Daddy I Remember…

by Lucy Furr

Today with oxygen and walker tight in hand,

we shuffle past the window, ‘round the kitchen,

down the hall.

With loving hands I brace your weakened frame

so you won’t fall.

But, Daddy, I remember when

you ran with healthy lungs and legs, holding me on wobbly bike,

as I progressed from tiny trike.

Today I brush your teeth

and shave your sagging scruffy neck.

But, Daddy, I remember when

I’d snuggle close. You’d tease and hold me tight,

then tickle me with whiskers as squeals of fun met morning light.

Today I comb your grey, sparse, wiry hair.

But, Daddy, I remember when

I climbed on cushions piled high to reach your black and curly hair.

You’d lay back and close your eyes and let me try a few new fashions.

With warm water in a cup, pink curlers, ribbons, barrettes and bobby pins,

I’d build creative up-do’s; then hold a mirror for you to see and ask,

“Daddy, what do you think?”

With water dripping down your neck, you’d respond with complimentary words,

and I’d beam and blush so gullibly.

Today I yearn to talk with you of vicissitudes of life.

Once I thought I knew it all. Not so. There’s much for me to learn.

But talking is a strain.

You’d rather use that perfunctory wave of hand than form a word or two.

But, Daddy, I remember when

you’d reply to all my silly questions of what and how and why.

Brilliant explanations to the miracles of life.

Today, I tuck you into bed, not knowing if in the morn’ you’ll wake.

Because you hate the cold night chill, I pull covers up around your chin,

then gently kiss you on your cheek and say,

“I love you Daddy. I hope you know I do.”

You answer back with just one, simple, acknowledging word,


But, Daddy, I remember when

you’d shape your lips into that crooked grin and say…

“I love you too.”



I’m not what people would call a groupie. I love film but when I recommend a favorite one to my friends or family and they ask me who starred in it, I can rarely remember the names of any  of the actors or actresses.

I listen to all kinds of music but can’t tell you the names of my favorite songs, the words to any songs, or who sings them.

But, suddenly, I’m embracing one comedian/musician with groupie-esque zeal: Tim Minchin. I deem him a genius equal to Einstein and Beethoven. His songs, his insights, his humor, his performances are utterly brilliant. He’s the only famous person that could, potentially, make me go weak in the knees if I ever got a chance to meet him in person.

I’m posting this link to my blog so I can find it easily when I want to enjoy a Minchin-gasm.




Missionary Bunnies Visit Cupidland

My dating profile identifies me as an atheist. Fearing religionists will slam me for my non-belief, or worse, attempt to woo me away from Hell’s Afterlife party, I wrote the following warning: Please do not message me with your testimony of the Easter Bunny. I gave him up too.

Today, this message arrived in my inbox:

Sorry for the short message but I’m getting on a flight in a moment. Wow, I thought your profile was hilarious and then I read your photo captions–an absolute laugh out loud. In fact, people are looking at me for doing just that.

I am saddened that you have not excepted the truth of the Easter Bunny into your life. Perhaps you are unfamiliar with our prophet who had received the Golden Eggs(tm) and the eleven cronies who, while never actually seeing them, swear that they did? No? Not a problem – We will have some college kids at your door tomorrow to explain it in detail. Is it okay if they park their bikes in your driveway?

Yeah, looks like I gambled it all on derivative LDS humor. 🙂

Anyhow, have a good day and hope to talk to you again.


51 minutes ago

Me: You gambled well, my friend. Not many responses to my profile elicit a laugh, or even a chuckle, from me. Well done! I smiled, giggled, AND laughed.

With Easter around the corner, I’d be interested in having cute bunnies deliver golden eggs to my door. Hell, they can even park their bikes on my lawn as long as their eggs are solid gold. But if they pop out foil wrapped bullshit, I’ll personally flatten their bikes with my Land Rover in a seething, homicidal rage. 😉

Nice to meet you, D_.

Lucy Furr


I think D_ and I are off to a great start. I’m overlooking his incorrect usage of the word, “excepted.” He was, after all, boarding a plain. 😉

Everything that is good is of God?

Dear Readers,

Yesterday, a friend wrote this post and I found it to be so insightful and beautifully written that I requested permission to publish it on my blog. She expresses perfectly what is also in my heart. Thank you, Karrin Falk, for writing this and for granting me permission to share it here. Note: The question mark was added to the title by me.

Everything that is good is of God?

by Karrin Falk

“Everything that is good is of God.” —

Believers tote this phrase with such reverence. They sing His praises and obfuscate with gratitude.

“God is great.”
“God is good.”
“Our God is an awesome God.”

They look at all the good wonderful things around them and say, “that’s a sign of God’s love.” They shake their heads at non-believers and cannot fathom how we don’t see all the good God does in our lives.

“Everything that is good is of God.” —

When I hear this phrase, you know what I see? Control.

God: That air you’re breathing? That’s me. Thank me.
That delicious pie you just ate? That’s me. Thank me.
Those green lights that meant you got to work on time? That’s me. Thank me.
That raise you were given last week? That’s me. Thank me.
That “A” you made on your last test? That’s me. Thank me.
The winter coat someone aononymously gifted you? That’s me. Thank me.

Even the things WE do out of the kindness of our own hearts, that’s God. Thank God.

But all the bad things in the world? That’s Satan…. and YOU. You are sinners. You are unholy. You are dirt and trash and scum unworthy of my presence. You are less than the animals who cannot reason, because they obey without question whereas you think for yourself and you choose to do things that aren’t good.

If you want to be happy and good and holy and pure, the ONLY way you can become worthy enough to see me again is to accept my son’s sacrifice for you. Accept the payment He’s made to empty your ledger of guilt – guilt for all the bad you’ve done just by nature of being human and imperfect, just by exercising your free will without full comprehension of the consequences.

“Everything that is good is of God.” —

I see this phrase and I see a lack of self-esteem. I see depression. I see anguish. I see incessant perfectionism. I see individuals so determined to rid themselves of their filth they’ll do anything, but no matter how hard they try they always fall short.

You call that God? I call that sickening.

It is not “good” for a single, incomprehensible, all-knowing, invisible deity to be the source of all that is kindness, love, generosity, etc. To give Him credit for all that is good and ourselves credit for all that is bad is demoralizing, demeaning, and cruel.

If anyone were in a relationship like this with another human being, we would consider that “good” individual despicable and abusive. It is a LIE to say that goodness does not come from within ourselves. It is a LIE to say that we are, by our very nature, filthy. It is a LIE to say that we can never measure up or earn any good rewards on our own merit.

Those lies are used to manipulate and control, and people don’t even realize the damage their doing to their own psyche by simply uttering the phrase:

“Everything that is good is of God.”

Fuck You, Dickhead

Disclaimer: This is based on a true story. Certain names and details have been changed.

Are we back in kindergarten? Seriously, Richard—Dick…head—Franco, you don’t like poetry? Fuck you!

Those are the words I should’ve voiced last night when you said, “Stop with all the poetry on your blog.” But I can’t always get to the root of my real feelings until hours, sometimes days, later.

Not everyone likes poetry. I get that. You probably got turned off to poetry after reading Walt Whitman back in junior high. There’s no telling how many budding poets fucking Whitman will underrun. If I was his English teacher, I’d have taken a great big red marker to his papers…or just fucked flunked him.

Not all poetry is created equal. Some poetry gives me poemgasms and others make me want shoot the poet for raping his lexicon. Poetry is personal. What speaks to me, may not speak to you. But to take the whole genre of poetry and toss it in the trash is asinine, you smartass swine. (Ha! Proof that rhyme makes lines sublime!) It’s like eating liver as a child and then refusing to eat steak because you hate beef.

What you don’t understand, Dickhead, is that poetry saved my life. Yeah, I know that sounds melodramatic so I’ll explain. When I was married to a Fuckiopath, I adhered to a shitload of unwritten fuckcrazy rules. Here are just a few:

  • Keep Fuckiopath Happy.
  • Don’t say or do anything to upset Fuckiopath.
  • When Fuckiopath hurts me, don’t cry. Tears make him, “uncomfortable” e.g. unhappy.

So I screamed inside my head—a lot. But, after thirty years of holding in the tears, eventually, I sprung a leak and poems seeped out. Poetry gave pain a voice. And, just as a small trickle of water soon becomes a stream and the stream a torrent and the torrent a flood sweeping all before it, my words tore our so-called perfect pretty Mormon family-life asunder—setting me free from that suicidal monster.

In this year’s super bowl ads, this public service announcement demonstrates how dangerous it is for a victim to speak. Please take a moment to watch this 30 second ad. (

The take away is: “When it’s hard to talk, it’s up to us to listen.”

That’s right, Dickhead, even if my words come out in rhyme…or gibberish, listen up. They have deeper meaning than kindergarten small-minds comprehend. I’m grateful that you’re reading my blog. Truly, I’m honored. I’m merely asking you to take a moment, use your big boy brain—the brain you use to engineer architectural masterpieces, speak three languages fluently, and waltz with world-class grace—to hear me…savor my beauty—my work of art.

Yes, I write poems. I’d say I wrote this one just for you but I didn’t. It trickled out four years ago as I began to understand the complexities and value of poetry. But, don’t worry, I’m writing a poem just for you. It’s called, Fuck You, Dickhead.

Poems Right Me

by Lucy Furr

I write poems

sudoku poems

swapping words

back to front, front to back,

up, down



more like Rubik’s poems

multi-dimensional in purpose and meaning

a playground for my prisoned thoughts

respite for my battered soul

a sunny afternoon spent tête-à-tête with great minds

poets, dead and living

a melancholy waltz in God’s embrace

words lines rhymes


buried secrets

twisted reality

knots unwinding

mysteries revealed

truth spins round and round

I am right

poems I write

poems right me

Oh, and by the way, Richard. Thanks for holding me last night in that awkward moment when I cried on the dancefloor—out in front of everyone. You knew it was cathartic and patiently let the tears flow uninhibited. That took nerves of steel, especially for an engineer, to not step in and fix the leak. Your gentle act was…well…poetic. And, thanks for encouraging me to write this scathing post for you. That took courage, too. You are, indeed, a dear friend. Thank you. (((Hugs)))

Two Sides to Every Story?

Two sides to every story

Two sides to every coin

But what about the slivered edge

Circling round the dime?

Great minds may tout ability

To see both heads and tails

Then blindly shun or disregard

The slender, reeded side.

Could we through pious thinking

Naively reign supreme

Be quick to point a finger

Bear views robust in pride?

Three sides to every story

Three sides to every coin

Truth is round about us

Wise men seek this other side.

Note: When I wrote this poem, I was struggling with my belief in Mormonism. I didn’t know it at the time but I was beginning to see glimpses of truth: that my religion wasn’t what I thought it was. That I’d been lied to. I’d been duped.

Blessed Silence

Twenty-six years ago…

Painful questions stab me

with harsh rapidity.

He off-loads priesthood burdens

for me, his wife, to solve.

What are we going to do?

How will we pay the bills?

Where will we live?

How will we feed the kids?

Oh, he suffers so!

But I have no answers now.

I’ve just given birth

less than a day ago.

He probes again,

“What are we going to do?

How will we pay the bills?

Where will we live?

How will we feed the kids?”

No money for motel,

he pulls to side of road.

We sleep in small, cramped car

beneath the chilly stars.

In the pitch-black cloak of night,

I nurse my newborn babe,

Hush our whimpering toddler,

change diapers,

yearn for dawning rays of day.

He wakes and probes again:

“What are we going to do?

How will we pay the bills?

Where will we live?

How will we feed the kids?”

I clean my bloody mess

in Chevron’s Women’s Room.

Find nourishment for breakfast

in chocolate doughnut holes.

Setting off we drive.

Again he probes:

“What are we going to do?

How will we pay the bills?

Where will we live?

How will we feed the kids?”

Heart pounding,

I scream inside my head

wishing I could cry,

but simply say instead,


Pull over.

I need to get out NOW.”

Without a word,

I close the door behind me,

stride across the dry cracked soil

past a lonely cactus,

beyond the rolling tumbleweeds

…away from him.

I stand hand in hand with desolation,

…my only friend.

And I don’t want to hear

a baby cry,

my husband’s voice,

a bird chirp,

worms crawl by,

clouds float through the sky.

Not even…

God’s sweet whisper nigh.

Just…Blessed Silence.

I gather in the desert hush,

inhale the sun-warmed wind.

Then turn and amble back,

descend into my bucket seat.

And he does not probe again

…well…at least for now…

“What are we going to do?

How will we pay the bills?

Where will we live?

How will we feed the kids?”