She is Somebody's Daughter

© Carole Stolz 27.2.2013 / 18.9.13

She is somebody's daughter and somebody's friend.

They're looking right now, but just finding dead ends.

They've searched all guest houses, the planes and the ferries,

they've combed through the papers and obituaries.

She seems vanished from earth at just 14 years old

- ran out of the house and into the cold.

Despairing, heart wrenching, they'll look high and low,

until they are certain, they just have to know.

But they're looking in vain, she's not gone 'cos of hate

or her own volition, - no, they're just too late.

For within a few hours, she fell into wrong hands

- they whisked her away to some foreign lands.

She's now buried alive in a "house of pleasure",

the stifling demands, rapings daily at leisure.

Each thrust like a knife cutting her to the core

and she gags on her fear. She can't take any more

The light it is dimming, she's being snuffed out

- too weary to run or resist or to shout.

So we must be their voices, these silent ladies

and reach out, giving hope of escape from their Hades.

They cannot scream or call out in the night,

so we are the ones who must put up a fight.

For in another life, in another land

It might have been you kidnapped by this band.

We must argue and chasten, must order and plea,

we must cry stomp and shout - "Hey, listen to me"

Convicting our men, we must mess with their heads,

convincing it's wrong, what they do in the beds

of innocent creatures, created for joy.

For she's somebody's daughter and not just a toy!

The Slavetrader's Demise

Carole Stolz: 09.01.2013

I won't accept, I can't endure

the hopelessness, the greed for more

whore-like children hawked off as slaves

to spineless men, satisfying their craves.

Why are we silent, turning away

from sights so despicable, where grown men pay

to have sex with a hostage, perverse and extreme

- we shut off our ears, willing her not to scream.

Why are your hands not raised in fury?

Where are the defendants to plead with the jury?

Where are your feet  marching in protest,

demonstrating your hatred for a thing so grotesque?

As they've been castrated, stripped of all rights

- deaf, dumb and blind are our toys of the nights,

then must we be their voices, their hands feet and eyes.

Please join us in causing the slavetrader's demise.

New Beginnings

Carole Stolz

22.01.2012

She saw the smoke, 

unseeing, 

like a bleeding internally,
eternally, blindingly real.

She steeled herself for the heat, 

treating her wounds already,
Steadying her racing heart, pacing her martyred soul, 

…too old for this atrociuos game.

Maiming, burning, turning, reflecting, 

not selecting but consuming, 

assuming the role of the Warlord, lording it over everything in its path.

Laughing at the pain, insane in its consumption. 

Unfeeling in its searing, stripping, raping, 

leaving a gaping space,

…laced with pain and screams and scars, 

    …dead dreams.

Sunbeams casting shafts of light. 

Draughts of night, frightening in their cold, 

sold out to warmth, alive. 

Striving to shake the wake of the wave enslaving her in a sleep of horror. 

Terror never quite departed, but newly awaking, 

shaking the sleep out, 

…keeping the fears without not within.

Begining a new day, 

…a new way, 

    …starting anew. 

Parting the dark through the sound of the lark. 

Depart the hounding, blood pounding and fright; 

…enter the day dreams and maybes and light.
Worry, strife and rope 

dispersed by 

carefree life and hope.

The old is gone, 

…see, it is all new.

New beginings come with the morning. 

The storm and mourning are over. 

Never again to be. 

…Carefree. 

    …Literally.

The Maimed Soul

Carole Stolz, 30th December 2011


(After reading Mona Krueger's book "Sage was the Perfect Shadow")


I never really saw my life as blessed,
I never learned to make my blessings count .
Nor did I ever see the deaths as scarring
- a tearing at my soul without a sound.
The passing of my brother, Dad and sister
- these scars they needed cream, massage and stretch.
They should have seen the eyes and hands of experts
instead of darkness, cover up and retch.


Coping was the strategy of choosing
With work and sport might be the monster tamed.
But none of wordly accalades and glory
Can repair a heart once through bereavement maimed.
Only One can help to cope with scarring
for in our weakness He is very strong
and He can heal the scarring that's a-pulling
be it from burns or death or other wrongs.


The fat child laughed at by her "friends" and school mates,
the boy with glasses "specky-four-eyes " named,
the one who cannot write her name or read it,
as well as all the people who are lamed
The cruelty of people has no limits.
Character doesn't count in this sick land.
Many wallow in their fears and shame and sadness,
with kindness love and hope forever banned.


The girl who, raped nightly for a "pleasure",
so young when into slavery she was sold
by men in every city on this planet
- abusing children, some just 3 years old.
What scars do they have thrust upon their bodies?
Tormenting daily nightmares scar them too.
The memories and the present merge together,
their ripped minds, going crazy, bleed anew.


Mona you have shown it in by example
- one day at a time your rule of thumb.
One day trusting wholly in your Saviour
- and one more day of pain and shame and numb.
We always want control, to know what's coming;
to understand the future, what it holds.
But God wants us to trust Him without fearing
Whilst He our inner beauty newly molds.

Roger, Vienna, 15th December 2011

Carole Stolz, in Vienna 15th December 2011

Roger, you passed from us this day
- a loss so deep that all who
knew you well will carry
this scar forever. No hope for
us that you are now with
Him. Dancing, singing,
preaching, joyous. We are
miserable. Guilty in hopelessness,
we should be happy,
but we just aren't.
Should smile for you,
but we just can't.
Forgive us, for now the miss is just too big.

We can't see past our selfish
tears. Our fears of passing
casting shadows deep into
our souls. Who knows
with certainty the hope of faith
- that hoping for that final breath?
For death, brings life
and stop means start,
depart means come, well done good and...
...the rest we know, but lowering
our eyes we despise
the trite condolences and wishes.
Empty kisses.
Misses.

So what, that we held you decades here?
Nothing prepared us for the waste. The flavour
of life that you imbibed died with you,
Leaving a taste of sorrow on our tongues.

Never again will we live so
fully, because you are no
longer here amongst us.
You are departed. Our loss is great. Thank you
Roger for all you were.
For the laughter, the fun,
the wisdom , the hugs,
the ready tears. You were always
fully alive. No holding
back. No regrets.
Fully there. Fully caring.
Fully loving. Fully living.
A full lfe, that's what
you shared. That's what
you were. Life. Life
to the full.
Thank You.

The Fountain Dancer

 Carole Stolz 12.05.2011

(After watching the children play in the fountains of Warsaw)

Fountains of wetness

are watering the heavens,

rising and rising

as yeast rises bread.

Raising the hopes

of the little one dancing

to a rhythm that's tapping

inside of her head.

This is her dream world

where fear is a fantasy,

love a reality

and pain's ne'er been seen.

This is where rhythm

with water  and laughter

merge into a dance

as she taps out her dream.

When did we lose it?

The joy at small pleasures,

the forgetfulness, carelessness,

simpleness of play.

There joy is so tangible,

laughter an elixir,

hope the reality

of a single sun's ray.

Each day has its worries

enough for itself.

So I'll put fear of failure

right back on that shelf

beside worry, anxiety,

other future defeats

which rub on my heart

and all gladness deletes.

And I'll turn on the water,

slip on dancing shoes

and I'll skip to a rhythmn

that isn't the blues

and I'll dance with my Saviour

following his cues,

create with him a rainbow

of breathtaking hues

as the water and rhythmn

and exuberance fuse.

ChesterEastgate

Chester last week. This is my "home" ie where I spent the last years in the UK. A most wonderful Roman City, 2000 years old in 1985.

East Gate and the Victorian Eastgate clock                

View from "the Rows" The shops are on 2 levels, "Street level" and above them, "Row level"                                       

  

Some shops on Eastgate               

Joachim in "The Crypt" Coffee shop