To All Those Women

This is the most real post I’ve read in a long time! Men are not always appreciated as much as women are and no one says anything about it.

Heron There & Everywhere

To all those women who have full-time husbands and don’t really appreciate them, you can all go to hell. Yes, I know that’s abrupt and a bit nasty, but I don’t care. This post is aimed at women who don’t know how good they’ve got it.

I’ve worked with women who whined because their husbands played golf or watched too much football or worked non-stop on the car or on the house. Their husbands were still there beside them every night, but they felt put upon because he had other interests besides them. Stupid ungrateful women.

My hubby was home for just over four hours today. Four HOURS. That was our “weekend”. He came in, we had lunch together, I did his laundry while he showered and took a nap. He watched the Preakness with me, he packed and left again. Yes, this was an unusual circumstance. There was some…

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Give Me Some Space

I’m afraid this blog is transforming into something I do not want it to be. That there’s a cloud here that visits every time I publish a book. It lingers over the tops of our heads like an annoying conversation that will not end. How did we get here? I don’t want to write about writing today. Don’t want to hear explanations of grammatical correctness, and book cover design. I don’t want to hear anything about Self-Publishing and ISBN Numbers. And yet, here I am, talking about writing! Why does this cloud of a niche insist on trying to find its way to this blog? I’ve always enjoyed the variety of subject matter here and Dear Writing, I love you, but I cannot let you sneak up on us like this. We need some space. Yes, you are starting to get on my nerves. I don’t want to hear about books and why I should be reading them. I want to hear about life and why I should be living it. I want to talk more about what’s going on inside these walls called the four corners of the Earth. Want to talk about how well my husband’s surgery went and how much I’m enjoying his break from the job. Want to whisper sweet poetic somethings into this post just because I feel like it. No prompts. No tips. Just poetic somethings. Want to sit back and tell you why Lean on Me is the best movie ever and I challenge anyone to tell me I’m wrong. Want to explain why I’m probably wrong. Dear Writing, let me laugh my way into this post without thoughts of you. Time for us to take a break. Give me some space.

The Relationship – My Love Affair with Poetry

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Smitten.

You know the feeling

that refreshing taste of newness

the aching agony that occurs merely from having to wait

until you can see him again

the love sick hurricane in your stomach

just to hear him say your name

the sweat that hides itself beneath your fingertips

when he’s around

the sudden sense of laughter

upon seeing his face

because you know like he does

the secret that lets its guard down

upon the blinking of your eyelids

the pace of a heartbeat

when a word of kindness escapes his lips

you know it

the feeling of fresh love

like the aroma of gourmet coffee

like when the caffeine simply invites you

like the pupils of his eyes when they mentally undress you

because the kindness pouring forth from these thoughts

is strangely exhilarating

the feeling that reminds you

why you were ever single,

the masculinity of a voice

strong, and incredibly calm

whatever I could do to convince poetry that it was necessary that we speak

was a chance to breathe,

for he was a ventilator

and I just needed air.

so I rushed home just to grab a book

or pry open my diary

and hold his thoughts in my hand until my paper

bled its first period.

Deeper.

Over time, we got closer and I became more open

I grew out of childhood

and demanded more attention from my lover

I became jealous and obsessive with my need to be seen with him

in the classroom, in the library, and late into Open mic nights

I ate up words with the speed of speech

and wrapped alliterations

around alphabets

like it was oxygen.

Smoking lyric

and sipping on rhythm slow

like the stride

of a black man

Commitment.

It was no longer convenient to lock me away,

cover me under the flap of notebooks and journals,

it was time to come out of the closet.

I tried to stay focused really,

but paper had proved to be too cluttered

and too slow for us,

too polluted to allow the thing we’d attempted through privacy

to ever grow into what I needed

How could I allow our particular version of intimacy

to be buried by the commas and blue lines

and falling parenthesis that make up the creative world?

After all, we were in love and as such it was time for marriage

and the introduction of this relationship

into the mainstream

The way these words were so finely crafted

almost as if they wrapped themselves around my lips

and took trips inside my memories

Euphoria

any feeling this good has got to be a sin…isn’t it?

No,

What I’d stumbled upon was a gift and no,

this was not a transgression of law

this

was

love.