Saturday, December 24, 2005

Merry Christmas

Merry Christmas

As the 25th is just a day away I would like to take the time to thank each and every one of you for being part of the magic. I hope that tomorrow brings you and your family happiness and hope for a wonderful New Year.

I hope you do not mind that I include a poem from MOM.

Dear Santa,

This is my first letter,
to anyone like you.
N' Mommy says to write;
but printing is all I do.

Her says that you're busyn'
I should sit right down,
n' explain what I'd like;
before Christmas comes around.

Mommy says that you're aware,
if I'm good or not;
So ain't no sense to remind ya
in case that you forgot.

Mommy says, "Only ask
for just one special thing.:
But I know that I'll be happy,
with anything you bring.

I know that you're not rich,
from what I'm told here.
Maybe you should find a job
where you work more days a year.

My Daddy is always telling me
when he was just a boy,
that he was very lucky
if he just got one toy.

Now you won't want me to tell
my kids that.... someday;
that you're too tired to work
n' save all your pay.

My Daddy gets some days off;
n' you will get some too.
No boss would make Santa work
when Christmas Time is Due.


Have a very merry holiday

Mystically yours,

Doc Magi

Posted by Michael G. Holt at 12:53:21 PM in Poetry (20) | Comments (0)

Sunday, June 26, 2005

The Cracked Pot (Story)

 The Cracked Pot

A water bearer in India had two large pots, each hung on the ends of a pole, which he carried across his neck. One of the pots had a crack in it, while the other pot was perfect and always delivered a full portion of water.

At the end of the long walk from the stream to the house, the cracked pot arrived only half full. For a full two years this went on daily,
With the bearer delivering only one and a half pots full of water to his house.

Of course, the perfect pot was proud of its accomplishments, perfect for the task for which it was created, but the poor cracked pot was ashamed of its own imperfection, and miserable that it was able to accomplish, only half of what it had been made to do.

After two years of what it perceived to be a bitter failure, it spoke to the water bearer one day by the stream. "I am ashamed of myself,
and I want to apologize to you. I have been able to deliver only half my load because this crack in my side causes water to leak out all the way back to your house. Because of my flaws, you have to do all of this work, and you don't get full value from your efforts," the pot said.

The water bearer said, "As we return to the master's house, I want you to notice the beautiful flowers along the path. "Do you notice that there are flowers only on your side of the path but not on the other pot's side?

That is because I have always known about your flaw. I planted flower seeds on your side of the path, and every day while we walk back from the stream, you have watered them. For two years, I have been able to pick these beautiful flowers to decorate the table. Without you being just the way you are, there would not be this beauty to grace the house."

Moral: Each of us has our own unique flaws. We are all cracked pots
but it's the cracks and flaws we each have that make our lives together so very interesting and rewarding. Take each person for what they are, and look for the good in them. There is a lot of good out there. Blessed are the flexible, for they shall not be bent out of shape.

Remember to appreciate all the different people in your life! Or as I
like to think of it, if it hadn't been for the crackpots in my life, it
would have been pretty boring and life certainly would have been much less interesting...

Thank you, all my crackpot friends . . .

Posted by Michael G. Holt at 3:12:01 PM in Poetry (20) | Comments (0)

Reading a Book


Between the covers of a book
a world can open wide
n’ let you enter briefly
to the word that lie inside.

For a chance of adventure
or information at your finger tips;
it’s a place for you to visit
while your mind makes the trips.

First you have to be able to read
to experience the joy, first hand,
to ride with the “Old Man and The Sea”
or fly with “Peter Pan.”

I admire the writers talent
as the words bounce off the page.
They bring pleasure n’ knowledge
to people of every age.

They awaken feelings of love
of hate, dread or fear;
combined with compassion,
as each chapter draws near.

They stir up hidden things
that we thought [only I could feel.]
They put them down on paper
n’ made us feel normal n’ real.

A book has two opinions
either you like it or not,
as you leaf thru the pages
till “The End” makes you stop.

The author’s choice of text
be it fiction or plain fact,
makes me often wish that I
had been the one, that said that!

Copywrite 2005 Doc Magi Productions, Inc

Posted by Michael G. Holt at 3:08:17 PM in Poetry (20) | Comments (0)

What it means to Give

What It Means To Give

A gift given in love,
means a gift with no strings.
A way of saying to the receiver,
you're my everything.
A gift of time is special,
when someone needs a hand.
It says to the receiver,
let me help if I can.

A gift can be monetary,
if given from the heart.
It says to the receiver,
I'm glad to add my part.
A gift can include prayers,
said for someone's concern.
It says to the receiver,
this time it is God's turn.

A gift can be an ear,
that hears without asking.
It says to the receiver,
your words will find compassion.
A gift can be friendship,
in good times n' in bad.
It says to the receiver,
I care if you're happy or sad.

But if the gift is given
with a payback in mind.
It says to the receiver,
we are even at this time.
And if the gift came about
from guilt, as some do.
It says to the receiver,
you know, I didn't want to.

A gift should always be,
just a gift as one perceives.
It says to everyone involved,
"It's better to give .... than receive."
Copywrite 2005 Doc Magi Productions, Inc 

Posted by Michael G. Holt at 3:06:24 PM in Poetry (20) | Comments (0)

Those Silly Things


Those silly things that people say,
You’ve heard them, haven’t you?
Like answering your telephone
in the wee hours after two.

N’ hearing, “Is your husband in?”
Now where else would he be?
So I tell them I don’t expect him
till a little after three.

I feel my way back to bed
n’ nudge my husband awake
n’ tell him he missed an important call
cause he stayed out so late.

Yes, people say such silly things
n’ you hear them every day,
like the question, “Are you back?”
when you return from a holiday.

You just answer “No,” to it
“I’m here only spiritually,
I thought it would surprise you some,
if you got a look at me..”

Or you’re stuck in an elevator
n’ waiting for help to come.
The first thing that you hear is
“Where are you?” from someone.

You answer, “In an elevator.”
You hear, “Are you stuck?”
While answering “Yes” to it,
you wonder if this is luck!

The reply to you is typical
as nerves are beyond repair.
It’s “Stay right there n’ don’t move,
till we get you out of there!”

Then when poor Henry died
at an age of 92
Gathered at the Funeral Home
were some old friends, he knew.
One gazed at poor old Henry
wiped a tear n’ did relate,
“I don’t think I can recall
when Henry looked so great.”

Copywrite 2005 Doc Magi Productions, Inc

Posted by Michael G. Holt at 3:04:32 PM in Poetry (20) | Comments (0)

This One's on the House


Welcome to the place, my friend
tell me what’ll you have?
You look like you’ve just lost
the only friend you had.

But you sure did pick the right place
if you’re trying to forget.
So join all my regulars
n’ I’ll fill you in a bit.

If money is your problem
than you’re not alone.
“Excuse me just a minute,
while I get that telephone.

No…he’s not here tonight,
but I’ll tell him that you called”
Now, where was I, friend
yes…my regulars, I recall.

That lady at the end of the bar
has been married several times;
She still sits n’ drinks
true happiness she can’t find.

That man beside her has a wife
who waits each night at home.
She thinks that he’s faithful
n’ out drinking all alone.

The guy in that checkered shirt
keeps everyone laughing here.
It’s sad the alcoholic
covers his life with beer.

This poor “Lady of the Evening”
is looking for a better life,
but she won’t find it in here
among this grief n’ strife.

N’ the man that entered the bathroom
lives on Welfare everyday
n’ you will only see him here
when he collects his pay.

Those children playing outside,
are the couple’s at the table.
He’s not a devoted father
hers is a Common Wife label.

The one that’s talking to his friend
about the great time he has fishing,
never worked much in his life
cause he lacks the ambition.

His friend there beside him
is a great one for a fight.
There’s illness in his family
n’ nothing turns out right.

My bragger here that ordered
gets louder with each drink.
He says he can do so much
n’ never stops to think.

And me, I work here extra
afraid of middle age setting in;
my wife has gone n’ left me.

Copywrite 2005 Doc Magi Productions, Inc

Posted by Michael G. Holt at 2:59:48 PM in Poetry (20) | Comments (0)

Dump the Plump


It is well into the 8th week
of dieting away the pounds.
My zipper isn’t quite as tight.
My bulges are less, I’ve found.

My jeans no longer hug my {blank}
n’ are even loose in places.
My buttonholes are all frayed out
from the strain of over-weighted.

My pockets have never held a thing
cause my fingers wouldn’t fit in-
due to the skin tight pants
over the layer of fat within.

Now, I can carry a hanky
n’ the keys to my car.
I can even shove my whole hand in
if I wanted to go that far.

I still crave that bit of chocolate
n’ things not good for me.
I’ve drank a ton on water,
made a thousand trips to pee.

I passed up all the delicious stuff
to keep the pounds away.
All the rest, tasted like sawdust;
{the price a dieter has to pay.}

But was it really worth it,
to shed those extra pounds?
To drop a size in my clothes,
because there’s less of me around.

To see the envy on the faces
of those that came up short.
To know that when they speak of Fat.
my name won’t be brought forth.

Oh yes, it was really worth it
to be able to stand up tall,
n’ feel good about myself
yet to the world, look small.

Copywrite 2005 Doc Magi Productions, Inc

Posted by Michael G. Holt at 2:56:24 PM in Poetry (20) | Comments (0)

Another Thanksgiving


Way back before I was born
in 1864 to be exact;
President Lincoln signed into being
“Thanksgiving Day” for a fact.

It was to be a celebrated time
of gratitude n’ thanks.
The sharing of a good harvest
with others-no matter their ranks.

A table would stretch long with turkey
n’ wild life; from hunters bow.
Squashes, tatter, lots of vegetables
all lined up in different rows.

All kinds of berries could be there
with fruits polished bright as mirror.
Breads still hot out of the ovens,
as each guest gathers near.

More gifts of tasty homemade pies
custards, puddings n’ the likes,
would find a place at the festive table
much to everyone’s delight.

Hand churned butter along with cream
would adorn each visitor’s station,
with large drinks of apple cider
in various stages of fermentation.

The list of food would go on n’ on
along with the giving n’ the sharing.
Each one would find a place to set,
without thought of what each were wearing.

Hand n’ hand, they would bow their heads
n’ together “Thank God for their food.’’
To complain about anything else
at this point would be rude.

A Thanksgiving Day, like no other
n’ for some it may be the last.
Let us all be a little more grateful
than we have been in the past.


Copywrite 2005 Doc Magi Productions, Inc

Posted by Michael G. Holt at 2:54:55 PM in Poetry (20) | Comments (0)

Through Open Eyes

Through Open Eyes

My little boy, so young n’ innocent
came up to me n’ said,
“Daddy, can I sit on your lap,
before it’s time for bed?”

I just got him settled there
when I heard what’s on his mind,
the question I’d always dreaded;
“Daddy, what’s it like to be blind?”

“You’ve never really seen me,
so you wouldn’t know my face,
or the color of my hair,
or see the pictures that I trace.”

“Isn’t it hard Daddy,
finding something to do
when Mommy n’ I are busy
or far away from you?”

I took him by the hand
n’ choose my words carefully.
Then I covered up his eyes
So he couldn’t see.

I placed him on the floor
directly beside my chair,
but kept my arm around him
so he’d know that I was there.

I answered, “I know the color of your hair
it’s blond, your Mommy said,
to me it feels so warm n’ soft
like sunshine on your head.”

“And I’d know you apart
from any other boy,
by the sound of your step
n’ the laughter in your joy.”

“I see you with my ears, son
my hands n’ my heart.”
“It’s like you knowing that I am near
although the room is dark.”

“And I think I can see better
than I would with my eyes.”
“In my mind there are pictures
that eyes can’t visualize.”

“I see people as they are,
not clouded by beauty:
n’ that makes me only blind,
it doesn’t mean that I can’t see.”

“There’s probably a lot of things
that I’d miss everyday
if not for you and Mommy
showing me the way.”

I’ve covered up your eyes son
not to put you in the dark:
but to help you see a little
with some of your other parts.”

“You’ll probably never understand
anything that I have said,
so get back up on my lap;
before it’s time for bed.”

He climbed up so quickly
n’ his lips touched my ear,
with the breath of a whisper
that only I could hear.

He said, “Daddy before Mommy comes,
I’ll keep my eyes closed tight;
so you n’ I can see who loves
each other more tonight.”

His mother came n’ got him
When he was fast asleep;
n’ kissed away the tears of joy
that had fallen on my cheek.


Copywrite 2005 Doc Magi Productions, Inc

Posted by Michael G. Holt at 2:52:46 PM in Poetry (20) | Comments (0)

If You'd Let Me

If You’d Let Me

Just yesterday, Daddy’s asking
“What do you think you’ll be
when you’re all grown up,
big as your Mommy n’ me?”

I told him there was lots of things
That I might like to do;
One was being a Policeman,
All dressed up in blue.

A Policeman helps out people
N’ checks out cars, you know;
But you n’ Mommy won’t let me
Get anywhere’s near the road.

Or I could be a Fireman
All dressed up in red;
N’ rescue all the people
That’s asleep in their bed.

I could climb up those ladders
That go up higher n’ higher;
But you and Mommy won’t let me
Get anywhere’s near a fire.

Or I could be a Doctor,
All dressed up in white;
N’ give shots to the people
That’s sick n’ don’t feel right.

I’d spend my days in surgery
Cutting out the rotten part;
But you n’ Mommy won’t let me
Play with anything that’s sharp.

Or I could be a Banker
All dressed up in green;
N’ lend out the dollars,
To those that are in need.

I’d lock it up at night
To keep it safe from danger;
But you n’ Mommy won’t let me
Take money from a stranger.

Or I could be the President
Of these United States,
N’ live in the White House;
N’ eat off golden plates.

I’d make all kinds of speeches,
Just like the other guys;
But you n’ Mommy won’t let me
Tell a little white lie.

I can’t be a Protester,
Marching for right or wrong,
Cause you n’ Mommy won’t let me,
Ever leave the lawn.

I can’t be a Farmer
Spreading manure as I see fit,
Cause you n’ Mommy won’t let me,
Use the other word for it.

It’s kind of hard to grow up
When you’re just a little kid;
Cause you n Mommy won’t let me
Make the mistakes that you both did.



Copywrite 2005 Doc Magi Productions, Inc

Posted by Michael G. Holt at 2:50:57 PM in Poetry (20) | Comments (0)

Another Empty House

Another Empty House

I was playing in my sandbox
That Daddy made for me
When I saw a bird on the ground,
Sitting under a tree.

I ran over n’ picked it up
While it shivered n’ shook;
Then took it in to Mommy,
For hers to have a look.

N’ Mommy said, “It’s a Robin
N’ it must be very sick.”
So her puts it in a box
For Daddy to look at it.

I called to my friend Johnny
For him to see it too,
N’ both of us just watched it
To see what it would do.

We fed it a little water,
But it just wouldn’t drink;
Kind of fluttered in the corner
Then its head began to sink.

I hollered again to Mommy
That it was on its side.
Mommy took one look at it,
N’ said, “Your Robin died.”

Her said that she was sorry,
N’ hopes I understand
That even birds n’ animals
Can die, as is God’s plan.

But I think that God could wait
Till my Daddy makes it home.
Maybe he could save that Robin,
With us helping him alone.

N’ if that Robin’s died and gone
To Heaven like her say;
Then how come I still see it?
Maybe it sleeps that way!

The Mommy says, “Remember Dear,
The light that’s in the hall;
That we leave on every night
So none of us will fall?

Now n’ then the house it’s in,
That let’s that little light shine,
Gets very old n’ tired
N’ won’t light from time to time.”

Mommy gets a new house
Called a bulb for it to live;
But you can see its old house,
Tho no more light it gives.”

Sort of like, God took the light
From your little Robin dear;
N’ took it up to Heaven,
But left the house down here.

Daddy’s can’t fix everything
Even tho Daddy’s try.
Mommies are the best thing
To wipe a tear, so cry.”

So run n’ find a little box
N’ we’ll bury it by the tree
Where you first saw your Robin
Before bringing it to me.

Johnny n’ I just dug the hole
N’ placed the Robin there.
Then I got to thinking
That we should say a prayer.

So bow your head Johnny
N’ Mommy …you do too,
Cause praying over all houses
Ain’t an easy thing to do.

Dear God,

In this shady spot,
Is what a Robin left for me.
Just tell him in his new house,
That his old one’s under this tree.

N’ tonight when I say my prayers
N’ bless my soul to keep;
Maybe you should remember the light,
That’s shinning in me so deep.

N’ remember Johnnies little light,
N’ Mommies n’ Daddies too;
Cause it’d make it awful dark down here,
If they all lived with you.


Then I said to Mommy,
Do you think that God heard?
Her said, Yes my dear, he did.
He heard every beautiful word.

Copywrite 2005 Doc Magi Productions, Inc

Posted by Michael G. Holt at 2:48:19 PM in Poetry (20) | Comments (0)

Potty Training

 Potty Training

I guess everybody in the world,
Knows what I’m going thru.
I guess that I’ll be alright,
If I remember all the rules.

I’ve got new training pants,
That Mommy puts on me;
N’ her says to keep them dry
N’ tell her when I have to pee.

You should see her watching me,
Her follows me all the time.
How am I suppose to forget,
When her’s right here to remind.

Daddy laughs at Mommy,
N’ says “Who’s training who?”
But then Daddy watches some,
When Mommy’s too busy to.

Mommy keeps on asking me,
Does I have to go?
I just keep real busy,
N’ shake my head n’ say no.

Then the first thing you know,
Those training pants are wet.
This shakes up my poor Mommy.
Her missed again, I bet.

But she takes me by the hand,
N’ it’s back to that pot.
N’ I have to sit a while
On that thing; likely as not.

I just hate this part….
Sitting n’ trying to go.
Sometimes I fall off to sleep’
It makes me tired, you know.

Sometimes, I get up
N’ looks around the place.
Sometimes it’s okay, maybe not,
You can tell by Mommy’s face.

Training is hard on Mommy,
Maybe I’m too young to start.
Her don’t like playing in the toilet;
I think that’s the best part.

There’s just one little thing
That I don’t seem to know.
I know when I went,
But not when I’ve got to go.

I have to already start,
Before I runs to Mommy.
N ‘ I try to hold it, so it will stop
But it never works for me.

But her puts me on the pot;
Cause that’s what Mommies do.
They don’t worry about rule number one,
But they do about number two.


Copywrite 2005 Doc Magi Productions, Inc

Posted by Michael G. Holt at 2:44:38 PM in Poetry (20) | Comments (0)