I have not a single thing to complain about , when it comes to my mom. The perfect example of a woman, to me she’s done no wrong. To recount my fondest memories, she was there at every one, and any time that pain arose, she would rise above. My mom never worried me, when life had worried her. She simply showed me Jesus heals, through love you’ll find the cure. She shows the world around her, that light should always glow, and the light we shine on others, is how their faith in God will grow. She keeps a perfect beat in life as the band keeps marching on, her voice in tune with melodies of the life she’s lived in song. Kindness comes from her heart, in every moment yet, Jesus Christ in woman form is what you always get. Anyone can come to her seeking great advice, and my mom will be a mom to you, good fortune to your life. Like an angel, guarding over me since the day she gave my birth. Never failing to love me like Christ our lord, even at my worst. I can only trust the Lord my God through the example of my mom, I sing praises to her every time, I praise the lord in song. So happy Mother’s Day to my one and only mom, God gave us all the best through the life shes lived in song.
Love Jacob

How beautiful are flowers
that grow from cracks in the pavement.
They yield not to man nor his invention.
Illuminated by streetlights
Glistening in a way that only comes at night
They beckon you to bask in their glow
The sweet scent of their nectar, your guide

Yes, it comes naturally
The admiration.
The desire.
You want them- 

How could you not want them?
Those flowers

Their soft petals beg to be caressed
And their stems so thin 
that it seems the wind could topple them.
Craving to be held and protected

Protected

In places of monochrome arrays.
Of stone and bars.
Of bustling feet
And the wills of self-important men.
A place of nothing but empty noise
Lay those flowers untouched by man

They alone are beautiful, 
but that is not enough. 
To admit their beauty.
To admire or desire them.

No, in a world of man
They must be yours.
Yours to pluck from the night.
Yours to do what you will
Yours
Yours 
Yours and nothing more

This is not desire or admiration or even obsession
No, it's possession.
For what is a flower if it is not plucked and held?
So you may grow drunk on their sweet aroma.
To take them with you as you go.
Your home is their home now.
  Your flower in a world of stone.

You watch as its beauty fades.
The petals begin to wither and fall away.
What's left is nothing but gray
as the color drains away.
Yet it is yours, and there is beauty in its decay.
So you keep it in its vase.
Its personal glass cage.

So it stays like that.
Far from its roots and locked away.
Till it's just another thing in your world of monochrome grays.

Now it simply must be thrown away.

Yet how beautiful are flowers
that grow from cracks in the pavement. 

Yes, they’re so beautiful
 
Aren't they?

It is as though the whole world passed a secret from mouth to ear mere seconds before I was born, and no one ever spoke of it again. Everyone knows it, or feels it, yet not a single soul is kind enough to tell me what the wind whispered to all the world twenty years ago.

I have sought some way to unearth this knowledge of myself, buried so deep, but it remains beyond my reach. For as long as I can remember, those upon whom I have bestowed my affections have turned me away. How could a child, that very emblem of innocence, stir such violent feeling? There is no reason to believe I was born incapable of blossoming. Yet the garden in which I was planted upon entering this world seems darker than a garden ought to be.

Can they smell it? Am I rotten within, and when they draw near, do they recall the sacred, forbidden words spoken before I came into this world?

And more than that: it is as though every act, every sentence, every movement of mine breeds further decay.

I was not born to dwell among the clean, the pure, the ordinary. Yet I could still bring rot upon the worst person you have ever known.

I leave a trail of putrefaction, but before it comes a prelude of chaos and ruin, felt while I am still miles away.

No one in all my life has ever known where to lay their hands upon me. They have never known what to do with me. A creature worthy of pity, and therefore tolerable, yet so loathsome that I cannot be cast aside. The merest touch could alter the entire course of your life; I could infect you.

I am left there, in some forgotten corner, until a force beyond anyone’s control removes me from the room.

The room will remain infected, but the parasite is gone.

It is part of our existence in truth one can say

That for all of us there is a last night and day

Like there is for every creature great and small

And this in any way is not a bad thing at all

Whether the death of the body is outlived by the soul of the mind

An answer to this i don't have for to find

If i told you i knew i would be telling a lie

Only know we are born into live in the world to eventually die

Like the horse or the dog or the pig or the sheep

Our appointment with death is the one we must keep

And what happens to the soul at life's bodily death

Does it die in the body with the last breath

I only can say what to me is true

For of an answer to this i do not have a clue.

Francis Duggan

It is not up to me to be anyone's judge

Or of their achievements and successes them to begrudge

But i can be of benefit to humanity even in a small way

By helping someone in need of helping today

From a tiny seed a big tree is grown

And from our every good deed our future good karma is sown

And every wrong to another that you choose to do

In a negative way will return to you

Many admirers for their kindness the good may not win

But they are helping to make the world better to live in

To those they are helping some hope they do bring

And this in itself is a wonderful thing

And for a better world to live in i only can say

That i too in this does have some part to play.

Francis Duggan