She stood motionless, a hot cup of coffee nestled between her hands. She was thinking about him. He had left her without an explanation. He had given her no warning. He just never came back. She had given him everyting, her mind, her love her body. He took what she gave and then left. She was heartbroken. She did not want to go on. She couldn't go on. She was too embarassed. He had left her alone, penniless and pregnant. She could not return home. Her father would not allow her to embarrass them. He was the preacher. He would lose face. The town would look down on him, talk about him, make jokes about him. No she would not shame him with a pregnant, unwed daughter. She was drenched in silence. The fog, the pier, the water were all silent. The silence captured the mood but she did not mind. In fact she preferred the silence. The silence created a proper stetting for what was ahead. Her heart and mind could not go on. One last sip of coffee, one last swallow and the silence was even greater. Now her heart, her mind, her soul and her babies heartbeat joined the silence of the fog, the silence of the pier, the silence of the water and the silence of the night. They were one in death. They were one in silence.
Listen, he would say. Can you hear him son, way off in the distance. He's coming son. Listen, he's getting louder. Listen carefully son. Pay attention and listen. That's America son. That's life in America. Listen to that engine. Feel the power. That's America growing, powerful, and free. That's American life, Growing, small at first, getting bigger, getting louder. Soon he will be here. Listen son. Listen to that engine. Listen, hear it roar. He's getting closer. Listen to the roar, feel the power of that engine. Look son, up the road, around the bend, there's his smoke over the hill. See son, there he is. Chrome stacks belching smoke. There he is, like a boy turning into a man. Getting bigger Getting stronger Pump your fist son, Grab the air. Blow your horn, He will answer you, and He will talk to you. There he is, blasting by, the big engine roaring, the smoke blowing out of the chrome stacks. There he goes,disappearing into the wind. A wave, a honk, a smile as he heads into the future. Listen son, listen to the silence. He is gone. But more will come. Even in the silence, they are all there. They are coming to deliver America. Do not be afraid. Even in silence, they are there.
When we were young and immateur oh so really immateur we used to say "blow in my ear and I'll follow you anywhere". We thought that was sexy and would impress the girls. Now that I am older and more mateur, if I blow on your blog will you follow me anywhere?
young and wild the evening mild the canyon breeze whispered her body sexy and exciting my hot blood boiling her breasts a rhythm of their own my hands wandered touched felt their first flesh of a woman I held her close kissing the kiss of inexperience she pulled away my kiss not exciting it wedged us apart her words not kind a bruise on my soul my ego close behind years of doubt were her gift to me not wanting to believe my kiss would ever conceive the love of a women then a beach a new love and I strolled hand in hand our toes awash in cool soothing surf a squeeze of the hand a soft hug our bodies gently caressing our senses as one her tender lips looked up to mine they brushed and held and tasted so sweet she held me tight breathing ever so slight your kiss is soft and tender and taste so good words so needed to restore my wounded ego
America is a melting pot for language. Most of us live in neighborhoods where many different languages are spoken. In my backyard there are Koreans, Spanish, Mexicans, Germans, Chinese and Jordanians. The only neighbors that cannot speak at least two languages are the original Americans. That's my niche. Obviously I do not need to speak an additional language to survive. Do I admire those that have uprooted their lives to move to a strange country? Absolutely, Who could not? Do I need to apologize for not learning a second language? Absolutely not. If I lived in another country, I would learn the language. What I am more concerned about is the language of writing. How do I convey to you what I am really thinking? How do I put the words together to create something interesting to read? How do I hold your attention? How do I excite the readers enough to keep them reading what I have written? We in the world of blog consider ourselves writers. We all have stories that are important. How do we write those stories and get the world to say HOORAY? We all want to write. We all want to be read. For me the most important language is the language of good writing. I have a long stairway to climb, but I am working on my writing ability, one step at a time.
Is Love a song? or as the song title proclaims, is Love "a many Splendored thing"? What is Love?I Love my wife I Love my mother brother sister aunts and uncles I Love the stars the wind and the trees. I Love my car my boat and my money I Love my dog my cat and and my parrot. I Love to hunt to fish and to hike. I Love football basketball and soccer. How do I love thee?
When we say, "We Love" Who do we Love? How do we Love? What do we Love?
Love is complicated. Love is frustrating. Love is enchanting.
Most of all Love is confusing.
I cannot count the ways. Do I love thee like my dog? a fishing trip? a mountain hike? or maybe a brand new bike? Is my Love for thee like my Love for my mother? my brother? or my sister?
As you can see Love is really confusing to me.
Eulogizing on one's self is really Agonizing on one's self worth Eulogizing on one's past is really Patronizing one's future Eulogizing one's future is really Harmonizing wth one's past Eulogizing on one's morals is really Publicizing one's ugly sins Writing one's own Eulogy is really Pulverizing one's fragile ego