She wrote with sound and fury. She wrote like a Warrior Poet, and she won her freedom.
She’s a no good harlot!
She’s possessed with evil intent.
She paints her face and wears improper clothes.
But, the winds scream Mary.
Why is she this way?
No one but she and her God know what happened to her.
One act of kindness from the Right Person-
She is healed.
And, the wind whispered Mary
My Catholic named is Mary Magdalene.
I know her pain and see through the lies.
Her invisible scars speak to me.
And, I cry MARY!
*giant nod to Jimi
Curling my fingers around you like a Twizzler in my hand,
Chewing off the top and bottom carefully as not to be noticed.
A deep inhale brings a sigh of relief and a pang of worry.
You infiltrating my lungs as if long lost friends,
Sighing out the vapor is bittersweet-I don’t want to say goodbye but I want to say hello again and again and again…
How will I stop;
When will it end?
Long before she lost her leg,
before five-year-old me scratched her cornea,
before she had her cancerous breast removed,
Mom was a water ballerina.
When our family went on vacation to Sanibel- back before it became trashy and shark ridden,
Mom would put on her simple bathing suit from last year and the one before that and the one before that and so on.
Next, she would put in her weighted fake boob and something was lost from her sparkle.
Then, unable to swim because of all of these stupid things,
she would walk miles up and down the beach collecting sea shells.
As a child, I thought it was her passion.
A shell hard to be unique and lovely in any form to go in Mom’s bucket.
So, day by day, morn til you couldn’t see your hand it was so dark, Mom would trudge the beach always looking out for jellyfish though I am sure dad would have urinated on her.
Mom , barefoot, would dance with the ocean.
Sometimes, a cha cha…other times a fox trot,
but they all seemed a lustful waltz to an 8 year-old me.
Later, in the condo, the two of us would go through her finds!
I loved the spiral ones, because I could hear the ocean I had been swimming in all day.
Mom listened to all of the sea shells
I tried it, too, but heard nothing.
I told Mom she was being silly with me, but she swore she wasn’t.
She’ll after shell, she laid back and listened to her lover’s call.
But, I heard nothing at all.
Lust begins in the eye of the storm.,
Love in the heart of the matter.
Lust is hot and physical to boot.
Love is a steady eddie.
Lust could become love but more likely not even friendship.
Love begins with friendship and attraction, like lust follows.
Lust gets up and leaves when sex is over.
Love holds you dearly after love making.
Give me love any old day.
Lust, after all, is a Queen’s gambit.
Start a new journal today. You might like to write on the first page.’The entrepreneurial journey of (your name) followed by the date. Then write …
She takes action
This site is new and awesome! What better way to celebrate International Internet Day than to check it out??? Happy reading, my friends!!
Book of my Mother’s
a classic fete
rhymes of ancient times.
Story within stories
filled with conflict and allegory.
Your olden ghost emerges and beckons me
“Come visit me for awhile…just for a sip or two.”
And, I wander to the novel in a trance,
sit down on the couch, and drink it in.
Then, I smell my dinner burning.
Momma scoured the house every night
making sure the windows were closed and locked tight.
Like nails in a coffin.
What she didn’t realize was that she was locking the evil in-
as dad watched tv and wore out the carpet just itching his feet.
As popcorn birthing
My eye is popping, hurting
I can feel the vein
Thumping its way to oblivion
I grab my medicine bag
And produce a green and yellow capsule
Pop it in my mouth and flounce to the floor
Am I having a heart attack?
Should I have taken aspirin, too?
No, there’s some in the med.
I begin to meditate…my emergency meditations
The yogi asks if I responded or reacted
I did both, you fool
The reaction was my response
Did my heart attack me ?
I will never know
Has time passed, no
though the clock says so
I sneeze and, for a millisecond
My heart stops again.
The weird thing is I am in the exact same position as before
Only my chest aches on this stark, old, wooden floor.
Don’t believe in mystery!
Don’t give chance a chance.
Don’t buy into coincidence.
Don’t care about happenstance.
What if I were to tell you
That you are responsible for all you do?
You are. You were.
You forever will be.
Caught sleeping only once.
Speaking with your Father
into the dead off night.
How did you do it all,
Son of Zion?
Susan Awakening 