Luna

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woman_in_the_moon

Loquacious as stone she

Looks soft to the lonely

Listens to deep confides

Lifted in to the night

Likens their tears to tides

Lingering in the heart

Lost where to end or start

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Today at dVerse our host for this week, Vandana, asks us to create a Pleiades poem.

A Pleiades, invented in 1999, consists of seven lines of six syllables; each line starting with the same letter as the title. The title is a single word.

And as further challenge, our poem should reference to a celestial body in honor of the form inspired from a heavenly object.

dVerse ~Poets Pub | Meeting The Bar: Pleiades

Wash. Sip. Repeat.

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Enter Subway Pet Peeve Number One: Eating or drinking on the subway when you are standing above someone.

I am seated reading a book on my Tab when I smell coffee. A woman is standing in front of me sipping from a paper cup. Not a thermos, a paper cup; a large paper cup. I can clearly see the torn tab opening when moves the cup from her lips. I can tell by the angle in which she holds it while sipping, it is still a relatively full cup.

“Good Morning.” I smile, garnering her attention and she returns my greeting.

“I’m asking, could you not do that please?” I ask pointing to the cup.

“Not do what? Drink my coffee?”

“Yes. Could you not do that please?”

“Why?”

“This is a crowded train during rush hour. You could be jostled at any moment that results in spillage and I do not want me or my electronics to get wet.”

“There’s no law that says I can’t drink coffee on the train.”

“You are correct, there is no explicit law denying anyone the right to eat and drink on the subway. However, it is considered common courtesy to refrain from doing so when seated, it is especially so if you are standing above someone.”

“I’m not going to spill anything.”

“Not intentionally, I hope, but the word accident exists for a reason. However profusely stated and honestly felt, “I’m sorry” does not negate any potential damage done. It especially does negate the callousness of your actions when I am asking you nicely, not to. If you don’t want to stop, can I then ask you to stand elsewhere? Maybe other passengers are not as bothered by it as I.”

From the looks of my fellow passengers seated on either side of me, it was clear they would not be indifferent to her rudeness either and she knew it.

“Oh please. Fuck you.”

I look up to the through the subway car roof to the heavens above and mentally ask the Powers-that-Be why they chose a day when I am in a dress and heels, in other words in no way dressed for a potential fight, to test me so.

“Not a problem.”

I do not say anything else to her knowing she will be off the train before I will. I simply hoped she does not spill anything on me in the interim. The best I can do is put my Tab and cellphone out of harm’s way. Seeing my house keys in a side pocket, I take them out and hold them in my fist. I think better of it and put them away, carefully placing my bag on the floor between my feet. I know she saw what I did and moved the cup from her face. There is slight mumbling around us by those witnessing the exchange, none of it in her favor, but nothing else. All the while she is standing there holding the coffee in her hand, not sipping it, but with the open notch it’s still a potential for spillage.

The train reaches her stop and she turns to leave, giving me the side eye over her shoulder as she does. Bitch is stated in her eyes, if not spoken with her mouth. A guy seated across, but closer to the door, from me wakes up with a start. He looks around dazed for a split second and must have realized he either missed his stop or was about to when he stood up quickly. He stood right into the hand holding the coffee that was on its way to her lips again for a defiant sip as she glared at me.

Want to guess what happened next?

Yup, the guy accidentally knocks the coffee into her, causing it to spill on her blouse and his elbow that made contact before she can right it. The man apologizes profusely, but he is also intent on getting off the train. She has moved enough away that none of it drips on me. A woman sitting to my left, who witnessed the exchange between the woman and I snorts a heartfelt “Good for her!”. Because this is morning rush hour there is confusion at the door as people are rushing to get in and out while avoiding the coffee spill on the floor. Another woman somehow stepped right in it and nearly slipped, grabbing the handhold just in time. Ms. Coffee immediately turns around, clearly about to apologize, when the woman, cuts her off.

“”The word accident exists for a reason.” Next time, don’t drink the damn coffee. Now get out of the way!” The woman who nearly fell snarls at Ms. Coffee, pushing past her evidently pissed.

I know it is coming, so I wait for it. Sure enough Ms. Coffee shoots me one last look. I salute her with the bird as she hustles to get off the train before the door closes. Two men in suits who entered from a different door and witnessed only  the last minute or so of the events, look around as they make their way in.

I am reaching for my bag to get my iPod when the woman next to me bursts out laughing, making me look up.

“What was that all commotion at the other door about?” One suit asks his friend while sipping a cup of coffee. In a paper cup.

I groan as the woman laughs harder and the two suits look on confused.

“Are you fucking kidding me?!”

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Update: Guess who I saw on the train this morning? Yup, Ms. Coffee herself, sans coffee this time. She was not standing near me, but we saw each other.

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Come see how others are slicing up their days…

Slice of Life Writing Challenge | Two Writing Teachers

Slice of Life - Two Writing Teachers

DP Challenge| Something Good

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It was weird sense of something in the air. I couldn’t put a finger on it, but it was certainly there. I knew to just go with it; it usually leads me to something good. And that something good walked out the door behind me not even two minutes later. Tall, lanky just enough body to look like he takes care of himself, but not so much that he looks like he lives in a gym. The cut of his pastel dress shirt and dark slacks told me he spent a decent penny for them. Yes, he waited before he followed me out, but I could see him relax on spotting me. That he followed me out of the club proved he liked what he saw.

Horny, just like me, just the way I like them. My inner devil thinks to myself.
You know you’re wrong. My inner angel wags the internal Mom finger at me.
What? I’m grown. The derisive snort is audible as the devil wins this round.

Something Good and I lock eyes as I smile shyly at him. That was all the opening he needed as he walks over.

It’s a shame sometimes, how easy it is.

The perfect mix of honey and harlot I lean against the dark tinted windows of a car at the curb, casually tapping my fingers against the glass as we converse. His voice is deep, rich. He’s charming, witty, a little self-effacing and an actual nice guy. In spite of it all I find myself liking him.

He really could be The Something Good you know…

The damned inner angel, sensing a possible opening, tries to reassert itself, but I’m not having. The perfect mix of harlot and Honey, I outright tell Something Good that I should walk away, that I do not want this to be a one-time thing, heading for the inevitable. And being the type of man I am slowly perceiving him to be, he starts to back away. Still, I can’t seem to stop touching him, the back of his hand, his sleeve, his collar. I make a point of glancing between his eyes and gorgeous lips.

Look at me looking at your lips. Take the hint. Take it!

He pulls a card from his wallet, making me promise to call him. He puts the card in my hand and then quickly pins me to the car kissing me, kisses me like he means it. I cannot help but put my arms around him in response.

Gotcha!

I watch him walk away, enjoying the callipygian view of his strong swagger, watching his shoulders tremble from laughing at my I pantomime of smoking a cigarette after the kiss.

What he don’t know…

My eyes drop to the ground for the briefest moment before looking up again. Sure enough, he looks behind him one last time and grins, pantomiming call me before turning the corner. My hand gently strokes my cheek, the feel of his five o’clock shadow leaving a slight, but pleasant burn.

And he was such a good kisser too. Shame.

As soon as he is out of view, I tap the window once. The car engine comes alive and I quickly get in the passenger side, scooping up his pilfered wallet along the way.

Sucker!

My fourth lift of the night and by the quick scan of the multiple benjamins inside the wallet, also my best one.

Something Good indeed.

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This week’s  Weekly Writing Challenge at The Daily Posts asks us to use a classic storytelling device, the unreliable narrator, in a story story or flash fiction.

Black Label Autumn Memories

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As I am  walking to the train station this morning a tiny flash of something bright falls just outside of my vision. It is a small golden leaf that lands on my shoulder. Being in my favorite season, I smile at the thought of autumn in New York City coming to its glory. I start to simply flick it off and go on about my day, but it somehow lands in my palm instead.

Then the heart does the one thing nothing else can do – make time stop for a moment as I am transported back some twenty years into the past.

It is a Sunday evening, the last night of an impromptu weekend trip with my late-husband to the Poconos. He is inside refreshing a drink. I am outside in my underwear leaning on the porch rail enjoying the view of the mountains that are basked in the warm bright colors of early sunset that washed the autumn foliage before me in rich shades before the sun reaches the ochre and indigo phases of its descent. With the annoying ability to walk on cat feet when he chooses to I do not hear him approach, but the heat from the eternal furnace that is his body reaches me just before he does and I turn to face him. He has on even less than I, and by the easy smile playing along his lips I am well aware of how much he likes what he sees before him. Wordlessly, he takes a slow sip of his drink as he reaches up to pull something from my hair and let it go. I extend my hand and a small golden leaf falls onto my open palm. It rests only for a moment before he gently blows it away and steps into my arms to kiss me. I remember wishing that we had more time there to enjoy ourselves before heading back to reality.

And reality reasserts itself back into my current life as a warm gust of air gently blows the fallen leaf from my palm.

It felt so eerily like his breath on my palm from that long ago evening; I shivered in remembrance. I have been trying to shake it off all morning, but here I am decades after the fact, hours after the memory, wishing I could once again enjoy the taste of Black Label on his lips.

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Slice of Life - Two Writing Teachers

Slice of Life Weekly Challenge | Two Writing Teachers

That’s A Dress?

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A new plus-size clothing store opened in my area. I came to check it out, visually peruse the wares. With most of the clothing brightly colored, patterned and blingy, the store clearly catered to a customer base much younger than myself.  While the styles were cute, most of their skirts and dresses were much too short for my tastes, even if worn with leggings as is the current trend. It’s just not my style, but I keep looking because you never know, every now and then you strike gold and I did. I spot a semi-muted leopard print skirt with a pleated sheer black overlay hanging high on a wall. I am actually surprised by this skirt for a couple of reasons. The muted tones of the print together with the overlay was a considerable level up in comparison to most of what I had seen so far. Above all it was the only skirt in the entire shop that reached my knees. Bonus – it was on sale, so I had to have it. I catch the eye of a sales girl, point to the skirt on the wall and ask if it is in my size. She looks befuddled not seeing the skirt I’m speaking of until I point it out by describing the shorter skirt next to it.

“Oh, you mean the leopard mini dress!” She smiles finally understanding to which item I refer; only now I am the one who is confused.

“That’s a dress?” I look at it again, not seeing it all at.

“Yeah, let me take it down for you, you’ll see.” She finds an extender hanging hook and brings it to me. “See? It’s a dress.”

I dubiously took it and held it against my body.  To be fair the tube dress likely would be cute hitting mid-thigh or lower on someone who is 5’3″ or shorter. However, at my 5’8″ frame, worn as designed, it barely reached past my hips to my upper thighs and that is just holding it against me. With my body shape it would be even shorter when put on.

“Please tell me, where on earth would I be going at my age in something like this? Me?” I shake my head. It honestly was a sarcastic, rhetorical question, but the sales girl didn’t know that.
“Yes, you! It’s a club dress. You could easy rock that!” She nods as she visually appraised the dress against me.

“I’m fifty years old and there’s no way in hell…” I begin and then stop, seeing that she is about to cut me off with the standard tripe. “I swear if you’re about to say “age is just a number” close your mouth now before you lose a sale.” She closed her mouth so hard and fast I think I heard her teeth grind. “You’re new at being a sales girl in a clothing store aren’t you?”

She nods self-consciously in response. “That obvious?”

I take a mental breath and smile at the girl, hopefully taking some of the sting out of my words.  She is just trying to do her job, I reminded myself. “Just a little. It takes time to learn to read customers. Someone younger, you might be able to get them to buy it as a dress anyway. But I’m not that young. You saw that face I gave you a moment ago? That was the face of a woman who knows what she is about.  What her style is and what works for her. You can’t sway her. You don’t want to push too hard on a customer who’s set like that. She can have five items in her arms that she loves, but may walk away purchasing nothing because of that. In your case you’re lucky I have imagination and am buying this to wear as a skirt. So what do you think you should do next?”

“Ask you to show me how you’re wearing it as a skirt so I can show someone else how if they don’t like it as a dress neither.”

I mentally cringed at the double negative, but nodded approvingly, “Very good. And…?”

“Now that you have this skirt, we have a belt I think would go great with it. Let me show you, it’s this way.” She turned barely waiting for my response, knowing I would follow.

“Perfect.” I laughed.  “Show me.”

I’ve worn that skirt twice now with different tops and both times I received compliments on my dress.  Especially when seen  in pictures. The irony of it makes me giggle.

dress - skirt

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

That’s a dress?

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Slice of Life – Two Writing Teachers

Back There Again

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Chateau de Nice by Claudia Schoenfeld

Chateau Nice by Claudia Schoenfeld

Another dollar, another score
As the sun sets on another City day
It was all that I once wanted but not more
No my heart is now many miles away

And though you smile like it’s all right
I can see it in your eyes
You may be looking at the skyscrapers
But your heart is searching for open skies

Remembering late summer evenings, when the day’s work is done
Our feet up on the porch rail, a cold one in one hand,
With your hand with the other, those were times like no other
When it was all so simple, and yet so grand
Do you remember? And can we get back there again?

I remember my auntie yelling for getting the floors gritty
Man, that red clay is tougher than this city’s hustle and flow
Yeah, the skyscrapers at night look so pretty
But when’s the last time I saw fireflies glow?

I miss how the riverbank sparkles on a bright sunny day
The sound of crickets in the midnight air
How the smell of dinner wafts every which way
And how there always  seemed to be haystack straw in our hair

Oh we spent so many years wishing to get away
Now we’re wishing for anything just to get back

Remembering late summer evenings, after all the work is done
Our feet up on the porch rail, cold ones in our hand
How we drop everything when we heard that dinner bell ring
It was all so simple and yet so grand
Do you remember? Let’s get back there again.

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Today Mary challenges us to “Sketch it Out” in words with the lovely artwork of our own Claudia Schoenfeld as inspiration.

dVerse ~ Poets Pub | Poetics – Sketch it Out

You Better Be Glad I Like You

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Yawning before she can open to the first page of Glass Houses, the new book she downloaded the night before, Sabrina gives up and closes her Tab. Already familiar with the author’s mesmerizing writing style, she knows the successive yawns that have overtaken her are hardly portent to the reading material. Sparing the fellow commuter sitting directly across from being able to count her fillings even from that distance should she allow free rein to pandiculation, she presses her lips tightly together stifling yet another yawn. Dear sweet Insomnia, the sonavabitch, in its perverse sense of humor, takes the sleep she was denied in the dead of night when it was needed and uses the rhythmic movements of the subway train to bring it to her in the morning light of her commute to work.

Glancing at the time piece on her wrist as an afterthought, she muses why she even bothers wearing a watch anymore as she checks the time on her cell phone anyway, 06:47am. There is still a solid forty-five minutes or so of her ride to work, barring the expected unexpected delays inherit to morning rush hour. Knowing a losing battle when she feels it, she stores the Tab in her handbag, and like the true City commuter she is, she then zips it and wraps the straps around her wrists for safe keeping before pulling her sunglasses over her eyes and gives in to slumber.

Taking a late breakfast break nearly four hours later, she sits at her desk, her second extra-large coffee of the morning well in hand, curious antici-pation, not letting her wait until the evening commute to begin reading the book. She opens the reader on her PC figuring she can get at least the first chapter in as she takes a bite of the bacon, eggs and cheese on a toasted bialy. The cheese oh so perfectly warm and gooey as she likes it suddenly feeling repulsively mucoid as she reads the opening sentence:

NED POWELL AWOKE FRIDAY morning at eight and rubbed the sleep from his eyes, rolling a viscous, snot-like clump between his fingers like it was putty.

Damn you Andrew Wilmot, you better be glad I like you!

(PS: I finished eating the sandwich anyway.)

Glass Houses by Andrew Wilmot

What Is More Scandalous?

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As many people know, a trove of nude photos spread like wild forest fire across the internet this past weekend. Several well know female celebrities were victimized because some (presumably male) assholes decided it would be great fun to hack into their cellphones and other private cloud storage to steal their private photos. The photos were stolen, not for personal enjoyment, because what fun is that if only a select few know what they did? No, they also had to leak these private photos to the internet for the rest of the world to see. And not just leaked anywhere, but to add insult to injury, they were leaked to 4Chan where they were guaranteed to be seen. Not even Olivia Pope could out scandal this one.

If you are not familiar with 4Chan, let me just say if Dante Alighieri has a chance to do some modern redesigning, 4Chan — the bastion of so much that is prurient and outright disgusting about the internet, would surely be included as a form of punishment in his new circles of purgatory. And why 4Chan? Because of how it is set up, it is near impossible to track who posted what and when. If you can do something on the internet and think you can get away with it would you? In the land of 4Chan – where lolcats, resides next to mutilated kitties, resides next to very graphic images of another word for felines that also relates to female sexual organs – the answer is almost always “Yes”.

Though there were several actresses victimized in this, some who have denied – some who have confirmed the veracity of the photos, it is Jennifer Lawrence, whose name has now become the spearhead for this, as the Oscar award-winning actress is the most well-known of the victims. And have no doubt about it; these women are most certainly the victims here. Because for as many detractors there is finger pointing and wagging at the malevolent acts, there is even more finger-pointing and wagging, not at the perpetrators, but at the victims. The underlying, and completely wrong message, is not that it is inherently messed up to invade someone’s privacy like this, but that these women brought on themselves. The old well, if they hadn’t taken nude photos… mantra in full swing. Blaming the women for having private and personal nude photos of themselves on their cell phone and/or cloud is akin to blaming a sexual assault victim who happened to be wearing sexy lingerie under her clothes. Understandably, lawyers and spokesmen have been brought into this with Jennifer Lawrence, Victoria Justice, Kate Upton and several others stating they would prosecute anyone who posts the stolen and “leaked” pictures.

The word leak generally implies something accidentally. Except we all know this was no accident. These women were sucker punched.   Instead of a relaxing Labor Day weekend, they instead labored under the pressures of being thrown under the scandal bus. And how the pictures were hacked and then leaked is secondary only to the why someone would do so in the first place.

If the hacker had simply patted himself on the back for a personal job well done, he would still be all kinds of wrong for the hacking in the first place, but we the general public would never know about it. Let us not kid ourselves, if these were dozens of photos were of anonymous women whose cell phones and cloud services he hacked, only those women and their families immediately would have truly cared. It’s not right or fair, but it is the truth. The hackers presumably did not break into male celebrity accounts and post nude photos of them because while it definitely would have sparked a lot of interest, a lot is not good enough.

Most people are not considered an artist or a genius until others recognize/acknowledge them as such, which means they need a witness, they need an audience. It is the same for this type of hacker. As I stated above, a select few friends as witness is not enough of an ego boost to prove the point, the world at large must be in audience to this. The bad part, well one of the so many, is that the hacking and the posting of the photos are not about the women involved. This was something that was going to happen at some point regardless. Ms. Lawrence, Kate Upton et al, just happen to be the echelon of the hot young female stars right now. This was solely about the one-upmanship of the moment.   These young women were nothing, but the means to a specific end, with no consideration of the consequences to them at all. So many are having the vapors that these women dared to have – what I cannot stress enough –  private nude photos of themselves, that it seems few have taken umbrage with the fact that the these women’s lives are now in turmoil for no other reason than bragging hacking fapping rights.

No, the scandal here is not who took the pictures (the victims), but who stole them (the perpetrator/s and/or initial poster/s).

Memory of Heaven

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.
.
I am minded of candles, of then
of love, simple, sound
of love deep beneath stars
Your fiery temple beside mine

The strength of Luna’s pull
Our chief alibi for the seed’s planting
A new growth begun in a crevice
We watch bloom into full flora

Peace falls upon us
Waking in dawn’s gilded light
Trades in golden finish
A nimbus, it falls around me and you

Speech fails and I fall hard
And yours fail as souls combine
You do not fear, prepared for the roar
My heart, once pieces, now whole

I am minded of candles, of then
of love, simple, sound
of love deep beneath stars
Your fiery temple beside mine

Seeing between light, dark
Afterglow in silver, gold
Cosmos mine timed in forever
Your heavens have no end

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Today at dVerse, Marina Sofia challenges us to try a homophonic translation of a Romanian poem by Lucian Blaga and see what we come up with.

Having no idea what the original poem translates to, my interpretation is a combination of phonetics and (VERY) loose translations of Latin/Romance language based words I gleaned.  It’s a little disjointed, as some things really do get lost in translation. I hope you still find it readable.

dVerse Poets Pub | Poetics: Homophonic Translations

Verbal Diarrhea Diaries: Look That Up

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I went out to dinner with a few folks the weekend before last. As normal among us as there were ribald shenanigans aplenty. It was all fun and games, a fantastic get together to catch up. Somewhere in the midst of the silliness I noted Crisp (don’t ask/can’t tell), had stopped short for a moment to look at me queerly, but then he continued on with the conversation and I promptly dismissed whatever it was I thought I saw.

We ran into each other on the train this morning. After a moment of general salutations he looks at me saying there’s something he wanted to ask that’s been on his mind since dinner the weekend before. Aha I thought, I did see something, it was not my imagination after all.

“Sure Crisp what’s on your mind” I ask mentally preparing for a serious conversation.

“I know this is stupid,” He starts “but when we were joking around you called me a C.A.D.”

“A C.A.D.?”

“Yeah, usually I can figure out how your convoluted mind jumps and follow your sense of humor, but for the life of me I cannot fathom how you jumped from the archaic to computer-aided design.” He laughs self deprecatingly.

Now, I am mentally scratching my head trying to fathom where we were in the midst of the various topics of conversation that included computer aided design and drew a complete blank.  I am literally thinking to myself who the hell, but Crisp would call it computer-aided design when everyone else who even knows the term calls it by its acro… And that’s when the light bulb lit.

“I called you a cad?” It took everything I had to look in his face and not snort in laughter.

“Yes, a CAD.” He nodded, becoming somewhat perturbed by my barely suppressed mirth.

“By god for a man presumed reasonably adroit, betimes your mind is naught but fandangle. I called you a cad, you dimwit!” I snickered.

The conversation he referred to was a hodgepodge of history that segued into archaic or near archaic words.  I adore Crisp, but at that moment in the conversation clearly his comprehension of archaic  fared not much past the immediate computer age. What was also clear was that he proving the point why such words were near archaic as he still did not get it.  We were nearing his stop and he stood.

“Since you sat for over a week and did not bother ascertain for yourself whether there were possible alternate meanings, especially given the conversation at the time, I shant make it easy and do the work by simply telling you.” I shook my head smiling as he edged towards the door. “Go look that up in your Funk and Wagnalls.“

“My fucking what?” Crisp turned at the door completely confused

A gentleman sitting across from me, who clearly got the reference, started laughing as I put my head down groaned.

It’s been a while since I actually felt my age, thanks Crisp.

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Slice of Life - Two Writing Teachers

Slice of Life Weekly Writing Challenge : Two Writing Teachers