Telling me what I want to hear

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I want to know where you go because you want to tell me that story and want to share inspiration.  I want to be the person you confess to with confidence in my care of your mess.

I want to know whom you met today because I want to be able to give you the nuggets of conversations from my  day,  from my aha moments and observations- many made about you being amazing and this person was well, merely likeable.

I want to know why you went where you did because I let myself go where I go and you should know what led me down that curious path and whether I’d walk it again- and whether I’d walk alone or bring you with me, to hold my hand, to stand in another spot on the map of reference I carry in my head.

I don’t test you to see if you are where you say you are.  I don’t make you share your day. I don’t check up on you. I want to give you privacy because I believe we all need a life of our own. But when you are ready to share, know I will have already shared mine, blurted out my little existence in snippets, given you my moments because I want to pull you into my life without reservation or censorship of how naive and limited I am from a stifled coming of age.

You live a big life. I live a big life.  And together why not meld these lives and build a third shared experience that inspires blinding passion from putting them together?

There’s comfort in the exchange of a day,  and while I’m running my fingers around yours, and up and down the lean lines of your forearm,  over the bend of your elbow where that divet holds a sensual space just under your bicep where I press and pause and press  and pause, while I lie next to you, my thigh draped over yours, chin nestled in the curve of your shoulder. I’m tracing the tatt on your tricep, ink which will someday be a sleeve with the story of your life, and the colors of our life.

I believe in this telling-time,  this pouring out of innocent awe, this is where we find our adventures complement and combine. We surprise ourselves again and again. We put images and memories in our heads to create the stamina for stories that we will want to hear for another 50 years, well into those longer days when we are on the front porch, rocking in our chairs, talking, re-telling, laughing, still holding hands.

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Give me your life- not in the golden band on the right left hand this time- but your mind’s life, the one that spins up there in that creative space where you reveal your naked self to my soul and I cradle your words and dreams with trust and fearless belief in your integrity and we honor each other in the safe keeping of hearts. 

#for rEticent mental property. Images courtesy of the web. September 24, 2017, the day the NFL stood up to #45 and locked arms in solidarity to support those who chose to stand Or take a knee without worry of repercussion.

 

 

 

 

Kundera?

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Was it Kundera?

Who is the writer proposing that true love is made of freedom? No rules. No conformity. No expectations. True acceptance of another in failings, flailing, flat-lining on mistake after mistake.

Who is it who writes about love and its ability to thrive when given free reign? The understanding that holding on to some ideal is only going to tether the love you have created and drown it under the rock of burden.

Let go the ropes of tradition.

Let go the desire you temper for Sunday’s pew.

Let go the callings of should do’s and shouldn’ts.

Let go the anchor of security. Find the heart, beating wild, in you.

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Breathe freely the love of acceptance. Give abandon its place in your world.

#for Reticent Mental Property. Images courtesy of the web. Posted September 18, 2017

 

Rock Me Mama

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Out late in the night she sees only neon, the ice in the tumbler, the glisten of olive in gin.

Discussions around her cover all of the flavors of the human condition.

The man in the wife-beater tee salivates at young flesh on the dance floor.

Mundane observations from the bartender about Kapernaek, the weather, the price of milk in July, keeps heads nodding for another, agreement never required,  equal whining for all, defenses fall down to the bottom of the glass.

To the left sits the troupe of bachelorettes, too much skin, too much makeup, sloppy grins. Yet exhuberant dancing,  mischievous antics, ribald jokes about cucumbers and pickles and wood keep all entertained.

Across the room sits the young man with his date. They are new to the night, to each other, small sips from tumblers of sugar-ice liqueurs flit between witty comments, innuendo and the audacity to look into each other’s eyes, deeply, with blatant longing. Someone buys them a shot. Then to cope, a double for himself.

She pulls her focus to the table before her. Across the high top are women from her coming of age. Small town women yes, but the ones who had her back when she didn’t know she needed that. These women kept the best of the rules and made new ones to get them through career launches, predicted setbacks, the raising children on farms or in cities, fun times when some were without any partner at all.  Yesterday’s road parties rise up to the meet them, memories burning, tinged with regret, but burning wild in the part of the head that stores the most bravado of whatever has passed. Bonfires, beer and big hair. Poison, Bon Jovi and REO. The rhythms and beliefs and the words of the past, slip them into easy conversation, women dabbling in tales, forgotten stories, old town lore.

Who’s sleeping with whom? Who left his wife? When did Charlie start drinking at Double D’s? Get the dirt out of the way and get down to the grit. It isn’t about the consumption of fire, it’s all about the slow death of ignorance, innocence, and what we thought we could be.

How’s Macy with chemo? How’s your husband’s farm? Are you still working at Mulligan’s to keep the coverage you need? There are few answers, a hundred simple confessions, the sips in between the happy white lies. Another beer for the rest, a dirty gin gimlet for one, laughter and photos and hugs. Married happily, not married, never marry warnings, too long married; why is the length of time the gold band covers the naked left finger still the equalizer in 2017?

Shots of Fireball make their way from the men sitting at the rail in the front. Damn bartender makes great tips because he knows all the gal’s names and will share. In a circle they loft the amber liquid, stare into each other’s eyes for few, then raise them up with a clink – not even a nod of thanks to the gentlemen – then a tap on the table top for the ones who aren’t there.  The throwback, the set down, the exhale of the heat of the burn and they settle in for another hour of whatever comes out of the mouth. No need for poker faces or tears. The honesty sets in to balance the fears.

She’s the baby in the rock of the cradle, they are the sisters she let set the pace. The steady has fallen this time-  it’s her turn, only fair.

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#for Reticent Mental Property. Images courtesy of the web.

Judge Not

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Why are we told we shouldn’t care about what other people think about what we do when in reality there are things called reputation and integrity?

We do care.

We should care.

Actions display good (or bad) character.

Perhaps we should simply choose to act in ways that demonstrate the way we wish others would deem moral and good.

Or should we?

Who likes to be judged?

Perhaps we should, therefore, engage only in what is judged to be moral and just.

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She has failed. And will pay. 

#for Reticent Mental Property. Images courtesy of the web.

 

 

 

Desired. And not.

STbraceletsChelseaDelucaThere’s a coldness in her eyes, a walk that won’t sway, a melancholy sigh in her step.

She’s a woman of complicated wanting. She’s a woman of the simplest of ways.
She’s been to the ocean and desert; she’s traveled her heart, his, and her time. .

She’s comparing the beds of the others, beds of silk, beds of rest, best of the best.

She’s left all her inhibitions in writing, expecting a challenger to cum out of the fray.

She’s not a woman of answers, she’s excited to answer the call, she seeks what the wild abandon has left wanton and empty for all. She gives far more than expected, she’s sacrificed, sweaty thigh-quaking, to find- no to hold- the holy grail of love making truth.

She’s a mere novice, a tolerant giver. She’s willing to reveal all to You. 

#for Reticent Mental Property

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The Calm

 

Then.

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Now:

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It is not my nature to be so dark and brooding.

I have not been the storm- prefer to be the calm-am known as

the calm.

But my truth is truly tumultuous

at present.

And I have to sit here,

in it

-in the eye-

and find my peace

and my place.

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She was stretching out and grateful;  growing one wing at a time. 
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#for Reticent Mental Property. Images courtesy of the web.