Labels

I spent some time today labeling all of my entries to this blog. I still have a great deal of poems and stories to upload here, but this is definitely a good start. It was so difficult classifying my writing sometimes, though. There are things I've written that seem to defy a label. I did my best. For me, perusing by topic is a more interesting way to read someone's writing than to follow a chronology. I'll try to keep this entry at the top of my blog so it's easy to find what interests you.

Links to all topics are listed below. Enjoy!

Labels: Being a Woman, Death, Dogs, Dreams, End of the Relationship, Eternity, Expectation vs. Desire, Grandfather, Growing Up, Journaling, Laws of Attraction, Love, Nature, Nighttime, Sailing, Short Story, Time, Unrequited, Writing

The Dream King

I once had a dream that wasn’t quite a dream
In which the Dream King came to visit.

He stepped in through my bedroom window,
Long tails of his black overcoat
Dusting my windowsill
While his feet touched down like silent night,
And he stood tall and dark at my bedside.

His voice was full of stardust,
Midnight, and mystery
As he spoke to me
And bade me come with him,
Stretching out his hand to mine.

I don’t recall his face, but it was handsome.
I don’t recall his voice, but it was deep.
It is his eyes that I will never forget,
Black, shining, and pupil-less,
And like Poe’s raven, they said “Nevermore.”

I hesitated, but only for a moment,
Then my fingers touched his.
His skin was soft and smooth as polished stone,
Warm as the blankets,
And I was comforted.

I rose to his side.
“Where are we going?” I asked.
“You’ll see,” he replied, and I did.
We floated on moon glow,
And I was clasped tightly in his arms.

He bore me along effortlessly,
He wrapped me with his coat,
A coat that could cloak the sky,
And I peeked out over the dark landscape,
Safe and snug as a bug in a rug.

We flew ever so high, ever so far,
Over pastures and rivers,
Small towns and villages,
Highways and byways,
Until we came to a city.

At last, we came to rest
On the top of the tallest building,
And he held me there under the moon like a lover,
And we looked out over the streets far below
As though we were gods.

I can’t remember all of what he said.
But I remember he taught me to fly.
I remember his laugh like the soft wings of birds.
I remember his touch which was gentle and warm.
And I remember his love, pure and endless as the skies.

The next morning when I woke,
And the dawn crept golden across my face,
I felt as though I’d slept for the first time.
And a smile crept to my lips
Which still burned from his kisses.

YEAH, RIGHT

You're talking like a sailor to me
Strutting like a peacock, proud
And I wonder suddenly,
"What should my reaction be this time?"

You smirk and you smirk and you smirk
And you think you know me, don't you
You don't know me
I've got news for you. You don't know me.

For how could you begin to know
When I don't even know myself?
All I really know
Is that what you're doing isn't working.

Won't work. Can't work. I won't let it work.
Just give up the act, won't you?
You're not getting to me.
No, not getting to me at all.

Man, you're getting to me.
On my nerves, I mean.
That's what I meant.
Don't tell me what I meant.

Blood

The life of a woman is intimately connected with blood. The smell of it, the varying colors of it, become a pattern that mark out her days. She plans her life around the loss of blood; her wardrobe, her activities, her romantic encounters, her travel plans, her childbearing, indeed everything connected with her is in some way prescribed by it.

It is a rite of passage. It is something to hide. It is a monthly agony. It is a nuisance. It enslaves her. It is something to look forward to. It is something to dread. It is her pain. It is her gift. It gives her endurance. It wears her down. It makes her emotionally erratic. It brings her insight. It is one week out of every four. It is beyond her control. It is a war waged within. It is the blood of the women who came before. The blood of her womb. The blood of the mother who bore her in tears. The blood she will give to her own children. It is a sacrifice to life. And every woman feels it, knows it, endures it.

No man can ever understand the profound nature of this relationship. Very few men wish to know even the slightest details of her experience. For most of them, blood is death, something to be feared and avoided at all costs. They hate the thought of a woman's body becoming an open wound. They cannot be reconciled with the pain and bleeding that issues from the same place between her legs that gives them so much pleasure. The blood reprimands them, makes them feel as though they are somehow guilty of causing her discomfort. It becomes their shame, an unsightly mess to be cleaned up and made pristine.

Untitled for......

Understanding my feelings is the first step
Learning to accept them is the next
I hardly know you, and yet I feel
I’ve known you for eternity

How can it be that I feel so much
For someone I’ve known so short a time
How can it be that I know so little
About someone for whom I feel so strongly

You dream of me, you say
And I see you in my dreams as well
That has to mean something, doesn’t it?
Or does it? I hardly know what to think

Sometimes I think there’s no point in thinking
Sometimes I think there’s too little time
Sometimes I think you feel the same
Sometimes I think that I’m the only one

I wish it were easier to speak my heart
I wish it were easier to listen to my soul
I wish it were easier to ignore what others think
I wish it were easier to know your feelings

But we both play it so close to the vest
We both hope not to hurt each other
We both fear what we do not know
We both seek our destined ones

Are you the one? I cannot say.
Am I the one? Only you can know.
We seek the one who completes our selves.
Is there only one? We hope. Who knows?

Frozen

When the ice storm came
I was falling, falling, falling
I thought you’d catch me
But you didn’t

When the ice storm came
I loved you—how I loved you
I thought you loved me
But you didn’t

When the ice storm came
I cracked and splintered
When a word from your lips
Said you didn’t

When the ice storm came
I felt frozen, white as porcelain
Sharp as an icicle and twice as brittle
Because you didn’t

When the ice storm passed
I was left like trees that shattered
Into pieces on the ground
Because you didn’t