NASA Image of the Day

Wednesday, December 26, 2012

Welcome Christmas!

Happy Christmas, wondrous song, We have waited for so long! Bringing with you, smiles and sighs, And men with Gifts still quiet and Wise.. Of all the celebrations on Earth, How I love when we joy in the Dear Christ's Birth!

Tuesday, November 27, 2012

Thought for the Day

Daniel Ch. 7 V. 1-28

Sunset and Sandman      Dawn M. Nevills

I stand upon the cooling grains,
Tousled sentinel at the sun's dying,
All shells and chasms ground to glints
Of their former selves.
The crushed mix is a testament to
The rhythmic, thunderous warning,
Crashing each against each:
Into, and upon; within and without
of Themselves.

Mine are roughened soles;
And yet, a hint of warmth,
Hastening from the blazing orb at noon
- still held within each sparkle of matter -
Is returned, in a Comfort
Remembered, and shared:
Tempered and tender in the
Salt smell, and quieted foam
of grey gloom setting.

I cannot hasten this passing,
Only close my eyes and feel
Reflected heat course through me
Recallling, and Recalled;
Fireframed, and forgotten, but
Roughly refined - meeting my
Other Half


Sunday, November 25, 2012

Thought for the Day

John Ch.18 V. 28-40


Psalm 132  V. 1-18

Sunday, November 18, 2012

Sunday, November 11, 2012

Thought for the DAY

Today's reading: Micah 4.1-5.1    ...from the OLD TESTAMENT.

Remembrance Day 2012

It is a forlorn crop, in the morning mist,
Each shadowed upright fulsome rose a testament to its Maker,
Though taken from the marrow of another, stalwart standing:
And 'neath the wayward boughs, there seems a low and shaking moan
For all those moans who have no mouths,
The sounds - even in silence - a solemn shriek of Nothing.

They are known, still; known in beds, now cold, where once lovers knit
Old Wounds, and Young Hearts;
Known, where terror and streak of incendiary Light mocked the Quieter glow
Of Morning's Light,
And laughter held sway on a blanket on a far off creekbank:
Happy play; hands clasped, and sighing.

They are faces, those risen sticks, whose bodies long ago have joined the Dust
from whence they came;
Faces, still, anguished and surprised by Death, in a sudden, terrible
Glut of Anger,
Unleashed upon a confused and saddened World.
The faces came, and stood, and spoke not so oft with mouths,
But with steps, and waves, and sweeps upon the fields of
Nevermores, where many a heart lay dying, in hope, holding awkward Tools
Of "Stop" and "Live".

We, here now, standing amidst the small wood sticks -  two-fingered
Testaments to a Belief that all, still, could Change,
If they were wont;
Brave beneath the shaking hands, fiercer than they thought themselves,
When first the call came, to be Fierce,
Will think of them,
Hoping only that, in doing,
Roses might not Wither, but
Grow Again, amongst the Crosses,
as the faces had dearly
Wished, as they lay
Dying, to
Live Again.


Saturday, November 10, 2012

Grown up Love

"Say and sway."
There is an intensity to your face, when you are standing, just so,
Amidst the "whiff of spliff", and slight headiness I always feel,
When I look into your eyes, that reminds me of The Quiet.

The Quiet is all moments, to me, when I feel a measured, and measurable, part of the Infinite, and You.
I think to describe them, and cannot, being bereft;
Seasonally, slaked and sensuous, when summer's keeping has hummed me past
your soft stroking hands, searching lips, and infinite rhythm of Life;
I feel a part of the other part that you yearn for, so desperately,
and search for, in me, with purpose, and repetition,
Joining carbon to carbon, and hip to hip, clockwork round,
Grey and grim cannot touch this moment, nor time erase its renewed memories
of unending Youth, chafed and chafing at the impossibility of
Hot and Sweat, Effort and Earned, hula hooped and humming.
Even a pen, intruding upon impossible shimmying, cannot break the
Prescription of Remembrance, food and fondness,
Feeding grapes, flower tucking behind ear, licked noses, and
Two Bite cheese between two mouths, splitting, that was
Our Young Desire, laughing.
You kissed my eyes, naming some immeasurable, mysterious colour,
You said;
I laughed, running the vacuum in my mind, ever practical, smoothly
Whispering "Hazel", as you ran your hands curiously around my
Roundness, smiling chocolate and icing.
"Anti Retro" I warned, eyes narrowing, and you laughed, low and ragged, dragging your mouthless desires across my forehead, as a
Darwinian imprint, ever the explorer, and only dropping
to suck gently on the protruding bit of lip that was worry in me, to whisper,
"Love Me, Sweet", with promise of Years, and Time to
Perfect our own Art, between
Brushes, blending. 

Monday, November 5, 2012

Thou has touched the Shaking

Heart, thou hast felt the touch of my hand in the murk of mind's meandering,
Deep in night ink, when all was still, and even birds dare not mock feelings extreme;
Nay, dare they not, when fire within the mind's eye dared Death to further Dreaming in my cause;
And Life joined the melee, singing a Stranger Sprightly Song of Shaking, wondering at the crew
Assembled there.
Yay! In keeping thee thus, have I called upon any, and all,
Wherein, my Soul,
Bereft as it Was, Before thy Browed and Beaten Visage,
(only thus, from care, though woe has etched its verisimilitude, seeking equal)
appeared Quieted, and downcast.
See! The whirling fire within Thee, matched,
As when Solomon, gazing softly, did wonder at Earth
Filled with Spirit and Grace, and Flame,
Known only, in that silent Moment,
As Defiance, and Essence, and Now.

Posthumously Rejected

Come morning, sweet and late;
Come as gentle fingers in the quavering, watery light,
Nursing ruinous paths etched by agony's Tears, across cheek caves
Deep in the rock recesses of Death Victorious;
Oh! Cover with skin and bone, fierce and fire, the very breath that, ragged as a dying man,
Even now breathes victorious,
Having won its lifes's retreat,

Sunday, November 4, 2012

STORM CLEANUP to cheer you along...xo

GREETINGS everyone!

For those affected by Hurrican Sandy, thoughts and prayers come your way, in hopes that life returns to normal for you very soon....I have gone home from work every night this week worried about all the people affected by the conditions created by this terrible storm, and hope that the warmth, generators humming, and some truly wonderful staff help to make this temporary state of being a little more comfortable, for those of you we were able to help accomodate, or assist in procuring shelter, access, or travel information which made life better, somehow.

This is a busy weekend for me, too, as I attempt to clean up from the storm here; the winds took out two huge branches on my beloved willow, and made one heck of a mess of the yard, so I am out in the cold and wet, like many, rushing to get things tidy and "floodless" before the cold weather sets in. There were snowflakes in the early hours of post midnight, and "frost on the pumpkin", so I don't think I have a lot of time in my area, until the first real snow flies!!!

After working all day on it, today, I put a pretty major dent in the task. Smile. My hot cup of tea never tasted quite so good! It's amazing how little things like that keep you determined to accomplish what you set out to do, isn't it?....

I hope you have shelter, warmth, food, and love near you, and if you are not where you want to be, or things are not happening quite as quickly as you had hoped, remember there are many hearts - and hands - doing their best at helping and hoping that life will return to normal soon....

Meanwhile, my prayers go out to the Obama team in the USA, to "keep on keepin' on", with this, and other huge challenges they have faced, with the stoic hope and fierce determination of a people who will not go back to "things as usual", and who will not forget the man who rescued an industry - despite the greed he had to face, in doing so.....among other achievements which his opponents - while padding their pockets in case the "boost" did not take fruit - want you to forget very quickly! Don't be fooled!

Here is some "music for cleanup". Hope you enjoy this little autumn surprise! Take heart...

GOD BLESS and TAKE CARE....more "written thoughts" shortly!

Keep the Caring in your heart.....

                                                        Dawn M. Nevills

Some songs for you - Click, wait for song to download, listen, and enjoy! (and feel free to sing along!)

(Join, too, if you can...even for a little's great therapy, to sing your troubles away! Smile....xo.)

Sunday, October 21, 2012

The Elf Adventures by Dawn M. Nevills

The woman walked her dog slowly past the twinkling garden lights in the fading light. The dog looked up at her, quizzically: it was a very intelligent canine, and quirked his ears at her, as she whispered "psst", and then shot him a glance, at which he sat down, immediately, waiting.

"The elves are home", she said, quietly to him. He quirked his head to one side, his ears twitching.

"They're making Christmas gifts already!", she said, explaining, and then sighed. "Always so organized....and me just trying to be in time for Hallowe'en in ten days!" She smiled at the little dog, patting him on the head.

"And what do you think about that, Max, my funny little guard dog?"

The dog jumped up, prancing in front of her, affectionately licking her hand. Then he dragged her, pulling at the leash, towards the lit side of the kitchen, where he knew she had already placed his kibble, as a reward for a smart poop and a little jog in the yard. Elfwise....and towards dinner, where the twinkling lights inside  looked mysteriously just a little like the little elf ones scattered about the yard, like street lights for mini dwellings in a forest.....they blinked just a little brighter, as she laughed softly in the twinkling stars, which, looking up, someone might have noticed, almost seemed to answer......!



Saturday, October 13, 2012


For sunshine bright and glowing moon,
For laughter's rich and merry trills,
For quiet thought and gentle smile,
For harried day of challenged thrills;
For hugs, and hams, and apple's juice,
For narrowed eyes, and lovers' truce,
For each new day the bird's song brings.....
We give Thee thanks, for Everything.


Monday, August 6, 2012

Dawn M. Nevills - ReverbNation#!/artist/control_room/1316932?tab=store&subnav=store_buyproducts

Dawn M. Nevills - ReverbNation#!/artist/control_room/1316932?tab=store&subnav=store_buyproducts

A collection of Shakespeare's Sonnets....great for thespians, poets...or those who, like me, believe
Shakespeare only comes alive when the words do, too!

Just released to retailers....pick one up for the Stratford Festival lover in your family!

(Just don't be surprised if you see a few doing a slow sashay in the lobby...wink.)

Saturday, June 2, 2012

Intermezzo Dewings - A Sonata in Spring.

Oh, the steady pulse of spring, within the bright blessed orchestration of Season's Sound!
Birds, that chirp and warble, wakeful with the gleaming dew;
Bees and cicadas, measured drone and drill to warn and sound the methodical beating of each noted Pause;
Drawing deep from each, its pleasant sap and savour;
Rustle and round, the mild, playful whir of an errant, circling wind, flitting and flowing amongst the petals,
So that even the rollicking roll of a burgeoning, fuzzled caterpillar, is stilled by a waving, watchful Twig.

Oh, Tree and Twitter, hum and hasten....altogether! Drawing back its probing, curious Finger bod,
The Snail sighs, and waits, its glistening trail of wet and wonder, strange paving for a drying breeze, and,
Frond-like, the hula grass whispers and opens for its starring

Monday, May 28, 2012

Warning: Authorship is not, by definition, autobiographical

It always astounds me that every spark of creativity is assumed to be drawn from the depths of autobiographical despair and angst.

I daresay that if it were, indeed, so, there would be very little creativity in the world. Indeed, having no license - or daring - for either character development beyond personal understanding or known lifestyle, the resulting prose would be the dull, flat stuff of weedy paperback novels, stolen from the same plot line as yet another pair of heaving somethings, cast aside amidst the throes of ....well.....something seedy. 

And yet, mixed amidst the dire dreams of monotony, and tucked into the confines of a still beating heart, there live the quiet meanderings of the creative mind: ever the stuff of possibility, which, quenched by the better part of both valour and common sense, bid adieu to the sad, stale realities of the workaday, and, casting caution aside,

This is not autobiographical. This is beyond largesse, laundress, and finesse, and hovers somewhere in the nether shadow betwixt all good Reason, and the things we we were told would only result in us being......well........

not ourselves. Interesting, that.  

Quietude, Finitude and the War of the Roses

His eyes were fixed on her face.

Her hands instinctively flew up to her cheeks, hiding the lines that time and pain had etched there. He stepped towards her, gently grasping her hands in his, and raised them to touch both hands, fingertips all, to his lips. His voice was low, and quiet.

"You have life, and the passage of time, in your eyes, to mix with the fire there". He pressed one of her hands to his chest, and raised the other to his cheek, laying it gently there, like a bandage. She stroked his face gently, spreading the fusings of time and agony away, like a brushstroke on canvas.

"Ah, Mishka mine." Her laugh hovered in her throat, like a piece of toffee, savoured and tasted, like the fire of a sip of brandy, on a freezing winter night - just enough tremble and sizzle to make him breathe in, tingling, and exhale....and, in doing so, recognize the thrill of being alive.   

She bent her head, and pressed her lips to his cheek, and then drew back, smiling at him.

"I can feel the air, coursing through here". She touched his throat, gently, with her index finger, where the pulse was beating like a slow, methodical drum.

Then she threw back her head, and laughed, the wildness not yet extingished, despite the years.

He smiled, stroking the cap of hair, which made her look like some strange elf, or a wild Inuit woman, loping along in the gathering gloom, devoid of pelts. He rather liked her without the tresses...or with them; it just made her fiercer, somehow. The Roma in her made him twinge....and trod gently. He knew that glint.
"Can you imagine?", she murmured, leaning in against his lips, speaking against them, with hers, while conspiratorially, rubbing his nose with hers, and murmuring....."that some poor chit told someone else that I was a LESBIAN?'' The sudden, spontaneous grin split his face in two, with her glinting hazel orbs two inches from his face....he couldn't help it: he burst out laughing. It rumbled in his chest, comfortably.

Then he swung her around, roaring, until they both tumbled into the sand, and lay there, laughing; too old to care; and too young to stop from clinging to each other.  The urgency, after this time, was touching.

He pressed her face against his neck, and spoke to the top of her head.

"Clearly a manic woman, Contessa Fireball....or maybe just jealous, I think." He said the last somewhat softly, and kissed the top of her head. "Are you still mad at me for leaving?" They were locked in an embrace somewhat startling to him, if only for its fierceness.

"Everyone leaves me", she said, quietly."Except the ones who cling to me until I can't move, or breathe...." she sighed, moving her head back , to look him full in the face, softly, and smiled at him. He held his arms in the air, exaggeratedly, wide-eyed, and she gave him a soft punch in the arm.

 "Life gave me a moment of fire so sweet that it burned itself into my life, and my heart, forever....." She spoke the words with a nostalgic reverence, savouring them, quietly.   

She continued. "Some might call me old, my darling, and I never was any kind of testament to physical perfection or beauty, but the lines are a different, wild testament -  to fierceness, and feeling. Did you expect anything else from me, at the last, then?"

Her voice was soft, but her eyes were green flecks of steel, nestled amongst the grey. This was a woman who had made it her business to drag men bigger than him back into wanting to live. Beneath every other conflicting emotion coursing through him, there was immediately, there, along with what had been present the day he met her: unspoken, implicit respect. 
He ran his finger along her lips, and kissed them. They were soft, and firm, and gentle rock, just as he remembered.

Age had made her interesting, concerned, compassionate, fierce, and complicated: gone was the girl. The  wild rock woman in her place pressed her fingers into the side of his head, laid her cheek along the side of his face, and said,

"Time has flown away, along with all of the things I might have asked you, as far as what you might have expected of yourself,  my Soul. There is only today."

They lay back, wild and calm, peering at the stars peeking out into the blanket of ink sky, and as she cradled her head against his neck, the green flash of sunset burst out for a moment, lighting their face in glint and shadow - and the promise of a new day. He felt a calmness he had not felt for twenty years, surging through him, like an elixir.

He bent against her, breathing in Time with the rise and fall of her breasts, which he laid his face upon,  gently, as, staring into the sky, he was suddenly awestruck at the diamonds which had suddenly shown themselves, whirling and still, in the pale, glowing sky. 

Sunday, May 27, 2012

Towards Expression, Impression, and Growth!

The artistic impulse is instinctively towards healing and creation, through expression of some sort. If you look at a DaVinci, or modern visual art, or think about music or sculpture, the idea of "being touched, moved, and inspired, somehow" - the "pointer finger connecting to pointer finger" as one little girl said, perfectly - is its Essence.

Saturday, May 19, 2012

Search for Air - A Discussion of Process

He was slightly bent over, one hand on his hip, breathing in and out laboriously. Spittle was hanging from the end of his nose. He turned his head rapidly, sideways, to peer up at her, through one open eye, pirate-like. The other one was squinted shut. A glob of the nose spittle flew up and hit her in the eye. She smiled, unfazed, like a surgeon.

"What was THAT?" he whispered, weakly.

"Eight solid hours of induced laugh therapy", she intoned. She wiped the nose spittle glob out of her eye with her shirt, sighing with satisfaction. "I learned it from a slightly odd Indian man who most people thought was just psychotic. He turned out to be a genius, therapy-wise, despite being alone a lot." She smiled at him again, watching him anxiously, like a bug.

"I may have overdone it a bit, but I didn't want you to think I had been neglecting you. I just get very focused." He was coughing, and gripping his side.

"Is it supposed to result in this much sharp, stabbing pain?" he answered between coughs.

There was a little spittle lodged in the corner of his mouth, foam-like, which he couldn't quite manage to wrap his tongue around. The tongue itself was hanging out of his mouth, dog-like, fighting for cooling air, like a lizard - and, really, to shepherd more of the air stuff into his lungs. The resulting intake of breath was interspersed with a strange moaning sound. He was terrified he'd have to urinate next, and destroy the whole carefully orchestrated process of bodily functions he was still, at the moment, mastering. He could only imagine what he might have looked like, to someone passing by....

"Stop, oh stop", he gasped.

"Are you sure?" she said. "We want to try and push this to your burn limit, if we can. The effects last longer." She was squinting, as if she had a tic, where the spittle had flown into her eye, as the cool air hit the wet surface. A mad image of Groucho Marx flew into and out of his head, briefly, standing there. He felt lightheaded.

He was staring at her face, helplessly, gagging at the tic. He thought he might die at any moment.

"Can't you just stop all movement briefly?", he moaned, finally. The tears had slipped out of  his left eye, and were pouring down his face. The body was showing its rebellion against stroke.

"Liquid release!" she blurted out. "Usually it's the other end! You're really worked on the control focus exercise, haven't you? Good for you!!!!" She was relentless. He thought she might end with "my little elf man", or something equally impossible. He was allowing himself the moan sound mixed with air, generously.

"Ahhhhhaaaahhhhhh errrr mroooow, " he said. He crossed his legs, still bent over, and fell over, at last.

"I'll be right back", she said. "The phone's ringing....."She trotted off, like a pole vaulter. He noted, absently, that although the rest of her body moved - including her breasts, which jiggled slightly above the underwire bra beneath her shirt - her head, like a bobbling dashboard doll, remained unflinching, like a strange orb eye, or a rock, with hair on it. The sound of his moans bounced off it, echoing slightly in the afternoon sunshine, as she retreated.

He lay there, silent in his sudden private moment, looking at the dark stain on his trousers, and sighed. He was her slave, he knew, happily.  He felt wonderful, despite the nasty smell. He barked out loud, suddenly, for no apparent reason that he could understand, feeling free at last. Martin Luther King Jr., he knew, would have understood. He looked upwards, slowly: the dark cloud had lifted.  

Never again would he refer to himself as Schleprock. She had won.


Monday, May 14, 2012

Happy Mother's Day, 2012

Sunday May 13, 2012

One of my fondest memories was of my mother and I going on a hike together, one Good Friday, down
Red Hill Creek Valley.

When we found our destination, and after looking at various small animals, including birds, squirrels, and the occasional rabbit or two, the best lunch ever got cooked over an open fire: wieners and beans.

The smell of the open can of beans, roasting over our little fire, while we roasted wienies and then mixed them in the beans, was out of this world, and seemed a rare feast to a little girl with a smudged nose, and a canvas cap. All I knew was that I had the coolest mom, ever.....still do, in fact: an adventurous spirit still wending her way, with my dear Dad at her side, through the highs and lows of life. My life has been blessed, as a result.

For everyone lucky enough to have a mother in their lives - or a woman dear to them, who tried to fill in for her, as best they could - here's to remembering, celebrating, and letting them know how grateful you are for those moments.

Happy Mother's Day, Mom! I love you! 

Monday, April 16, 2012

Intelligent Design

Each image is pressed upon my brain, like Darwin's silhouetted imprint:
Curve of jutting bone; high flush of cheek - and warm beneath my trembling fingers,
Pulse beating frantically, quietly, defiantly in a surge of
Tintern Abbey's all-encompassing Dance:
Ages and Sages tell of these etchings, eked out upon our lifelines,
But not
The glint in two other worlds,
As they stare into Sudden Speechless Mindlessness
Developing into Happenstance and Hinterland, in an instant of
Flame and Reason.

Saturday, March 31, 2012

Freezing Spray and Lemon Torte

The whoosh of wind had whipped the waves into neat froths, like a meringue torte amidst an ice of freezing gelati. She turned her collar up, shrugging her shoulders against the buffeting, as the spray and freezing mist bit into her face, and stung her ears.

She was not sure what made her look up at that instant. Until then she had been sauntering along the beach, unrestrained and unknown, really, aside from the haunting of the gulls, and the slight awkwardness to her gait, as the boots cut into the sand, making her "walk wobble plonk", in little indents, as she plodded along.

She did, now, though, stopping dead in her tracks.

He was standing about twenty feet away, hands jammed deep into his jacket, a wild flush high on his cheeks; the hair flopped about his head in an impossible shock of newly clipped decorum, failed.

"You're late", he growled at her, from somewhere very strange, deep within his chest cavity.

"I can't possibly be late; we haven't met yet", she shot back, setting her lips, and narrowing her eyes at him. She cocked her head to one side, giving him her twinkly cheeky look.

"Besides; you're much too nasty." She stood there.

"You look like a mad elf", he said, relenting.

"I am a mad elf", she said, simply. "It was very rude to sub in a dwarf, you know." He coughed, trying not to laugh.

"Come here,' he said, quietly.

"I'm not a dog", she said, sticking out her chin and glaring at him. And then, "You're quite cheeky for such a large, slightly bossy man".

He could see she had absolutely no fear of him at all, and blew out his breath, exasperatedly. "Especially since I made a point of shocking you back to yourself."

She jammed her hands into her jacket pockets, her cropped head
poking out of her turtleneck and canvas coat with a windswept defiance. "Mr. Snarky."

He did laugh, then, standing there, twenty feet away from her, feet planted in the sand, on a freezing Saturday afternoon of a New England beach - facing off against each other, really, both of them with their hands jammed into their pockets, like two very strange Marines.

"We're quite far away from each other, still", she blurted out, unnecessarily. "It's slightly awkward."

He was coughing, and trying to breathe. He wiped his eyes with one of his hands, and jammed it back into his pocket.

"Also" she continued, "then you called me like a dog. You're a rather odd man, aren't you, as far as first meetings go.....?" She still had a straight face. He was quite perplexed as to what to say next.

"Not until now", he blurted out, exasperated with his own reply.

"I have that effect sometimes; sorry", she said, cocking her head to the other side, and staring at him. "I took assertiveness training. You look cold."

"I hadn't really planned on a walk on a freezing beach, pre-tornado", he said, drily.

"It's rather nice, isn't it?', she sighed, cheerily. Her hair was stuck to her head, like a sort of flat brillo pad of wet growth. "I think my hair is stuck to my head", she said, describing what he was looking at, like a cartoonist, reading his mind.

"I was thinking it needed a towel," he said, quietly.

She sighed. He walked towards her, slowly.

"You're shorter than I thought", he said, stopping two feet away. She looked up at him, hands still jammed into her pockets.

"You look very aggravated. Are you annoyed with me?" She said the last part very softly. She hadn't moved an inch.

"No", he said. "Yes", he said. He put his hands around her face, stepping towards her, and moved his hand around her back, pulling her gently against him, as her hands came out of her pockets, and up and around his neck.

"You have to decide which one", she said, against his mouth, staring into his face.

He kissed her then, for what seemed a very long time....yet....not long enough, somehow.

Spring Save

The sunshine splash of sleeping bloom that is daft, and dill sill,
Waves, and the late spring frost is but a twinkle of surprised season, stalled
Yet awhile, in the twixt and tween of morning, and bloom.

Ah! It droops with sleep, but creeping lighted tendrils, coaxing
All the while, and...
Heads up!

Petals throw back their leaves, shaking encased cocoon away,
Light and Thee
Into the frond fond, and embrace, of

Sunday, March 18, 2012

Watching the Clock for St. Patrick

"Hi there, beautiful." He sidled up to her. The band was playing the nearing end of night songs, and the music had slowed down some.

There was a tired sway to the quiet dancers on the floor.

There was a curious detachment which drew him to her. She turned to him, and their eyes locked for an instant of electric current. He stepped back, a half step. The green flashed out of them, just before he smiled, and he cleared his throat.

"Ah, the sweetness of a hopeful liar." Her eyes were kind, and so was her voice, which sounded like a curious kind of honey in the dark. They smiled at each other.

"The thought of a smile so real made me sad to think that the body attached to it was not dancing," he said, smoothly, in a voice that did not belong to his heart. He felt both a liar, and an alien. She was quite disconcerting.

She laughed a low purr, with her head tilted back to stare up at him, unafraid. He had better not step on her foot, he thought, rapidly, not used to an absence of being impressed with stature. She stood her ground, cocking her head to one side.
Then she winked.

"A dance, Oh Tall One?", she said, quietly, the grin flashing out beyond the removed quietness he had seen in a private space, just a moment ago, as she sat silently, listening to the music. What an unusal woman: he had better not blow this.

"Ah, of course." He held out his hands, smoothly, grinning a boyish grin which he had not expected from himself. He had been about to buy her a drink. They stepped out on to the floor.

As the music began, he drew her towards him. She seemed a comfortable warmth, there, keeping step with him, leaning against him gently in the darkness. Her hair smelled of freesia, cropped close against her head in a kind of curling cap defying both tomboyishness and enforced girliness. She did not force banal conversation; just glided around the floor with him, breathing...comfortable.

He rested his mouth against her temple, and felt the pulse beating there, steadily, as if they had done it for years.

"You smell lovely", he said against her temple, ridiculously.

"Freesia", she said, quietly. "Quite out of date." She chuckled, not moving her head. She liked the way his voice made her ear buzz. She sighed, unapologetically.

He smiled, breathing in her hair. He had not stepped on her foot, as they twirled that last bit, despite talking to him at the same time. He found that rather attractive, in an oddly provocative way, and he was proud of himself for not trodding upon her instep, despite feeling very silly, all of a sudden.

She began to hum to the music. It was quite endearing, since he knew she wasn't hammered. Always so nice when someone knew the actual song, and didn't ruin it by yowling drunkenly, while cavorting about the floor like an idiot. She just hummed, and swirled, like rum.

He breathed, relaxed. They moved about the floor, silently. He raised her palm in his hand, moving his head back to look down at her face. She met his gaze, tilting her head back, and gave a laugh, stepping back, so he had to follow her. She took a quick step to one side, and then the other, not letting go of his hand.

She smiled at him.

"Happy St. Patrick's Day", she said, gently, swaying and stepping gently, as the music crooned quietly around them. " I got my wish."

"And what was that?" he said, gently.

"I wanted to dance with Love", she said, quietly. She touched the side of his face, stepped forward, kissed his nose, laughed.....

and walked briskly from the room.

There were, thankfully, still some women who knew that Time was Precious.

Saturday, March 17, 2012

Zorb and Onk on St. Patrick's Day

An observatory conversation between Zorb and Onk, from the planet Abconchcall, on St. Patrick's Day. Unfortunately, they have focused their observations on a bar.


Onk: Observe, Zorb, the strange gyrations of this humanoid. I feel deep empathy for their illness, and wish to intervene. Pehaps if I stroke him out, he can be still, and at peace.

Zorb: No, Onk. This is forbidden. Besides, based on his diet, this is certainly imminent anyway. Besides, if you are careful, in your caring observation, you will note that this provides probably the only exercise that this human unit gets, in addition to the pleasurable feeling which he receives, as he moves with the count of the beats coming from the sustained sound of that piece of wood in the mouth of the nearby humanoid. This is a "pan pipe." Do you see it, Onk? It is not an unpleasant sound - although the pattern need not be repeated again, and again, as if we would forget it, without constant drilling. Perhaps they are stupid, and this instrument holder knows of this weakness, and seeks to address it by means of gyration pattern installation in its listener. I must observe more closely.

Also, this, I have noted, is sometimes a mating ritual. Why have you not noted this in your log?

Onk: Zorb, forgive my laziness. I am weak with respect to sustained focus. It requires such patience, I fear I fail repeatedly at this task. Might I sigh with resignation, with your permission?

Zorb: Must you, Onk? This is rather selfindulgent. Have you tried the gyrations yourself? We might learn from these Beings.

Onk: I prefer to run repeatedly on this metal device, with no real destination in mind, Zorb. In harnessing the energy it creates, I have contributed to the Greater Good, and I will provide energy for our sustenance garden. This illogical pan pipe gyration movement seems much like a kind of liquid, and I am uncomfortable with the elemental comparison, with respect to my outer shell. Cannot you compare me to barium? It, at least, has a clearer purpose.

Zorb: As you wish, Onk. This is not openminded, for an explorer. You are closeminded. This is often unhelpful, as far as being judgemental, and Superior.

Onk: Zorb, I feel you are drawing away from me, speaking as your completion unit, and this scares me. You are too influenced beyond our insular circle of completeness. I protest that I wish you to return and meld with me, immediately, as a comfort and assurance.

It is because I am insecure. However, this is required.

Zorb: I will not, Onk. This is most inconvenient timing for your personal needs. You are here for a greater mission than your own reassurance. Prostrate yourself among the flowers of the space garden immediately, and contemplate your place in the Greater Nature. I am ashamed of you. I will continue this affectionate and nonjudgemental support of this strange, yet loving, and seriously retarded, species.

Please go to our growing area. I do not wish to view you or engage in discourse any longer.


St. Patrick's Day

In honour of St. Patrick's Day, I have prepared the following pieces, for my own sanity (since I need a break from considering the project in which I am currently embroiled), and also because I think it's necessary. Each will be prefaced by a creative explanation.

Grouping One: Hitler's letters to his mistress, Eva Braun.

(Only two have been discovered, and many say that that is really enough to understand the man. Many then say they now know, for certain, why they wouldn't want to, anyway.)


Letter 1

Mein liebchien, I wish you were a man....I am so passionate, I am venting inappropriately, and feel ashamed of my urges. Please don't poison me. I'll take it out on everyone else, instead, since I also just suck as an administrator. No one listens to me, poopsikins. I will steal from them.

Love, your Rolfie.


Letter 2

Eva, I have made them salute your sacrifice my darling, by showing me their clean hand. If I was weak, they could lower it to work, before they experienced massive pain in their shoulder area, but I will not: your love is tantamount, and I am a horse to your love. They must jump this high.

That you love me, I know, now. I am sorry I am such an asshole that I cannot give you my name, but you are still imperfect. That I am weak in this way means I must screw you repeatedly. We must tell no one, however. You may dream of me, though, if you wish. You must tell me if you do, however, so I may absolve you of these illusions you have about me, so that I remain pure.

If you continue to pleasure me, I will torment you lovingly with my love stache. In later years, imperfect men who grow things will mistakenly interpret this gift I make to you, and grow noxious substances out of various leaves, which they will, (because they're lazy and unclean), make you smoke, so that you can only envision these experiences in history between us.

They will envy us, my darling snowshoot, but simply sink into a chasm of sleep and then experience ravenous hunger which will then revolt them later, like a bird discovering how it has fed its young. They will never experience our purity, my love chub.

This is not to be mistaken for Peyote, which is different. Those guys are just crazy motherfuckers.

I have taken aspirin, again. I am weak.

Forgive me.

The headache of your love is a testament to the concussion of our minds, being one within the Greater Reality which I will create in my own artificial image. I must hurry and repeatedly continue to smash my head against the wall for inspiration....perhaps, until I am dead.


Thursday, March 15, 2012

Friday, March 9, 2012

Max was the only one who never judged Madame. It was unspoken. Despite the fact that she was, as a woman, completely alien - almost freakish - to his understanding of her traditional role as a woman - even beyond the understanding or capacity of her own family, removed as she often was from them, in various ways - he adored her, understood her within the confines of professionalism, and, in a world which did not either respect or give recognition to, her efforts, brave as they were, he knew, offered her the unquestionable loyalty which her sacrifices, deep as they had been, demanded, and deserved.

There was no else he trusted more than her, and the man who questioned her, he did not trust. It was a fierce love, born of life and death, trial and tremble, ache and agony, and in it he placed all of his ardency. Her expectation was nothing but implicit trust, without question - and, he knew, she got it, for reasons he could never explain. He thought of his beautiful daughter, destroyed by a bomb, who, Madame had said, she "just could not get to in time, dammit", and smiled, softly, to himself. That it was a sacred, fiercely protective, no gossip, fierce-to-death circle of knowingness, he also knew well. He could never explain why. Some things were beyond the simple fact that they were what they were....and that was all.

That this was beyond money, or self, some people would never understand. But there were a very gentle, very quiet, very loved few, who still would, forever. And those, she loved beyond compare.....

Sunday, March 4, 2012

Part 26:Relay Racial Facial

At the desk, the still-composed woman continued to watch the screen with dismay, grabbing a file and flipping it open to reveal several glossies. She did not trust any image to a screen. Each photo was a precious moment; a scarcity of combination; a blending of influences. She clicked and printed - and only saved on the camera. It drove everyone nuts.

It also made her faster, and freer, and more protected than anyone else had managed, considering the number of times her work had been ruined by various eyes.It was an eye world to her, and she had ardent approaches to her many concerns.

She brushed a hand over her forehead, distractedly, held the file in her left hand, and grabbed for a cellphone in the buttersoft handbag resting on top of the ornately carved desk: a gift from a client, who tried for dinner, too - unsuccessfully:the last, a rueful "too busy, mon cher", on her part, clicking her tongue with regret. The client forgave her instantly, as usual.

She hit a button on the desk, and several more: the screen split into four, all blaring with a stockmarket byline blurbing at the bottom of each screen, in a different language.

All were discussing various matters specific to something important:politico, famine, crises of enough magnitude to merit time. The game never changed, she thought, sadly - always, spectacle. She sighed.

She turned away from the large screen blanked from a painting image, now flashing foursquare electronics - a neat trick, and the pride of her office staff - and simply looked out of the window, waiting for an answer to her insistent ring.

"Madame?" Max's voice sounded quiet, but calm, as usual. She breathed in, instantly at ease.

"Oh, Max; have you seen the television?" She swiveled back to the screen, frowning.

"No, Madame. We have had a guest. I have been quite challenged, and very busy. Did you call earlier?" He sounded annoyed that he might have missed the call.

"No, no; no worries, Max. There has been another explosion. I received a call - Albert brought the note through to me at the gallery, via Albert in Paris, regarding the Haiti billboard. Someone has set fire to it...he was worried that someone might be wishing to hurt me." An angry cough sounded on the other end of the line, and she held the phone out from her ear.

"Apologies, Madame. I am not there. I am sorry." He sounded solemn. "You are safe?" There was a deeply pained note in his voice. He was furious that he was not there.

"Of course, Max. " Her voice was soft. "Please; I know this sounds odd, but does your guest seem legit? I can't be certain we are not being harassed, again." Her voice trembled, slightly. "I have no idea if this is because of Haiti, because of my efforts, or because of the model. never knows...."

"Madame! No worries!" Max sounded as if he wanted to climb through the phone. "The gentleman is perfectly welcome, and although somewhat disshevelled, otherwise most welcome, and quite appreciative of sanity amidst the weariness of travel." He paused. "I trust you are well?" His formality was a familiar affection, and she relaxed, smiling.

"Other than being on the immediate alert, again, Max...thankfully, I am fine. Thank you." She breathed out, aggravatedly. "Max, I am so sick of this maniac. I should be back tomorrow, once I liaise with authorities regarding the particulars. If anyone calls, you can give them my cell....but use your best judgement about who gets the number, okay?"

"Of course", said Max, smoothly. "Madame?"

"Just are you feeling?" Her tone was, again, normally concerned, and the now-firm cadenced response, eyeing the photo again, was simaltaneously visually and auditorially critical.

"I am well", said Max, quietly. "Peaceful sleeping, Madame." The line clicked. She breathed, one concern erased.

Part 25: Ebony Eyes

"I told you", Grant screamed into the cellphone,

"Check the garbage can, or dumpster, closest to that billboard. In it - once you get past the smoke, so cover your bloody face - you will find a dead animal; most probably a cat, or part of it!"

Each syllable was enunciated with such clarity that the consonants scraped along the phone, tragically, as if he was explaining directions to get to the school bus to a mentally challenged child - for the fortieth time.

He slammed the cellphone against the chest of the blankfaced uniform staring up at the sign, until his hand snaked up and closed over it, jaw dropping.

As his hand closed over the set, and Grant strode away, the remaining light bulbs around the sad blackened eyes in the billboard face exploded with a whiz, a moaning whistle/crack/pop sounding into the blueblack night sky.

"Goddammit, I'll do it myself", muttered Grant, grimly.

The words sounded flatly - strangely sombrely - into the impossible stillness, upsetting, at last, the total silence and quiet which followed the exploding bulbs.

Defeated, again, the uniform hung his head, lowering his arm, and turned towards the patrol car. Various voices blared out.

A crowd of onlookers needed no "move on" reminder.....they were rooted and staring, both startled and disturbed.

The uniform slipped quietly into the driver's seat, backed up the car, and tried to follow the disappearing figure of the large, angry, loping man moving towards any possible dumpster, smoking can, or hissing, personless box, still smoking within the small block radius he had just described, with such accurate acid.

"Fuck me Freddy" said the uniform, throwing the car into gear, and squinting to see where Grant had moved, machine-like, into the evening gloom.

He could never keep up to the fucking guy.

Part 24: A model model

"Oh, my God, D'arcy....look at the add!" The beautiful mirror of the huge sign, a miniature in his newly-engaged arms - almost - shook with fear. D'Arcy looked up, still smelling the
acrid explosion in his nostrils.

His beauty....marred impossibly by fire. The sign was ablaze, her face one huge sheet of flame, the last blink of the lights, like gentle, painted tattoo white lights around her eyes - an exceptional "traditional tribal" paint touch which Madame George had added at the last minute - were now the last electric firewall for the only unburning thing, and they stared blackly out at everyone, in an obscene visual scream.

She only sobbed once, staring up at herself, held tight in his arms, but burned now, beyond recognition, on the huge billboard scant blocks away from them. It didn't matter what colour her hair had been......

She buried her face in his shoulder, sobbing. He turned her face into his neck, stroking her hair, and murmuring to her gently.

Wednesday, February 29, 2012

Nearer to Buds and Green

There is such small breath between us, I feel ashamed that I steal your air.

Only move here - a smallbreath further - and you shall collide with my lips.
They wait there for you, having spoken so many words of worry and wonder
That the poets of old - and of new, shudder......
See! Ah.....I think I see a tremor course through thee, reminding thy eyes to awaken;
That thou art still, (with breath moving around and within), yet with me,
And my hand, outstretched, might touch those trembling lips, fingers fumbling,
To seek the earth in them that is yet ours awhile, Dear One; tracing all the storied hours of roar and remember, there, with
the wide-eyed newness of it all, washing over me like the
Watering suddenness of
Warmed Oak Age, and Flowers of Spring, in an
Instant of
Carbon Spark.

Tuesday, February 28, 2012

Part 23: Stolen creamery of Robin's breast

She threw the headset on the settee, shrugged tiredly out of her sweater, wiping at her nose absently with a tissue. With her other hand, she wiped at her eyes.

She wished the snotty bastard wasn't so short with her. The job was hard enough, and she had no trust fund or silver spoon pedigree; she just had this fucking job, a couple of college diplomas, and a good heart, and sometimes it wasn't enough to keep on giving a shit, when someone continually spoke to her as if she was, alternately, either just slightly mentally retarded, or less than a piece of garbage - especially since she genuinely wanted to help them all, and couldn't afford a medical degree, or the time it took to get one, with all of the responsibilities, financial and mental, she had taken on. Besides; she was too old now. She looked sad, at the thought.

"The root of hospitality is hospital". She heard her parents' kindly voices in her head, working hands hugging her close to them.

"You have to not care that no one else cares, and lead." She pondered the words, thoughtfully. "There is never enough care, in the world, kitten; always too much rage." The voices were soft, gentle.....and firm.

Sometimes she wished she could just be cold and clinical; detached, and removed, and elegant, like the languid women whose faces seemed effortlessly perfect, staring at her from pages, billboards, screens and men's arms. Everywhere she seemed to look, lately, they stared out at her, impassively; never out of control, never fitful, never feeling inadequate; never within reach.

That may have been a good thing, she mused, quietly, reasoning that the huge mental hands seemed bent on grinding her into a chiseled hole in the cement, most of the time, it was so bloody cutting.

"He's lonely", she said to the little cat, black and white, that had padded out to meet her in the dim dinginess of the gleaming, sparsely furnished surroundings:clean, proud.....and poor, like her. Roughly-hewn canvases, some framed in branches, others in crudely-crafted remnants of sideboard and edging, hung about, brilliant, and defiant, and ......hopeful.

She bent to pour a little of the pocketed plastic creamers, one at a time, until all three were gently poured into the battered pottery bowl on the floor beside the stove, deftly peeling and flipping the foil lid on each one, expertly. The little kitten, grateful, purred in anticipation.

The tired eyes, brushing back the bangs, and straightening her glasses, smiled. She did not touch the cat.

"I didn't tell them I take it black", she murmured to the kitten, eyes twinkling. She laughed, softly, in the gloom......

Personal Flight

Whenever clouds abound amidst the highest peaks,
Blotting out the azure glow of sky,
And circling wings of keen-eyed eagles seek
The treasured blink and small-winged cry,
But find it not, take heart;
All soon will fade away, like misted days
Long past:
Then greater journeys, and better notes,
Will ring.

Saturday, February 25, 2012

ON SALE NOW! Brand new Audio Download MP3 minibook!

Dawn's brand new "mini book" available via "Download" in Dawn's store:

"Ride of a Lifetime - The Rotor (with comic apologia)." FAMILY FRIENDLY!

How many smile-makers do you remember as a kid? Order "Ride of a Lifetime" in MP3 download, and laugh along, now - just $6.99! at:

Click under "Downloads" to find it in the store.....Enjoy!!!!!


Want to hear Dawn sing? She has a whole list of recordings you can listen to here - TOTALLY FREE!

Click on the "recordings" tab......and sing along!

Have a great day!

Sunday, February 19, 2012

ON SALE NOW! Brand new Audio Book - Dawn M. Nevills

Dawn Nevills reads 7 different selections from her latest poetry/painting collection, "Poems from Butterscotch Cottage" on this new CD collection, "Poems from Butterscotch Cottage - selections".

Order the CD today - just $14.99, or download the instant MP3 version, in the "Downloads" section, for just $9.99!

Dawn's watercolour painting, "Brazilian Glow" is available for sale in our Merchandise section, on a quality white t-shirt, for just $15.99.

On an entertainment budget? We have 99 cent selections, too!
You can download a single selection MP3 by clicking on the "Downloads" section of Dawn's ReverbNation store, too ....lots to choose from!

Have fun!

Support the spoken word! Bring poetry to life!

Sunday, January 22, 2012

Interesting Times

We live in interesting times. Whether or not this is viewed as curse or continuing challenge, perhaps, is in the eye of the observer, but passivity is likely the harbinger of nothing but itself, even in surmise.

Progressive, or pensive? Like all artists, observing by what means, and just how, we reflect our own "growth" is often the best, and most accurate, gauge of our opinion of ourselves, and just what it is we are "seeking" as human beings. And politics is often the modern arena by which we measure skill in the management of a nation, and its peoples.

In the United States, fresh from the smarting wounds of a still-protected-deep-within-itself Camelot wish buffeted by the viciousness of extreme, a hopeful nation has drawn in on itself, somewhat, its genuine and ardent wishes deeply scarred by the manipulation of a political extreme that thinks nothing of robbing pensioners on a fixed income, and treating the need for a basic surety of care like a luxury, trumpeting "proper spending", while the highest echelons mock the determination of a helmsman to fix the economic ills of a country by trusting first in corporate ethics as a fulcrum of democratic stability, even as it skims from the very people it was charged to help, by awarding million dollar bonuses to itself, after moaning about the implosion of its own systemic bulwarks. Alas, they could not be fired. They can, however, be monitored by the financial watchdog in place on every board where bailout moneys stabilized an industry, and will answer to them, on behalf of the voice of a nation which hammered the stones in place, and aim to keep them there - million dollar bonuses be damned.

The helmsman? What is sniffed at as "cool, aloof demeanour" is something the rag-like oafs straggling just out of reach of actual journalistic debate abhor: dignity, and an absence of the penchant to be manipulated like a performing seal, or taking more than a passing politicial interest in the interestedly detached "Al Jolson" perspective of a man of intelligence: a family man, with the contemplative nature that speaks of policy, and one who is learning very quickly about the vacuous nature of a sometimes vicious need for "newsotainment". Having been schooled in the ways of political and financial political extremes, the picture is very clear, indeed:their agenda has always been, and will always be, the same. Cultivating a culture of xenophobia and fear of the unknown, it taps into the very political extremism and culture of disparity it has created, erasing any legacy of international diplomacy - excepting a very few, who see beyond, and have always known, and comforted, in the midst of the devastation always caused by its reactionary, volatile, obsessed extremes. It sees enemies everywhere, and where there are none, any voice which speaks of concern and debate becomes one. It self-perpetuates.

There are comments of "massive ego", where there is only the discipline always required of leadership, and the drawing in, measured response, and intelligent solutions which also involve compassion - or, at least, a quiet demand for respect for earned trust, in spite of the inculcating culture of fear, and a refusal to be sucked into the gaping vortex of "finding the latest scapegoat" which, by default, is anyone who might wish to actually SUCCEED at something. Like Hitler, misery must find, and punish, someone - as long as it isn't one's self, and the more convenient, and visible, the supposed perpetrator, the more likely the real culprits - the same ones who insisted upon, offered up, and then gouged out the proffered repairs to the foundation - then resume their snickering positions in the safe confines of the latest run for the "eye of newt, perfect hair" image of itself.

The rest of us struggle with bedhead, staying ahead of the machinations, and a somewhat grim, but wiser, surety that these bastards will stop at nothing to widen the gap, stepping over the latest homeless with the easy stride of someone used to kicking things out of the way - even if it's the guy who taught you about stealing from the local candy store, by marching you back there and returning it to the merchant, who then made you shovel his front walk for a week, in reparation. You sure showed those little peons! They won't even get a nurse, when the day is done....unless she's volunteer, or some other person you don't have to "waste" money paying. .....One can only hope you get them as caregivers, one day, so you understand that working double shifts somewhere else can sometimes cause...yes....ERRORS. Meanwhile, they continue to do their best, equally determined that you won't kill their actual concern, and they won't kill you.....much as they might like to, as an easy solution, frankly. That would be too much like you.

Fresh from the "101" of extremist financial marksmanship, shining moments possibilities safely armoured against all manner of ills, including the penchant for behavioural antics and, some say, actual personality that suggests leadership - scoundrel and all - which we hate to love, and love to hate, simaltaneously, because it suggests that we can all, be, sometimes imperfect, as long as we can "still do the job", we are reminded that to be human is to learn, sometimes, about what is always a reliable roadmarker: the surety of greed.

And Canada? Canada has, at its helm, , it's true, a Tory....but it has, too, amidst the sea of blue, a conscience, and a consideration, and a steadiness carefully coached in "just the right touch" of Stones-playing piano to titillate the bluehairs, and, at least, a willingness to consult and discuss which speaks of a shift AWAY from extremism, and a quiet, very genuine, desire to consider the blatant, awkward, arrogant cultural errors of its past interactions with itself, towards a different, albeit, cautious sense of curiousity about the morrow.....

Unfortunately, it looks a lot like today, and for those needing a promise of betterment, after earnest striving, and the shouldering of financial woes imposed by its extremes, even as the opportunity to remove it through effort is removed, (along with working class democracy"), it does nothing to improve, or provide, anything to discuss, other than "Change. "

Moneypenny would be least before they ditch her, too. All those jars, grubby hands, and rolling papers.....sigh. And you have to COUNT them....!

Monday, January 16, 2012

Part 21: Looking back

....the cat padded around the corner, stopped, and sat down, staring after the hooker. No free meal.

Suddenly, it shook itself, its fur fanning out around it like a shock of sable elegance, the thick added layer like a Viking armour against the cold of the dilapidated wash of evening sky. It licked its paw where it had smashed against the side of the dumpster, trying to escape.

Padding over to the curb, it peered, interestedly, at the open grate of a sewer. Suddenly watchful, it lowered its haunches into a sitting position.....and waited.

Part 20:Exchange of Views

The motorcycle rumbled to an abrupt stop as the light flashed red in warning.

Alert to the deserted, unkempt silence filled only by blowing trash and the moan of wind whipping around the chipped corners, the rider lifted his head, shifting the backpack awkwardly. An object rolled out into the street, unnoticed, falling from the hole in the backpack with a plop, onto the surface of the cracked asphalt. It bounced a few times, before rolling into the gutter beside the curb. The rider, ramming the gear impatiently, as the engine stalled, gunned off into the distance.


The woman thought nothing of it, as she bent to pick up the object in the gutter, unwrapping the small tube with unexpected delight, like a small child at Christmas. Pulling off the tube cover, she rolled up the stick carefully, standing on the sidewalk, and swiped at her mouth with the back of her other hand, before cleaning off a smeared window front with the elbow of her coat, as she applied the splash of colour to her lips.

The gash of bright purple startled her, as she stared at herself in the window. The face looked frozen, ghost-like, like a corpse. She looked at the side of the tube.

"Do me", she read out loud. She frowned, shoving the tube into her purse, pulled down her very tight, very short, polyester leopard skin skirt further over her hips, gave a small shiver, and ignored it, fluffing her hair out defiantly, like a boxer, throwing out her chin, and laying a languid hand on her hip, before resuming her stroll. There was no one in sight.

"Yah, right. Fifty short and I get a new lipstick. Must have me an angel...." The hooker rolled her eyes, walking forward. She did not see the shadow behind her, lurking closer.


Saturday, January 7, 2012

Save your life: Read this blogpage

Read this page:

King Making

I used to dream about being an Ambassador,
So that one day, like Madeline Albright, I could look at all of my pins,
And think of all the miles, and all the smiles, and all the earnest words,
And regard them as the very finest of jewels, in my mind and memory, like the
Lives of the people whose gentle clasps, affixed like hands over my heart,
Spurred me on to a new day.

Alas, mine was a humbler task, earnest though I was, in making those
Greater Moments more flawless, and void of concern or alarm.
Each brief hour of peacefilled word was a ribbon of Comfort in the
Cabinet of races won, and I, blowing hard, ignoring the
Performance opportunities for the
Greatest Stars, enjoyed my secret treasures,
Though the rest days of rollicking notes, when the work week was done
Presented a different Face - a more mischievious one -
Singing our troubled thoughts away.

And yet, those Dear Faces, to me,
are still the Crown for
Every King I may have