Archive for the ‘1’ Category

Wink, wink!


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Like city’s rain, my heart
Rains teardrops too. What now,
This languorous ache, this smart
That pierces, wounds my heart?

Gentle, the sound of rain
Pattering roof and ground!
Ah, for the heart in pain
Sweet is the heart in pain!

Tears rain—but who knows why?
And fill my heartsick heart.
No faithless lover’s lie?…
It mourns, and who knows why?

And nothing pains me so–
With neither lover nor hate–
And simply not to know
Why my heart suffers so.


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Jane Eyre realized that she now was on equal intellectual ground with the men around her, to whom she admired; so too was Charlotte Bronte.  With this self-awareness, comes freedom of expression.  It was the independence she longed for and this acknowledgment was reflected in the novel’s most quoted line:

          Reader, I married him.

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Gone sucked!

I am my own critic. 

[Gone] was my very first attempt at writing a poem.  I wrote it in about 15 minutes, and it was based on emotion only, no structure.  What the hell was I talking about?  Next time, before I post another poem, I’ll put it aside for at least 24 hours. 

Also, I need to learn how a poem should be written…not go off half ass at the keyboard, digits poking at random.

Sorry to me–and others–for the posted crap!

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~Sarabell’s Love~

This winter has been cold, wet and bleak; its days void of sun. I look forward to the spring breeze; the birds and butterflies hovering about the flowers, wafting in the scent. The sun. Hidden. Day after day, it hides behind the dark clouds, not even to peek out, to give us hope; hope of a spring day afternoon. 

How lovely, a picnic by the lake, a walk through the meadow or a ride across the fields…my horse and I; her mane, my hair…flowing like the gentle winds. A picture perfect day seems so far away! I can dream, a wistful dream; a dream of lying under the big willow tree, my head upon his shoulder, his hand to brush the hair from my cheek. His voice a whisper, like the buzz of the bee’s, making their honey; like honey are his sweet words to my ear, so precious the moment would be, but instead I sit inside looking out, a yearn-full sigh leaves my lips. 

A distant ring, far removed from me, for what I want, it couldn’t be; or could it? Racing to the sound, a twinkle I see, within my nanny’s eye. She holds the receiver out to me, as I reach for it nervously. 

“Yes!” I answer. Shacking with glee. Nodding. “Me too.” Exhaling with delight. “Soon, if not, I shall die.” Holding her free hand to her heart. “I love you too.” A giggle escaped her young, pink lips. She glanced at those nearby, hoping they had not heard her young love confession. “I’ll see you soon, okay, okay. Me too. Bye.” She hung up the phone, dazed and happy. She would be seeing the man she so loved; she would see him tonight. 

Tonight, she would let him kiss her. 

She ran to her room. What shall I wear? It’ll be cold. She didn’t see her sister, or her mother, not even her little brother. So excited was she. It wasn’t until she reached the top stair, when she heard her father’s scream. 


She paused. He’s going to ruin everything, he always ruins everything! “Yes Father?” She turned back. Heading down the stairs to the den. She stood in the doorway, dreading this moment. Tears welling in her eyes. 

“Sarabell, come over here.” He clipped his cuban, and lit the cigar while taking short drags as its tip burned. 

“Father, what is it?” She shook as she asked. Dreading his words, ready to hit the floor once more; tears streaming down her cheeks. 

She had done it again. Why? This nightmare, like this dreary day, would never end. Her knees were weak, her heart was heavy and her pain ran deep…steady like the rainy days to come, coming like the many tears that hit her pillow, like the rain from the clouds. O’ how heavy my heart, how deep the break. Why could not, he have been me, me have been him? Such a beautiful smile, like the sun; such a kind… 

“Sarabell! This behavior of yours must stop. It must stop now!” He slammed his knee hard. “You’re worrying your mother sick.” He waved her over. “Here, sit,” he pointed to the settee near him. “Now, Sarabell,” he eyed her. “Your friend Bethany has called upon you out of kindness. Like the rest of us, she worries for you.” He reached out to her with his warm smile, but he had to be stern. “This charade of yours must stop, and I mean it. It must stop now!” He leaned back, took a drag, and waited. 

She shook. She wavered. “What charade, Father?” She stared at her feet; nose running, tears streaming. “It was my…” 

“Enough! Enough! I meant it. Sarabell. He’s dead!” 

Sarabell let out a gasp before hitting the floor, her head landing in her father’s large hands. She cried as he carried her off to her room. She would cry for hours now, wallowing in her darkest moment; deep in grief. What a dreary day tomorrow would be. No hope of a spring day afternoon…his hand brushing at my cheek, his sweet words too whisper in my ear. 

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As I sit here at my desk, my thoughts wander; what should I write? I lean towards the monitor, grasping for the creative side within me, my hands hovering over the keyboard. Should I search for a prompt, a muse, or I could write what I see out my window…the rain poured, a patter on the windows for days now; reminds me of a lone sailor in a yawl thrashing through the swells…

What should I write? Should it be those two great ideas of mine; literary or fantasy? What draws me, what would draw the reader, Tolkien or Picoult? Oh how I wish to see the flow of words; one sentence into another, one paragraph into another, one chapter into another. I just can’t seem to move forward, to produce that first word, sentence or paragraph. I have read all the how-to books; why can’t I write? Sure I write this, but I yearn to write that the great American novel.

Would I give up before I started, touching not a key to pound out even a word? Please don’t tell me I am not meant to write! It is my life! I have read great fiction, day-dream my stories over and over why is it, am I so afraid?

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TypeKit Fonts

TypeKit is expensive!  Guess I’m cheap. 

Hope the readers don’t mind.  Oops.  If I have readers, I hope they don’t mind.

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