Wednesday, September 21, 2005

Swept Away

There I stood
So distraught and amazed.
I was swept off my feet
With my eyes left aglaze.
His eyes glowed with warmth,
With innocence and yet passion.
My heat beat so fast
My toes tingled
My breath became rationed
Then after hours of childish
Flirting games
He kissed me
And my heart played… leap… frog…
With… my lungs
As my breath… was swept away
What happens next
I do not know.
I don’t know the ending.
For the story’s untold.
Hindsight I have,
Foresight I don’t.
What happens next
I know I don’t
Know or care.
Just so long,
As we still share
The closeness and warmth
That we’ve conceived.
And the bonding which
We might just
Accidentally on purpose
Turn into love.
That is…
IF he’s lucky!

You made your bed now lie in it!

Men want Miss America on their arm,
Playmate of the Year in their bed,
And Betty Crocker in their kitchen.

They want Dear Abby or Ann
When they want to talk,
And they want Mary Poppins
For their children who are to be seen
But not heard.

If we choose the wrong hat or mask to put on,
We are ostracized for being wishy-washy or soft
Because their hindered emotional baggage
Misinterpreted a misunderstanding for an
all-out whiny bitch fest.

Men don’t want women in high ranking
Positions such as the Presidency
Because women are too moody and emotional.

Guess what?
You made your bed, now lie in it!
If that’s too difficult to understand, let me interpret:
You made us that way!
Deal with it!

The Pulse

The Pulse
The stomping of the children’s feet
The harrowing of the people meets
Voices clamor
Typing slammers
Horses’ hooves on dirt do beat
Babies cry
Mothers sigh
Daddies yell out “Me? Why?”
The band plays.
Grandmother stays
In step in her rocking chair
Grandfather yells “Whatchall doin’ over there?”
Sister runs the washing machine
Brother flies high
As he jumps from the swing
You laugh
I laugh
You smile bright
I smile and blush red
The pulse of the world still beats
In your presence, the beat is still
Your blood rushing
My heart racing
The pulse of us is all I hear.

The Argument Fallout

Fair is the winter of my discontent.
Cruel is my fortune of the tormentuous mistress that is my husband’s nature.
Love he prophesses.
Anger he spews.
Solace comes in solitude and detachment.
Happiness lives among the fellowship with others.
Joy resides in the hearts of my children.
Why can he not see but through the eyes of a troglodyte?
What karma is so wretched that it be his fate of misery?
What is the fortune of the key that picks a lock such as his?
What secret among all Akashic records would be the breaker of the code of the mystery of man?
Will he ever awaken to see all the glorious joy of God is within himself?
If only he would open his heart to see it.


I count the tiles on the floor.
The ceiling’s painted.
What for?
There are no tiles or dots above
For my inventory.
If you could see all of
MY mental files…
Now THAT would tell the story.

Games We Play

All men are created equal
As so they say
And I think they’re right
But not in every way.
Every man wants a girl
Who’s pure in heart and soul
They grow crazy and frantic
Just looking for the tool
The talent or the skill
That will help them in their will
That will help them in their drive
To find that perfect girl
To find that perfect wife
Then that single treasure
Of their whole life’s quest
Is found and their hearts leap and pound
So fast and so wild that
It just might escape their
Muscled, swollen chest
The girl is found and they have played her games
Just for her eyes to turn their way
Now she’s looking
Now she’s hooked.
Now they’re a couple
And their hearts flow like the brook
Where they take their evening strolls
Their eyes shine like the moon
Under which they kiss goodnight
The challenge is over
Her heart is won
But now they look back
And think they’re too young
So he tells her he loves her
And for her not to cry
But they’ve gotten too close
So he must say good-bye
But I’ll be back he says
When we’re ready in due time
But it is not so fair to be treated so
He stole her heart
She gave him her soul
She’ll cry, she’ll stomp
She’ll probably even pout
Why are these men like this?
What are they all about?
Men take it for granted
That we’ll be here every day
They take it for granted
That just because we promised
We’re gonna stay
And we do
Till they break our hearts
And then run away

The Adventures of a Little Cloud

Once upon a time, a very long time ago, there was a little cloud. He was a bright, happy, fluffy, white cloud. He was so happy and carefree unlike those dismal, angry, roaring, dark clouds.
He played several different games with his friends. His favorite game was shapes. He liked to change into all sorts of shapes. One day, he discovered a shape no other cloud had ever made… a square. Oh, how he loved transforming into a square. He made himself into a square every chance he had.
The other little clouds had never seen such a thing and laughed at the little square cloud. This made the little square cloud very sad. He began to puff up with tears. The sadder he became, the bigger he grew. The other clouds were still laughing and laughing. Until finally, he couldn’t hold anymore tears. He had grown bigger than all the other clouds. He was angry at them for their laughing. All of the sudden, he noticed himself changing colors. This was something new he never did before. He became darker and darker. He roared with anger and sadness. The other clouds were afraid and left in a hurry.
By this time, the little, bright, happy, fluffy, white cloud had become a dismal, angry, roaring dark cloud. He poured his tears on everything in sight. He rumbled and growled. Suddenly, he began to feel a little better. He supposed that is what a good cry meant, when you feel better when you’re done. Just then, he saw the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. So many colors wrapping around the sky like a giant bow.
The little cloud had learned how to rain. What a happy day. All the other clouds came back and apologized for being mean. They all gazed in amazement at the spectacular rainbow. After that, they all played the shape game. And once in a while one of them changes colors too. They might even rain a little. But that’s okay. Because, if you want to see a rainbow, you have to have a little rain.

The End

Maybe It’s Just Me

If time could count a thousand years
And if wishes could fly on an abacus high
The greatest star would be dimmed
By the twinkle-light born of your eyes
You possess such a need
It puzzles those who see
Such Independence!
Such self-sufficiency!
Yet such emptiness of desire seethes.
You have such laughter
You have such spark
Who would know
You live in the dark
Depths of your own mind
Frighten you sometimes
Is it evil or insanity?
Maybe, “it’s just me”
Maybe it’s “just me”
Maybe it’s just “me”

That Heat

That heat
That same heat
That same heat which causes
My body to tremble
And my toes to curl.
I am no longer the helmsman.
I am merely at the mercy
Of the wave.
That wave
That wave of heat
That wave of heat reminating
To my hands and toes
From the centermost origin of heat.
I hold on tightly
As my whole
Body shakes and trembles.
Air escapes me as
All of my muscles contract.
Leaving my lungs
Gasping for air.
Buried in your chest, I feel
Your hands in my hair and
I can feel the warmth
Of affection bring with it
A peaceful aura of contentment
All of these things and many others collectively
Form an overwhelming, all-consuming emotion
The dimple on your cheeks
The twinkle in your eye
The touch of your hand
Is all that I can stand
Before I…

Tuesday, September 20, 2005

Dreams, I Awaken Thee!

The comfort found in physical seclusion
Deep into the cold empty night.
Is martyrdom recognized by Him
If consciously committed?
If the curse of solitude is ignored,
Could eternal damnation be worse
Than the alternative life
Without fulfillment?
What of the innocents?
What of those who seek an end
To my self-inflicted misery?
Should they be sucked down
Into the undertow of my whirlwind?
They are not deserving
Of the burden which haunts my every breath.
Those who would not unlove me shall not
Grieve for their joy lost.
I will not succumb to thy tortuous lament!
Dreams, I awaken thee!
Joy, I will embrace thee!
Faith, I will not lose thee!
Hope, I have found thee!
Love, I await and welcome thee!

Quote of the Day

To err is dysfunctional, to forgive co-dependent.
- Berton Averre

Thursday, September 15, 2005

WATCH OUT FOR THE ORANGE CONES (the Oklahoma state tree)

Still under construction. But being an Oklahoman, I'm used to it. At least there isn't a toll!