Part 1 Part 2 “What do you mean we have to cut our trip short?!?!” I yelled at Connor. “This is the only time we get to spend quality time together! I understand your dedication,… More
life opens to me
only through observation
can i know the truths
Image credit- Stefan Keller – Pixabay
Deep feelings of love, a wanting, and need to feel you are someone’s everything. Ah, so sweet! Enjoyed this piece very much, hope you do too! 🙂
Forget me not
She told me, flattery will get you everything.
Please make me feel loved and wonderful.
I need someone, to be their, everything.
Even if just sweet lies dear Poet.
I remember the long Summer days and us stealing kisses and dancing near the lake.
You were my elixir of the sweet new Germany September wine.
Your kind words of love torn away years of misery and regret.
You told me often. Lover’s love and they demand more in the midnight hour.
Forget me not my love , she whispered.
The canvas of life is for us to create.
We can paint with a gentle touch or conspire to leave broken pieces of art,
where love can be dead and bury.
Blood art leave final resting place or love descended to glorious places.
Leave memories of sweet kisses and many dances for the moon and the…
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The sun dipped down farther, only a small semi-circle visible as the day said its goodbye to us. A contented sigh escaped the lips of my lover.
“It’s just more beautiful than we can put into words, isn’t it?” I said with a smile. This resort was our favorite, meeting every need a body and soul could have. Temperatures were moderate and not overbearing. The wind keeping it from being too sticky, and the shore whispered to us lovingly as we lazily laid on our comfortable beach bedding. The afternoons drifted in slow-motion as we mostly kept our eyes closed, letting intermittent naps take us away for small bits of time.
“How about we start slowly meandering towards our room?” Connor asked. I could see the hunger pangs within his question. “We still need to shower before the show, and I’d like to grab a bite first.”
“Ok, love. You’re right. We need to wash off the day,” as I gingerly crinkled my nose and smiled in his direction. He laughed, knowing exactly what I meant. “Yeah, I am a bit ripe, aren’t I?” Yes, a tad too manly, I thought to myself.
He didn’t show it, but it felt like he might be a bit offended, I said: “Well, truth be told, we’re both ripe!” The ocean did a great job of refreshing us throughout the day, but it didn’t disinfect the sweat all too well.
Although I enjoyed our long days at the beach, I looked forward to our evening shower. Both of us coming out smelling clean and looking at ourselves in the mirror at the end of the day, it was incredible to see how bronzed we had become. Seeing our reflections staring back at us was a turn-on, tempting me to ensure that we’d be late for the show. But Josh was hurrying, a sign he was starving. Well, there’s always later tonight, I thought quietly to myself. I slipped on my camisole and black skirt, signaling that I was nearly ready to go. He turned to me with his sexy grin. I forced myself to keep my passions under control.
Along with feeling like we were beautiful people, we were so at ease in this place, and seemingly quite in love. It’s like we were enchanted. The atmosphere was relaxed and sensual, and so very peaceful without a lot of human-made noise. It was heaven listening to the wild-life and the sounds of the surf on the beach. The staff did a great job of giving people their space but being immediately available when their services were required. We always felt pampered and well taken care of at the resort. It had been our escape from the world for the last five years, and one we looked forward to enthusiastically every year.
Grabbing my hand as we walked out the door, Connor said, “You look ravishing tonight, Angie! Let’s leave the show a little early tonight,” he said with a mischievous wink. I smiled and nodded excitedly.
TO BE CONTINUED ON TUESDAY…
The envelopes piling up on the credenza,
a daily ritual every afternoon
of dumping from the mailbox to the top of the desk.
Out of sight, out of mind they say.
Having fun, feeling free with friends,
enjoying life to the fullest meant
barely a thought given to the duties of adulthood.
The distraction of coffee, a record playing or a good movie
always drawing her away to a better place than what was around her.
Not that it couldn’t be better.
She didn’t know how or want to acknowledge her inadequacies
staring her in the face each time she walked by the roll top.
She never excelled at math, couldn’t balance her check book and
never understood the value of money.
Always being reckless and not knowing she really should save.
Sadly, the day of personal reckoning finally came,
the sheriff’s insistent hammering at the front door.
“Ma’am, you’ve been served an eviction notice.”
“I want to know where Julia is!” screaming frantically in the cloud that was my head, disconnected and ethereal. Slowly, pieces of the crash came into view before my eyes. I felt a sudden dread now. Then panic as I sucked in my breath harshly. Hard to hold on to reality at that moment. A medic said to inhale deeply, and then the room got darker. In the echo of tunnel vision, I could hear the nurse shout, “Damn creep! How can someone think it’s even remotely OK to cause this accident just because lesbians were kissing at a stoplight.
You feel like home to me.
Angelique’s piece is a wonderful analogy of how the gazillion individuals lives resembles the gazillion books out there. Enjoy!
I looked out into the world
And I saw it
We are all main characters in our own books
I couldn’t unsee what I had seen
All of us walking around with pages and chapters
With bookmarks to save the important parts
With spines and bindings
Or stained with living
I can’t unsee it now
The way our lives play out
Like the chapters in a book
Like stories to be told
With love and heartbreak
And body aches
I saw the words written on everyones face
“He had a rough past, and now he’s struggling to reach his future”
“Her heart has just been broken, but she fought on for her daughter”
“He said goodbye to his dad not knowing it would…
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Starting Monday July 6th, I will be posting a new type of series for my readers. Each week, I will post one complete story broken up over the course of the week. As with all that I write, I’m a fan of the short stuff, so they will be a quick read every day. You can expect these stories to be around 2500 words total for the week. The daily posts will be segments of a fictional story with an interesting twist on Thursday’s. I will ask the readers to decide what type of ending they would like to see on Friday. In other words, where would you like to see my imagination go?!? I find the idea of collaborating with the audience quite fascinating. I hope you will too!
I’m looking forward to doing this as it will challenge me to be even more creative. Plus, I’ve gotten feedback from some friends and readers that would like to see me stretch my storytelling wings a bit more. So, thank you for the encouragement and let’s have some fun!
See you Monday! 🙂
How I hate those poets who rise at dawn
to write a couple hours before work—
Wallace Stevens especially, Emperor of Ice-Cream,
my ass! You’re not the only one with a day job.
And don’t get me started on Ted Kooser,
who should be staying up late in the flatlands
to watch the milky way flow instead of drinking dawn
from a bucket some early bird probably pooped in.
My muse sleeps in a bottle and does not awake
until neon lights buzz. She inspires the moon
and I do her bidding beneath flickering televisions,
whipping a ballpoint to get every last drop.
The only time you’ll see me in the stark morning light
is if I’ve had to walk home drunk and forgotten the way.
As the soft skin of your leg
conceals the strength of your thigh,
I lean in close to hear your voice—
quiet as dandelion seeds in autumn
with words powerful as a storm.
Hand in hand, enjoying your perfume,
your mouth and eyes straighten,
no longer curved like the rest of you.
I don’t want to relax my grip
but know I can’t clutch onto my desire
without losing that which I hold most dear.
I was the teacher’s pet
not because of my smarts
but because of my charm,
smooth chocolate compliments
and precision tattling.
I knew which bully to befriend
for much-needed protection
and when to stab him in the back
then upgrade to a bigger model.
There will always be men
who think they’re great
and need little guys,
like me, to confirm
Bartholomew Barker is an organizer of Living Poetry, a collection of poets in the Triangle region of North Carolina. His first poetry collection, Wednesday Night Regular, written in strip clubs, was published in 2013. His second, Milkshakes and Chilidogs, a chapbook of food-inspired poetry was served in 2017. www.bartbarkerpoet.com
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