I always wanted to be a "Bond Woman"
The kind of woman James Bond would want
****, exciting, worldly, mysterious
Bossoms to die for
But no,
I'm a "book woman"
The kind of woman who can recite Emily Dickenson in my sleep
Reading glasses that are eternally falling off my face
Bossoms?
Not so much
When the Bond women are wet,
They look like water goddesses
I look like a drowned rat
Plus my glasses fog up
A blind, drowned rat
I think its safe to say,
I'll never be a "Bond Woman"
I'm a "Book Woman"
And I guess that's ok

Here's to all us "Book Women"

He sat watching as the love dripped out of her,
like broth dribbling off the spoon back into the bowl;
each drop of pho causing ripples of warmth.

He wished to plunge deep inside of her soul,
to penetrate her mind and pause briefly, but
long enough to see how much love remained.

He watched as her hands became a swarm of bees,
her brown eyes turning to fire as she spoke,
and in this moment she was still beautiful.

His heart writhed while slowly realizing that,
it doesn't matter how much you love someone.
Sometimes love just isn't nearly enough.

Our humanity does not lie in our goodness,
but rather it exists within our flaws,
for it's our flaws that make us interesting,
and it was because of this that I found
my aunt to be the most interesting person in the world;
for she was flawed in the most exquisite ways.

She was nothing short of a legend in my family.
Her deeds were not spoken of in day-light,
but whispered about late evenings
amidst closely clustered kitchen tables.

I remember hearing lurid tales:
she's been married twenty times -
she's been arrested before -
she's knocked out a boy's front teeth.

I never knew if these tales were true or not,
and I hope to never find out either.

I'll believe them; I'll believe in HER -
as she believed in me before:
as she believed in love and excess.
We talked shortly before her death,
What good is a life without regrets?

On this earth I've wandered
For nearly a thousand years
I'm tired, nothing new
Nothing left to fear
People always ask
Where they've seen my face
Well, a portrait of me does hang
In a museum in Paris place
And another in London,
Beautifully framed with grace
In Paris, my own selfportrait
With my little girl, you see
I was then known as Madame
Elizabeth Vigre Labrun
That was my favorite time, back in 1783
Then again I was painted as "Circe"
By Sir Edward Burne-Jones
That was the year 1880
God rest Sir Edwards bones
By the year 1919
When all the world was at war
I set sail for America
To see what else time had in store
I've changed my name and place
Hundreds of thousands of times
The only things that have stayed the same
Are my loves, art and rhyme
I decided on the name Amanda
To use in this day and age
I try so hard to fit into this modern book
My worn and tattered page

I don't know what to say other than ......

I wish
I could hold you tight
And that you'd hold me
In a cocoon of togetherness, spun of the strongest thread
Only to break as beauty forces itself out into the world
It's metamorphosis delicate, fragile
Exquisite in its simplicity

I wish
I could kiss you .......

(C) Pixievic