Oct 22 2008
I have no method of writer divine
No savvy technique that I define
Just simple thoughts from my heart
No secret sage to impart
I write the words that come to me
Without judging meaning or symmetry
simply state what I find true
And hope like hell it speaks to you
My book is open for all to see
no poet’s guise to shelter me
My pardigm is just my view
My eyes are yours for looking through
copyright 2008
Sep 15 2008
stab, skip, flow,
do your job
suck the words from my
brain
make it work
take the junk piled in the
back of my mind
become something
anything
is it the music? what would you
like? jazz, blues, reggae, metal???
dance little pen of
mine
make me look good
make me look smart
there must be something
utterly profound about orange
metallic nail polish
never mind the beads
of sweat, they smear
the ink so nicely give them the words
(which you are in short supply of my friend) that nice
little flourish.
dance damn you!
Dance!
copyright 2008
Aug 28 2008
Misery
adores
company and
howls at the
Sun
do not
put
down your
Pen
for it will not
stop
the yearning
nor deny the
ache of
Light
that needs its
Passion
copyright 2008
Aug 11 2008
Time is a straight
line
our memories
alter the course
our second thoughts
add the turns
our missteps
send us back
for a do-over
Our fears make us
peek over the edge
to see what’s coming
But tomorrow is
not here
yesterday has left
we only have now.
Time is a straight
line.
copyright 2008
Jul 24 2008
my dear friend, anonymum has bestowed a lovely award upon me. it is called the arte y pico. it is about the beauty that writers and artists have spread on the internet. i am so honoured and i thank you, more than you know, dear moe.
the award was started by ana and she makes very lovely, hand made dolls and even though her blog is in spanish, i can feel the strong and lovely energy there and feel her intent about the award. it was an act of love on her part i think and i find it all a very beautiful idea.
the rules dictate that i pass the award onto five more recipients whom i feel have created and given beauty to this world of electronic impulses and graphics and electrons.
my choices are:
all beautiful writers who i think strive to give at least some small piece of beauty back. i hope they will accept it and pass it on.
the rules:
1) pick 5 blogs that you consider deserving of this award; creativity, design, interesting material, and also a contributer to the blogger community, no matter of language.
2) each award has to have the name of the author and also a link to his or her blog to be visited by everyone.
3) each award-winning blog, has to show the award and put the name and link to the blog that has given her or him the award itself.
4) award-winning blog and the one who has given the prize have to show the link of Arte y pico so everyone will know the origin of this award {not in English btw}
5) show these rules.
May 21 2008
(for my friend. sarah)
sleep doesn’t come
dreams are villians
that cut deep
with all the fears
that slumber until
roused from darkness
time does not move
a standing sentry
poising over expectations
that will not be recognized
prayers are not answered
angels swirl between the pleas
candles beckon & flicker in supplication
the alms are not enough
hope wears a black shroud
hiding in the shadows
afraid to be itself
leery of disappointing
life twitters on about you
but does not include your presence
in its endless dance
taunting you with sparks of other lives.
copyright 2008
May 19 2008
All grown up
without a clue
chugging Starbuck’s
and smoking too
Cynical glances
shot my way
Snickers, snatters
hormonal bluejays
Just too hip
for meager words
dressed in black
like the rest of the herd
Tittering giggles
of useless minds
addled with youth
and drinking cheap wine.
copyright 2008
May 18 2008
Now, for something different….My dear friend Anonymum has started a sequel to her world-wide hit Splendid. So popular was this story that the public simply demanded we revisit the series with a new and wild set of characters. The challenge is that each contributing writer adds 6 lines to ongoing story that she has started.
Here is the story so far with A-mum kicking off, and a paragraph each by Lightening, Javaqueen, Evyl, Anja, Jayne, Bettina, Hilary and my addition to this ongoing saga is the last paragraph shown in italics.
~
The sun was orange as it set against the ocean.
As Natalie walked along the beach, she felt the sting of tears as they sprung to her eyes. How could he do this to her? What would she do now?
She had invested 12 years of her life into their marriage, thinking they were happy, only to have him say he was leaving. Her question of why had been left unanswered. There was no explanation or reasons. He had merely looked at her sadly and walked out the door without so much as a backward glance…
The sand felt cool against her hot face as her legs buckled and she surrendered her weary body to the comfort of the course sand. She curled up into a foetal position, her mind willing her body to simply evaporate. The darkness enveloping her was barely recognisable against the darkness that enveloped her heart. A darkness that had been slowly creeping in over the past decade. Somewhere in the distance, a baby cried…. a cry that tortured her heart with memories of a dim and distant past……
Alone in the sand Natalie couldn’t stop thinking what if. What if she had been able to have a child? If she could have given him that, would she be in this situation now? At one time they had been so happy. She had foolishly thought that they could make it work by just loving each other. Natalie had told him from the start that she might not be able to have children. Back then he just looked in her eyes and said the only thing that mattered is that they had each other. Why had she believed him? Now, after twelve years of marriage she was all alone. They had tried for so many years to have a baby, but they never could. She had been through seven miscarriages and had given up hope. Now her husband had left her. She felt empty inside. If only he had known . . .
It was all a lie. No that wasn’t quite right. There was nothing false about the love at least not for Natalie. Yet the long nights lieing against Brad after the loving exchange of heated passion, whispering softly of the hopes and dreams of the sweet pitter-patter of small feet treading through the carpeted halls of a loving home. The faked miscarriages were not something that Natalie was proud of but it had been her last resort at maintaining a thin veneer over the stained lies that haunted their relationship. For though in her heart, soul, and mind, Natalie was one hundred percent woman, Natalie was born Ned. Yet, how could she have told Brad the truth. For Ned and Brad had been best friends in grade school. Playing catch at the ball park, racing bicycles down the quiet suburban streets, camping in the backyard until that fateful day, when everything changed….
Natalie stared at her perfect breasts in the mirror. That surgeon was worth his weight in gold. She was every man’s dream - beautiful, successful, able to strip an engine faster than any man, but she was missing that one thing - a uterus. Natalie thought she had given Brad everything he wanted. She knew what men wanted in bed; she knew that men liked hot sex, cold beer and sport on the tube. Who was better to know what a man wanted than someone who had spent half of their life as a man, and her husband’s best friend. Life was wonderful until that barbecue with the new neighbours. Curse that little baby with her gummy grin and corn flower blue eyes. Natalie knew their lives would hit a road block when Brad said “Wouldn’t it be wonderful if we had one of our own?” Natalie could do everything for a man, be everything for a man, apart from one thing… a mother….
Natalie knew there was one last trump card to play, although it was going to be a doozy -she would go back to her surgeon and discuss Changing Wombs. She decided that, after all these years trying to be the perfect woman for Brad, she’d like to experience that female condition with the roller coaster hormones, strange food cravings, sleep deprivation, painful boobs, constant toilet stops and be able to scare the bejebus out of other mums at Playgroup with her own horror birth story. Her surgeon had offered the optional plumbing in his original surgical assessment but Natalie had dismissed it, not considering for a minute that the sport-lovin’ Brad she had her eyes on would succumb to natures tug on his goolies. Having kept several bucket loads of Brad’s love juice on ice at a private storage facility proved the post-op turkey basting would not be a problem and could be a great surprise with which to win Brad back to her side. Natalie made her appointment, booked her ticket and was soon winging her way to motherhood.
Natalie slept for all of that long plane trip, exhausted from the emotions that had ravaged her mind, body and soul. She dreamed of what was to come, the look of surprise on Brad’s face when he saw her swollen with his child, of her triumphant return to his heart and his bed. During the taxi ride from the airport she let her mind wander to their future, longing for the look of wonder and awe as Brad looked upon her with their newborn child for the first time an event that would link them for eternity. She could never had prepared herself though for what was to happen as she entered her surgeon’s office. The sight of Brad sitting in the waiting room looking so pitifully embarrassed to be there, hunched over in his chair holding a magazine high in front of his face set her emotions whirling. His clumsy attempts to disguise himself with that stupid floppy hat and large dark sunglasses, may have fooled some, but not her, not when she had known and loved every contour of his face and tall muscular frame so well for so long. Natalie’s heart lurched as she quickly darted back into the foyer a million questions racing through her mind - What on earth was he doing sitting in the waiting room of the most highly respected transgender specialist in the country and how could she find out without him knowing that she had seen him there?
She was hovering in the foyer in a lather of indecision when the receptionist’s voice broke into her ruminations, ‘Mr Fothergill, the doctor will see you now.’ Before she knew what she was doing, in three strides and a dive she had caught Brad by the ankles as he approached the consulting room door and brought him down in a tackle that would have brought a smile to the face of their Under 10s rugby coach.
‘Brad! NO!’ she cried, desperate tears spilling onto her cheeks, ‘We’re running out of penises!’
‘ . . . eenises . . . eenises . . .’ echoed the enthralled silence in the room. She surveyed her slack-jawed waiting-room audience, surreptitiously adjusting her skirt with her free hand.
‘What?’ she blustered in confusion. ‘What would you do if your husband’s balls were at stake?’ But a fidgetting in the stalls suggested she was already losing them. A magazine page shuffled. At the reception desk a computer mouse clicked.
‘Balls at stake? Meh,’ seemed to be the view in the waiting room of the most highly respected transgender specialist in the country…
A small girl, dressed in a pink pinafore stepped forward,- a naughty smile tugging at the sides of her mouth. “Tick-tock, you lost your cock, but all’s not lost, cuz I’ve been tossed, from the sperm of Brad, so don’t be sad.” She smiled broadly and did a little curtsey. “Hello Mummy and Daddy. It’s me, your long-lost, Maddie.” Before Brad or Natalie could utter a word, the Doctor stepped from his office and said, “So, how do you like her, I’d say she’s the spitting…”
The remaining authors to contribute are:
I’m tagging Cris to add her twist.
May 01 2008
When you’re sure you can’t continue
take but one more step
When your hope has all but vanquished
give it air to breathe
and it will shine a little longer
When your doubts plague your weary mind
get lost in sweet memories
for doubt cannot live and flourish there
If your hands weren’t meant for healing
God would not have given them
Your heart lives in the world of good
This is where you belong
copyright 2008
(for another girl named Sarah)
Jan 20 2008
It was a good day
because I wrote
Because ideas clung
to the paper.
The ink sunk in deep -
permanently.
I offer my world
to your focus.
And I leave it
as a fingerprint
of my spirit.
copyright 2007
And each man stands with his face in the light. Of his own drawn sword, ready to do what a hero can.
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