Cycle

Gleam in His eye

A Memory
Ashes to Ashes
Longevity?

With blessings well aged
With blessings well saged

A many decade writer
Hopefully equal giver and receiver
Always a friend
And of course a Diva

At the beginning of my world-travels
Patient when a holiday light unravels

A Home Owner
An Amorous Wife
Luckily better at inciting passion
Sometimes the cause of strife

Professional at Work
Part-time Jerk

Occasional Fighter
Mother of another
Mother
Poetess

A Daughter
Alive
Me

Gleam in His eye

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dVerse ~ Poets Pub | Poetics: Self-Portrait

Perfect

Dawn the first light to sparkle on the water

Breaking apart the morning mist
Drying dew drops that gather in the night
Doing their part to add to the mystique
They land on top of the fine fronds
Of the snowy milkweeds
Turning them into small diamond bursts
In search of the rising sunlight

For three days I’ve tried to capture this
For three days I’ve failed miserably
Technical and yes, user difficulties
But today, today feels like the day I won’t blow it
Still, I pull out my rabbit’s foot and give it a smooch
Then my Nikon to check the aperture settings

And with one last kiss, I snap the shot…perfect!

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Hyde Park Poets Rally Week 75

The Serenade

Joann Bishop - The Guitarist

In the courtyard with his guitar
On a warm and starry spring night
Standing near the glow of lamplight
And sings of love so near, so far

He sings of longing as a scar
A deep wound of internal bleed
A wound of perpetual need
Soft chords wrapped tight in notes blue
A testament his heart is true
Love eternal in every deed

She knows it’s her he’s singing to
She hears each note that bear his pains
Within the blood of her own veins
His longing sears her through and through

For it’s a love long overdue
She’s never known the like before
As it’s his heart that makes hers soar
His tender words gently hold sway
Her heart she’ll give to him always
Lets him and love into her door

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dVerse ~ Poets Pub |  OpenLinkNight Week 67

I’ve Got The Look…

All mothers have a certain look in which their children instinctively comprehend to mean  stop and desist NOW.  I do not care how “no mannered”, “fresh”, “no home-trained” et cetera the children may be, all instinctively understand the most powerful wrath short of the Lord Almighty’s is about to reign down upon their little souls and behinds should they continue with the offending activity.

There are the mothers whose look will only work on their own progeny. There are the mothers in which the look not only works on their children,  but other family members’  children and sometimes the neighbors’ children.  And then there are the mothers. Those special mothers who can utilize the look with such force, that even the children of complete strangers will take heed.  It does not happen often, for I realize I have to be in a certain mood and the child involved must have seriously crossed my invisible line of intolerance for it to be at maximum force, but I am definitely among the last group.

That being said, while all mother are capable of that look, not all mothers have the ability or the desire to use to its full potential and that is a shame. Mothers who cannot put the fear of Mom unto their little darlings at a very early age are soon victimized by the tiny terrors they’ve brought forth unto this world.  I ran into one of those unfortunate types this morning.

I heard the mother already pleading with the child the moment the subway doors opened.

“Sweetie won’t you please sit down.”
“You’re going to hurt yourself!”
“Didn’t I say sit down, Sweetie?”
“You’re going to get a pow-pow.”

The mother did not say “Sweetie” I’m using it  instead of the child’s actual name to protect the little hellion more so than the parent.  I also cringe when parents of young children use cutesy names for things. If you are about to discipline your child, the child should fear it. It is not a “pow-pow” it is a “spanking”.  Children do not fear the cute, especially when spoken in that sing-song sugar coated speak most adults reserve just for young children. Sweetie was not that young and I’m guessing having heard such idle threats all his young life, this child was no exception.

I partially read my book, partially listened to my music and partially watched as I sat across from them.   The little boy climbed up and down from the seat, swung on the pole and yelled back at his mother in turns. Several people were giving the mother the stink eye as Sweetie ran among them nearly causing one passenger to spill her coffee and causing another to trip. Mother would apologize, yell at her child, the child would be still for all of two seconds and then the boy was off again.  Even as the train became crowded he still misbehaved, just contained his mini-mayhem to a smaller area.

At some point a woman who had had enough touched Sweetie on the arm and nicely suggested that perhaps the child should sit. Sweetie turned around, screamed at the woman from the top of his lungs on how she is not his mother and hit the woman with the plastic bat he had in his hands.  The mother grabbed the bat from him and apologized to the woman. This was twenty minutes after I first embarked and now even I had had enough. I took off my ear buds and put my iPod and the book I’m reading in my purse and stood just as Sweetie turned around and started to run.   Right on cue Sweetie accidentally ran into me. He spun around and raised his hand as though to hit me and I’m guessing that was the moment it happened.

The Look had made its appearance.

I raised an eyebrow at him and whatever he was thinking about doing, he rethought it as his hand slowly came down to his side.

“Say ‘I’m sorry. Excuse me.’”  I looked down on him.

“I-I’m sorry, excuse me.” He echoed contritely, taking a step back.  I heard someone exclaim “Daaaamn!” as I pointed at the boy and then at the seat next to his mother. Without another word exchanged, he picked up a toy that was on the floor and sat down close to his mother looking at me penitently.  The mother looked at me balefully as though she was about to say something and I looked at her waiting for it.  She thought better of it also, putting a protective arm around Sweetie as I returned to my seat.  There was a small bout of applause as I sat down, put on my iPod and returned to my book. The man sitting next to me looked from me to the kid and back “How’d you do that? And can you please teach my wife?” I just smiled, shrugged and returned to my reading.

A chapter or so later I realized it was still quiet. When I looked across the aisle from me Sweetie was fast asleep. The mother still looked like she wanted to do me bodily harm, but I was not worried about her. A few stops later, she and Sweetie disembarked.

Someday, someone is going to be there when I give some unfortunate soul “The Look” and have his or her cell phone camera ready to capture the moment. Obviously, I have no idea what I look like when I use this unique expression, but it apparently has some mystical power in it and I would really like to see it for myself.

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Slice of Life Story Challenge

Slice of Life Weekly Story Challenge

30/30 – 11 | Three Litte Words

I’ve rehearsed it all in my head for days now. I still wasn’t ready to face her. I mean, it’s not like I didn’t have an idea of what her response would be. It is just three little words to the most important woman in my life.

Carla D’Scalia – the world knew the single mother, put herself through college, achieved her masters and then her doctorate all the while raising two children. Now an ordained minister, she was well loved and respected in her church. But I knew Carla D’Scalia the woman. For instance, I am one of maybe three people maximum who know, reverend or not, she can cuss up a might fine blue streak in the privacy of her own home, to relieve tension on those rare occasions she gets majorly upset. My love for her and all that she has done for herself, her children and her community, knows no bounds, yet I’ve been ducking her for a while now and considering how close we were she’s understandably confused and upset by the distance I inexplicably put between us.

But I can’t do this any more. I need her in my life. I had to be honest with myself, with her, that this is the path I wanted / needed to take. She knows how I feel, I know she knows, but I still need to say the words aloud. And once I do – well, that’s on her. After nearly six weeks of being chicken shit, I finally called her up for dinner at my place. Ate some serious crow to get her here, but I had it coming.

So here we are sitting on my couch face-to-face. The only sign of her nervousness of the moment is the rapid tapping of her pinky against the stem of her wine glass as she patiently waits for me to get on with it.

It’s just three little words I had to say right? So I take a deep breath and say them…

“Mama I’m gay.”

30/30 – 10 | Picture

He stares at the spot on the wall.

All around it, empty geometric shapes, where the sun had faded the wallpaper, marked where photos, plaques and knick-knacks once were.

He stares at the spot on the wall.

Somewhere subconsciously, he acknowledges movement around him as the remaining odds and ends of their life are carted out of the house. He knows he should be helping; doing something constructive. Hell, doing anything other than what he was doing at the moment.

He stares at the spot on the wall.

His sister, passing by the doorway at the time, thought she may have seen it, but the now familiar melancholy that had become his normal expression of late was back in place so fast she was sure she was mistaken. She let him have a quiet moment alone and walked away.

He stares at the spot on the wall.

When she returned twenty minutes later, he still had not moved. She entered the room and stood next to him as he stared at the spot on the wall or more precisely at the sole remaining picture on any wall in the house.

The framed oil landscape, not more than a few inches square, was in that exact spot when he and his wife first moved into the house. He thought it was the most hideous thing paint was ever wasted on. She, of course, loved it. She joked about it being removed over her dead body. In the beginning he felt she kept it just to spite him. After a while it became just a part of the décor. They occasionally forgot neither had purchased it in the first place when asked about it. Since both liked the wallpaper that was there when they moved it, neither had touched the walls in five years. It dawned on him that it was highly possible that neither of them had ever touched the painting except to dust around it.

His sister shook her head in confusion and made a move to take it down. He grabbed her by the shoulder, a little more forcefully than he intended. It all showed in his expression as she backed away from it.

She watched as he gently took the painting down. He felt something unexpected on the back of it, turned it over and burst out first in laughter, then in quiet tears. He peeled the yellow paper from the back of it before handing the painting to her. She returned the picture to its spot on the wall. Let the new owners decide. With a long deep sigh, he handed her the note he had removed from the painting.

I had better be so dead if you’re taking this down babe! read the Post-It Note.

She smiled a bittersweet smile; it was so like her sister-in-law to leave such a note.

She gestured towards the front door and he nodded, picking up the box with the last of the belongings as they stepped out. For the minutest span of time it felt like the very first time they opened the door as the new homeowners and the first thing he saw was the painting on the wall. He took one final sad look around, the painting being the last thing he saw before closing the door and stepping over the yellow and black tape of the police line.
====================

Time Drawing Near

‘Aladdin’ and ‘The Little Mermaid’ no longer hold a charm
‘Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles’ have lost their sway
The sound of glass breaking, holds not the same alarm
When I could conceive a multitude of frights just yesterday

Macaroni and glitter artwork, stuff that used to be bane
Along with a medal made of paper, in the scrapbook
A box with a bundle of model trains and cars and planes
Memories past, that bellow for a just another look

Emphasizing the second syllable of the word every
The volcano project that was quite a bit unstable
The melted chocolate cookie smile used to distract me
From the crumbly mess left on the kitchen table

The children who couldn’t fib, looking me in my eyes
The kids I couldn’t trust not to burn the toast
The brats who threw a party and told straight-faced lies
When confronted with evidence of their being such gallant hosts

The con-men who know ‘Please mother?’ from ‘Mommy PUH-LEEZE??’
The house slaves with laundry finished and dinner cooked, ready to serve
The hooligans who greet me at the door when I take too long fumbling with my keys
The young men who offer the aspirin, sensing I’ve had a day that tested my nerves

These days I find myself staring a little longer at their faces
And the tones of their voices, to my memory, I try hard to adhere
Some mother’s instinct I suppose, preparing for empty spaces
That once remote chance of their leaving, now drawing near
====================

dVerse ~ Poets Pub | OpenLinkNight Week 65

30/30 – 4 | The Papers

He did not mean to eavesdrop on her conversation as he stepped outside.  He simply could not help grinning as he enjoyed the sound of her voice in business mode as she conversed with someone from an office on the coast. He stood just behind her, leaning against the wide column of the restaurant’s portico and waited. She had finished the conversation and was about to turn around when another call came in and stopped her.

“Why are you calling me now? You know I am out with him.”

What the hell?

“I was going to tell him at dinner, but it was likely to be an ugly scene if he doesn’t take it well.  I could not risk that. I’ll give him the papers when we get home. Handle it in a private setting.”

Give him the papers? What papers? Divorce papers? Why? They’ve been married forever, well nearly twenty-seven years anyway. He was happy. Had you asked him five minutes ago he would have sworn on a stack of bibles that she was also. Granted she had seemed a little distracted these past few days. He knew they were in a crunch another cycle at her job and she was always a little more tense then. He simply contributed it to that. Taking her out to dinner tonight, to one of her favorite places, just a little something to help ease some of the stress. But this? No, he was not expecting this.

The lovely voice becomes more and more dreadful as he listens to her speak to what has to be her lover.

“I know, hon. It is insane for this to happen now at this point in our lives, but I have to tell him. The sooner the better. It’s past the point where I have a choice and I’ve put it off long enough already.”

His head spins as he tries to quickly process what he was hearing, but his mind can’t do it. He moves to the side and waits for her to turn around.

“Look, he’s going to be out any minute, I have to hang…Oh dammit!” She turns and saw him standing there.  He has no idea what his expression looks like, but it must be something fierce gauging her reaction to him as she slowly shuts the cell off putting it in her purse.

There is the most uncomfortable silence as they stare at each other for a brief eternity.  Slowly, he holds out his hand.

“What…?” She looks genuinely puzzled by his gesture.

“You have papers? Divorce papers?” He could barely get the words out.

If she was taken aback by his expression upon seeing him, it was now his turn to be so as her expression morphs from surprise, to confusion, to comprehension and then giggles.  The giggles quickly became peals of unbridled laughter as she sees the incredulous look upon his face.  Unable to speak she simply reaches in her over-sized purse and hands him an envelope.

The envelope had no outer markings, he has no choice but to open it. Inside are what looks like printouts of a couple of Polaroid photographs of orange aliens. No, it was one of those 3D ultrasound images of a fetus, but why would she…? Then he sees the patient’s name on the side.

Oh…

They had tried to conceive. It turned out they both had medical issues that would make it hard, but not impossible to have children. They went for it full tilt, spending serious amounts trying various technical and medical treatments, homeopathic remedies etc. Nothing seemed to take.  When he once suggested adoption she was adamant against it; she had wanted their child or none at all.  For nearly fifteen years they tried and failed.  As their chances grew slimmer with age, they officially gave up trying a couple of years ago when she went into early-menopause. He mind reels anew at the thought as he continues reading the information on the paper.

Estimated 17 weeks.

Oh holy…

No wonder she was worried at what he would think. They were past the point of having a choice, they were having this baby. She stops laughing, for once unable to read his feelings in this, and places a tentative hand on his. He looks from the papers to her, only then remembering how she did not want wine at all during dinner tonight and slowly breaks into self-depreciating laughter feeling incredibly stupid.  That is an expression she can read and falls into a gentle teasing laugh of her own.

“A divorce you dolt, really? After all this time, really?” She punches his arm playfully.

“A baby you doll, really? After all this time, really?” He retorts grinning.

A baby…?” She stops; arching an eyebrow.

He looks at the papers again. Twins.

Oh holy God!!

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30 Stories in 30 Days | Day 4

30/30 – 1 | Hello

No longer in a mood for intellectual stimuli, she closes the heavy bound manual choosing to peruse a fluff espionage thriller type novel instead as she sits at a cafe and enjoys what is left of the wonderful weather. Autumn has hit in full Technicolor glory and such lovely days where a light cardigan was the only protection needed against the slight breeze were numbered. El sol glares bright enough to require her pulling down the sunglasses that were holding back the tumble of curls from her face to cover her eyes as she is part reading – part people watching while she slowly sips her jasmine infused tea. Pushing an errant curl behind her ear, she gazes out, spying a man walking up the street in the near distance.

No, walking is not the right word, he strutted.

Not a cocky Tony Moreno, a la Saturday Night Fever, strut. This was a cool measured purposeful stride. Looking mostly straight ahead, he had a destination, but with his thumb hooked in his belt front loop, he oozed self-confidence as he moved. Despite the casualness of his stride, she somehow knew he missed nothing of what was going on around him. As he came near the cafe he broke stride for only the briefest moment as he suddenly smiled.

She casually looks over her shoulder to see what fortunate woman was the lucky recipient of such wonderful smile, because why the hell would anyone want to deal with the likes of her.

She blinks, Whoa! Where the hell did that come from?

She already knew the answer before the question was asked, him; her ex-husband.

The man, her very young self had invested everything short of her soul to have. The public prince who was anything but behind closed doors. And a vivacious, outgoing, somewhat vain young woman was slowly changed into a dispirited, introverted recluse. She had turned into the living embodiment of the worthless, lackluster person he called her, proving his point. It took seven years of the abuse to get to that magic breaking point where she walked out the door one morning and never came back. On July 7th at 7am as it coincidentally, turned out. The Lucky Seventh as she eventually called the year. It was another two years of damn good friends and therapy before the divorce was final and another four years since then to now. In the interim she had already gone through the thrilling rise and tragic fall of a rebound relationship, another short courtship that ended amicably, had finally finished her masters, was now working on her doctorate and for the first time in a very long time was truly happy with herself. Still, every now and then, the hateful diatribe he once pounded into her would rear its ugly head and pop into her consciousness, like now.

The only other people sitting at the cafe were a couple currently oblivious to anything else in the world, but each other. The guy was almost within yards of her now, looking dead at her nodding a slight greeting; the smile was definitely for her. She knew if she didn’t respond, the smile would leave his face, he would keep going and that would be the end it; just two people acknowledging each in passing as it were, nothing more. For some reason she wanted more.

Why the hell would anyone want to deal with the likes of her? Why the hell not?

She takes the shades from her eyes, breaths and returns the smile.

“Hello.”

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Thanks to that darn instigator of personal writing challenges (yes you GirlGriot). I am now compelled to attempt the 30/30 Challenge. I will write 30 (hopefully), short stories in 30 days. Welcome to Day 1.

For all its potential…

We are all wounded.
We are all fucked-up.
We are all scarred.

Some of us are a hell of a lot more jacked than others. And not all of our scars are on the outside.

Some of us are equipped to deal with it.
Some of us are not.
Some of us don’t even want to try.

We try to tend to our wounds, control our persons in our own ways…

Some drink; some get sober.
Some starve; some binge.
Some find Jesus; some lose Him.
Some chose to sleep alone; other choose to sleep with anyone/everyone rather than be alone.
Some are adrenalin junkies, crowd seekers; some become hermits.
Some draw, paint, write, create.

And some of us wake up to a tear drenched pillow yet again, but don’t remember crying…

Some of us do any combination and/or all of the above in our lives.

These are our realities…
How we dull the pain…
Silence the noise …
The ways in which we attempt to overtake that which threatens to overtake us…

For all its potential, this world can be such an ugly place sometimes.

It’s up to us to find / carve out our own individual niches of beauty within it, to survive the best we can during our time here because the alternative sucks and neither side has a reset.

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Found this written on a paper tucked in a book while I was cleaning. I hadn’t read the book in years, so I’m not sure when I actually wrote it, but it was definitely my handwriting.

I scare me sometimes.