Haiku Horizons, Retreat

I saw a sea shell on the sea shore {explorer}

I saw a sea shell on the sea shore {explorer} (Photo credit: Andreas-photography)

Soul, curled up, retreat

Brittle shell hides swaying womb

Orange, sand-blessed time.

 

 

 

 

 

Lovers cling, shadows

retreat, red velvet couches

red davenport

red davenport (Photo credit: sushiesque)

Anger, sex, lying.

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Haiku Heights: Seven

Bivalvia numbers

Bivalvia numbers (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Seagram's Seven Crown

Seagram’s Seven Crown (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Before eight, not six

not attached to eleven

simply, strong, seven.

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Smell, sloppy kisses

Drunk man and woman. Lovers?

Seven with Seven.

Escape To The Bedroom

8773 - St Petersburg - Hermitage - Aphrodite

8773 – St Petersburg – Hermitage – Aphrodite (Photo credit: thisisbossi)

I’m so tired, my eyes are threatening to close and go on strike forever. I see puffs of clouds through jagged corners of my weary green eyes.  Believe me, I don’t want to fight you, I just want to go under my covers and sleep. It is the fourth day of gray, cold, damp weather and I try to pretend I am not even here. My Fibromyalgia tender points are raw, if I even touch one gently with my soft finger I scream with pain. It’s as if a rainbow of sharply pointed colored pencils plunge deeply into my tender points with the power of a strong hammer, the tip of bold silver needles aiming for precision. There is no cure and no release, not on these cold, damp days. Welcome to my chronic world.

I am taking a trip now, escaping under my blankets, where I belong. It is warm and sunny, I regret not having stronger sun glasses.  I am wearing a short, dark blue denim skirt that I haven’t been able to fit into for 20 years, I have a white V neck short-sleeved top with stunning embroidery around the lace yoke, a colorful beaded necklace around my neck, blue, yellow, pink, purple beads held together with silver strands. I am wearing silver sandals and freshly painted pink toes and I am smiling, happily. I move my head to catch the breeze and my hair feels like it is joyously dancing. I am not alone.

My lips have just been brushed, my breath stalled, the lightness of butterfly wings with unfamiliar lips brushing mine and lingering for a second too long to think it was an accident. It is just a touch, which makes my heart start to beat rapidly, and I have  t rouble regulating my breath. Both of us linger, for a second, in the air as we try to understand what just happened. That first question of possible romance and sexual curiosity being stirred up after such a long time. Who knew that they still existed? I thought they were gone forever, I fooled myself into thinking that because it made my dreary life easier.

‘I feel awkward and shy, my cheeks blushing pink, childishly and I try to hide my face from my new love but he misses nothing. He curls his hand and gently strokes my cheek, lovingly as if I was a precious gift. He looks at me as if I am his treasure, I don’t remember feeling like anyone’s object of worship ever before. This is separate, a later in life gift, a precious offering that I am trying to fight but know I will attempt to struggle hard and eventually may give in. Who doesn’t want to feel loved and sensual and appreciated? Who doesn’t want their body to be stroked so slowly and lightly that all your senses awaken like budding flowers from the long, dark, icy winter. I have never heard compliments murmured in my ears, whispering loving phrases as if my body and soul were a beautiful sculpture, more beautiful than Aphrodite.

I am yours, under these covers, in our world, in my head. You keep me alive, you make me vibrate and tingle until I can imagine I will see you the next time. We both long for that, sometimes not having the access immediately intensifies the passion, the lust. I want our eyes to meet again, the first second of shyness, the second of hunger, of greed and then…..’

Someone is pulling on the covers, intruding on my safe world, someone is screaming for me to” wake up.” No, I don’t want to leave but leave I must. I don’t want to return to that world with its gray dullness seeping into every molecule of my ordinary self. My brain is dead, my emotions flattened; I am jealous of my own fantasies.

Carry on Tuesday: The pain of parting is nothing to the joy of meeting again

Love Love Love

Love Love Love (Photo credit: Gregory Jordan)

Dear Rachel,

I know this letter will come as a surprise but I needed to explain things to you. I’m writing it because you are my best friend and I trust you. I’m sorry I never told you before but I think you knew. I can see you, sitting in your oak office, reading this with your long red hair, nodding up and down, chewing on your nails like you have done since we were ten.

You were right, I DID have a secret but I couldn’t share it with you or anyone else. I have cheated on Don for the past 5 years with a man named Mark. We love each other so much. Unfortunately, we are both married to other people. As much as I love him, I hate myself for what I am doing. We’ve probably broken up the same amount of times we’ve been together; it’s a horrible situation. If I even came close enough to smell the musky after shave he wears, I weaken.  He has a way of making me feel so incredible with just his burning brown eyes on mine. Every organ inside me would start melting, like those gooey, grilled cheese sandwiches we used to make on top of a simmering stove. I have to be honest. I hate the person I’ve become but I’ve loved him in a way I didn’t even know existed and I can’t give that up even though I have tried.

It’s hard to describe the way he makes me feel: Priceless? Special? Extraordinary? Those words don’t even come close. Don has never made me feel that way, no man has and I’m not talking in just a sexual way either. My soul felt  connected to Mark as well as my body. He stroked my skin, like I was a calico kitten, for hours, just doing that and whispering how lovely I was in a low, soft whisper like the sound of the running creek right outside my window. Steady, rippling, constant. I wouldn’t move for hours. I felt so loved by him and his words; it is what I lived for as infrequent as it was.

He has a wife and two daughters back home and when he even eludes to them I would become terribly angry. He never lied to me about them, he told me he did not want to leave his children, but of course, I thought I could change his mind. He and his wife have no relationship at all. I thought the love we had together MUST be stronger than the love he had for his family. Every time he left I told him not to come back, but he would call……and it would start again. I tried so hard to break up with him, I truly did but we would always find our way back to each other. I couldn’t live my life without him and I hated my life and what I was doing with him.

I have nothing against Don, he is a sweet man. But, we live as companions, we eat together, we travel together, that’s it. It’s a comfortable life and I accept it and I was okay with that until Mark entered my life; I never looked for Mark, we met on an airplane.

I hate that I am lying and deceiving Don but I continue to do so, I cannot stop. I don’t know if Mark will leave his family, he says he “wants to” but that it is “difficult and complicated.” I love Mark and I always will.  I am getting more out of control, these past few weeks. That’s why I haven’t returned your calls. I can’t think, I hate myself, I hate both my lives.  When the pain of parting is nothing compared to the joy of meeting again, you have to ask yourself, at what cost?

By the time you read this letter, I will be dead. It’s been planned for weeks. I plan to swallow a lot of pills and drink a lot of alcohol and then drive my car late at night and speed as fast as I can down the hill into the ocean and pray I drown. At least I know I won’t be hurting any more people since it’s our property.

I can’t live in both worlds any longer; I don’t deserve to live in one.

Love, Kate

Haiku Heights: Tree

Uprooted tree from Storm Sandy

Uprooted tree from Storm Sandy (Photo credit: Arlington County)

Trunk ripped by its roots

flipped like the white of an egg

We crouch together.

*****

Once felt as sturdy

the tree weeps its bitter tears

and says I’m sorry

*****

Our small family

I brought you into this world

and helped you to grow.

*****

Like lovers soft limbs

branches intertwine with grace

Natural beauty.

NaBloPoMo #4 On Marriage

time.

time. (Photo credit: .through my eyes.)

Two young people with promise in their first kiss, laughter in their eyes,

a glance becomes a knowing look.

Everything is new, different, hard to acclimate, two people struggling to become a couple.

Years go by, like milk chocolate tasting slightly stronger, and less sweet

dark chocolate melting more easily on your tongue, surprisingly less bitter.

The intertwining of the two after many years, differences not so apparent anymore.

Habits that used to annoy me, about you, I find don’t matter quite as much

In fact, I find myself doing it sometimes but keeping it a secret with a sly grin.

Twenty-four years of marriage, we reach for each others hand

to thread our fingers together like an embrace.

Reassurance is a holy gift.

I don’t want to think of one of us gone but someday

one of us will be forced to live alone.

Live in the moment and with a deep, deep breath I try to push my thoughts away.

For a second or two,

I am fearful of the thought of living without him.

Growing old is hard enough, but if I grew old with you

I think I would be able to handle it a little more easily.

But, we don’t know the story of the rest of our lives, do we?

Stay with me, old man, and I will try to stay with you too.

Once in a while, panic overwhelms my courage and I become paralyzed in cold ice.

Along with gratitude and grace,

I am so humbled to have you in my life.

Your booming voice and stomping steps,

I don’t care about them anymore,

I just care about you and me, together.

For as long as forever will be.

Haiku Heights – Soul

Sun Catcher

Sun Catcher (Photo credit: ecstaticist)

Soul mates intertwined

Staring at the starry night

Sun, moon, darkness, love

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Deep inside, my love

Bleeding hearts echo in sin

Learning not to kiss

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Sinewy angels

Dip their glittered souls in rage

Their throaty laughter

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The red flower laughs

A life to be reckoned with

we, of the same earth

Political Pop Cop: John and Elizabeth Edwards (Repost)

John Edwards official Senate photo portrait.

Image via Wikipedia

1/29/10

Come here John Edwards and your little baby too! Wait. How’s this instead? Come here John Edwards and bring your sex video tape too. Does it sound like the Wicked Witch of the West running after Dorothy and little Toto? Great, it’s supposed to. Herewith are the makings  of a very dirty, dramatic soap opera filled with love triangles, babies out-of-wedlock, political conniving, incurable diseases and a sex tape…..which are unfortunately and undeniably true. Allegedly.

I have to begin by declaring that I never liked John Edwards. I  got bad vibes from him right from the start. It was something about his slick hair and apple-polished face.  I was never a fan and can’t really say why except for something in the guy turned me off, he had a disingenuous feel about him; I didn’t trust him, nothing more, nothing less.  Later this personal  assessment was proven; this asshole decided to run on the Presidential ticket right about the time that his (as we thought then) precious wife was diagnosed with terminable cancer. Is it fair to judge his political expertise on that? No?  Sorry, I did.  The second he didn’t drop out of the Presidential race because his wife had cancer, he was lost to me. Gone. Done. No Do- overs.   I did not want a man to run this country who wouldn’t want to be with his dying wife.  Priorities. Oh, Poor Elizabeth, I tsked. Poor, poor Elizabeth. I truly felt sorry for this remarkable woman whose personal courage resonated in every part of me.  Until….

I read that Elizabeth Edwards and her dear hubby John, both used her illness as STRATEGY for his campaign.  “Let’s use your cancer diagnosis, we’ll get the sympathy vote.”( I’m paraphrasing.) What the hell? They used the “C” word, cancer,  to work for them in his campaign?   That’s low , in my opinion, not to mention tacky and heartless.   It’s enough that I never liked him but now her too? She was pushing for this strategy?  Oh no, tell me she didn’t!

This might be too much for my sensitive  soul to take. I am running on emotional disgust fumes. Don’t like liars. Don’t like manipulators.  On the other hand, I generally don’t like snitches but actually, in this case, I do. The snitches aka best friend and campaign manager, told the public, the truth. (Do I have to say allegedly again?)

I forgave Bill Clinton, I decided his private life  was his business. I wasn’t thrilled when Monica Lewinsky found foster care in  his office but I did not write him off. After all, that is one  intense family and I know there is more to it than meets the eye.  It was not my business (not that this is) and Bill was in office already when his state of “affairs” become more complicated.

John Edwards is now a new baby daddy.  I can even, somewhat remotely, forgive a mistake BUT NOT  this MANY and not with INTENT and MANIPULATION.   He blamed his “fertility” on his friend and supposedly wanted to dupe the public with a fake diaper DNA test. I don’t even know how you can do that!   Who thought up THIS storyline?

Supposedly,  disgustingly, disturbingly,  John Edwards told his lover that once his wife died they would get married and have their own family and that the Dave Matthews band would play at their wedding. Is that even believable?  Really, you can’t get lower than that. Just hearing that makes me crazy and I can’t get rid of the image in my head and I have tried really hard!

John, you blew it, big time.  Elizabeth, I still feel sorry for you that you have cancer but I would feel that way for anyone struggling with that horrid disease.   I read that when Elizabeth Edwards heard about the love child that Johnny  had with his lover “it made her throw up.” After reading about your escapades and writing about them, I know the feeling all too well. Both of you make me want to throw up.