something. anything

"..so quiet I hear the Willows weepin," -Chic Gamine, Sunny Sunday


I have to put something on here. Not for you, for me. Just need to.

But I've got nothing on my mind. So, I've opened up this blogger post box and we're about to see what comes out. It's 9:30 AM

Somewhere, I've lost a friend.
Well, I know where she is
But contact has come to an end.

At first it was only his
Life I had to take myself out
Of; I wasn't expecting this.

I don't seek pity or mean to pout
I'm just somewhat confused.
She knew me before his route

Crossed over ours and fused
A relationship with her, then me.
In time, he and I were bruised.

But I figured what had been would be
Still, with her, a solid friendship
And here pierces the mystery.

Maybe I let a wrong word slip,
Or someone said something misleading
About me, which caused a rip

In her judgement and reading
Of my otherwise sincere and
Honest heart, now bleeding.

Because it hurts more to be banned
Without even knowing why
Than be released from the hand

That held my heart and my
Everything. Because lovers come,
Move everything around, pass by

And go, but friends offer some
Stability, some orientation,
A sort of pathway home

When the journey's expiration
Is far from a familiar place;
Likewise giving explanation

From a familiar face
When something isn't right.
Friends don't just erase

Years of memories in one night.
It must have been something bad
That I don't know I did, in her sight,

And it makes me really sad.


And now it's 10:30 AM. I talked on the phone with a fellow bus driver, David, for 16:26, so this poem, if you will call it that, took no longer than it did to lose a friend...

What else can I say? Whatever it is will best be in haiku form, I'm sure.


The bus company
Working the Olympic games:
Gold medal failure


It has been two weeks
Breathing through a mucous straw
Not enjoyable


Sun, unearth desire
Winter stills the bravery
Evaporation


Haiku is harder
Than I was hoping right now
Too bright out to sleep


Well, maybe this is better than nothing. It's 11:13 AM.

Randomblings: from the heart

I wrote this Saturday Feb 27. I had a rough sort of day and the following streamed from my fingers. I started a short story for February, but have not finished it. Busy month. And a shorter month. Maybe I'll finish it pretty soon. But for now, this:


I feel. I am a woman and I have feelings. I use them honestly. When I don’t feel something, I don’t portray it; when I feel something I’ll let you know. Only excepting when I just can’t, because some feelings just can’t be told. Sometimes even letters can’t be formed from the debris of words certain explosive feelings leave behind. Then is when you just sweep it all up and make a deposit in the dumpster.

But right now, I’ll say a few words. Men are idiots. Women should forever be exalted for letting men into their lives. Men don’t deserve a good woman but oh how they need one. And just one. Once she has agreed to be his, he should remember—always remember—how useless he is without her and cherish and respect and adore and honor and pamper and waste away his life trying to make something of his own through hers. A man whose life is not given to one good woman will waste all the good he’s got and be good for nothing. Okay, not nothing, but close.

Guys generally like sports. They like to run into each other charging at full speed. They like to hit and throw and toss and kick assorted athletic balls. They like to win and get whatever they want, get a prize.

Women are not prizes, but are to be prized. They aren’t trophies to display, but treasures to bury deep in the heart. What man wasn’t born with and what he won’t ever find elsewhere in the world is contained in one word: woman. She is the goal. She will cheer for his success as long as she’s the goal.

What’s in it for him? Did you really ask that? You did if you’re a man.

Why does any athlete train, sweat, tear his muscles to make them stronger, push, bleed, break and fight for the sport? He has a goal, he wants to win. I thought that was clear enough already, but I’ll say it differently.

She is the goal, she is the success, having her = to win; she makes the effort worth it, she makes his life have full worth. Anything else he aims for, he may achieve; but until he wrestles the bitter game of love, he will not know the sweetness of losing his life to win a woman.

It just makes me so sad when he loses sight that there’s nothing grander than one good woman; when he submits to the steroidal impulse to get a quick woman, any woman; women, women. It makes me sad, too, the quick women that submit.

I’m tired and I just don’t want to write a short story that I haven’t thought up yet. I’m deflated because the world doesn’t value the ultimate team of a good man and a good woman; the Olympic possibilities of golden years, with silver hair and bronzed skin, together to the end.

Men, go for the heart of gold, the one you’ll earn only through losing yourself to win that woman.