Legacy Of The Third Eye

©copyright 2004 Bonita M Quesinberry, R.C.

It all began with great grandmother,
on to mother's grandmother, but no brothers;
then on to my own mother the legacy passed;
to her a curse, certainly a great task.
And, in some ways, it moved to me and mine:
strange events and portents of a kind.

Great grandmother had sixteen little ones;
but, times were rough and plagues often won.
The wall thumped like a heartbeat behind the bed:
they ripped it out, nothing there but dread;
upon the bed, a sickly child cried.
The thumping stopped: she of three died.

Another time, a snow white dove landed on the lawn,
and there it stood until dawn;
then under the house, beneath a room it cooed.
In there was a beautiful girl a man might have wooed,
yet unconscious she lay, hardly a breath.
The dove stopped, flew away: sixteen years at death.

But the most harrowing of great grandmother's trials,
was her gorgeous brunette, full of grace and style.
So ill she became, lingering long near death;
then, a day came she seemed not to draw another breath.
They buried her, at just eighteen then;
and great grandmother prayed, enough death had been. 

So common back then, they had to move her pine box.
A year later, they lifted it from among dirt and rocks.
Something did not seem right, on the side dried blood.
Gently, they prised open the lid: horror came in a flood:
for she had been buried alive... ALIVE, and she'd awakened,
struggled to claw her way out, feeling forsakened.

Great grandmother lost no more kids;
so passed to grandmother the legacy bid.
Mother's father fell ill one day, only thirty-five,
believing grandmother that he would not die.
Grandmother's bed began to thump like a heartbeat:
a brother tore it apart, but it didn't skip a beat. 

Mother wasn't allowed to visit her Dad;
hospital rules, not because she was bad.
But, on this day, they said she could come;
so, grandmother dressed her like the sun,
bright and cheerful amidst the thumping:
stopping only to answer the phone trumping.

It was then the thumping suddenly ceased:
only five, but mother's brow creased.
She watched her mother's smile turn grim
as she laid the phone down, neat and trim.
Grandmother turned, "We won't be going, honey."
At five years old, death was not funny.

Soon, my mother's turn the legacy to claim:
strange dreams for her, each time the same;
death it would be: of family, far or near.
At twelve, it was her mother's that caused tears.
Mom often said she didn't know if it were
gift or curse, the line between such a blur.

Finally, it was my time to inherit the fame
of visions and feelings, yet not the same.
The legacy now was purified, to use for the Lord:
trying sometimes, convoluted others, never a bore.
Prophecy and interpretation the Spirit gave to me,
that the world might hear, learn and see.