My introduction page as a writer trying to get publsihed and a collection of posts showing who I am through ancetdotal musings about my life or how I am inspired to write or why I write and how I write in my own wierd little way.
I took you to the movies at the mall because I wanted to show you some fun.
I could feel the sadness in you and wanted to show you a bit of me. I’m all about going to the movies. I wanted to show you the magic of them, you never grew up in that world, you didn’t see that world the way I did. So I brought you into mine with all the eye wideness I could muster.
I liked you sitting next to me in the movie theater, sharing a first time experience of a new story unfolding on the screen, my friend, my lover, my soon to be girlfriend, then a fiancee, then a wife whether I knew it all or not, you were my destiny coalescing.
When we left the movie theater I pointed at the Merry Go Round and said let’s go for a ride, you smiled and didn’t know what to say.
I put a bright big gold metal token in your hand and led you to the gate where the man took your token.
You had fun picking out what type of an animal you would ride on. I think I picked a frog.
I took a picture of you smiling as you posed for me on your horse.
Then you and I took off and went around and around, and up and down….
I think perhaps I delight in you,
simply because there is a bite in you
a something quite not right with you
In the many fluid ways of you.
You draw me in with all kinds of sin,
but this poor delicate body can only
take so much abuse,
the fear is the itch that I scratch,
as it beckons
I answer, I bleed and bruise
my soul and mind continually
playing the fool of a tool
where your ways rule
of the day when we play
in decadent forays
of searing sensual
I meander down a shadowed road
upheaved, trees overturned and strewn about in my way, as a soft bird calls in the distance, beckoning me away.
It’s always the destructive, mingled with the mundane with you.
Drawn to mischief as the moth’s ass
is to a searing flame.
Who’s to blame in this story of us then?
Which of us needs to be grabbed and shaken, to fucking change
to learn to love “properly” in the mind
as the hand still explores the pain.
People are never simple.
All crying onions. Layer upon layer.
Until Time is forgotten.
Dark Francesca, they call her.
In the darkest of hours
they say to watch out for the
raven haired one,
for she’s trouble
…oh so much trouble.
Even as she claims
to have an angel’s heart
she’s got the devil’s glint
in her eyes.
Be wary, for she
collects conquests all
the while she makes
you feel you are doing
the conquering it’s
your soul she’s
So make no mistake,
Don’t, look in her eyes
lest you become
Yet even spying her hips
as she walks away.
is enough to enthrall,
with her pendulum
as you fall prey.
if you are lucky
may take you home
use your body up
But if she takes
a fancy to you
more than that
well I’m sorry.
All bets are off.
It was nice knowing you
from this world.
Live fiercely while time abounds,
and stop biting at the bonds
of which you think constrict
you, for they don’t for a life lived properly
constructed in the spending.
Hold time’s hand as if as a friend, love
every nature of it’s passing and it shall
slow down and comfort every second
of your days.
Create a world uniquely all yours,
from the infinitesimal to the grandiose
inside or without, to implode
or explode into a world of your
Sluggish temptations will always pull at the
the very fabric of you, a quicksand
to drown, a meandering path to muddle,
entropy to trap, as Order becomes
undone and Chaos catches you.
Sleep not with Chaos long no matter how
charming her bed is.
Revel in the importance of your life
love, love, love,
yourself and others
Roll around in that word love
like a dog playing in a
pile of fall leaves,
Never fear the outcome for a life
you have lived fiercely.
Atop a distant hill
sits a bright white church
constructed of weathered wood,
brick and mortar
crumbling at its corners
It takes the right or wrong eye to mark its edges, as either true and straight, or jagged as an age-old eroded crown.
Green rich pastures roll around its foundations, capturing the height of its walls in the folds of a land that endure its weight, pressing ever down while far below its hallowed grounds the roots have become diseased and begun to whither.
Through a dirty pane of glass you will spy a seeming man in shadow residing.
He is a slumped, disheveled figure, silhouetted by a dying day, chafed hands always holding rough hewed ropes secured tightly to the bell higher up in the proud tower.
He waits for the sun to fall to horizon’s knife edge, for everyone knows all devious deeds are best done in the dark.
Death has come to this cursed land and that man is Death’s sonorous escort, pulling on the bell furiously like a madman, as the pale rider stampedes through the town to take its rightful claim in the night on through til dawn’s first morning light strikes.
Yet, all the town knows Death shall surely return again when the madman continues his furious tolling in the bright white church high atop the hill.
Let everything that’s been planned come true. Let them believe. And let them have a laugh at their passions. Because what they call passion actually is not some emotional energy, but just the friction between their souls and the outside world. And most important, let them believe in themselves. Let them be helpless like children, because weakness is a great thing, and strength is nothing. When a man is just born, he is weak and flexible. When he dies, he is hard and insensitive. When a tree is growing, it’s tender and pliant. But when it’s dry and hard, it dies. Hardness and strength are death’s companions. Pliancy and weakness are expressions of the freshness of being. Because what has hardened will never win.
By Andrei Tarkovsky from the 1979 movie ” Stalker”
I have met them,
The, I am Rights,
They give you a sidelong
glance and a chuckle
as you present
of you and of them,
of feelings simply
felt with no malice.
Yet they seem to be
able not to respond
with a kind word, but
they instead double down
in their derision.
It’s as if they have
already made up
their mind of what they
will say before you
ever uttered a word.
I am sorry the world
I am sorry life can’t
be a perfect scenario.
I am not your keeper
I can’t heal what is
broken in you.
That’s on you.
I can listen though, I can learn
I can open my own heart
So I in turn can
see the rights and wrongs
of it all in your world
and you can perhaps see mine
No one is the MOST beautiful. Most and Beautiful do not go together except in the subjective sense. If you believe Snow White is the most beautiful, then she is…if I believe she not the most beautiful, then she is not. Maybe you like her voice and singing…I do not….maybe you like her fair skin and dark hair color, and I perhaps prefer a blonde with a tan. Maybe I prefer a girl with muscles who takes care of herself in a fight, and you prefer a damsel in distress. With no prejudices behind it , maybe I think Cinderella is prettier….Beauty in something is a personal thing with many layers at times ….preferences that speak to you. Even something “ugly” can be beautiful…simply because it speaks to YOU.
Simple as that.
P.S. The Evil Queen besides being very vain and being naive for listening to a magic mirror was also very insecure… don’t be an evil Queen.