The Timeless Scribe
Literature by Barbara Olsgard Winquist


"Yes: I am a dreamer. For a dreamer is one who can only find his way by moonlight, and his punishment is that he sees the dawn before the rest of the world." Oscar Wilde



Barbara Olsgard Winquist
Author at ABP- American Book Publishing



A genteel woman stared at her soul of scars shining like slashes of diamond and shielding the wounds of another time. Picture the post war era and the babies born to a generation of lovers of freedom. Imagine their children and the hope of preserving them from the dust of the dirty thirties, a world war, grinding poverty of the homesteaders, plight of a plethora of disease and the crucifixtion of Christianity.

We are the portrait of their desire yet the colors of the image are blurred. The lines are faint. Morality is a bleeding gash with the absolutes of black and white the ghetto in a polarized yet sterilized tomb.

I rose from the lineage of my European ancestors and was in the satchel of their genes. We kissed the earth as we departed the ship and named this country ours. Prairies with golden grain lined the horizon as grandparents beheld the flag and held her truth with our Lord the King. The ancient ones from the old country live in my vision. I see their images when a church bell rings on Sunday morning, when the people walk freely and casually, when the children laugh in good health, hale and happily, when I can recite the Lord’s Prayer in schools, when old men and women can pass to the heaven’s without fear of being a burden, when ingenuity and innovation are applauded, when the earth creates her wealth of abundance to feed the poor. They are here in spirit when the light dims and the truth is lies.

My name is Barbara Olsgard Winquist and I am the granddaughter of these huddled masses who sought the safety of a harbor sufficient to proclaim the truth. My early childhood was spent in peace until a vision catapulted me into the dimension or twilight zone of sobriety. We were drunk with God’s blessings and hunkered down and left not an offering. The abundance overwhelmed our senses and decay withered the roses upon the vine. The seeds had been gently laid in the moist damp earth and were nourished with the seasonal rains. A drought scourged the plains with the soil depleted and barren.

My dream seeks solace from spiritual warmth and the fruit of her message engages a rebirth of generations into the Moral Code eclipsed from the ancestors. We are travelers passing through but once into the haze with a secret gifted into our bosom. We shall be judged accordingly upon this Truth and the angels reply with the seraphs and a burning coal. Love will lead the children and the ancestors smile.





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