The Question

The question is not what I want to be

Rather ask – who am I?

The question implies doing

Being is what exists inside

I wish to be a scholar

Soaking up the knowledge gained

Learning from those who went before

Teaching those who remain.

I wish to be creative

Writing poems – thoughts I’ll shed

Painting pictures that will finally

Express the feelings that fill my head

Tears in Heaven

It appears that I have abandoned this site, but that is in no way true. I have been living through the misdiagnosis, and subsequent death of my father.  It has been a very long, arduous journey, and for him, at least, it  is now over.

During and after, when moments allowed, I made some music, and wrote poetry dictating into my iPhone as I paced the halls of 5 different hospitals.

Dad. The Flyer.

“A flyer went to the skies
To see the morning sun
The flash of the morning light
Glints off his forward strut – what a run..

Free, he knows now, as he soars on wings
Held up by nothing but air.
Flinging himself with a voice that sings
Proud of himself for the dare.

The mountains are far,
his destination in sight
His dreams not yet out of reach,
he sees them fluffy white

As the further he flies,
the harder the sky
Holding down those
Great mountain highs.

The skies are so empty,
There’s nothing in view
Does he dare take
the path of the few?

His voice bouncing out
through thin wispy clouds
As he talks to himself,
” not for me, those shrouds”

The shudder of the wings,
as the little plane slips
Out of place, falling fast,
no radar, no blips

He knew his day would come,
he knew he could not stop
What is meant to be done.
Hoping to land at the top

Gone now as he sits.
In the catbird seat.
Captain of the ship,
but not of the fleet.

A flyer went to the skies
To see the morning sun.”

(c)g.abbey Wednesday, Sept 4, 2013

A Collaborative Poem – The First Time I Caught Sight of You

A Cheryl’s Collab Poem

Sep 3, 2010

© g.abbey aka Deviant Artist

The first time I caught sight of you               (Just Joe)

Against the sky so sunny and blue              (Michelle K)

I knew I’d always remember you

Under a rainbow of vibrant hues                 (Sheila A)

So serene, peaceful, and beautiful were you      (Michelle K)

So difficult to just watch and stand still              (LostSoul.L.S)

As you danced under a sea of blue                      (~vivi~)

I drank in the sight of you to my fill

The days, the weeks, the months, they flew       (The Chairman)

As fast as the story winds blew.                           (Michelle K)

The bright lightening the daily finale as the curtain closed

On my happy thoughts of the most delightful you.          (sheila A)

As the lovely morne rose covered with dew,

I knew it rose to shine for you and me.                 (~vivi~)

What the seagull and the robin never knew

As we explored the vast blue sea              (Lady “Cheryl” Death)

Was that what we had was just ours to enjoy

Not shared, nor glared, not like a new toy,

Though I danced provokingly, this was no nun    (JohnLoving1963

Then we lied around just enjoying the sand and the sun.

Deliciously sweet like cherry flavored gum        (Michelle K)

Yet somehow it strangely seems not magical   (Desert Rose)

But all proven, matter of factual.                (Wintah)

As natural as the soaring of the seagull’s.

©g.abbey Sep 3, 2010 (aka Deviant Artist)

A Cheryl’s Collab

Things That Make Me Me ~ abbey

Things That Make Me Me

Writing and art photos & computers
These are the things that make me me

I have found that certain requirements
Must be met for me to be able to see

What I can do or think or produce , good or bad.
It’s quiet time and the lack of rules that

Keep me sane, creative and mentally churning away
Using my sense of humor like wearing my hat each day.

It requires a sliver of time. a quiet one
Sometimes not long but no one to interfere

A sliver of time into which I can slip where I can’t be found
Right until there are no more words to hear

Paint, inhaling that wonderful smell of turpentine and oil
Pffft, on that soothsayers who live in chemical warfare

Worrying about masks and paint smears
they drive me crazy I swear

Listening to music makes me want to dance
Or the ballads I love that make me cry

Trying to remember to live
Trying not to die.

(c) g.abbey 2013

T. S. ELiot

“Thomas Stearns Eliot OM (26 September 1888 – 4 January 1965) was an essayist, publisher, playwright, literary and social critic and “one of the twentieth century’s major poets.”[1] Born in St. Louis, Missouri in the United States, he moved to the United Kingdom in 1914 (at age 25) and was naturalised as a British subject in 1927 at age 39.”


One of his poems is my favorite. It is very long, so I’ll only post the part of it that i like so very much. Like the photo, somethings mean so very much more than they appear to on the face of what you see. This is one of them:


“Let us go then you and I,

When the evening is spread out against the sky

Like a patient etherized upon a table;

Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,

The muttering retreats

Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels

And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:

Streets that follow like a tedious argument

Of insidious intent

To lead you to an overwhelming question…

Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”

Let us go and make our visit.

In the room the women come and go

Talking of Michelangelo….”

I Close My Eyes

I close my eyes  & see your face
As you dance to the music of the band
You look so happy, so full of life-
This magic moment in time

Shall be etched on my mind
Unfaded by life, untarnished by light
I close my eyes & see your face
As you gaze down now into my eyes

Still happy, still full of life –
Yet different now – content somehow
Eyes of love, eyes of caring
Pierce through my fear, embrace my my heart

I close my eyes and see your face
Bathed in the moonlight – at peace.
Quiet now, life’s ebb winds down
Tender hands now still

Vulnerable, trusting, heart exposed
A simple, honest  man.

© g.abbey circa 90’s

This magic moment...
This magic moment… (Photo credit: Ametx

Central Park


What would life be like

If I lived in the city?

Self important and refined?

Or the object of Pity?

The outcome of life is not

always the fault

of the one who escapes

as they are closing that vault

A certain amount of

our life is determined

by the whims of the gods

who laugh as they are churning

©g.abbey NYC Series

Thank you to those kind people who liked this entry. I appreciate each and every one.

This poem has been set to a video and can be found at youtube, and I will embed it here for you to see. Enjoy.

Two Dead Boys


One bright day in the middle of the night,
Two dead boys got up to fight,
Back to back they faced each other,
Drew their swords and shot each other,

One was blind and the other couldn’t, see
So they chose a dummy for a referee.
A blind man went to see fair play,
A dumb man went to shout “hooray!”

A paralyzed donkey passing by,
Kicked the blind man in the eye,
Knocked him through a nine inch wall,
Into a dry ditch and drowned them all,

A deaf policeman heard the noise,
And came to arrest the two dead boys,
If you don’t believe this story’s true,
Ask the blind man he saw it too!
Ladies and jelly spoons, hobos and tramps,
Cross-eyed mosquitoes and bow-legged ants,
I stand before you to sit behind you
To tell you something I know nothing about.

Next Thursday, which is Good Friday,
There’s a Mother’s Day meeting for fathers only.
Wear your best clothes if you haven’t any.
Please come if you can’t; if you can, stay at home.

Admission is free, pay at the door.
Pull up a chair and sit on the floor.
It makes no difference where you sit,
The man in the gallery’s sure to spit.

The show is over, but before you go,
Let me tell you a story I don’t really know.

* original author unknown, several versions, folktale
In one form or another the modern version of Two Dead Boys, including many of the orphan pieces found below, has been collected from children in playgrounds since the middle of the 19th century. A detailed study with examples collected throughout the British Isles since the turn of the 20th century can be found in Iona and Peter Opie’s The Lore and Language of Schoolchildren [1959, Oxford. Oxford University Press, pp. 24-29].

Answer to Question:

^ Haunting in Connecticut