Tag Archives: short stories

Uncle Filbert

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I once had an uncle Filbert
part of the family
He loved to bounce us children
upon his bony knee.

He’d rub his chin against our necks
to give us a beard burn.
We’d run and hide to get away
let someone take our turn.

We all thought it was innocent
though never thought it fun.
Until our Daddy caught him and
then shot him with his gun.

So I never cared for filberts
preferred a hazelnut.
Cause  see my Uncle Filbert had
thought me his favorite.

cheryl davis miller 10/15/16


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Whispering Song Sings,


                Whispering Song Sings

In the valley of the Redbud,where two mountains kiss,
From the crevasse in the rock, flows a spring,
There’s a legend around here, concerning the place,
That is called, Whispering Song Sings,

They say in these parts, lived a maiden,
Of a beauty both of face, and of heart,
She lived in a time, that was savage and raw,
Yet of neither, did she take any part,

Some called her a ‘ghost child’, an angel we’d say,
She was different, as she passed thru this life,
Her voice carried joy, her touch carried healing,
Her presence settled, issue’s of strife,

As white settlers, entered the valley,
They bore gifts, to entice the ‘red men’,
They also bore some kinds of, illness,
That caused death, to be carried on the wind,

In the camp, where Whispering Song dwelt,
Sickness came, with a vengeance indeed,
As the healer she went, from tent to tent,
To tend  her people, in their dire need,

With spring, came a whisper of hope to the camp,
 Seemed fewer people, fell ill each day,
They hoped the Great Spirit, had heard them,
And had driven, the bad spirit away,

Just, as the last soul was tended,
Whispering Song’s skin, turned ashen grey,
The camp began mourning, their healer,
For she died, by the end of the day,

From the moment, her spirit moved homeward,
It seemed joy, had gone with her voice,
Til they journeyed, to the valley of the Redbud,
There they found a sweet reason, to rejoice,

As the women bent,  gathering water,
From the rock, it seemed they heard a sound,
In the sway of the Redbuds, and gurgling spring,
The presence of Whispering Song, was found,

Just as in life, she had tended to them,
A cool drink, and the touch of her hand,
Now where the sweet water, poured out for them,
Whispering Song, seemed to dwell on that land,

In the blossoms, was the fragrance of Whispering Song,
The  ferns waved on the wind, like her hair,
Her presence, breathed hope back into their breast,
They heard Whispering Song , sing there,

Many people swore, they could see her,
Generations, passed the legend along,
As they’d pass, through the valley of the Redbud,
They would look , for Whispering Song.


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‘Roots’ there are no Strangers,


Depending on the Kindness of Strangers,

I once watched a lady, struggle with her groceries,
She could not see the curb, nor the danger,
I reached out to help her, she drew away saying,
‘ I’m not depending, on the kindness of strangers ‘,

Some call it ‘Ego’, others call it ‘Pride’,
but the moral of the story, stays the same,
A helping hand’s a helping hand, no matter who’s it is,
They’re only ‘strangers’, til you learn their name,

I saw a family grieving, having lost their loved one,
Now at the ‘mercy’, of the funeral arrangers,
Folks collected money, but they turned it down saying,
‘ We’re not depending, on the kindness of strangers,’

Some call it ‘Ego’, others call it ‘Pride’,
but the moral of the story, stays the same,
A helping hand’s a helping hand, no matter who’s it is,
They’re only ‘strangers’, til you learn their name,

I saw a poor soul sitting, by the side of the road,
In her hand she held a cup, out to strangers,
Etched into her face, was misery, and yet a grace,
Completely at the mercy, of strangers,

I asked her ‘ Tell me madame, how you keep your sanity,
while depending on the kindness, of strangers ‘,
She smiled up and answered, ‘ It’s never seemed to me,
that in the Family of God, there’s any strangers ‘.


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