Children's Poem: Windows in Heaven

Windows in Heaven ...

Years ago, a woman contacted me through email. She told me her husband had recently passed away and her five-year-old son was having a difficult time accepting his father's death.

The boy couldn't understand why his daddy would go away without saying good-bye. She said he even wondered if he had done something wrong.

She told me she had been to my website and searched for something, anything, that had to do with a father dying, but she could find nothing.

I told the woman I was sorry, but I didn't have any poems that addressed the issue, but I would try and write one for her.

So, from a child's point of view:

Windows in Heaven

I know sometimes that clouds bring rain,
in wintertime it's snow,
and spring is good because it makes
the pretty flowers grow.

I know that God is everywhere
and angels all have wings,
that dogs can't talk and bunnies hop
I know so many things.

But why do daddies go away?
It makes kids and mommies sad.
Are there windows up in heaven?
Did I do something bad?

Mommy said it's not like that.
Children all are good.
Sometimes daddies just can't stay,
even though we wish they could.

She said Daddy loved me most of all,
not to think he didn't care,
... and he sees me from the windows.
God just needs him more up there.



[From "Barking Spiders (and Other Such Stuff)" by CJ Heck] 

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“A writer soon learns that easy to read is hard to write.” ~CJ Heck

The Circle of Life

The Circle of Life

I was having my coffee this morning and thinking about my grandchildren.  I have eleven now, from sixteen all the way down to seven months.

I find it fascinating, how children go through so many age-specific stages, beginning with the "terrible twos". Then, from about four on, everything in their world is either black, or white. 

There is no grey area, where things can fall somewhere in between. I'm not sure when the grey area develops, only that somewhere along the road to growing up, it always does.

To a child, there is only right or wrong, good or bad, funny or not funny, nice or not nice, and the kids at school are either friends, or bullies. 

A bad guy is ... a BAD guy, and a bad guy does things that are wrong. Dad is a good guy, because he does things that are right. A mom is another good guy, and so are policemen, mail carriers, doctors, and that nice Mrs. Johnson next door, because she bakes cookies and shares them.

Their view of what's funny is unique, too.  Being teased is not funny, if they feel they are being picked on.  But when someone says 'fart', or 'butt', that is funny.  Even something we adults consider not at all funny, can be very funny to a child -- like, blowing up a marshmallow in the microwave.  You'll know who did it, because the child will be laughing [or trying not to].

Nothing ever smells, or tastes, 'okay' to a child. Again, there's no grey area.  Gasoline and flowers smell good, and feet and swiss cheese smell bad. Brussel sprouts and black jelly beans are 'yukky', but a piece of chocolate cake? As my nephew used to say, "I could make a whole meal outta that."

I think pretending is what comes, just before the grey area begins.  Then life just naturally expands beyond the black and white. 

We learn our parents aren't perfect, teachers don't have all the answers, and our friend will be hurt if we tell him his feet stink. 

Our tastes change, the little mysteries of life are solved, and we find a lot of our questions can be answered by an encyclopedia, or our friends.   

As our view of the world further expands, we shed our childhood innocence. We pretend less and less and enter into the maturity of the grey area, where we stay through all our adult years. 

I was thinking, too, when you get to be my age, everything suddenly turns around.  Ironically, things seem to be heading back to black and white and pretending again.  

Being old and getting wrinkles is bad.  Life, love, children and grandchildren are all good.  And pretending?  Well, I'm pretending I'm going to win the lottery ...



“A writer soon learns that easy to read is hard to write.” ~CJ Heck

Cranky Old Man

Old Man - Young Soul

This was written by an old man living in a nursing home.  It was found among his personal things by the staff, after he had passed away.

The next time you meet an older person, think about the still young soul that still lives down inside of them.

The best and most beautiful things of this world can't be seen or touched. They must be felt by the heart.

Cranky Old Man

[Author Unknown]

What do you see, nurses? What do you see?

What are you thinking when you're looking at me?

A cranky old man, not very wise,

uncertain of habit, with faraway eyes,

who dribbles his food and makes no reply?

When you say in a loud voice, "I do wish you'd try!

Who seems not to notice the things that you do,

and forever is losing a sock or a shoe?

Who, resisting or not, lets you do as you will,

with bathing and feeding.  The long day to fill?

Is that what you're thinking?  Is that what you see?

Then open your eyes, nurse, you're not looking at me.

I'll tell you who I am, as I sit here so still,

as I do at your bidding, as I eat at your will.

I'm a small child of ten, with a father and mother,

brothers and sisters, who love one another;

a young boy of sixteen with wings on his feet

dreaming that soon now a lover he'll meet.

A groom soon at twenty, my heart gives a leap.

Remembering, the vows that I promised to keep.

At twenty-five, now, I have young of my own,

who need me to guide and a secure happy home.

A man of thirty, my young now grown fast,

bound to each other with ties that should last.

At forty, my young sons have grown and are gone,

with my woman beside me to see I don't mourn.

At fifty, once more, babies play 'round my knee,

again, we know children, my loved one and me.

Dark days are upon me.  My wife is now dead.

I look at the future and I shudder with dread.

For my young are all rearing young of their own.

and I think of the years and the love that I've known.

I'm now an old man and nature is cruel.

It's jest to make old age look like a fool.

The body, it crumbles, grace and vigor, depart.

There is now a stone where I once had a heart.

But inside this old carcass. a young man still dwells,

And now and again my battered heart swells

I remember the joys, I remember the pain,

and I'm loving and living life over again.

I think of the years, all too few, gone too fast,

and accept the stark fact that nothing can last.

So open your eyes, people, open and see

I'm not a cranky old man.

Look closer.  See ME.

“A writer soon learns that easy to read is hard to write.” ~CJ Heck

Melissa Venema: Il Silenzio

In Honor of Memorial Day 2014

“A writer soon learns that easy to read is hard to write.” ~CJ Heck

Freedom is Not Free

Eagle Bowing in Reverence

Freedom Is Not Free

by Kelly Strong

I watched the flag pass by one day.

It fluttered in the breeze.

A young Marine saluted it,

and then he stood at ease.

I looked at him in uniform

So young, so tall, so proud,

With hair cut square and eyes alert,

He'd stand out in any crowd.

I thought how many men like him

Had fallen through the years.

How many died on foreign soil?

How many mothers' tears?

How many pilots' planes shot down?

How many died at sea?

How many foxholes were soldiers' graves?

No, freedom isn't free.

I heard the sound of TAPS one night,

When everything was still

I listened to the bugler play

And felt a sudden chill.

I wondered just how many times

That TAPS had meant "Amen,"

When a flag had draped a coffin

Of a brother or a friend.

I thought of all the children,

Of the mothers and the wives,

Of fathers, sons and husbands

With interrupted lives.

I thought about a graveyard

At the bottom of the sea

Of unmarked graves in Arlington.

No ... freedom isn't free.

About The Author

This poem is important to Kelly Strong because he wrote it as a high school senior (JROTC cadet) at Homestead High, Homestead, FL. in 1981. It is a tribute to his father, a career marine who served two tours in Vietnam.

Kelly is now an active duty Coast Guard pilot living in Mobile and serving at the US Coast Guard Aviation Training Center. He has three kids and a great wife, Najwa, who just completed work at the Miami VA clinic as a physical therapist.

“A writer soon learns that easy to read is hard to write.” ~CJ Heck

Swinging Song

Baby in a Swing

When my grandchildren were tiny, I had the cutest baby swing. It was molded plastic and it had a safety bar across the front to hold them in. 

I hung my swing inside a screened-in porch, so mosquitoes wouldn't be a nuisance if the baby fell asleep --like they usually did.

One afternoon as I was swinging a grandson, I started to hum to the gentle motion of the swing.  He started to nod and as the motion of the swing slowed, I also adjusted my humming softer and slower to keep with the motion of the swing.

Later, I added words to the melody and what resulted is the following song.   I miss those days ...

Listen to Swinging Song

Swinging Song

Bye oh bye up, 

bye oh bye down. 

bye oh bye feet, 

way off the ground.

Swing-ing, swing-ing, 

I love swing-ing. 

Bye oh bye high, 

bye oh bye low. 

Bye oh bye faster, 

look at me go. 

Swing-ing, swing-ing, 

I love swing-ing. 

Bye oh bye fly-ing 

up to the sky. 

Bye oh bye push me 

higher than high. 

Swing-ing, swing-ing, 

I love swing-ing. 

Bye oh bye eyes 

are closing now 

bye oh bye head 

is nodding down 

Swing-ing, swing-ing, 

I love swing-ing. 

(whispering as  swing slows down)

Bye oh bye gent-ly, 

bye oh bye slow. 

Bye oh bye, sh-h-h-h-h . . . 

to    sleep    I    go. 

Swing-ing, swing-ing, 

I 

love

swing-ing.

[From the Book, Me Too! Preschool Poetry, by CJ Heck]

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“A writer soon learns that easy to read is hard to write.” ~CJ Heck

Daddy's Boots

Daddy's Boots 

Daddy left his boots for me 

and here I have to stay, 

'cause daddy is a soldier. 

I'm in charge while he's away. 

In daddy's boots, I can pretend

that now I am the man 

who does the things that daddy does 

as only daddy can. 

I help with little brother, 

I help with folding clothes, 

I help to set the table, 

and I hope daddy knows

that every day I wear his boots 

so I'll feel close to him 

and I try and keep mom happy, 

till he comes home again. 

I know that he's protecting us, 

that's what soldiers do, 

but his boots are way too big for me, 

and my job being him is, too. 

When is daddy coming home? 

I miss him all the time. 

 Mom said daddy's proud of me 

... and his boots fit me just fine.

[From CJ's Book, Barking Spiders 2]

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“A writer soon learns that easy to read is hard to write.” ~CJ Heck

The History of the Poppy for Memorial Day

Poppy:  The Flower of Remembrance 

In Flanders Fields 
by John McCrae 

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly.
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow
Loved, and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.


This poem was written by World War I Colonel John McCrae, a surgeon with Canada's First Brigade Artillery. It expressed McCrae's grief over the "row on row" of graves of soldiers who had died on Flanders' battlefields, located in a region of western Belgium and northern France. The poem presented a striking image of the bright red flowers blooming among the rows of white crosses and became a rallying cry to all who fought in the First World War. The first printed version of it reportedly was in December 1915, in the British magazine Punch.

McCrae's poem had a huge impact on two women, Anna E. Guerin of France and Georgia native Moina Michael. Both worked hard to initiate the sale of artificial poppies to help orphans and others left destitute by the war. By the time Guerin established the first sale in the U.S., in 1920 with the help of The American Legion, the poppy was well known in the allied countries — America, Britain, France, Canada, Australia and New Zealand — as the "Flower of Remembrance." Proceeds from that first sale went to the American and French Children's League.

Guerin had difficulty with the distribution of the poppies in early 1922 and sought out Michael for help. Michael had started a smaller-scaled Poppy Day during a YMCA conference she was attending in New York and wanted to use the poppies as a symbol of remembrance of the war. Guerin, called the "Poppy Lady of France" in her homeland, and Michael, later dubbed "The Poppy Princess" by the Georgia legislature, went to the Veterans of Foreign Wars (VFW) for help. Following its first nationwide distribution of poppies, the VFW adopted the poppy as its official memorial flower in 1922.

However, a shortage of poppies from French manufacturers led to the idea of using unemployed and disabled veterans to produce the artificial flowers. In 1924, a poppy factory was built in Pittsburgh, Pa., providing a reliable source of poppies and a practical means of assistance to veterans. Today, veterans at VA medical facilities and veterans homes help assemble the poppies, which are distributed by veterans service organizations throughout the country.

Donations received in return for these artificial poppies have helped countless veterans and their widows, widowers and orphans over the years. The poppy itself continues to serve as a perpetual tribute to those who have given their lives for the nation's freedom.




“A writer soon learns that easy to read is hard to write.” ~CJ Heck