Shrimp

The night was young,

and the call of wild delight

pounded in my blood.

My loins were tingling with

woman fire

I was on the prowl

for one to slake my desire.

I saw you,

dancing with the mirror.

You pumped harder at yourself

when you saw me drawing nearer.

Drinks,

small talk,

to my place, just a short walk.

Dimmed lights,

you promised such delights

I had to explore you.

I stroked, kissed,

nibbled,

tasted and touched.

Soon I felt a shock,

as I pulled out a rather large sock

from briefs I expected

to hold something

spelled a little differently.

It was then that the laugh was on me.

Beneath my palm,

I felt a little wiggle.

When I drew aside the cloth

I began to giggle,

and giggle

.I then laughed,

until that thing and I

were both totally limp.

Instead of the manly meat

you promised.

I found something that looked

very much like

a malnourished shrimp.

/
/

The Advantages Of Being A Homely Old Broad

Did she just say there are advantages
to being a homely old broad,
Oh my God,
what could they possibly be?
Well sit down and listen,
and I am sure you will see.
A homely old broad
tries just a little harder,
 but don't let her looks fool you,
she's got some pretty tasty goodies,
in her sensual larder.
A pretty girl can lay there,
never move a muscle,
and she thinks it is enough,
A homely old broad
 has to try harder,
and she is made
of much more creative stuff,
Just dance with her once,
in the horizontal hustle
She can rock you
shake you.
bend you,
 break you.
You don't want to want her
but she knows just how to make you.
Homely old broads come in all sizes,
short,
tall,
chubby,
bony.
Homely old broads are the real thing,
no need to be a phoney.
A homely old broad is a red hot mama,
Any fella who 'says he's never had one
is just plain full of baloney.
A homely old broad
is the ultimate woamn,
or so I've been told.
Hey, you didn't think
I was speaking of
myself,
did you?
Honestly,
I swear to you,
I"m really not that OLD!

Greetings,

     By now you have figured out that I write poetry, the quality of which is determined by you, the reader.  How did I start, and why do I continue to do so?  I have no choice.  Writing is as reflexive an action with me as breathing.  It started many, many years ago, when I was but 12, alone, a clunky, shy kid who had thoughts and feelings, but no willing ear in which to pour them.  A pen and pad of paper soon became best friends, and while I have walked away, as we will all do with our closest friends, from time to time, I have always gone back to the welcoming arms of this medium to find comfort and understanding of myself that does not come from any other source.  I have grown into  a less clumky woman, and have found a place in the world where people let me into their secret lives and dreams.  I am learning every day the power of true love on wounded lives, and now my writing is a a gift that I offer most humbly to those who might benefit from the words, and the emotion behind them.

    Two of my poems, History Was To Blame, and ManChild, are based on the very courageous sharing by a very dear friend who lived through the full circle of the horrible event known as child molestation.  My own sister was violated by our father.  It was the only time I benefitted in any way to be the ugly brown haired lump of a child, as it kept his hands off of me.  The fact that I was not worth molesting did have the impact of making me feel even less worthy of any attention than I already did.  It is hard to feel lower than shit on an ant's shoe, but my father managed quite handily to make me feel thus.  It took me many years to finally realize that I could be loved, and deserved to be.  It took a rape, a child born and adopted out to a loving family because he would never find love in me, and years of feeling like damaged goods before I tired of it.  A near brush with my own mortality, in the form of heart failure, coupled with diabetes and severe anemia, made me stop and think about what I was here for, and if there was a chance I might ever fulfill this purpose.  I seriously wondered if  I  might not be just some cosmic scapegoat, a being created just for some wrathful anf hateful higher power to torment.  I decided that if that was how I saw the Divine, amybe I needed to look at other views of the Universal Mind.  Finding others who had the same questions and concerns I had led me to recognize that I was not, nor  would I ever be able to call myself a Christian.  I simply refuse to bow to an evil old man who sends his son to do his dirty work while he picks and choses on a whim what he will and will not do for his followers.  Thank you, but I have come out wit hthe short end of that attiude too many times, and would rather face Hell than bow to another being who does not love and support me as I am.  I am much the same way in my relationship to people now, as well.  I learned over the years of being on the outside, looking in, that there is much more breathing room on the outside, and have developed a dislike of any kind of crowd situation.  It is not a phobia, not a fear.  I simply do not like being jostled, pushed, and restricted by others in my path.   Fortunately, I am also polite about this. LOL.  I keep my social life intimate and selective, and gravitate toward interesting people, survivors, and strong souls who have lived hard and learned well from it.

              ManChild

While wandering the barren remains

of a life burned too many times

by flames of rage and disappointment

I did see sparkling in the debris

something of peculiar wonderment

Like a diamond it glittered,

calling to me from

the soulscape so hideously littered

by the ashes and embers

of my cremated dreams.

As I searched for pieces of my self

strange gems beckoned me to follow.

Gathering them in my hands,

I did as I was bade

passing through a smokey forest

to another desolate glade.

I happened upon a small boy

hiding behind the face

of a sad and lonely man.

Do these belong to you,

I asked,

As I held out his frozen tears.

Yes, but I can’t have them

Daddy told me so.

Boys don’t cry,

Crying is just for girls,

so he said,

but he never told me why.

When the bad man hurt me

Daddy took my tears away.

I have not seen them since,

at least not until today.

The boy had morphed

into a handsome man

I had no cause to fear.

Stranger in face he was,

but to my heart

He was near and dear .

I had met the reason for my search,

and my purpose became clear.

He spoke softly of sorrow,

of loneliness and pain.

He wept openly

when I gave him back his tears

and let him feel again.

History Was To Blame

By vulgar hands,

thieves

of your innocence

you found yourself defiled.

From your own childhood,

exiled,

to act out the fears

you could not drown

with your silent tears.

Later you would stand tried,

found guilty and convicted,

From your family ‘s love,

you felt yourself evicted,

for doing to another

the unspeakable,

in the manner it was done to you.

Your hands became the thieves,

as they stole into forbidden ground,

surely just one time

would not hurt.

There was no one else around

to stop you.

It was not like you meant

to hurt,

humiliate,

or shame,

another innocent,

History was to blame.

  Two Steps From Goodbye

There is no point in you reaching

     your hand out to me today.

I was thinking about what you said last night

     and I will only push you away.

What seemed like a forever thing

     has died upon the vine

I think you need to go live your life,

    and leave me to live mine.

You know how I was wounded by a past

    where I never felt I was free.

Now you want me to be a clone of you

    That’s not the way I see me.

Don’t try to coerce me with your kisses now,

They sear like acid on my skin,

     Don’t keep up this battle of wills,

I can not let you win.

     When you met me not so long ago,

I was finally planning a life of my design

     Now you want to change me, make me like you.

That’s your life you are planning, not mine

     You may think me cold hearted,

if I don’t believe you when you cry,

     But you have fooled me so many times before

you are just two steps from goodbye

WomanSpeak

He says,

I"ll only be gone a while

She says "Fine"

with a tight lipped smile.

He says

I"ll be home well before midnight

she says,

That's alright

The conversation stalls for a second

then his foot hits the mine.

Doors slam

he feels lost

He might still venture out with the boys,

though he knows how dear the cost.

He forgot,

OKAY

No Problem,

is all she will say

as she retreats from him

to tally the price he must pay.

He knows he has to think fast,

find the words quickly,

or there is no telling how long

his exile to the sofa will last.

I love you

I don't want to hear it

is all she will say

but he knows

it was all she wanted to hear.

Knowing the storm is over

he walks up to her

grinning at her skill

at defeating him

as he draws her

lovingly near

I Am Your Daughter

I make my way to this rocky shore,

to look for answers

in the mirrored surface

of the inky water.

You are the only one who can help me

Mother

For no matter how modern the life I live

in my soul’s deepest regions

I am Your daughter.

Life troubles me sometimes,

and I am tempted

to surrender myself

beneath the icy water,

but I seeks answers instead

Mother

For no matter how painful life may be

I realize I can never be a coward,

for I am your daughter.

Did you make me this way for a reason,

a purpose unseen by my eyes

and will it ever be revealed,

How can I decide what is truth

and how much is merely lies?

How can I live the life you would have me live

if it is never to my sight revealed?

If the others are the holders of the truth

how can I be your daughter?

I make my way to this rocky shore

to see your silver face

reflected in the surface

of the mirrored water

looking for some proof of our connection

Mother

Do I resemble you in any way?

Can others see and understand

that I am your daughter?

I make my way to this rocky shore

to find myself

in the silence beside this satin water.

I replenish my soul

Mother,

just knowing you are there

No matter how others see me,

I know I am your daughter

A Woman Of Edges

I am a woman of edges,

rough edges, sharp edges,

something haunting

at your spirit’s edges.

I cut through the nonsense,

with a sharp mind,

glinting like a razor’s edge.

I edge my way forward,

a dark horse contender,

I am edgy around liars,

I can see right through a phoney

have no use for a pretender.

With cutting words

useless I will render

all of your pretensions.

Egos broken,

Stands taken

battle lines drawn,

of Truth and Honesty

I am a strong defender,

Your tears can smooth away

the edges of my wrath

for in battle we must rebuild

clean up the pieces,

sweep away the debris

of the aftermath.

So I edge closer,

reaching out a gentle hand.

I see you on the edge

of despair,

all hope battered,

to fear you do surrender.

Love leads us both to the edge

of insanity

I poke holes in your pride

and in your shell

of vanity,

and you curse me

as you bless me

as we move to the edge together

to see if

forever we can see,

poised on the edge

of all we can be