Mind your reds, leave your Ps and Qs at home


Ridel stemless shows the legs, displays the ruby colors, picks up the nose of oaky barrel. Inhale Tom Hardy, contrast his scent, one male with the warmth between her legs.

There’s a trail of mind set free inside the foyer. First her outer things, then her under things, random flings of her anythings, dropped, tossed, shed, from the door,  up the stairs, trailed down the hallway to the bed.

By now she is all-in, passion’s woman, sights set on him. He knows this.

She’s sultry, saucy, blesses his body with kisses. Feels her way over her focus, drapes thighs, squarely over chin.

Lead her head to letting go with a firmness in the hold of her hair at the base of her skull, nape of neck kissed with flicks of lips, feel the woman, unleashed.

Murmured whispers, gentle pressure yields never; but sudden soft gasps deny resistance to the moment they create.

Exploration launched from tongues tied without words swirled into deep kisses, fawning thrusts, with heavy hands grasping breast, tweaking strings of lust, while making love.

Let her go, let her be her own fire, don’t stop to wonder, please accept. She’s turned off all her filters, found a place where she will not wither, let her break through her own barriers and find you on the other side.

She is with you in the making, in the taking, in the travels she has staked for her own purpose. Fill yourself with gentle longing, take not the moment from the maker. She is loving in the mind’s eye you have opened just for her.

Red wine is a powerful blindness.  Sip shallow? Like a lady? Oh, never again. 

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

Fall forward, finally.


Took a leap of faith today.

Left behind a church once loved.

Took a leap of fright today.

Left the comfort of loving arms, bound too tightly.

Took a leap of love today.

Prayed my children would find their way back home.

Took a leap of lust today.

Found a proud heart, strong limbs, with more, and more service, to give.


She took a leap of laughter today and found a life of joy she’d missed before. 

# for Reticent Mental Property. Images courtesy of the web. Feb 1, 2018




Can’t be every man’s wanna be


It’s been a few years of denial.

I’ve tried to go home, to fit in, to fix me.

But what I’ve been denying is my person- she knows what she wants, why she breathes.

I’m a mother. Above all things, I claim the right to be me – I’m know I am THE Mother.

(No, not the Mother Fucker. I’m The Mother. And forever will be. )

I am woman, on top of all else I can be, I am Woman. I am for speaking up, speaking out, speaking free.

I am slowly realizing what I want is to be ME. And this woman knows who she wants to lie close to, curled up, chin resting on chest, body cradled into a pile of what puppies must feel.

Lover, my laughter, my life: find me.


for Reticent Mental Property, images courtesy of the web. January 31, 2018.



Protest. Out loud, this time.


There’s no story to be told that hasn’t been told before, but there’s always a detail that hasn’t been revealed, some twist making us feel like we are alone in our living. We protect everyone by keeping our choices to ourselves. We think no one has felt the same.

Women friends, we know this. We support.

We hold in our pain and passions thinking we will be judged or worse, knowing we are exactly the dirt we put to the page and that the truth, our truth, is inspiration capable of surpassing fabrication. We keep the truth safe for those who aren’t heart-strong enough to handle our mistakes.

Wives and lovers, we know this. We protect.

There’s no shame in telling the truth. But there’s blame when we speak it out loud or write it with names and dates in ink wet with fury and passion and need.  To preserve the sense of balance in the world, some of us choose the peace of silence until it breaks out of us, released in ugly ways by a three-martini streak or with prescience in one of those hemp inspired love-making sessions.

Seemingly strong women know this. We speak out.

There’s no answer to be found outside of our own heart. When we lose sight of our children, lose focus to the desk, lose time to the lover, lose clarity in the weight of our roles, we damage the lives we have created. We live another life, another lie when we are silenced and cut off from our original purpose. We take the easy route, the path of least resistance, think we have done all we could when we know we didn’t, thought we couldn’t, felt we shouldn’t.

Our children know this. We prioritize.


She took her foot off his throat and told him that she was done with this. He called her beautiful and wiped the tear from her cheek with the tip of his finger. 

#for Reticent Mental Property. Images courtesy of the web. January 20, 2018. Women’s March 2.  Breakup number four. Jeezuz F. Christ.


Endless chapters


The title always comes after the write.

The first line often becomes the last .

The center is flexible, pure thought but often revised into conformity.

The beginning should lead through the learning,  and it does, sometimes haphazardly,  but always better than when it drops off to silence.

She has been accused of over-thinking. She admits she never overs…just thinks more deeply, more critically, more philosophically, gives credence to the pain of the interpreter as her perspective burns the eyes of her reader.

There’s always a focus to the writing, let it out, give it over to the page, try not to censor, but oh my God, don’t shock anyone into submission by blinding them to your truth with words; save that for when you have to tell them lies to keep them satisfied. 

#for Reticent Mental Property. January 10, 2018. Fearful. Images courtesy of the web.


Pour some sound over the crowd



There’s a dim hole-in-the-wall lit up by a man with a microphone in his hand.

Behind the bar is little Ming, the woman with the big pour to match her personality. The Vodka is lined up, front and center, the Russian’s are first, then the local infused.  Ming locks her fingers together and with a turn of the wrist, extends long from elbow to palm, lets the satisfying pop of her knuckles hang in the air before flipping back her hair with a turn of her head.

She begins her martinis,  prepared to back up her boasts of best in the west.

The radio guy – a real one, though now retired, once known as Jackson Jax, is jabbing and stabbing at the air with his left hand, unable to quell his YMCA dance moves, those irresistible movements that erupt from the limbs when the sounds of Men at Work pour from speakers flanking the stage into small spaces where faces are turned and tuned in.

Jackson Jax rises up with a half armed Y, a mountain of an M, flings the curve of the C over his head, bends at the knees, to the beat.

He makes no sense in his one-handed writing but the effort is both lost and lauded by the drunks sitting around the fringe and he doesn’t mind that he has only half the dance move flying into the air, because the true focus of his body is on his other hand, which is flipping through the listing of artist and song to fetch the next feature song on request.

The man of the moment, brings his own radio voice, one often put to mischief, put to the ear, to the nape of the neck in a whisper, with a promise to deliver , but never heard over the airwaves.   No he is not a radio man at all. Never was. His fine timbre turns on and up a notch in arguments, channels the bass when he needs to be serious, or smooth, or to charm the pants off of some little white-blond, literally.

Mr. Not-a-radio-man-at-all pulls his sultry voice out of his back pocket precisely when he wants to croone a Sinatra or swoon some pretty thing giving him the eye from the back of the dive. And It works.

He can bring the crowd to a giddy frenzy and get the sound sent back in waves, a chorus of voices swell from the rail, from the other side of the place, from the stools, from the low couches, and the response washes over his tall frame to plant itself inside that little space where he keeps his quiet pride.

It sits there, this core of confidence built on quarter notes and timing, sits and waits to be exhaled and reunited with his deep tones; a voice he frees when ever she requests this kind of touch. He obliges, sends this measure of adoration out to find her, strokes his beloved with lyrical rhyme.

And as anyone can tell, and has, and does, and comments quite clearly to her, to him, after he sings the last line, everyone can plainly see, she is the only one he ever sings to in the sea of dancing hearts.

She knows, but ignores the obvious intrusion. It is not only her heart that finds itself stilled, hushed, filled by her radio man’s sweet sound at the local karaoke bar. 


For Reticent Mental Property. Images courtesy of the web. November 19, 2017.