A Poem and Post: Time

I have a story outlined in my massive stack of “Untold Tales: Volume X.” One of them, in which I will actually be finishing up here soon, is something along the lines of a double-edged sword. It’s sweet. It’s terrifying. It’s loving and caring. It’s selfish and damming. The end is coming, and life as we know it will cease to be. One man’s vision and in all of his smarts creates a time stasis field where he can live out the rest of his life with his family until the True End comes.

It probably sounds confusing because when you start involving time and getting all “timey-wimey.”

So, I figured I would have a piece dedicated to the inevitable friend and foe of us all, next to death. Time. It’ll appear again, soon.

There will be new things coming up as well as far as writings (or musings. . .whatever have you. . .) goes.

Until next time,



by Robert J. S. T. McCartney

My greatest enemy and my most cherished friend.
Grandfather, father, husband, brother; bringer of the end.

You’ve watched me grow from afar.
You’ve shown me what life has to offer.



That it is continuous, whether we are in it or not.
That we can exist, be remembered, and our lives forgot—

—Ten years it’s almost been.
Nothing more than a drop in the endless sea.

I’ve lived, yeah, I’ve seen,
What this mortal life has yet to bring.

You are my enemy and my friend.
Still, I will welcome you, all of you, at the end.



For Gene Wilder

“We are the music makers, and we are the dreamers of dreams…” — Ode by Arthur O’Shaughnessy

Gene Wilder 1970

“Gene Wilder” June 11, 1933 – August 28, 2016

For Gene Wilder

by Robert J. S. T. McCartney


Now it’s time, to say goodbye,

And to say thank you for the life.

Of the times and memories, you leave behind,

The smiles, laughs, and tears—your brilliance shined.


And so it goes, without to say,

We are truly grateful for the way—

You entertained us throughout the years.

Even, though, we’re sad with your passing,

We’ll get through it like you would prefer, smiling,



For there is no place, like the one we know,

Quite like our imagination.

For you live on there and in our hearts,

We’ll forever appreciate your work in the arts.

{Make a wish}

Rest, and farewell,

Somewhere over the rainbow.

This was originally published via A.B.Normal Publishing.


For our oldest princess (and cub), Zelda. Happy birthday, pumpkin. Mommy, daddy, and Aeris love you—always and forever.


Here and now

Of my oldest pride and joy
A pain that won’t go away

I’ve watched you grow
From a baby to a young girl
You smile and it warms my heart
But still I can’t let go

It hurts the most
For that’s when I cried
The hardest. Ever. In my entire life.
The thought of losing you, and your mom—my wife

My life
I thought, was over

So I would sit

In the dim lit
Room of darkened thoughts


Swelled over the wall

I had built up
To keep all out
It came crumbling down

I was a father
A husband
All in one day
Would I remain that way?

I know that the day will come
To let you out of my arms
But before then
I’ll tell you
I love you
Every day
I remain

Just know though
That I’m sorry
For the things that others say
But I know though
That if they knew you
And the place from which you came

They’d say “thank you”
For showing us
Angels really exist

And though I may cry
For when I say goodnight
At the thought of it being the last

I know though
That one day
I’ll see you with us once again
And it’s not the last

My warrior princess
Made from power and wisdom
You are my courage
And our love

Pure and everlast

You are our Zelda
Our little miss sass

Poem: Black


by Robert J. S. T. McCartney

All these scenes I’ve painted black,
To hide the pain, I’ve yet to have attack—

Me; nay, us, for the day will eventually come,
An assassin lying in waiting, where it shall strike from?

They say to “go in faith” and “take this tome,”
Tis often true, tragedy strikes close to home.

Where I’ve found myself on my back,
crippled from a fall; an attempt to snap—

My neck, my limbs, my life. . .broken,
The words I’ll never utter, never spoken.

As darkness comes and overwhelms what I see,
I know you’ll never understand who I really was. . .me.

“It’s better this way” I once thought,
To give up, that it’s all for naught.

However, I’ve learned that there is much more, to this thing called life.
And that is why I am so happy to have you as my wife.

Though, I fight, the right and wrong; with the light and dark,
I know you’ll be there to guide me along the way, on this journey we embark.

For I now see, I was selfish and wrong,
That alone, I was weak but together, we are strong.

The scenes will become clear, and on that day, we may weep,
For when one goes down to eternal sleep.

That’s alright because at least we will be there,
No one else, with nothing left to care.

This was originally posted on A.B.Normal Publishing’s site.

My Own Prison: A Poem and Post

Prison. For most, they think it to be a building—a physical entity that exists to house criminals and wrongdoers. In most cases, however, a prison can also be one’s self. For the millions of those who suffer from depression, anxiety, post-traumatic stress disorder [PTSD] and many of the other mental illnesses and disorders, their mind is their own prison.

Built from the ground up, bit by bit, piece by piece. It can result from many things. For me: it’s been overcoming guilt. The burning anger that resides within. The negativity of several people and their dirty antics. The “what ifs?” The memories, though some blurry, of when I was on my antidepressants; the actions and things said. . .done. The immense sadness that dwells within. The constant twisting and shaping of how one can manipulate things against their own being. You realize it, you acknowledge it, and you know it to be a lie, but you can’t seem to overcome the grief that has besieged you and left you, seemingly, stranded.


A fight for your life.

You have been tossed into shark-infested waters, and you are bleeding out.

My first therapist wasn’t horrible. He was just doing his job and trying to help me. You can’t help those who do not will to be helped or want it. I found it to be my punishment—to suffer—to slowly kill myself. Painfully. With the most potent malice ever conceived.

There were others that tried to help. Then there was the medication. Going to sleep for. . .what I believed was one day, turned into two or more sometimes. It hurt. I felt I was missing out on the most important of times, and it was unfair—to my daughter and my wife. . .and myself.

I was unstable. Anything and everything could set me off. The wind could blow the wrong direction and I would be having an anger attack. Eventually, I would do an unspeakable act that would convince myself; through a sort of out of body experience, that I needed to lose the medication and get proper help. That I needed to accept responsibility and be a man, a father, a husband. There were to be no more “woe is me” moments.

It would take time. . .

As time has gone on and that I went through EMDR therapy, my overall person has improved. I made changed, important and very much needed changes. I stopped being surrounded by negative people. I began exercising and losing weight (because I have always hated my body image). I stopped drinking alcohol in unnecessary consumption rates (I was an alcoholic, plain and simple in the end there. I became dependant on it).I started eating healthier. The food I did consume was not healthy and paired with soda, it bogged me down.

Simply enough, I didn’t care about myself. I didn’t love myself. I needed to change that. Being on the path to recovery doesn’t happen overnight and everyone is different.

“Get over it. That happened X years ago.”

“That still bothers you? Grow up.”

[At the intersection where the accident happened after finally being able to take my daughter home, away from the hospital, with my wife in the car behind me] “Sorry, I thought this would be the faster way. . .”

Being accused of wanting to kill my wife and daughter and using the accident to cover it up.

Those were a few of the many things said that were fuel added to the raging tempest I held within.

Time. Help. Understanding. Therapy. Changes.

That has been what has helped me. Good friends. Family. And making myself really change—for the better.

Every now and then, I get a dark spell, and that’s OK because it’s going to happen. I’ve been trying a new technique personally, and it’s helped. . .to a degree. Writing, however, has been the most helpful.

Normally, I’d never share my emotions or my thoughts. I figure, though, if someone can relate—someone can be helped, and that others out there that struggle can know that they are not alone in the fight. That there are rescue boats in these shark-infested waters with proper help for you. Then that’s fine with me. Because we are all pieces of a far grand puzzle than we can comprehend.

Stay strong and stay vigilant, friends.

My Own Prison

by Robert J. S. T. McCartney

Life undoes itself from me slowly as dare try to redeem
This prison
All these walls I’ve built up
Damn them
Damn me

I want to break free
From the binds that continue to keep me
Sometimes I only believe in self-absolving

But I know it to only be
I mustn’t keep fighting for me
For they are why I am here
The things I hold dear


I will suffer through the pain
Because I have so much more to gain
Pain knows love just as well

As life knows death
Intermingled we are

The realization of which I now know
I do not suffer alone

Poem: The Division

The Division

by Robert J. S. T. McCartney

Divided we are and united we fall,
Here we stand behind this wall.
Not one of brick and mortar,
But one of mud, slinging slurs, hate, and more.

Today is the day, now more than ever,
That we should stand shoulder to shoulder and raise our fist against the order.
For they will lie, cheat us, and steal,
Like they always have; anything to make a deal.

“Divide and conquer,” that was the motto,
To keep us oppressed, apart, broken, “lead” to follow.
For so long they have succeeded,
To keep us down, battered and beaten.

Now is the time, for us to rise up,
That we will no longer be silent and told to shut up.
Corruption, hate, fear and lies; hold no place, not in my heart,
It’s time to end it before it starts.
Where color, sex, and orientation; it matters not,
It’s important to erase our mistake, our disgusting blot.

United we shall be,
With them at our feet.

This was originally published on A.B.Normal Publishing’s site.

My Three Lights

Northern Lights Photo from Flikr.

Northern Lights/Flickr

In a world consumed by darkness,

There are but three beacons to pierce the veil.

In a world consumed by sadness,

There are but three beacons that enable me to prevail.

In a world consumed by misguided anger,

There are but three beacons which chain me to stability.

In a world consumed by madness,

There are but three beacons which help me practice humility.


In my world there are but three lights,

There to help me get through my trying times.

Where they exist at such great heights,

Because you will need help often than not, not just sometimes.


For what I once was,

For who I am now.

I am better now because of my three lights.



Flikr has no affiliation with me or A.B.Normal Publishing Media Group, nor do they support my work and/or practices.

In Death We Trust

"Cemetery Love" Photo by Markus Biehal. Markus Biehal has no affiliation with me or A.B.Normal Publishing Media Group, nor do they support my work and/or practices.

Photo by Markus Biehal. Markus Biehal has no affiliation with me or A.B.Normal Publishing Media Group, nor do they support my work and/or practices.

You can have all the likes, all the hearts, all the smiley faces, and all the “friends” in the world. You will still die alone.

You can have all the riches, live in the biggest house, and drive the fanciest car in the world. You will still die alone.

You could have all the knowledge, know the tricks of any trade, and have all the time. . .in this world. You will still die alone.

You could have done the best things in life, and yet, still, you will die alone.

Though you may die alone, you may hope to have your friends and family surround you, unfortunately, they may not be able to. It is important to know that they might not be able to. It’s not selfish (on either account) for it is life. Unpredictable.

Nothing we say or do may be forgotten, and there is nothing we can do about death. It happens, just as naturally as we breathe, eat, or sleep.

Like everything else you will come to experience in life, nothing, is ever easy. But perhaps those actions, those moments that defined your life, they will help cope with that loss, or when it comes time for your own.

Keep your faith, if you want to.
For it is in death that we are all equal and free.

Robert J. S. T. McCartney
A.B.Normal Publishing and Media Group

For Starman

Photo of David Bowie by Adam Bielawski.

From David Bowie’s Wiki.

Goodbye, Major Tom, you’ve finished your fantastic voyage.
Rest easy, Starman.

If you can, say hello to Mr. Fahrenheit. Let your voices together fill the cosmos’ labyrinth.

Here, we shall don our red shoes, not to dance the blues or to mourn, but to celebrate the life that was yours.

A space oddity, the rise, and fall of Ziggy Stardust, a Goblin King. . .
We shall endure, though without you, but we shall do our magic dance that you taught us. One that lifted our spirits and freed so many from The Bog of Eternal Stench.
We’ll not see you as the man who sold the world, nor the man who sat in his tin can…but the man who showed the world, and went through life’s changes.

Ashes to ashes, wild is the wind, Starman, Ziggy Stardust…you’re the prettiest star.
A blackstar, who is no longer under pressure.

Rest easy, Starman. Ground control, over and out.

Robert J. S. T. McCartney
A.B.Normal Publishing and Media Group


Last Transmission

"Under the Milky Way" Photo by Steve Jurvetson. Steve Jurvetson has no affiliation with me or A.B.Normal Publishing Media Group, nor do they support my work and/or practices.

Photo by Steve Jurvetson. Steve Jurvetson has no affiliation with me or A.B.Normal Publishing Media Group, nor do they support my work and/or practices.

I saw a man today in the heavens, but I do not think he knew me at all.
I was looking out the window way up high (between the hours of seven—or was it eleven?). It was when I was making my fall.
I had waved to him, but he didn’t give a glimpse—not even a nod.
I turned back at the thought that I had heard someone say ‘hello’, but it turns out, it was just goodbye.

You see, I’m falling fast, and no there is no hope that I can last—as I’m feeling quite hot.
I’m so far away, and have been asking for help, but no one can lend a hand.
I’m feeling very faint, but it’s all been quaint; I’ve lived my thrill.

Come in! Come in! Can you hear me?
Come in! Come in! Please, talk to me.
Oh, come in, come in, let the transmission begin.
Oh, yeah, let life begin again.

The airs become thin, and I’m quite sure—there he is again.
Won’t you please see me this time? Why, how you dance in the stars, and I look for a chance. . .
Won’t you please help me out? As I sit here and cry, when I shout, and soon I’ll say goodbye…

Come in! Come in! Can you hear me?
Come in! Come in! Please, talk to me.
Oh come in, come in, let the transmission begin.
Oh yeah, how I wish life begin again.

I’m falling faster now. I’m getting closer now. Ah, I can see how it all will play out.
They say that in time, it’s all by divine, but I just say it’s a lie.
When I listen for an answer, they tell me I’ll be just fine.
When I know, it’s now my time, my time…

Come in! Come in! Can you hear me?
Come in! Come in! Please talk to me.
Oh come in, come in, let the transmission begin.
Oh yeah, life’s end has begun.

I will reenter, I will reenter!
Oh—h, how it burns so bright. The last transmission is done, my time has come.
Oh—h, how I burn, up so high. Now he notices me and waves goodbye.
I hear him now, and as I pass on by, he talks to me as I say goodbye.
Will you take me home to see my one day weathered tome?

How they will all see me, burn out like a star.
Come in, come in…last transmission…begin.

[Part of the Lost Cosmonaut Pieces.]

Robert J. S. T. McCartney
A.B.Normal Publishing and Media Group