Will never see you free.
Do not be ashamed.
Keep your heads high.
Don’t take any blame,
For you have no reasons to deny
Your magnificent valor.
The one forgiveness sought here –
Outside of that between warriors –
Is the mercy that I seek from you
For the crimes of my country’s leaders.
The Ass and the Elephant owe you a debt –
One, shamefully –
They can never repay.
Forgive me, though, for the courage they lack.
And alas, to me you must make yet another promise,
Please come back,
And this time, say that you’ll stay.
I wish only to hold your head in my hands
And tell you I am sorry that you were tortured on foreign lands.
But I am afraid to speak and I dare not touch your face,
For I fear you’ll look upon me with disgrace.
Pardon me
For my naivety.
For I was not there to see;
Had I been, I’m sure I would have lost it all to insanity.
Hear my plea,
Pity me, forgive me, forgive me!
The way I remember and the way I know,
Is through television and history books.
This is how I seek young and beautiful heroes,
Of both today and yesteryear –
The freedom defenders who seemed to not fear,
And never knew what it took
Until they had already become history,
By another man’s quest of glory.
Defenders of the cause, I must share –
Courage is not the absence of fear,
It is but the conquest of it.
You are true glory,
Armed with many a mighty story –
Young and beautiful heroes
Of today, of yesterday,
Of every day
And I would never deny it.
Whether you are dead,
Or still yet cursed with nightmares in your head,
Whether you trudged across frozen Europe,
Or you met with torture in Korea,
Whether you sat in silent madness in the land of the Vietnamese,
Or crawled through the desert sands of Iraq –
You are beautiful heroes.
No matter what they say,
You are the Champions of our way.
Your childhood will forever remain
Somewhere far away – left behind –
Carrying on somewhere out there without you, left lame.
Your youth and beauty, and maybe even your mind,
Is where you abandoned the child
To become a person of class, rank and file.
And while there will always be some in denial,
There are those of us who shall never put you on trial.
There is no need for you to tell me –
Lest it helps to ease your pain and dread –
But only you can help me to see
What it is that lies deep in your head.
I wish I could ease your heart,
But I don’t know where to start.
I know that no words I could ever say,
Could hold your beast at bay.
Pardon me
For my naivety.
For I was not there to see;
Had I been, I’m sure I would have lost it all to insanity.
Hear my plea,
Pity me, forgive me, forgive me!
Young and beautiful heroes –
Defenders of a government’s cause –
Without questions,
Without pause.
I wish only to hold your head in my hands
And tell you I am sorry you were tortured on foreign lands.
But I dare not touch your face,
For I fear you’ll look upon me with disgrace.
Europe, Korea, Vietnam, Somalia, Middle East, and in other places, not afar, but right here.
That’s where you will find your ghosts…
Young and beautiful.
Copyright 2009 Wanda S. Paryla
Sneak Peek: Prologue (The Sheriffs of Roberston County: Angel Maker)
For any interested parties, here’s a sneak peek to the tentatively titled Angel Maker, the first book in The Sheriffs of Robertson County series. This prologue is done, but still needs a bit more editing.
A police procedural mystery/suspense drama (wish me luck!),The Sheriffs of Robertson County is a romantically titled, but crime-themed, series of books where the stories occur in sparsely populated, rural Robertson County, Texas; the county where I spent my childhood and the last place I’d expect major crimes to occur. Currently, there are two books in the works for this series. Hopefully, County Sheriff Dorian Storm and his associate, Detective Alan Keith, will arrive at squad room near you by early 2014 at the latest. 😉
***
ANGEL MAKER (THE SHERIFFS OF ROBERTSON COUNTY)
PROLOGUE
August 1977 – Robertson County, Texas
Eleven-year old Dorian tired of staring at the condensation dripping down his half-filled glass of tea. It was iced tea until a few minutes ago when the ice totally succumbed to the Texas heat. He looked at his father who was engrossed in the local newspaper. Dorian rubbed his fingers around the glass, smearing the dripping water all over the glass. He wiped his hands on his pants and looked out over the backyard. The grass was burnt brown from the sun, dried up and crunchy. Bare patches lay strewn about and red clay and sand dotted the yard.
“What are you reading about, Dad?” Dorian sighed.
Maurice grunted. “Hmm, nothing that would interest you, son.”
“Can we get a swimming pool?”
“No, sir,” Maurice responded adamantly. “No pools.”
The pair fell silent again and Dorian’s attention flittered to his parents’ bedroom window; his feet gingerly followed his interest. He stood there for a moment just staring through the glass.
“Dad, why do they call that guy Angel Killer?” Dorian asked. “The Angel Killer,” he whispered as he watched his mother move about her bedroom.
Maurice put down the newspaper article he was reading on the stock market. First he looked up at the sky, then to a nearby tree where a squirrel was ascending the trunk with a pecan in its mouth. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, meditating on an answer as birds chirped and dry leaves of nearby trees crackled.
“Dad?” Dorian asked again, not looking toward his father.
Maurice’s gaze landed on his son who still stood at the window looking in at his mother who sat at her dressing table fixing her hair. She spotted Dorian and smiled and waved at him then returned her gaze to her reflection.
Dorian was incredibly intelligent for a boy his age. School authorities tried to pass him on to higher grades to match his learning abilities. They tried to bump him from the second to the third grade, then again from the fifth to the sixth, but his mother wouldn’t have it either time. No matter how hard his father pushed for it. She said she didn’t want him to be an oddball; however, he already was.
“Well, son,” Maurice hesitated, searching for the right words. Dorian was just a kid, yes, but he was no fool. “I guess, because he nails angel wings to the backs of all those poor women he kills.”
“Why does he do that? Kill people and do that?”
“I don’t know. I can’t…” Maurice shook his head. “The man’s a devil, Dorian. Evil. Crazy maybe. I don’t know why he does what he does. Maybe he doesn’t know either.”
Dorian’s curiosity often tested his parents’ and teachers’ tolerance, got him in trouble with his friends and siblings, and often disgruntled the neighbors while he investigated all the neighborhood woes and looked for the lost kitties and doggies of pretty girls.
Dorian still gazed at his mother through the window.
“I wonder why he does it. I wonder if the police know why.”
“I doubt they know yet. We shouldn’t talk about this anymore. It gives the monster power.”
“Power?” Dorian said.
“I think it’s nearing lunch time. Let’s go in.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“I am. And your momma’s made egg salad. And guess what? She’s got us some potato chips, son. Isn’t that something? I knew she’d break down eventually and…” He stopped when Dorian’s eyes met his, squinting as he saw straight through his father’s facade.
“You’re glad we’re black, aren’t you?” Dorian probed.
“What? Why would you say that, boy?”
“Because, the Angel Killer only kills pretty white girls, not pretty black girls. I think Momma’s cousin, Harmony, would be his type otherwise. Maybe even Momma. Only that they’re black is what might be keepin’ them alive.”
“Dorian,” Maurice struggled to control his temper but his shock was something he could not conceal. “Don’t talk like that! Jesus.”
Dorian looked back in at his mother, studying her.
“Jesus doesn’t have anything to do with it. Look at her, Dad. How pretty. On the short side. Momma can’t weigh no more than a hundred-and-twenty-pounds. Big smile. And her eyes are wide and round and…well, never mind,” Dorian shrugged. “She’s a bit too old I guess. Thankfully. But Harmony, she’s just like those white girls, except she’s…”
“Dorian!” Maurice leaned forward in his chair. “Stop that! What have your mother and I told you about taking interest in those things?” He bolted up out of his seat. The iron chair grating across the cement patio startled Dorian and he shuttered. “Don’t ever talk like that again. Do you want to curse us?”
“Those women weren’t cursed, Dad.” Dorian said. “They were murdered. They’re victims.”
“Victims? Stop it, Dorian.” Maurice strode into the house, huffing like a freight train. “Alice? Alice! We have got to do something about Dorian.”
Dorian took one last look through the window but his mother had left her place in front of her mirror. The room was empty. He walked to the iron patio table and looked at the front of the newspaper.
“Alice, really. Dorian has got to keep his nose out of the adults’ business,” Maurice demanded. “And we shouldn’t let him read newspapers and magazines any longer. No more Time and no more newspapers.”
“Oh, Maurice,” Alice said. “He’s just a curious boy. And too smart for his own good.”
“What? Y’all are driving me crazy. He’s out there with his curiosity all over the monster that killed those women, Alice,” Maurice shook his head, waving his hands, hunting for his thoughts. “Oh, shit it doesn’t matter. I’m just afraid of what these interests are saying about him, baby.”
“They say he’s a child with a conscience, Maurice.”
“A conscience? Are you sure? Because his curiosity about crime disturbs me a little.”
Dorian read the article aloud to himself, just loud enough to drown out the voices of his parents who did not seem to care that he might be within earshot. His father, always judgmental; his mother, always pleading and defending him.
“Waco Woman Found Slain. Last night near sundown, twenty-eight year old Mrs. Dana Caldwell of Waco was found by farmer, Gill Cooper, lying in his hay field in Robertson County. Mrs. Caldwell had been missing for three days and surfaced on Sunday. Like the six previous victims who were murdered before her in a similar fashion, Mrs. Caldwell had been stripped of her clothing and redressed in what looked to be an angel costume. Pale makeup had been applied to her face which offered a porcelain doll-like appearance, and her cheeks and lips were colored baby-doll pink. Her cheeks were sprinkled lightly with glitter as was her chest. Her assailant…” Dorian choked back his distaste, “Her assailant nailed angel wings to her back at both scapulas. As with other similar cases, the victim’s hands were folded together and held a rosary.
Authorities believe the victim was already dead before the attacker redressed and spiked the wings to her back. The Robertson County Medical Examiner said the cause of death is not apparent at this time and is unsure of any sexual assault; however, it is common knowledge that the other women found in the exact same fashion were not sexually assaulted, and it was ruled their deaths were due to asphyxiation. Some of the women were killed by strangulation and others by suffocation.
Dana Caldwell was a Graduate student at Baylor University and just celebrated her three-year anniversary in May with her husband, Carl, who she leaves behind along with her twelve-year old daughter from a previous relationship.
There are a few differences between Dana Caldwell and the previous victims, however. Caldwell was on the tall side, and blue-eyed. Based on previous reports, the other victims were all brown-eyed and shorter than Dana. And according to her husband, she was about thirteen weeks pregnant. The pregnancy has not yet been verified by the medical examiner.”
Dorian looked to the black and white photo of Dana Caldwell then dropped the paper to the table. He wondered how this type of crime found its way into his city-less county.
His mother, Alice, called to him. “Dorian, lunch!”
“The Angel Killer. Why do you get glory while everyone you touch suffers?” Dorian snorted and squinted in judgment. “You don’t kill angels, you make them. Angel Maker.”
~Copyright 2013 Wanda S. Paryla
Click here to read Chapter One next!… https://wandasparyla.com/2013/09/12/sneak-peek-chapter-one-the-sheriffs-of-robertson-county-angel-maker/
(a poem) FOR THE DEFENDERS – YOUNG AND BEAUTIFUL HEROES
I wrote this some years back. I last shared it in May & I am re-blogging it as this is Independence month in the USA.
A Re-blog…For Veteran’s Day:
**I began writing this poem way back during Operation Desert Storm. It was finally completed in 2009. I leave the copyright at 2009 because the poem hasn’t been changed much since. I wrote it for the people and animals who’ve died in “wars” for us since our beginning. I always like to share it somewhere on Memorial Day, Independence Day, & Veterans Day.** I hope you enjoy reading it. Someone once called this poem “profound.” I don’t know about that but I consider it the best piece I’ve ever written in my life…and the best piece I’ll ever write. I doubt I can ever top it. Nor do I want to.
FOR THE DEFENDERS – YOUNG AND BEAUTIFUL HEROES, by Wanda S. Paryla
This work was written for every hero, past, present and future, of every state and nation: “Strive to forgive me…
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Wanda S. Paryla – Woman in Horror via Blaze McRob’s Tales of Horror
Hey all,
Check out Blaze McRob’s Tales of Horror. I’m presented there as one of his women in horror for this week!! Also, just check out the blog period. A lot of great stuff going on there. And take a look at his past women in horror, which includes one of my favorites…author, Melissa Stevens, of The Illustrated Author. She’s is the illustrator who completed my awesome book cover!! Thanks, Blaze!
Check this out: http://www.blazemcrob.com/2013/04/wanda-s-paryla-woman-in-horror.html?spref=fb
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