Poem | |
~Summer’s Eve ~
I am a woman!
I am proud-
I am everything you want.
The adoring wife,
A beautiful mother,
A grandmother a granddaughter
A daughter, a sister,
A lover, the aunt.
Your enemy, your friend.
I am the working lady.
A widow left behind.
The Spawn of Adam's rib-
A mentor throughout this world.
A lady with class, sometimes a material girl.
A flower, and the sound of rain.
I am the color of the rainbow.
I am deeper than the sea.
I am the pink ribbon you wear.
I am delicate like snow.
The sun and the moon in your eyes.
A twister during dark skies.
The Daughter of Eve-
And, here is the only feeling I want to endorse.
In honor and appreciation to all the women of the world.
Happy Mother’s day!
Poem | |
*GRANDMA WAITS IN THE GARDEN*
Hi grandpa it's me again!
Your dentures sit in an open glass
Do you remember the tears grandma sang before she passed?
The way she looked into your eyes,
Moments before she said her goodbyes
Grandpa, I found a note from grandma, she doesn't want you to cry.
Hi grandpa, it’s me again!
The rocking chair is old and dusty
Do you remember the way grandma sat me on her lap?
Read many stories before I took a nap
How she enjoyed brushing my hair with her hands
Love the way she rocked me to sleep every night until I grew.
I stored your hearing aid away
Do you remember that special musical box in grandma's drawer?
I opened it last night, to watch the ballerina dance
I wish you could hear the tiny chimes grandma lived in
I hope you don’t mind, I’m keeping grandmothers favorite scarf.
I'm caressing grandma’s picture frame
Do you like the way she looked in that pretty sundress?
Grandpa, I miss the things grandmother did for you
I like the walking stick she handcrafted, the day your needed support
It kept you in balance every time we took long hikes in the woods.
Hello grandpa, it's me again!
Here I sit holding your hand
I have no more tears
Soon you will see grandma
Please tell her hi, and I know you will be there the day I die
Give grandma a kiss, and tell her I miss her
Poem | |
See the woman.
See the face behind its age.
See the beauty of her form.
See the way her way becomes her.
See past her once taught skin, as it was
when it enflamed many a man.
See the way she holds her head;
the tilt of her neck, the ease
of her being.
See the strength that binds her jaw,
unrelenting in its flex.
See her hurt displayed, as shadows
fall like night upon the earth,
eager for rest and resolution -
for the one she could not save.
See her darkness. See it very well.
See it shatter like glass, glinting,
when she giggles like a girl.
See her shine.
As the shades of dark days rise,
See the years that grace her eyes,
like rays of her own sun
exponentially shining forth.
See forgiveness in her patient hands
as they weave memories with a touch.
See the breadth of her breasts,
for they have quenched her children’s hunger,
soothed their frantic cries,
and became the safe haven for her beloved.
See her empty, scarred abdomen –
round and perfect in its imperfections,
once holding the essence of all things;
carrying creation within –
see the divine home of God.
See the innocent baby,
the impetuous youth,
the voluptuous woman,
the devoted wife,
the selfless mother.
See the wisdom of the grandmother –
the epitome of every moment lived
for someone else, and the realization
of the circle.
Hear the acceptance in her sigh.
See the gifts she has given –
see the woman!
See the goddess!
The beginning and the end!
See the infinite that bares the name,
See her for all that she is and isn’t.
Smell her scent and know you are home.
Taste the strength of her words on your tongue.
Hear her experiences like your own.
To touch her soul is to touch perpetuity!
See her face in your mirror.
See the tears that fall proudly
upon the woman you’ve become,
and hope yet to become
when you have lived through all that has been
set before you –
tasted each woman’s tears as if they were your own.
When you enter that perfect union,
when you become,
when you come
you will see yourself in all things,
and your journey, will see you back
*Reposted for Chris's Get Your Rebel On, Contest! This was written with my Beautiful
Grandmother in mind. She saved my life in more ways than one. love you, Gran. This one's
for you. (and every woman, and woman lover, here)
Poem | |
It is thirty six years ago, and I am with her in the garden,
where July is a picnic of egg sandwiches, cress-stippled,
the fuzzy down of peaches, acid-yellow tang of lemonade.
Her fingers have the delicacy of dancers
as she deftly mixes paint on a palette blue as the sky -
blobs of acrylics bright as sweet shop candy.
Summer is a sizzling colour wheel, spinning in its heat hues -
cadmium orange, pyrrole red, gold ochre -
those fever flames that blaze across her page.
My small world is warmed by the sun in her smile.
Russian vine stitches a delicate doily over the shed roof.
The heat-glazed garden shimmers and buzzes.
There is a twilight world under sweet clusterings of lilacs:
a cool shock of shade, pendulous-legged black flies
hovering in the murky mauve.
China white stars of jasmine light my way.
Please keep me close. Let me stay.
It is twenty six years ago, a morning of mourning,
and the notes of the dead bells toll
as, mist-muffled, they roll
through November's sleet streets.
I close my eyes and the sun in her smile parts the clouds.
Sober-suited people crush and cluster in pews;
row upon row of perylene black, winter-pale faces titanium white.
Stained glass windows filter and warm the ash-grey light
until her coffin is a vibrant palette of rainbows.
There are stories - lots of stories - anecdotes,
a crimson-backed journal she wrote,
a painting she painted, coffin-propped,
a poetry reading - one of her own -
Tapestry is a wondrous thing, in it the lovely colours sing. . .
Creamed rice-colour roses heap sweet
on her stone - a slate plate serving up a dead name -
and carnations splash cadmium scarlet
like blood throbbing from the gash of grief's raw wound.
It is now, and I am alone, taking a short cut home
through evening's rich palette.
Elegiac elms shed viridian tears,
and the sky is a burnt sienna explosion.
October's umber seeps into November's sepia tones.
My mind is coloured with her and then.
I hold a small cameo box that held
the colourful spill of her pills: kaleidoscope planets
orbiting my loneliness, spinning off into nothingness. . .
Dark figures fill the park: silhouettes, shadows
following me home; spirits stepped from her portraits,
faces pushed down into coat collars, crinkled with frowns.
Paint-pinned people in their primaries and pastels,
on canvas, under glass; stopped heartbeats of the past.
Trapped moments on paper and boards.
I close my eyes and see the sun in her smile,
recall how, since her passing, life has become a free fall,
a parapet leap without parachute.
And the smudged charcoal lines of memory
are beginning to blur, fading like her watercolours. . .
in memory of my grandmother
Poem | |
I have a special story I wish to share
About a seamstress beautiful and fair
She would fade away turning into smoke
Of her amazing beauty, no man would joke
The spiraling smoke would then re-form
I know only an angels face could be so warm
Before her a beautiful quilt was spread
Upon it the story of my life was said
As she once again started to dissipate
She said, “Mike this quilt records your fate”
As the smoke traveled over to a new place
And then formed together creating her face
Looking over her shoulder back at me
She said, “This area will hold what has yet to be”
Most of the quilt looked like twisted evil tattoo
Simply because, my life’s quilt was quilted true
I looked the quilt over and then met her gaze
She was so beautiful in so many different ways
The last part of the quilt way over to the right
Showed the beauty of someone changing their plight
Upon her beautiful hand, which seemed so nimble
I noticed she was wearing my grandmother’s thimble
From a young maiden so beautiful to see
My grandmother appeared right in front of me
I guess up in heaven we return to our youth
My grandmother was beautiful; such is the truth
I thought of the price grandma was asked to pay
The shame of knowing I had turned out that way
I thought of her sitting there stitching my shame
My grandmother didn’t deserve an eternity of pain
She said, “Michael be still with the pain in your heart,
Your story encourages others to make a new start.”
“The deeper the wrong the stronger the right
I always knew my boy would take up the fight”
With a smile much brighter than an ice covered sea
She said, “I love the man my boy has grown up to be”
As she turned to the quilt and started to sew
She said, “Michael, its now time for you to go.”
“Believe in your story believe in your truth
For Salvation is the true fountain of youth”
One night in a dream, which I’ll hold forever divine
I learned; my Grandmother is now,” The Seamstress of Time”
When I was a boy I would help my Grandmother roll
her quilt, find her glasses, as well as, her thimble. I
never thought about how amazing her art truly was.
From a pile of rags she would make the most beautiful
quilt's. I sleep under one of her quilts to this very day.
Poem | |
Thea, grandfather Alferd's dog died, she was so old and sick
Now is Thea on the moon, says Adrian who is six
Michael Jackson died so unexpectedly and abruptly
He is on the moon and plays with Thea, says Adrian who is a big fan
Betzy, grandfather Arild's dog died, she was also old and sick
Now Betzy is also on the moon with Thea and Michael Jackson and play all day
Great Grandmother died so unexpectedly and abruptly
Adrian who is six had difficulty understanding
Adrian who is six cried many tears for Great Grandmother
but comforted himself with the fact that she is sitting on the moon and
makes waffles to Thea, Michael Jackson and Betzy.
A-L Andresen :) - A true story -
Poem | |
Chocolate Moose Girl
A Sunday brunch one day went me
when she I saw, at table three.
From my mind to forget, never nor maybe.
For on this radiant sunny Sunday afternoon
in the Botanical Garden, my favorite room
sat at a table, grandmother and she.
The walls lined in fragrant ferns of green
baroque blossom ladies in gilded frames seen.
Her simple beauty profile delicate cherry flourish tree.
Now this vision alone, fulfilled my eyesight hunger greatly
when added she did this simple act make.
To her pink full lips a taste took she.
When delicate and slow she lifted
her chocolate moose to mouth she gifted.
From the moose chocolate, I know previous take.
The finest ever no chief could bake,
Satisfying, soft coolness, still lingering in me.
A sublime sexual treat,
then look I did, toward her feet.
When out rolled her toes
from brocade slippers of gold, I see.
Her barefoot toes ached
to reveal her pleasure
with each spoon to lip,
delight, same measure.
My mind to forget, never nor maybe.
Poem | |
Terror seizes you, and it isn't kind.
You try to go somewhere peaceful in your mind.
But the pain rips you right back to here and now.
Not wanting to give him the satisfaction of even saying "ow."
You try to be strong, but he tears from you, a scream.
Oh God, please let this be a terrible, terrible dream.
I thought he was supposed to be a friend of mine?
As the tears grow down my face like vine.
He tells me I wanted it, even though I screamed no.
He says my attitude and outfit told him so.
In the same breath, he threatens me never to tell.
If they ask why the tears, you better say you fell.
As I got out of the car he pulled me to him and hugged me tight.
He kissed my forehead and said Don't worry you'll be all right.
Just remember, if you open your mouth, no one will believe a dirty whore.
Now go inside before I take you for another ride and give you some more.
Into the house and straight into the shower.
I was in there for what felt like hours and hours.
My grandmother knew right from the start.
Please don't tell, it would break Daddy's heart.
Please, Grandma he's not worth Daddy going to jail.
For my sake and his, you can never, ever tell.
She kept her promise and never uttered a word.
At night, she told me, my cries she heard.
For six weeks I kept my secret and told not another soul.
For six weeks I sunk deeper and deeper into a hole.
Not until I heard that he raped a fourteen year old girl.
Knowing I could have prevented it, shattered my world.
I finally told my horror story to the cops and to my Dad.
I don't think I'd ever seen him so violently mad.
Mike was arrested, but in jail he would not stay.
He lived around the corner and we had to move away.
He got probation, but not for me, his word against mine.
I was sixteen, of legal age to consent, so for me he'd get no time.
His punishment, probation for only a couple of years.
Me and his other victim were left with our fears.
Would he find us and take revenge for what he said was a lie?
Would my father hunt him down, and go to prison for a rapist to die?
He got away, pretty much scot-free for his deplorable crime.
His victims were the ones who were serving the time.
This IS a true story, my story, but not my story alone. After 8 years and raping several
other women Mike was sentenced to 35 years in prison. As he pleaded his innocence, we were
all in some way vindicated. He never did a day for brutally raping me, NOT ONE DAMN DAY.
But he's doing plenty now. I hope he gets ALL that he deserves.
Poem | |
I am an old lady, but did not live in a shoe
I am a wife who married her soul mate twice because I wasn’t satisfied with just once
I am a mother that was overly protective of three sons, they all are different in every way, the youngest I planned before I got too old, I wanted a girl but I guess it was not meant to be
I am a grandmother of six, four boys and two girls, I love them all, with all my soul, all spoiled because that is what grandparents do
I have friends that are more a family to me than my own, I would do anything for them whenever they are in need, but they have always been there for me
I am a Christian Catholic and taught prep, I taught my students with lots of visuals because that is how I learn and retain, I also taught school with stern rules but compassionate to all
I am an artist of oils, so all I see is beauty in everything I see even the ugliest frog is beautiful to me
I am one of those wives that would love to walk hand in hand with my husband through the wood of the tall pine and look at the pond that lies beyond with the wild creature’s noseying to see but stay away
I am female
I am Eve is who I am
Written by Eve Roper
Frank Herreta’s Contest:
Poem | |
To be called ..
~ Grandma is a Honor ~
I have been blessed with 4 Grandchildren
~ one lays in Heaven " Kaleb " He is God's Angel ~
~ His twin brother he will always watch over , and be in his soul~
For he loved his Brother so much in the womb ,
he chose Heaven which gave life to his twin
~ I feel his spirit when I see the other Grandson ~
Time passed another gift to see
we are " Mickes" and Loved
Our Dad held the title in Baseball
~ that's how we roll ~
those children are Grandmas hero's
The Irish they love big and Family is everything
The brothers will protect the beautiful sister
~ as many lads will be calling ~
Every time my Grandson hits a home run
There will be a Angel watching proudly in the stand
It will be as if the Angel lifted him when he runs
~no one runs faster then my Grandson~
either baseball or Art ~ you shall find your gift given
These children have been blessed~
~ a beauty to hard to describe
If you think not ~~ Take a look at the Mom
That girl can stop Traffic
after raising three and still~
"Inspired by the gift and loss of Grandchildren "
May our precious " Kaleb " softly rest where Angels only Dwell
Poem | |
All's not about Darfur
I've seen it, eerie winds
Moonlight through our thatch
We kissed round, one *palmie gourd
Kigali was but a miss
Waist-beads - beats to love
Have you heard the talk-drum,
*Fela's horns of brass,
Or the *Aladuras' joy of Alleluia?
My grandmother still walks miles
Just because her forbears did,
And shame on malaria
For the dearth of men
Oh, on Mandela's earth
Of Soyinka's nobel ideas
Africa - a big breast,
the good, the bad, the ugly. . .
all, as sucklings!
*palmie - palm wine
*Fela - Celebrated afrobeat musician
*Aladura - a popular african instituted christian sect noted for heavy prayers
Poem | |
My daughter`s budgie "Sissie" died a late night
The next morning I told her that "Sissie" was dead
With tears on her eyes and cheeks, she asked her mom
- Is "Sissie" in heaven with God and grandmother ?
- Yes, she is with God, grandmother and the angels
I answer her
Surprised at this answer, my daughter investigate
whether it was true
She walks into the room where the cage with
the budgie used to stand
After a short while, she runs back to mom....
- Mom, mom.... God has not only taken "Sissie"
- God has taken the cage too
This is a true story - - - from gold child`s mouth
dedicated to: Laila A.Mjelde
Poem | |
Every day she comes to visit her,
lifts the spoon to her thin lips.
Quietly she sleeps, silently she weeps.
Life arrested in its waning grip.
Every day she comes with hope
that something in her changes.
Silently she weeps, quietly she sleeps
The memories time rearranges.
Every day she comes and wonders,
will she wake today and speak?
Quietly she sleeps, silently she weeps
An imprisoned mind in body weak.
Every day she comes and touches
the woman like no other.
Silently she weeps, quietly she sleeps.
Maternal daughter, loving mother.
Poem | |
Imagine a lovely garden, tea for two,
and this story . . .
Here, let me take your hand
and I'll fluff up that pillow for you
How odd that the wind is nowhere today-
Whistle a happy tune for me, love
Don't you always say that whistling
calls the breeze, invites it in?
It's never failed before,
just as seeing you never fails
to put a smile on my face
...I can almost forget the pain
Whistle for me, and I shall sing for you
This is how I've always imagined us,
in a garden, the wind tickling the leaves
as we both immerse ourselves
in music and laughter,
with the birds joining us in our song...
Just hold my hands, keep them warm
as we bask in the sun's golden rays...
seems like forever since I've felt it
Don't be afraid to close your eyes, love
I'm just here
...let me watch over you for once
You haven't slept for days,
let me do this
and sing you a lullaby
Hush, wind, hush
let my voice soothe his heart this time
I can feel your pulse-
it beats so much faster
as mine slows down, slipping...
much like the sun slips from my eyes,
my final sunset.
Forgive me, love,
for leaving you this way
I know you wanted to be awake when I go
But you've been so tired,
and I don't want to see your eyes' lights die
as my own flicker and fade
It's better this way, believe me
The two of us imagining a garden,
hand in hand
As the wind breezes past,
so shall I...
forever in your breath, my love
dwelling in your heart, fanning those flames
and when you feel that wind has left you,
remember what you always do...
Whistle and I am there
My maternal grandparents were my inspiration for this,
so this holds a special meaning for me.
This actual scene didn't actually transpire, although certain events inspired
what happened in this poem.
My grandmother was a soprano, my grandfather did always say that, to
whistle to call the wind... Even if she was 11 yrs younger, she died 12 years earlier
than he did. Theirs was a beautiful love story.
Poem | |
it started for me and my grandma always
on those rare but special Saturdays
the grandmother and granddaughter festival of preparations
for Sunday's after-church celebrations
the backing of the best cinnamon-sugar -cake
grandma's and my quality time to bake
we talked and shared our secrets of life
I was even allowed to use her sharpest bread knife
just the two of us throwing remaining pounce
creating our beautiful and beloved floury gowns
laughing loud with tears all over our white faces
and countless most heartfelt warm embraces
cleaning the antique black and green kitchen was another highlight
as well as the two missing slices for our well-deserved sneaky bite
grandma's great excuse: the cake broke into two
our secret two-disappearing-slices-of-cake coup
all those emptied flour sacks we could never hide
were transformed into something itchy, white and wide
I wore them always with the hugest possible smile
despite and thanks to the formless but exclusive floury white-ghosts style
PS. She did not give me 'just' h e r recipe for this great cake but also her recipe for
Poem | |
; -A NOTE- ;
***DO NOT ATTEMPT TO***
***FIGURE THIS OUT*******
***JUST SAY HELLO : - )****
***or WHAT?? is FINE*******
***If you are here to make a comment!!*
My towel is made of silk
That does not make sense at all
I can drink bitter sour milk
Once again no sense at all
My busted line holds a stronghold
Confuse are we
A thieve breaks and leaves me gold
Leaving my thinking incomplete ???
In my dream he cut my head
My dreams have a path of a flowerbed
Still puzzled ???
White winter shelter when it comes to snow
a riddle, a riddle
Black the night all over covered by coal
this I do not know
I walk and I have no feet
I speak and I have no mouth
a breathing exercise, wrong as it went
the stick walking got bent
understanding this a bit
My boat is flipped upside right at the end of all weathers
The grave is empty with dirt, full of feathers
wise not to ask
((Last but not least))
The grandmother is tall
The mother came short
The father is black to recall
Some white child of sort
Why the Mexican???
Poem | |
Little Bee, Deaamoo, grandmother of the Crane Clan, lies staring. The light of
winter’s first full moon falls into the room. Through a ghostly haze of tobacco and
sage smoke, she sees her loved ones. One withered hand clasps a cowrie shell,
mee-ghis, tightly to her heart and in the other she holds a small dreamcatcher for
her youngest granddaughter Little Aamoo. Strands of gray white hair escape from
her braids which trail down beside her bird-frail form touching the fringe of her
parting dress. Her clan has been in the sweat lodge praying for her safe journey
home, some appear red-cheeked; others are a pale as the shades of her
ancestors. It is the end of her days, a time for passing on.
Outside of the house near the fringe of balsam pine a circle of stones are laid, each
one blessed and bringing an anchoring comfort to man, lodged between earth, and
sky. The four directions are marked and her way west is clear for her. Soon, she will
ask loved ones to lay here amongst the gifts laid for Pacugu, The Great horned Owl,
near the spirit house.
The veil is thin now between this world and the next. The smoke branches upward,
showing the way to sky world where Gichi Manidoo waits. The songs are being sung
for her now. The Shaman’s rattle is crisp and clear. All about her is beauty. Drums
keep the beat of her heart. They wait. Remembering one last story, she calls her
family to her, she must leave them with all the knowledge she has. "Ah, what was
that story? Well, that is not for you."
Poem | |
Love is writing her name in the air with SPARKLERS!
I need a new heart!
Like the one I had when I was 5,
when I wrote her name in the air.
When the deep red held us up,
and I thought Birds touched Bees Beneath the lilies
because that is how I touched my Grandmother and the cheeks of Horses.
I need one,
that will not grow up.
One that will hunt for carnivals in August.
One that keeps filling.
One that carries salt and a pairing knife through the garden when it’s hungry.
One that still sleeps on the bellies of yellow dogs.
I need one,
that still falls in love.
LOVE I SAY!
Love that is simple
and feels like birds must.
When they warble a deep red and
carve the air.
Like sparklers into the sky.
If you think you have such a heart I will to pay!!!
I have a savings of over $15,000 and I am willing to have wages garnished.
*an installment plan with interest negotiable.
In the exchange of hearts you will receive mine for as long as is needed or until a
preferred heart is available.
It is a sort of sad thing this heart.
Slowly folding over onto itself, collapsing inwards like a shipwreck.
However, its meter is quite steady and will be an adequate replacement until another,
more suitable heart is found.
* Serious Inquiries Only!!!!
Poem | |
It was at Christmas time that she invited me to her home
This wonderful Northwest lady that I feel I’ve always known
Her coffee pot was brewing as I entered her living room
To find her tree adorned with an angel who had died too soon
Little Joycie was but a child when God called her back to him
As we shared a cup, tales of our past and future were woven
A grandmother with a gift for words reached out and touched my heart
I brought a hand-made Christmas stocking, hoping joy to impart
A special connection I made with this talented poet
To be able to call her a friend, I am blessed and I know it
Written by Carolyn Devonshire and Dedicated to Super Souper Joyce Johnson
For Michael's "First words over coffee" contest
Poem | |
They fought the tide to own this land
A fight I did not understand
They fought the plow, they fought the drought, they fought the debt
But yet,…by God,……they owned the pride
In retrospect, I'm still ashamed
It was, my flippant pilgrimage
I had come a stranger to this place
About to step upon the moon,
A cratered space of rocks and sage
Of rolling hills, with no escape
She saw it differently, of course
Although her body weary, worn
Her eyes were strong, ...she saw a home
Her age was then, what mine is now
It had been her home, and it had been her vow
To come again, just one more time.
I was thirteen, and dragged along
I overlooked the great attraction
I could not see the satisfaction
I missed the light upon her face
She saw the youth she left behind
Her gray eyes drinking up the sun,
I saw the dust, I saw the bones,
Where she saw beauty, I saw none .....
Nothing more than a sea of weeds, the crumbling brick,
A place to shuffle my restless feet
But stories came, and they sunk in….
And now I view with wiser eyes…
She told me all these things back then…but now, I smile,… remembering.
They had to fight to own this piece of land
They fought the plow, they fought the drought, they fought the debt
And yet,…oh yes,…….they owned the pride
Recited on youtube http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kAchI2nu9yY
For Deb's Contest:....2nd Option..(With age comes wisdom, understanding and
appreciation. I am never too old to keep learning
and value those who came before and made me
who I am.)
Poem | |
I wandered and travelled
Nor knew where I'd gone .
Life became a problem;
T'was one long cruel song.
My problems seem to multiply;
They came from every side.
I vowed to find the answer;
by this I would abide.
I looked into nature
And tore apart my mind.
Then put them on the table
To see what I could find.
I found that I'de been greedy
and avaricious, too.
Whenever projects of mine failed
I put the blame on you.
I found that I was lonely;
I thought you didn't care.
But what I really didn't know
Was you were always there.
You tried to fill the void
That always was in my Life.
you tried to ease the sorrow
You've been a real good Wife.
Yvette & Grandpa Murray
From James Murray to , Janet Murray ..his beautiful wife.
" In great respect of Grandfather Murray's poem he wrote for my Grandmother Murray "
Poem | |
P-oetess, who is so GREAT and LOVELY
O-n the pedestal, I look up at her with so much glee
E-verything she writes are splendid and they all inspire me
T-eaching me unique writing styles, drawing me to pen more with piquancy.
D-estroyer is a nice name giving me good impressions
E-ncouragement through her comments, destroy all my writing inhibitions
S-o grateful that heaven brings her as one of my precious gems
T-ruly, I will forever treasure her in reality and in my dreams
R-ight here in my heart and mind, I sincerely admire her
O-h, what a great mother, grandmother and also a sweet friend and sister!
Y-earning to meet her someday, I still wonder
E-nchanting names she has are giving me puzzles
R-esolve my doubts, who is Skat and Linda who has the same name as her bf forever?
Written: Sept. 6, 2012
10th Place Winner
Contest: Curiosity Killed the Cat Harry Horsman and Mandy Tams
Poet Sponsor: Harry Horsman
Poem | |
Where do I come from? Well we all come
from somewhere. I was born in a small
town, here in in good old U S of A. South
to the border, by the Rio Grand. Mission
Texas is the town's name.
My real parents came from Mexico. My
grandmother, it was said - she came from
Spain. My grandfather was indian. He fought
in the Revolution. Both were on my mother's
On my father's side, never knew too much,
only that the grandmother died kind of
young. The grandfather died years later, but
I never got to know them.
My father left my mom, when I was only three.
He never came back. My mother gave away my
sisters, than later she gave me. She only kept
my brother, maybe she couldn't keep me.
I was raised with a nice lady and her husband.
I learned to call her mom. That title she had
earned and my respect most of all. My parents
that raised me were poor, but made sure I had
something to eat. My mother made my dresses
so that I could go to school.
I learned to read and write and enjoyed school
very much, but I had to quit at fifteen to help my
parents out. Years later I went back and finished
my High School.
I did not go to college , or mastered in any degree.
I am what you might call self taught. For about thirty
years I worked with electronics and did my job well.
I gained respect from my bosses and high top
My parents taught me good values that have helped
me through out life. I am not ashamed of my
origin, of Mexican Heritage I came. I am what you
would call a TEX. MEX. and I live up to my name...
Just a little about myself. Hope
you enjoy it.
written by Lucilla M. Carrillo
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PART One,,,, as she saw it.
The mountains and the meadows were always so beautiful this time of year.
It seemed as if a fresh new world always came to life. The high cliffs turned sharply downward. As I sat listening to the ocean tides smashing against the walls of the mountain below. There was a mild breeze blowing from the south. The grass in the flower covered meadows moved with the breeze. The sun shined so brightly I thought it would melt me at times.
As I stood up from the log where I was sitting by the emerald forest, the breeze pressed my dress against me. It formed to the soft round curves of my breast, down through the curves of my waist pushing against my yielding hips. As I blinked from the sun, I saw him there in the distance. I had thought I was alone. But there he was, starring straight at me. What would I do and where could I turn? I knew what kinds of thoughts men had, my mother told me all about them. I saw that he was beginning to move my way !
I saw him there as he saw me. I was paralyzed, not knowing what direction to move. Though as I watched him from afar, he did not seem dangerous as my mother always warned. Still, I could hear her words like a tape recorder in the back of my mind.
Should I dare take my eyes from his? I could see his eyes were dark, maybe brown, or even midnight blue. What ever the color, I could tell they were smoldering with restrained passions. His hair was long to his shoulder blades. I knew that because it moved with the wind. He had broad shoulders with long legs. I knew I must not let him reach me. If his arms entangled me , surely I would never get loose. And, I'm not sure I would want too. Even though I heard the words of my mother, running in my head.
I could feel the tiny beads of sweat trickling down between my breasts. I was not sure I should take my eyes from him as I leaned down to pick up the fan that had slipped from my hand to my bare feet.
PART ONE,,,, As he saw it .
The winter snow had melted and yielded to the bright warming rays of the spring sun. The bears had come out of hibernation with their new born looking for food. The mountains and the meadows were born again, new, fresh and alive with life. Everything was beautiful and as it should be. Birds singing, their mating songs blended with the crash of the surf against the steep cliffs of the mountain. Nature was at peace with itself, and I came here to share in this peace. To be alone with the earth, or so I thought.
I found a place to sit on the grass hidden among the flowers in the high meadows. So I could enjoy the gentle breeze blowing while watching the forest animals. The warm sun caressed my body and warmed me. It was a prefect day, yet something was missing. A day like this needed to be shared with someone, someone special. Stretching, I caught a slight movement out of the corner of my eye, just across the enchanted forest. Of a beautiful women. It couldn't be possible as no one knew of this place. I had come here for years and had never seen a another person before. Yet, there she was. Dressed in a dress the wind made love to, pressing it to her body. Clinging to the sensual curves of her breast, down to her firm waist and full inviting hips. I suddenly felt drawn to her and stood up. I knew she had seen me as she was starring back at me, as I stood staring back at her. She was a vision. And I was afraid she would vanish if I approached her. Yet, she seemed to be smiling, calling to me as I started walking towards her. I remember the stories my grandmother had told me of the enchantresses that lived in this forest, but I did not hesitate. I would give to her anything she wanted, anything she desired.
As I approached her I realized she was real. She seemed to be looking at me, daring me to come closer. All the stories of the enchantress my grandmother had told me flooded my mind with a warning. Yet, she was so beautiful, so inviting and I couldn't take my eyes from her. I was slowly losing control with each and every step that brought me closer to her. I knew I was lost as I felt the heat of my desire to be with her, starting to take control. It was a struggle not to run to this beautiful creature , with the golden hair, and angelic face. As I came closer I couldn't help but notice her sensual breasts rising and falling with each breath she took. She seemed to be smiling, challenging me with everything that made her a beautiful, desirable woman. A woman this sensual, this beautiful, this desirable was surely the enchantress, and I was hers. As a bee is drawn to the flower, I was being drawn to this women.
Suddenly she reached down to pick something up. It was just then I noticed she was barefoot. As she bent over to retrieve what she had dropped, the sun reflected off her spun gold hair. and radiated a golden brightness that was almost blinding. Her dress shifted allowing me to see that her body enhanced her dress, rather then the dress enhancing her body. She would look beautiful in anything she wore. The heat of my desire for her was beginning to consume me with it's fire. I felt the beginnings of ,,,,,,,,,,
Nov. 18 1992,,,, Short story I started to write, A friend ask if he could write from a males point of view.
Poem | |
I called her Gana All my life Not long enough Wish More than anything Had one more chance To say I love you Marie My grandmother