The Perfect Storm

clould_storm

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Her certainties are vague and always fleeting, dissembled by a will that’s not her own, her thoughts, though rogue, are always so compliant, this the woman cast in role, she must atone, for something that she’s unaware of doing, for being just a woman here on earth, no ladette this, no bloke, no guy, no rugged master, simply born as female, lost, alone.

Watch her work it out that she’s done nothing, nothing more than black or white or gay, observe her as she claims her own potential, watch and wait, she’ll realise and have her say.

Biblically, she’ll clamour for the wild side, back to nature, earth and Gaia birthed, stand at ready, watch the elemental, working in the flesh and soil, rebirth.

See her rooted back to where she came from, note the stature, see the tree within, growing new limbs, sending where they’re willing, this is she, this is not a he or him.

Woman, by her very nature, growth and nourishment she will provide, intrinsic to her sex, and damn proud of it, watch and see her claim her wilder side.

Time was had and time was spent in waiting for hunter to provide the unit’s needs, they left, they fought, became distracted, forgot the reason why, the mouths to feed.

Woman waited, woman worried, wondered, what the fuck and why the hunter late, discovery of distraction, from the purpose, declared the hunter useless as a mate.

Hear the lioness, the mighty mother, hear the elephant, the whale, the mom, want to see a world in all its glory, give woman time, await the perfect storm.

 

Hand Of Fae

He was broken by the ocean while he swam against the tide,

Tide resistant to the currents though frail man,

Man warrior now weary, from outside to inside,

Inside drowning, rather floating, best he can.

Harsher rocks in sight as he fights against cruel waves,

Waves he thrice, goes under for last time,

Time surrenders to the blackness, welcomes dulsey grave,

Grave decision outwith will to climb.

Chancing o’er the tidal flew a lady fae,

Fae in spirit, born from waters deep,

Deep her choice to save him, return him to his fate,

Fate took by hand and led him home to keep.

Drowned in waters churning he draws a living breath,

Breath she gave in elemental land,

Land beneath the surface, life bestowed from death,

Death averted, caught by fae’s fair hand.

 

 

Concubine

concubine picture

In her master’s eyes she sees his favour,

A smouldered glance reveals she is the one.

Fevered touch and kiss she craves to savour.

Tonight he chooses well and she has won.

But wanderlust, disquietude advance,

Foreboding, cast aside for someone new,

Karma calls, lends only this one chance.

What is a woman spurned so forced to do?

Poisoned lips she presses to his temple,

Whispers words of loving, serves to please.

Thus patronized, he begins to tremble,

Falls, willingly, she upon her knees.

Bejewelled dagger, in the boudoir, sparkles,

Moonlight glinting in dark eyes, on fixed smile,

Planned madness, maniacal her chuckle,

His supine head, eyes glazed, gone for a while.

‘Be still, sweetheart,’ softest words placate,

Unknown end, his in comfort and in leisure,

Exquisite agony propels his fate,

Life’s end erupting with his mighty pleasure.

With ebbing breath he gasps to tell his story,

Tale recounted oft, and oft too late,

‘My love, you were heart’s one true glory.

For you I foreswore others as my mate.’

With swift recourse and gesture lost to reason

She plunges bloodied dagger into heart,

Bled with him, though mortal life was over,

Together now, in death, no one dares part.

 

Unknown source for image. Credit gladly given if claimed.

Measure Of The Man

Oasis in my desert

Water in my pool

Heat when I am frozen

Calm to keep me cool

Food to all my hunger

Water to my thirst

Supplying all the needs I have

Justice to my just

Wind and waves that crash to shore

Powering my turbine

Giving all you have to me

Guess that makes you mine

Friend in all my wilderness

Calm to windswept wild

Man to all my woman

Parent to my child

Needs all understanding

Friend to all who greet

Measure of the man in you

Strength with love so sweet

No-No’s

I wasn’t an authentic hippy so I’ve never really said, ‘Hey, man,’ without it being tongue-in-cheek. Born in the sixties, I was really a child of the seventies, the teenage years marking each person’s era. I just liked the seventies’ clothing. Some of it’s still in my wardrobe.

Abba, 10CC, Fleetwood Mac, Genesis, ELO, Sailor, Queen, Sweet, Slade, Thin Lizzy, Nazareth, too many musical memories to mention. And quite an eclectic mix. Memories of doing the diva at disco dancing while ultra-violet lights showed every white speck and rendered teeth Osmondesque. Village People heralding the death-knell of disco. I was young once and must have had a language known only to my generation.

With Glee covering every song known to man, my tastes in music are deemed quite ‘cool’ by my children because husband and I have many of the originals on LP. (That’s a big dod of plastic with grooves and a hole in the middle, to those too young to know.)

But, beware.

Just because you may be considered acceptable in your musical tastes, if not your clothes, does not mean that you can casually use teen-speak and get away with it without shame and a rosy red flush on your fizzog.

Words I am not to use in the presence of my children or their friends include, ‘Sound’, ‘Sorted’, ‘Random’, ‘Cool’, plus any acronyms identified in text-speak. So, LOL is out, too.

When I got my first ‘brick’, a hand-me-down mobile phone from my eldest because she was upgrading (me paying for it, of course), I was humiliated to learn that, ‘C U l8ter’ was no longer regarded as appropriate by those in the know.

Now, I hadn’t taken a course on what was conventional but I understood that shorter texts were meant to be better. I gave in and reverted to proper English in my texting life. The downside is, it takes so long for me to text a message, I would be quicker phoning.

I thought it was part of my remit, as mother, to ensure I adequately embarrassed my children in the presence of friends by recounting stories from childhood and showing foolish photographs.

Apparently, that’s nowhere near as cringe-worthy as speaking out of turn in a language fit only for them.

Which is cool, as long as they don’t mind me, occasionally, recounting some totally random LOL moments that tell how sound and sorted my day has been.

Hey, got to move with the times, man.