2014 Resolutions

RMPblackwhiteoutfitI carefully wrapped a little black box of unethical behavior to slip into your briefcase during happy hour.

Please consume it over the holidaze and call me at the first stroke of 2014.

The year of  44 was a good one. 

#For Reticent Mental Property with photo credit to blog site TheFashionExaminer.wordpress.com

Fall Forward

RMPwoman on cliffIn my year of ’44 I promise to fall forward when I feel like running.

The old me is still strong -wants to run; the new- to fly.

Learning is creating great quakes of consternation,

and I can feel the bones of my soul stretching.

As fear melds into laughter and reveals the colours of the living,

I can feel each dark fibre of complacency and numbness snap.

I hear a sharp intake of breath,  so near!

And I look back to find it is my own voice

which has opened its throat to gasp and claw for this strange,  new air.

And I fill my lungs with this weightless grace;

I courageously leap from the cliff of the mundane.

She  falls forward,  leaving behind the old traditions and expectations,  watching them run to suck the marrow from her skeleton.
#for ReticentMental Property.

Winter’s Muse



The apple tree waits in the garden with limbs outstretched, her unpicked sweetness bared to nature’s wants,  offering sustenance to the wild and unsettled visitors wandering through her woods.

Mother nature is making music of the frozen fruit,  dancing with  slippered toes,  leaving white footprints of frost as she preserves fall’s heat.

Winter,  he is strong, powerful, morphs wetness into wonderment, traps white hot desire until the  solstice wakes his lover and returns her to his bed for a fleeting embrace. Winter’s muse stretches her dewy limbs further each new day after the solstice.  With the gentle budding breasts of springtide,  she thrusts her fragrant desire forward to claim the bursting,  thirsty sunlit mornings,  gently consuming Winter’s handiwork,  and not shy about taking more.

She is already poised on the cusp of spring-  if she may have her way.  
#For Reticent Mental Property with photo credit to Ret and the Nature God.

Dance Partner


You must be feeling better, Dear.

Yes. Yes I am. I’m not yet tango material, but a close,  slow dance, the length of my body pressing to yours…yes.

That sounds wonderful.  Would this be vertical or horizontal dancing?

With me it always seems to start out vertical, with the most honorable intentions…

And then?

And then I end up back to the wall,and my knees fail me

as your hands hold me in place

and pull me to you

and your lips graze my ear to whisper how you’d like to have your way with me

while my heaving chest, rises and falls, in exaggerated fashion,

assisting my breasts in finding your heart

and encouraging your chin to nuzzle forward into the triangle at the base of my throat

and your lips to burn a path from neck to the hollow below my ear and


lightly skim across my cheek

and the tip of my nose

and the curve of my closed eyelids and

back down to my waiting mouth

where we kiss and inhale each other

taking the taste of authenticity deep into our lungs

to remind ourselves




That is spectacular,  Dear.  Just perfect.  I’ll lead now.

If she had any regrets at all:  Failure in perfecting the dip.   

#for ReticentMentalProperty

An Empty Villa


It’s 3 am.

The clock has turned into a hammer as its limbs strike each minute.  Flipping the covers back, she pulls her knees to her chest and rolls left where bare toes touch the coldness of the hardwood and as she runs her fingers through her hair to shake out tangled mass that comes with the restless gerbil-wheel of replayed conversations; the goodbye ending hasn’t changed.

His words do not hear her command to stay in the salt on her pillow.  Instead they rise up from the tangled sheets and carry themselves on the silence and stillness of pre-dawn darkness,  peppering her shoulder blades and the curve of her spine,  weaving themselves around her throat and tracing the letters of letting go from her shoulders to her hip , up and down and up and down, until she shivers and has to hold back the sobs, and save the waking of the day for his sunrise.  She kindly declines to disturb his dawn,  is still giving, generous, she has no contempt for his theft of her night.

Despite the mental rewrites, no matter how carefully each has devoured his library of gold-spined secrets to success, the timeless aching honesty of all well-worn romance novels prevails.  Their story remains the same;  trysts and touch are nothing if they rob him of peace of mind,  if he holds back that wonderful smile he lets fly when he sees her.

So, he rises early to take in a new, clean day while she holds on to the night to take everything from each moment. He won’t settle, has tasted and stands tall knowing what he puts into the universe will return and he must keep himself from her.

She assures him the most exquisite pain is still feeling, knows the music will take over after the words stop pummeling her heart and head.

And when he’s home,  he looks into the mirror, alone,  and protects his reflection from dishonor.

She makes her home where her spirit is alone, unknown, and finds in the lines of her face no regrets.

 She raises her glass filled with his favorite Sangiovese, sips, savors and forces a smile. Cheers wise man. She expected no less. 

#for Reticent Mental Property


RMPobamareganNew day take me on.

Let me set the pace of this adventure to the cadence of his footsteps on hardwood,  his hand on the small of my back leading me to the bar next to the dark theatre.

Sun, stream in through the panes, warm my bones and bring on the golden shine in my hair.  My smile reaches out, as if it were my hand, and touches your eyes.  I weave my fingers into your hair, over and over.  I turn my knuckles to your cheek, and back to my palm, a connective  kneading into your being. I  am unable to stop the pad of my thumb from tracing the line of your jaw.  Mouth to the ceiling, my laughter escapes, bursts out with sweet joy for the minutes we have together,  and I am rewarded as  your grin erupts,  the one reserved for me.

This grin is not the the one you try to hide by looking away,  by putting that dark  glass of Porter to your lips when we are seated side by side,  your good ear to my left.  That grin is still there,  an hour later, as we find ourselves batting back and forth yet another,  differing opinion.   Conversation with you,  so easy,  so heady, especially as your raised eyebrow and my appalled gasp meet across the bar to challenge the topic.  I can feel  how well we fit and fuel each other.

Your arguments do not sway me.  Nor mine, you.  Traditional and practical,  I want to turn and straddle you on your bar stool and soak up your smirk and cut down your resistance to my words.   While you,  so turned on by my talk,  my mind,  find your desire directing your hands to my boots, up my thigh and around the curve of my bottom.

We both win.

He was her cabin lover, a man of integrity.  He would resist and reject her on principle and she expected no less of him.     

#for Reticent Mental Property, image from ourvisiblehand.blogspot.com