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Sheeze! That Parisienne shoot-out has really touched a nerve in America which has apparently been "jonzin" for a new tragedy to revitalize the 9/11 crying binge it's been on for the last 14 years. What happened is Paris was terrible to be sure, but all mass murders are tragic and in comparison to the recent acts of terrorism in Nigeria, 129 fatal casualties ain't that awesome. Chiraq has accumulated a better record than that in one month. Ah, but French Lives Matter! What's also interesting is how a petulant America has so magnanimously forgiven a country with which it has been on bad terms since the French opposed the war in Iraq. How quickly we forget. So incensed was this country with France's reluctance to become an ally that there were calls to outlaw everything Gallic, most notably the urging to rename "French" fries "Freedom" fries. Indeed, for having the good sense to consider a war with Iraq ill-advised, the sneering, aloof French became the object of America's ridicule and scorn. With a common foe, however, and the perilous threat it represents, standing in solidarity with France now does makes sense. However, I find the slavish displays and demonstrations sweeping the nation to be a bizarre overkill. French flags and Eiffel Tower replicas are embellishing objects and images all over the country and the Internet. Moments of silence at athletic events, flags flying at half mast, TV newscasters and hosts all a-quiver in their expressions of sympathy. I couldn't help but snicker at a sound bite of a blubbering Madonna appearing on stage after a concert, bemoaning this disaster, her 57 year old body tucked into a skimpy outfit replete with leather boots and fish net stockings, All that was missing was an Oscar to clutch, - won for the best performance by an over-the-hill opportunist eager for the spotlight. I also couldn't help wondering if President Obama would rate all this hysteria should he meet with a... bad fate. Would Saturday Night Live open its show with Keenan Thompson lamenting this awful occasion by speaking in his best Ebonic accent like a SNL cast member did when expressing the show's condolences in French?? My take on this orgy of sorrow is that America's collective consciousness needs a catharsis from time to time, and has never met a flower-strewn, candle-light vigil it didn't like. Meanwhile, the only thing desperate Syrian refugees are inspiring in America's bleeding heart is its other compulsion to suspiciously dismiss any religion other than Christianity. Lord, have mercy. Yet, what else can be expected? The world is in turmoil and this country is on edge, worried about the good guys defeating the bad ones. But, not to worry. God is on our side, - unless, of course, he morphs into Allah. . .

Dig that!

Last Mother's Day, my older son, Darryl Perry sent this to me. I don't think that he intended it to be poetic so much. Whatever the case, it was and is music to me every time I read it. I was once a talented seamstress and designer. I don't sew anymore, I traded my needles in for a pen, pencil, and paintbrush. Many years ago, I used my sewing to support my babies and myself as best as I could. You never know what your children see in you when you are giving all that you have to provide for them. As a single mom, I loved my babies more than life and Darryl's gift of words to me is more precious than gold. I hope that you find inspiration in his words. He is a gifted writer and a man with a powerful heart and mind. I present to you: The Sewing Machine's Heart I can hear the sound of a sewing machine deep in the recesses of my memory. I can see the prodding needle bouncing maniacally in an insane mission to complete the next project. The sound is like the heartbeat of an Olympic runner that cannot and will not quit until the finished line is reached. That sewing machine roared and labored sometimes into the late hours of the night. It was for my sister and I, our bedtime story and our wake-up call in the morning. It didn't give us a mansion on a hill or a Rolls Royce in the driveway, but like a warm blanket, it was comfortable and reliable. The persistent movement of the machine's needle meant that no matter how empty the refrigerator was, how many sheriff's eviction notices were put on the door, or how many times we might be without a home, the sewing machine would eventually see us through. My mother, the sewing machine's heart, weaved together tight seams that held our lives together and kept us intact. In the case of poorly constructed seams, she would rip the unsightly material apart, start again and recreate until the shoddy, rushed, ill-conceived workmanship was a new invention, unrecognizable from the past mistakes that doomed it from its inception. Poorly placed hems, too high or too low, would be goldilocked into the right position. Like those hems, we too would be placed into a favorable position, which didn't always mean the perfect place, but a place that would move us forward into the best fit. The sewing machine was hope, ambition, and more importantly, tradition passed on from Grandma Liz. Lil Mama, as she was affectionately called to delineate her petite frame and separate her from her older sister, Grandma Lucy, passed to my mother the gift and skill that she would use to mark her independence and provide for her two children. Alcohol's poisonous by product inflicted grandma's hands with an uncontrollable tremor, which my momma never forgot. But when those same sick hands were guiding fabric under the sewing machine's needle, they became as steady as a flowing river and able to create the security, warmth, and confidence that clothing provides us. I was seven years old when my momma quit her job and decided to use the sewing machine to see us through the hardships of life, and I was a man in my twenties when she decided to put it away and follow her heart into other endeavors. The sewing machine however, is never far away. And my mother, who eventually earned a degree in psychology and recently authored a children's book, will always be, to me, the heart of the sewing machine that fought with needle and thread to ensure that our lives didn't fall apart at the seams. Darryl O'Mont Perry, 2015

Mentally Institutionalized or a spiritual awakening. Wow! Very powerful poem love this!!!