Jezebel

It was a lovely afternoon and the park was filled with people. The trees smelled fresh and the grass seemed to grow taller and taller with each step that she took. Surrounded by the great allure of honeybees and happiness, she slowly melted into the ground as she laid down under the sun.

Jezebel was not a Jezebel, her name did not suit her. But, she was pleased to be called such and wasn’t bothered that others occasionally associated her with less than pleasing points of views. She went on with her life and blissfully stared at the sky.

Clouds were forming on the horizon and chills drifted up her spine to tickle her neck as she cringed slightly. Dogs barked in the distance and children laughed not too far away.

Sunshine quickly overcame the clouds and the distant fog went away.

Jezebel tried to imagine her life twenty years from now and suddenly saw herself in a café with a young man. This young man, handsome and lovely, looked so familiar. Yet, she knew she was only imagining a man that might be met in the future.

She closed her eyes to block the sun and slowly drifted into sleep. In her dreams she was riding horses on a beach with lightning storms chasing her from behind. She kicked the horse firmly to let it know to speed up. The noise was horrendous. This was a nightmare.

Her forehead dripping with sweat, Jezebel lept up in a moment of fury trying to catch her breath. The mood had changed and she was not so peaceful any longer.

TO BE CONTINUED.

There is hope amongst Religion, but what is it based on?

This photo is from the BBC online and is part of a series of photographs covering the reconstruction efforts in Burma following devistating hurricane Nargis.

In a post from a few months ago I noted that the military junta that is the government of Burma was "still rejecting aid." According to the BBC the aid continues to slowly trickle in for the same reasons.

remember me

I want you to know something.
I want you to know that I miss you.
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overturned stones reveal a past covered in dirt
brushed over with regret.
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i yearn to remember the times
rewind the clock
but i push towards a future of choices i don't want to make
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where are you, and do you think of me?
have you read anyone else your poetry?
hey you back but nothing more
its been two years but how many more
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tell me you still think of me
that you see me when you close my eyes
tell me you remember what my lips feel like
remind me you remember me
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i have trouble reaching you.

lets just be together

forget the wind

let it blow sand in our face

mock us

and deprive us

we dont care.

Life or something like it

Life wasn't written in a language anyone can understand. Like--I'll never get anyone to read my poetry. Or--I will be a famous poet.

What are the meaning of our lifes perdictions?