writing

Bullets Flying

Sometimes the violence hits too close to home;

But blocks away, we would have never known.

Because of the media though, now we do,

And fielding calls, we’re fine, we assure.

It happens throughout the country,

In any socioeconomic environment.

What is the answer? How do we prevent it?

The solution eludes us all, time and time again.

Perhaps one day, the light will go on…

poetry, writing

Rome Has Fallen

Alabaster skin almost translucent in light;

Veiled shadows reveal the rays dancing through.

A soft fragility masks the aged figure;

How has it lasted hundreds, nay, thousands of years.

Unprotected from the elements, time has worn off her details,

How did they carve this beauty before the modern age?

But still she stands, a beacon of strength and beauty,

Amidst the ruins from when Rome did fall.

writing

Chronic Complainer

The pain, the pain, it drains the soul;

Seizing and aching, wanting to escape.

Hide it as much as possible, live life,

Grin and grimace through the pain.

Sleeping helps evade the sharpness;

Pain medication with sleep aids relax.

But where is the youthfulness on waking?

Instead stiffness and limping greet.

No one really wants to complain.

A round of steroids are in the future,

And a moon face on top of chubby cheeks.

But the shoulder and legs won’t scream,

Give back youth; wish this on no one else.

Curses, curses, why do you advance?


Written for those who deal with chronic pain and flare-ups; it is hard to witness and harder to live with.

writing

Art Art Art

Bright pink anemone dances in clear blue waters;

A lone clown fish shuttles in and out;

A grand oak graces the canvas,

Limbs spread out amid a gentle fog;

Cold hard steel bent and twisted

Into hearts and symbols of LOVE;

Glass and ceramics fused together

Into an overhead view of islands and sea;

Sculptures adorning sidewalks and lawn,

Paintings of realism and abstract alike;

Such creativity from artists all around

With oohs and aahs from the crowd;

Each artist awaits their perfect client,

The ones with money lining their pockets

With that perfect wall to showcase their work;

All while the rest of us drool and dream….

Maybe we’ll win the lottery and buy that piece;

Or perhaps be so inspired by these works,

That we can learn the skills to make our own.

Art Festivals are bastions of inspiration

Bringing alive dreams and flights of fancy.

writing

Brownstone – Part 3

Melissa woke up to light streaming into her third floor bedroom. The room seemed to magically come alive in the light. The new day was filled with lots to do to begin settling in to Jane’s home…her home.

She sat thinking for a bit. How would she keep this house? Surely the taxes alone will strain her current income. Maybe renting rooms will help. Something more for her to investigate.

Melissa had a few more mysteries to untangle today. First up was a visit to that bank. But first, a shower, then tea. She hoped there was some tea in the kitchen; if not, a stop at Starbucks would have to do.

As she stepped into the bathroom, she whispered “Thank you.” Cousin Jane had pre-arranged leaving the utilities on for a month in the will and even had the probate lawyer stage toiletries in the bathroom for Melissa to use. One less thing to worry about!

The water pipes squealed and clanged as the water made its way to the shower head. The water was chilly, but slowly warmed up. Melissa was surprised by the flow. The shower had great water pressure for its age, better than her itty bitty apartment.

After showering she headed downstairs. The fourth tread down popped as she stepped off of it. She turned and realized is was loose, making a mental note to address it…and to be careful with it until then.

When she entered at the kitchen, she saw a beautiful tea caddy and a tea kettle. She couldn’t recall seeing them the previous night, but she smiled. However, when she opened the tea caddy, instead of tea she found a hand scrawled note.

Sometimes, there are things you just need to take care of for yourself! ❤️, Jane

She snickered to herself, then grabbed her purse and keys. Under her breath, she sighed, “Starbucks it is,” then headed out for a another day full of adventure.

writing

Amazed

You know that kind of love, the one that sweeps you off your feet? It’s the underlying thread in every love song through the years.

It’s the kind of love that spurs the desire to dance in the rain and curl under the covers, cuddling and holding each other tight.

It’s a type of love dreamed about but rarely attained. Some people get it, and it stirs a longing when witnessed from near or afar.

It’s the love that others will try to destroy, just to prove it doesn’t exist; but still it persists. It makes it through against all the odds.

Everyone deserves this kind of love. I hope we find it one day; because hope and love go hand in hand. I want to be amazed.

writing

Couched

The cushions laced with something magical;

Draining any energy a lounger possesses.

Sleep comes swiftly, especially when cozied up.

A blanket insulates, further entrancing victims.

The sounds of distant trains and cars fade;

Music or movies blaring disappear too.

A shrill ring of the phone might make it through,

But the purrs and mews drown it out,

Encouraging deeper and deeper sleep.


Why can I fall asleep on the sofa in less than 5 minutes, but stare at the ceiling for an hour in my bed? The sofa must be enchanted!

poetry, writing

Last Laugh

The weather deceived on Florida,

It should be a crisp winter day.

Instead the sun beat down relentlessly,

With only passing clouds providing relief.

The wind picked up as the skies darkened,

But the threat of rain did not come to pass.

The humidity gathered and smothered instead

While Mother Nature had her last laugh.

writing

Nap Time

Exhaustion overtook her, she stripped to her bra and slipped into bed. The sheet loosely gathered over her waist to keep the breeze from the fan off her legs. Swiftly, she drifted to sleep.

Gray clouds rolled in with the cold front. The winds outside picked up. The perfect weather to sleep the afternoon away. Her shadow, a little 10 pound Burmese mix seal point cat, curled into the cove made as she snoozed on her side.

She felt a man’s hand softly follow her side as he slid into bed. His gentle touch assured her. He snuggled into her back, tucking his knees into hers. His breath on her neck calmed her.

He draped his arm over her waist and pulled her in. She felt safe in his arm and together they drifted back to sleep.

When she woke, he was gone, but her fur-baby remained. She patted his little head as he stretched awake. What a nice little dream.