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Paula Swanson Oct 2010
Death came on this night.
But it was not by my hand.
He had been a friend.

Those that sought vengeance on me,
found I had one weakness.
One for a mortal.

He had been as a father,
for Thirty plus years.
Although he asked no questions,
he knew I was....different.

They used him to trap me.
But I knew this day would come.
I dreaded it so.
I killed the three who dared try.
It came at a precious price.

I have one regret,
other than his cruel ******.
While he lay dying.  
He saw the monster I am
and his eyes showed fear of me.


~Lord Kellington



This is the fourth installment from
The Diaries Of Lord Kellington
Paula Swanson Oct 2010
I am wondrous!
A sane person thinks me mad.
Ha!  But then again, the insane
will think I am sane.
I have fooled all of them.
I have even fooled myself.

Which is not easy.
Considering I am so intelligent.  Yes?
Last night the dancing was....Ahhhhh!
Given the company there.

A boring little affair.
I invited myself to.
Well,  up until Ansel swooned when
he spied a bug....dead...on his
half eaten cake.

All eyes were on him.
I can be such a Pixie at times.
He never saw me as I came
up behind and plopped the poor bug on.

Oh, but the music.
Exquisite to my ears.  I heard
every not.  Preternatural hearing
is such a grand thing to have.

Young Miss Silversmyte did come
to dance with me twice.
Such a lovely throat.  Had I not
eaten early on, she would have made
a sweet treat.

Oh, but how I danced.
Not a step was out of place.
I was superb.
Several dance partners I had.
Why.  They were waiting in line.

I think I am drunk on my
own grace and powers.
The sun is coming.
"Tis time for me to retreat,
and sleep the sleep of the dead.
I wonder.  Do I dream?
Paula Swanson Oct 2010
I wake in a rage!  
A poacher has dared step foot in this,
my City.  It is just not done.  
The fool.
I will....extract....him tonight.

Are we that many, that we cannot stay at home?
He may be a rogue.  If he is, all the better.
They tend to put up a fight.

I will toy with him.  This rogue.  This interloper.
Give him a small chance.
In the end I will **** him of course.
I will simply behead him.

Not such a hard task.  But it is rather grisly.
Oh well.  Off I go.
Now, just what does one wear to a messy beheading?

~Lord Kellington





This is the second installment from the Diary of Lord Kellington
and my Halloween offering for Oct. 14th
Paula Swanson Oct 2010
Hello,
    I would like to introduce you to a dear old friend of mine.
    I made his acquaintance by pure accident.  You might say, we bumped into each
other.  Oh, silly me.  You thought I speak of an actual person.
   No.  I hold here in my hands, a diary.  Not just any diary filled with day to day
frilliness of a Victorian Lady.  But, a diary filled with.......
Well, I guess you will have to just wait and read for yourself.  I will just pick a page at
random to start out at.
    The Gentleman who wrote these entries, is a man of many facets.  He is kind;
frivolous; confident; an egotist. He can be filled with anger and then snap, just like
that, be his over the top self once more.
        He is death himself.  He is a Vampire.
    
Ladies and Gentlemen, I offer you a look into
              The Diaries Of Lord Kellington






Whispers of the dawn rush to meet me each morn.  They taunt and tease
me.  "Morning is not long to come.  Your time to play does run out".

Alas.  Tis true.  My time in the night is short.  So I must hurry.  Shall I prowl the night
as I?  Or shall I don a disguise.

Once I think on it.  Either way does not matter.  There will be no eyes.  None to see
after my "kiss".  So sweet and gentle that sip.

It takes just a glance and the other night dwellers know to avoid me.  They sense that
death is my shadow.  Why!  They couldn't be more right.

I will choose swiftly.  So that I may go dance.  Yes!  I love to dance.  Ah.  The night is
my stage.  Truth be told?   I love it!

~Lord Kellington




Hello,
I hope you enjoyed the first installment of Lord Kellington's Diary.  There are more to
come
Oct 2010 · 985
Sprites Do Dwell
Paula Swanson Oct 2010
'Neath the Willows, cloaked in brume,
as streams the night time a deepening.
Enshrouding all in shadows womb,
I espy true loves awakening.

Eve tide slumber found a youth,
within the mead, where I do dwell.
Wont was I, to bespell, forsooth,
tis truly, one thing I do well.

Mazed, stands young swain, aside his bay,
embracing nymph, of flaxen hair.
Bedewed, were eyes, by impish fay,
for it be a swine, he holds there.

Of deep laughter, I do partake.
As disenthralled, young swain awakes.
Oct 2010 · 9.9k
Skeleton Puberty Sucks
Paula Swanson Oct 2010
The rat smells the air, squeaks in alarm and runs off.  
Black boots come into view.  With the sharp tip of a sword.
I crouch in the dark, behind the bins of *******.

The boots walk on by.  The sword, poking into corners.  
All the while, eyes of glowing red, within deep sockets
of a musty old skull, scan for signs.

I look at my hands.  The festered and rotting flesh.
My bones showing through.  The stench unbearable.
Glad my nose fell off last night.

The timing was off.  It was just a little sneeze.
PLOP!  Right in my gruel.  
Every one at school laughed.
Skeleton Puberty *****!


And now, Dad is mad.  Just cause I waxed the hearse
and didn't use "Ear Wax".  You could hear him rattle
all day.  What's wrong with the "Toe Jam Wax"?

Wait till I catch sis.  She went and showed mom my
mags.  "Raw!  Boo To The Bones".  I'll bet dad had
mags like these when he was a teenager.

They have good stories.  The pics are just a bone-us.
I think it's safe now.  I'll just sneak into the house.
Just sit and look innocent.

How did you find me?
A whole trail of pieces?  Sheesh!
I know.  I'm grounded.  Not for the wax job?
The Mags!?.
Skeleton puberty *****.



My Halloween offering for Oct. 12th
Oct 2010 · 593
Good Morning
Paula Swanson Oct 2010
Should I be kind and gently knock?
Place my hand and just simply rock?
Open the curtains, let light in,
whisper words, of night time sin?   No!


I'll Tickle your nose with feathers,
so in your face you mash lather?
In some warm water place your hand,
in hope things go just as planned?

With pots and pans make a ruckus,
so you jump right up and focus?
Scream while wearing a ****** mask,
so when you wake you heart beats fast?

Won't do you good to throw a fit.
Yep!  The devil made me do it.
Oct 2010 · 537
Who Makes The Noises Then?
Paula Swanson Oct 2010
No need to fear
It's just invisible me
just came up for a visit

It's Halloween night
My favorite night of the year
I have so much fun

That rustle in the leaves?
The foot steps that follow you?
That moan in the wind?

The door that slams shut?
Why, that's just little old me
doing what I love

I love Halloween
My only night of the year
that I get to play

The rest of the year
I stay down "There".  Who makes
those noises then??  Hmm?

Bwaaaaahahahaha
Oct 2010 · 931
ECTOPLASM
Paula Swanson Oct 2010
My Halloween offering for Oct. 10th



Eeeeeeeeewwwww!  Kind of like snot.
Communication between our world and the spirits.
Telltale sign of a ghostly presence.
Occupational hazard as a ghost buster.
Proof positive?  Or just the kids toy "Slime"?
Leaves a lasting impression when seen and felt.
Always makes for a great scene in a movie.
Scientifically, it is part of a cell.
Mysterious!
Oct 2010 · 2.8k
Homemade Jam Memories
Paula Swanson Oct 2010
The sound of thick bubbling,
with the smell of fresh blackberries.
The stains upon our fingers and clothes,
all part of my homemade jam memories.

Growing wild along the roads,
the brambles tall and thick.
Pails and buckets overflowing,
eating our fill as we would pick.

The kitchen, busy as a beehive,
those tasty berries getting mashed.
The "Women" all worked together,
young or old, we each had our tasks.

Four generations, making jam.
"Puttin' back" as it was called.
I still remember the stories told
and the laughter from us all.

Not just a smile does it bring,
a calmness pours soft over me.
A giggle will well up time to time,
at my homemade jam memories.
Paula Swanson Oct 2010
Blissful night of death.
Watching the blood run thick, wet.
As rats start their feast.

Stains upon my eyes.
More stains, worse, upon my soul.
And do I care?  No.

Tell me why should I?
Is it not my true nature?
Am I not to live?

Ha!  But I am wind.
So you see, there is no harm.
You only die once.

I fear not prison.
I have no fear of gallows.
They must catch me first.

And that, they will not.
I exist within shadows,
for I am the night.

The night is for death.
The perfect time for dying
and my enjoyment.

The prey is willing
or they would not be out here.
They love a good hunt.

And hunters, they are.
They hunt the weak and infirm.
And I?  I hunt them!

Is it not as grand
a profession as gambling?
When they are alike.

A toss of the dice,
a decision to walk here.
A gamble on death.

Such as you just made.
But the house will always win.
Now, let us begin.



Halloween offering for Oct. 9th
Oct 2010 · 728
Please Pass The Entrails
Paula Swanson Oct 2010
You stand at your front door.  Looking down, you see horror.  You freeze in that spot as from under the door, comes the ****** seepage of carnage.

It pools around you.  As you push open the door and walk in, it makes a sickening squishing and suction sound.  The gore seeps into your sandals.

You know that you shouldn't, but fear also rules curiosity.  You walk further into the room.  Afraid that something is going to attack.

As you step through the room, you here an odd pop .  You gaze down at your feet.  There oozing over your toes, is the remnants of an eye.

Your throat starts to burn, as the bile rises up.  Your eyes lose focus.  You faint and slink to the floor.  You lay cuddled in the blood.

Upon your waking, you find yourself soaked in the blood.  It is gelled in your hair.  When you can finally stand, bits of raw flesh cling to your clothes and cold skin.

There before you are your freshly painted walls.  Covered in...someone.  It is then that you notice that you front door is now shut...and locked.

All you can think of, is the plumber that you had called in to fix you leaking kitchen faucet.  Oh no!  Is that a pipe wrench?

A noise from behind, has you quickly spinning around.  You see a shadow move.  It slinks in to the kitchen.  You give chase.  Stepping on entrails.

You had dreaded this.  You knew it would happen again.  There is no way to stop it.  There, like the last time,  on the kitchen floor is Diablo, your cat.  Daintily licking it's paws.  Looking very satisfied with himself.

You walk towards your little demon of a cat.  It stares back at you with eyes, green as jade.  You stand there, not knowing what to say or do.
As Diablo looks and says......

"Next time, order Chinese, O.K."



Ahhhh, I hope I scared you a bit.  This is my Halloween offering for Oct. 5th

Bwwwaaaaahahahaha
Oct 2010 · 982
Nightmares In The Daytime
Paula Swanson Oct 2010
Sitting in the moonlight, clad in a soft white gown,
blood running from her fingers, to drip to the thirsty ground.
You feel her eyes upon you, beckoning you near.
You try to turn and runaway, but your frozen there with fear.
The remnants of her last meal, lays ravaged about her feet.
The ground is slick with blood and gore, you wish you had not seen.
She lifts her arms out towards you, to take you in her embrace.
You start to sweat and you feel your heart begin to race.
Her mouth, it is an ugly **** of pointed teeth and torn flesh.
It makes a sickly smacking sound as she smells your blood so fresh.
Suddenly, she's there beside you and hitting you with a plate.
You blink your eyes and shake your head, a smile comes to your face.
Now comes the messy task of cleaning up from all the food action.
You are just an average teen, with an overactive imagination.
It wasn't a ghoul or vampire, out to make you ****** confetti.
It was just your little baby sis, eating her spaghetti.
Sep 2010 · 480
Skies Sadness
Paula Swanson Sep 2010
The skies sadness touched me
with a coldness upon my skin
To tell you the depth of it
Just where do I begin

The grey took my breath away
Scattering it amongst the winds
Then as the tears fell
The rain let loose again

My eyes saw no color
Just a veil that was thin
A wavering of vision
as heat waves off ash bins

I tasted a bit of salt
For my wounds, I rubbed it in
The whole of my being grieved
For the sun in a cloud coffin

How do I convey with words
That which is personal within
The thickness of the dictionary
means little when depression sets in
Sep 2010 · 431
Skies Sadness
Paula Swanson Sep 2010
The skies sadness touched me
with a coldness upon my skin
To tell you the depth of it
Just where do I begin

The grey took my breath away
Scattering it amongst the winds
Then as the tears fell
The rain let loose again

My eyes saw no color
Just a veil that was thin
A wavering of vision
as heat waves off ash bins

I tasted a bit of salt
For my wounds, I rubbed it in
The whole of my being grieved
For the sun in a cloud coffin

How do I convey with words
That which is personal within
The thickness of the dictionary
means little when depression sets in
Sep 2010 · 1.9k
I Am Cosmic Dust
Paula Swanson Sep 2010
I am made of ancient cosmic dust.
Atomic nucleus and particles.
By the solar winds, I have been ******,
to be a part so astrological.

Atomic nucleus and particles,
moving along near the speed of light.
To be a part so astrological,
my mass and numbers are not finite.

Moving along near the speed of light,
gathered together by gravity fields.
My mass and numbers are not finite.
Look up at night, a star filled sky I yield.

Gathered together by gravity fields,
forever in mans mind, a mystery.
Look up at night, a star filled sky I yield,
forever to a mans soul, a fantasy.

Forever in mans mind a mystery,
by the solar winds, I have been ******.
Forever to a mans soul, a fantasy,
I am made of ancient cosmic dust.
Sep 2010 · 781
Mom, I Saw Your Face Today
Paula Swanson Sep 2010
Mom, I saw your face today,
looking down on me.
From your picture frame,
you had just turned sweet sixteen.

Even with that smile,
which always reminds me
of your baby girl,
our sister kristi Lee.

I could see that you were sad.
It was there in your eyes.
Your smile failed to reach,
eyes, blue as the sky.

I wish I had been there,
to be your best friend.
We could have talked for hours,
laughed away our cares.

I'm not speaking of,
just when you were in your teens.
But, when I was at home,
is what I really mean.

I know I can't go back
and fix my past mistakes.
But, I wish I could,
for, both our sakes.

Each time we hugged goodbye
and I was off to school,
your eyes smiled at me.
Why is life so cruel?

To make the Angels suffer,
to earn their wings.
Cancer stole your breath.
Yet, your soul did sing.

There's a loneliness in me without you.
But, memories of us remain.
At least I can talk to you,
in your antique silver frame.

Now as I look again,
I see the mischievous way,
your eyes enhance your smile.
Mom, I saw your face today.
Sep 2010 · 2.6k
Pearls Of Wisdom
Paula Swanson Sep 2010
To write a poem is a treasure hunt.
Diving deep into the depths of your soul,
searching through your minds twisted alleyways.
Rummaging among flotsam and jetsam,
for that one pure gem that outshines the rest,
that starts out as a diamond in the rough.

Poetry is akin to opening a chest.
Spilling the jewels to flow over the page.
Each reveal, the precious stones take on life.
Mingling and coalescing into a crown
to be worn with pride and majestic joy.
Kaleidoscopic endeavor,
offers up a piece of yourself, you share.
Paula Swanson Sep 2010
Let's see, my oldest son was about seven years old.  The boys had to ride a buss to
school, which my oldest did not do well.  He has this way about him, that tends to have
women authoritative figures letting him off the hook, when he's been naughty.  I always
thought it was his eyes and devilish smile.  They both still get him into and out of
trouble.  But those are stories for another time.

This particular year, he was having a must difficult time behaving on the buss.  He had
discovered that he could be a real clown and the girls loved it.  Go figure.  The buss
driver gave him multiple warnings and "Buss Tickets" for misbehaving.  But, somehow,
he was always forgiven by the schools principal (a woman) and never got detention.  
Even when we insisted on it.

All except this one time.  On the last day of school, he decided to end the year with a
bang.  He came home from school that day and acted as though nothing had
happened.  Later that evening, I received a phone call.  It was the buss driver.  She was
laughing before she was even able to tell me why she called.  Although I was 100% sure
it was about my oldest.

Apparently, he was a little angel the whole ride home.  That alone made her suspicious.  
She pulled up to his stop.  Out he got.  Then he mooned her.  The way the buss driver
told it, it wasn't a quarter moon, nor a half moon.  But a FULL MOON.  He had hitched
up his pants and ran before she could get her wits about her.  She said she laughed all
the way home.

Well, I started to apologize through my laughter.  I assured her that we would most
definitely take this in hand.  But she stopped me and stated "Oh,  I'll handle this".  She
shared with me her plan.  I had the hardest time all summer, not telling him, that I
knew what he had done.

Next year, the very first day of school, my oldest went to catch the buss.  Oh, I had a
hard time waiting to see what would happen.  That afternoon, when he came home, he
was upset.  "Look what she did Mom!  I can't believe it!" he whined.  There in his hand,
was a bright red "BUSS TICKET"  The reason on it was marked in bold felt
pen..."Mooning".  Now, you would think that he would be upset about the mooning.  
Noooo, not my son.  His exact words were...."I can't believe someone that old would
remember what I did."

sigh  That boy has never changed

On a side note:  He and his Dad had a long talk about that Ticket.
Sep 2010 · 695
Silent Love
Paula Swanson Sep 2010
Love notes written on scraps of paper,
placed on a mirror or in a wallet.
A few vowels mixed with consonants,
sitting just briefly, on the palate.

Our years have seen missives of the heart,
lilting soft, as snow in the wind.
There is much more to our attraction,
that keeps passion burning till the end.

Just the touch of your hand upon mine,
does stir my soul, makes my heart quicken.
My first smile of each day does come,
with your soft kiss, as I awaken.

When our eyes meet, across a full room.
Distance dissolves, there's no barrier.
I feel the rush of heated message.
Of your every move, I become aware.

In the evening, when the lights turn low,
silently you draw me to your chest.
I would die happy, just to know that here,
for all eternity, I would rest.
Sep 2010 · 1.4k
The Water Tower
Paula Swanson Sep 2010
The water tower stands above the town and can be seen for miles around.  It has a
ladder leading up to the base of the tank.  This ladder has been climbed by countless
teenagers, for thrills and mischief and young kids answering a dare.

     Over the years, many symbols and words have been painted on the tank.  From
Highschool mascots, to hearts of love and proposals.  Flowers and Holiday wishes
joined in.

     It had always been one mans job to keep the water tank painted and to cover up
any impromptu artwork.  He always took his time about it though.  Making sure that
each message stayed up at least two weeks before he would paint over it.
     One day he received a phone call.  On the line was a little boy.  This little boy asked
the man to please not paint over his message he had written on the tank, as it was
very important.

     The man explained to the boy that it was his job to keep the tank painted and
clean.  But, that he would leave his message up there, untouched, for two weeks.  The
little boy, with tears in his voice said  "Thank you, I hope it will be long enough".

  The next day, as the man was driving past the water tank, he looked up.  He saw no
message or pictures of any kind on that tank.  He shrugged and assumed that the boy
had just been to scared to make the climb all the way to the top.

     Three weeks later, the mans phone rings again.  It was that same little boy.  Very
excited, he proclaimed  "Mister, I just wanted to thank you for not painting over my
message...It really worked!"

    Intrigued, the man went to the tank with his paint and supplies.  He climbed to the
top, set down his paint and brush.  He walked around that tank several times and still
did not see a message.  But, as he bent to pick up the paint can, there it was.  
Towards the bottom of the tank, in crayon with a young child scroll was written:

       "Dear God, pleeze let my daddy come home frum war I miss him
                                   Your frend Mike"

The years passed.  Many drawings and words were painted over by one man and then
the other, as they took the job over.  But never, the one small patch, with that heart
felt prayer.
Sep 2010 · 8.1k
Windmill In The Wind
Paula Swanson Sep 2010
As the windmill turns with the wind,
the storm brings much needed rain.
With each drop, renewal begins,
relieving the parched land its pain.

Sweet water of the Earth, life's essence,
within the wind, the windmill drinks.
Storing the source within a pond,
bringing the desert from the brink.

Noses catching the scent of rain,
wild Burro's enjoy their play.
Turns the windmill as the wind blows,
clouds block the sun, blessing shade.

The land breathes a sigh of relief.
Life is given back once again.
The clouds empty themselves of rain,
as the windmill turns with the wind.
Sep 2010 · 479
Never Let The Love Song End
Paula Swanson Sep 2010
As I rise to leave you, this one last time,
you sing to me of love, that once was ours.
Stopping me in my tracks, so I tremble,
as your voice slowly melts all my willpower.

I turn back to see you there on bended knee,
holding the rose that had whispered upon my skin.
Your song reaches deeply into my soul,
asking me not to leave, to keep us whole.

It is so clear, we are where we belong,
within your sweet words, we found a way to mend.
We renew our joy, in each others arms,
promising to never let the love song end.
This is the sequel to my poem
"Send Me Away With A Love Song"
Paula Swanson Sep 2010
Our life together reaches its painful end.
We both grew weary of the daily grind.
Our early years were filled with romance and love,
so if you could, for us, this one last time.....

Wake me with a rose, gliding over my skin.
Let its perfume, gently blend with your scent.
Kiss me sweetly, let it linger on my lips.
Love me with a passion, till our bodies are spent.

I will sigh and rest my head upon your chest,
dreamily listening to the beat of your heart.
As I rise to leave you, for the last time,
send me away with a love song, as we part.
Sep 2010 · 1.2k
An Autumn Day
Paula Swanson Sep 2010
Upon my cheek, lays the crisp morn,
sweet scents of Autumn, on the air borne.

Berries cluster in the Holly trees.
Birds at the thistle, eating seeds.

Spider webs with dew, are adorned.
Squirrels scurry off, with their acorns.

Leaves turn from jade green to fire,
as trees show off their Fall attire.

Wind rustles through the dry corn stalks,
whispering to me, while I walk.

There is a bite to the evening breeze,
while smoke swirling, from chiminies tease.

I watch the clouds, over the moon float,
ending this Fall day, on a soft note.
Paula Swanson Sep 2010
I wrote and read this poem at my grandmothers funeral.


While growing up, Toni; Steven and I
saw our Grandparents sacrifice,
so much of their own lives, without a fuss.
Along with our Mother, they did it just for us.
Though Grandpa he was called, he was our father
and in Mom and Grandma, we had two amazing Mothers.
We loved them with the clarity of a childs heart,
in each one of us, they became, so much a part.
Sadly, we have gathered together here today,
to say our final goodbye, to a wonderful lady.
Grandma was tough, she was stubborn and oh so loving.
She had about her, that special something.
That had every child in every neighborhood,
calling her Grandma, whenever they could.
I remember her ready laughter, at our antics,
and her guidance, by the seat of our *******.
The countless batches of cookies baked.
For each one of us, every year, our own special birthday cake.
The delicate Barbie and Troll doll clothes she made,
the big band music, on the stereo, she played.
The fragrant roses and brilliant dahlias, tended with care.
The home canned pears, who with the neighbors, she shared.
Then we grew up and though with Mom, we moved away,
Grandma and Grandpa, stayed in our thoughts every day.
Our sister Kristi was born and added to Grams happiness and pride,
then as if by magic, the years just flew by.
The four of us were having children of our own,
when Gram would hold them, her face fairly glowed.
Gram saw her great grand children grow into yong ladies and men,
Then came along some great, great, grandchildren.
I was always amazed, but never surprised,
how Gram, through the children, came alive.
Gram's whole essence was that of pure love.
So I firmly believe she has placed herself, in charge of the baby angels above.
She holds them in arms, that once embraced all of us.
She, herself, is held now in the arms of Jesus.
She is looking down upon us now, with a love untold.
Within her angels wings, she does now, all of us enfold.



In Loving memory of Margaret Sanford.
1918-2010
Aug 2010 · 969
Sands Of Time
Paula Swanson Aug 2010
I wiggle my toes in the sands of time,
sifting through the grains and the years gone by.
Lamenting those years I was in my prime.
How fast, they seem now, to have flown by.

Sifting through the grains and the years gone by,
I recall the adventures in my life.
How fast they seem now, to have flown by,
through childhood, teen years, to become a wife.

I recall the adventures in my life.
Of scars and bruised ego's, that brought me here,
through childhood, teen years, to become a wife.
It seems I really had nothing to fear.

Of scars and bruised ego's that brought me here,
I realize now how they did mold me.
It seems I really had nothing to fear,
except for a future, I can not see.

I realize now, how they did mold me.
I relive my life, as the scenes unfold,
except for a future I can not see,
yet looking forward, to what my future holds.

Reliving my life, as the scenes unfold,
lamenting those years I was in my prime.
Yet, looking forward to what my future holds,
I wiggle my toes in the sands of time.
Pantoum Form
Aug 2010 · 893
A Divine Shove
Paula Swanson Aug 2010
Now this was way back in seventy-five,
when seat belts weren't worn, to keep you alive.
On a winding, ocean highway, we drove,
the weather, clear and sunny at the cove.

As we came to the spot that goes round,
my husband, then boyfriend, did slow down.
He reached for his seat belt, he never used,
then said, "Maybe you should put yours on too".

We drove round that bend, then it happened.
It was like a big hand was the weapon.
We were hit with such force we both did wobble,
in our seats, then we saw our new trouble.

We were sliding quickly across the lanes,
heading for a guardrail that would save us pain.
But we missed that saviour rail by quite a ways.
Down the grassy hillside we slid sideways.

At that moment, went by, two speeding big rigs,
trying to pass side by side round that bend.
One had been in our lane, coming head on,
the other, his bumper, along the guardrail, slid on.

Coming to a stop between a tree trunk and large boulder.
Our car had started to want to roll over.
Being held there, with two wheels in the air,
Railroad tracks, fifty feet were below us there.

We sat and took stock of our fortunate good luck.
We could have been mowed down by either truck.
As for hubby to have just then, used a seat belt,
something guided him, he was sure that he felt.

We both managed to crawl from the tilted car,
there were two dents in the door, we were jarred.
As we began our long climb up that hill,
we noticed the air go perfectly still.

The car moaned wanting to finish it's roll,
as a train flew by on the tracks just below.
At the top of the hill , we could only stare,
and relive, what had just happened there.

Our lives that day had been saved more than once.
Of evidence of what had transpired, there was.
The tree, where the rear of the car was seated,
was recently uprooted, falling just where needed.

The dents in the door were hand sized
and spread apart from each other, just right.
As though a divine source from above,
had given our car, a much needed shove.


Note:  This is a true recounting of what took place
while hubby and I were driving
along the Oregon Coast Highway 101
in August of 1975
Aug 2010 · 2.5k
A Brief Recess
Paula Swanson Aug 2010
A Lawyer stood squirming in court.
He said "Hey there Judge, be a sport".
"You just haven't got a clue,
what my new underwear does do,
for my briefs, grant a recess, so short."
Aug 2010 · 1.5k
Hair Of The Dog
Paula Swanson Aug 2010
As my Precious sits on my desk,
shedding and watching with interest.

I take a drink from my cup.
A hair sticks to my tongue..eew yuk.

She is pleased with herself and wags,
her tail, hair flies off like flags.

They are small, black and everywhere.
Making patterns on all of the chairs.

Little drifting smiles of hair,
residing on my clothes without care.

This much hair from a small Chihuahua,
it's not possible, no not at all.

It's not as if she's going bald.
But then, Kojack, she could be called.

Oh look!  You have some hair that she's shared.
I'll take care of that, you wait right there.

I'll just run and get my  trusty lint roller.
Better yet!   I'll get my leaf blower.
Just a bit of fun to clear the mind.
Aug 2010 · 8.0k
Infidelity
Paula Swanson Aug 2010
The journey of a tear drop,
heralds a wall broken down.
Having held back the feelings,
that once started, cannot stop.

Heralds a wall broken down,
infidelity arrives, lost trust,
that once started, cannot stop.
Happiness, not love, but lust.

Infidelity arrives. Lost trust.
Confusion of what you feel.
Happiness, not love, but, lust.
You are on a spinning wheel.

Confusion of what you feel,
spawning hatred, when you loose all.
You are on a spinning wheel,
you are destined for this fall.

Spawning hatred when you lose all,
having held back the feelings.
You were destined for this fall,
the journey of a tear drop.
Paula Swanson Aug 2010
Once a feral kitten, that hubby took pity on
Found in a scrap yard, to hubby, he did bond.

I carry jars of homemade jam, down the basement stairs.
He swipes at my legs, I drop the jars.  He doesn't care.
I'm straitening the bathroom drawer, he gets all frenzied.
Later on that day, I find, all the contents emptied.

I pick fresh flowers, neatly arrange them in a vase,
it only took few seconds.  There's petals on his face.
Our, brand new, leather furniture arrives, to our joy.
He claws the cushion up, looking for his catnip toy.

Christmas tree full of lights, with my antique ornaments.
He attacked!  Maybe he thought he was protecting us?

You might ask why it is we keep such a rascal cat.
Look at that innocent face.  I couldn't refuse that.
When it is, that we think about redecorating,
we just point and say, "This is why we can't have nice things"
Aug 2010 · 868
Rock Candy Whiskey
Paula Swanson Aug 2010
Aged and mellowed, golden whiskey in a wide mouth Mason jar.
Poured over sweet rock candy, was the guaranteed cure,
of ticklish throats; sprained ankles; hair loss; hang nails and more.
Always kept on hand, for times of desperate need,
of which Grandpa had a profound proclivity for.
No glass nor tablespoon was needed to dispense this elixir.
Just twist the ring, pop the lid, up end the jar and let it slide
down your parched throat..ummm, I mean,  soar throat.
I remember well, my first bout with laryngitis at the age of seven.
Grandpa hurried off, to get the magical jar of homemade "Cure".
Minutes later, he came in, carrying the jar like a precious jewel.
Pouring some of that honey hued nectar into a large serving spoon.
Tasting it first, making sure it hadn't gone bad, of course.
Then he slipped the spoon edge between my lips.
Boy-howdy, my eyes watered, I coughed for a spell.  
Then slept like a baby.
Aug 2010 · 14.4k
Matching Bands Of Gold
Paula Swanson Aug 2010
Along with matching bands of gold
and the blessings of their Lord,
Two hearts begin a journey,
their hearts, were destined to unfold.

And the blessings of their Lord,
will see them through hard times.
Their hearts were destined to unfold,
entwining as flowers on the vine.

Will see them through hard times,
the respect they afford each other.
Entwining as flowers on the vine,
teamwork will keep them together.

The respect they afford each other,
as the honeymoon grows cold,
teamwork will keep them together.
Their faith will see them through.

As the honeymoon grows cold,
two hearts begin a journey.
Their faith will see them through,
along with matching bands of gold.
Aug 2010 · 1.3k
Passion
Paula Swanson Aug 2010
We are slaves to it.
Passion.  It is who we are.
We answer its call,
fulfilling our deepest dreams.
Embracing even the pain
Paula Swanson Aug 2010
The meaning of life,
holds no power over me now.
I wait here for death,
slowly losing the will to live.

Holds no power over me now,
the need to outlive my usefulness.
Slowly losing the will to live,
leaving behind an empty shell.

The need to out live my usefulness,
use to be my only intent.
Leaving behind and empty shell,
"Having lived life to the fullest"

Use to be my only intent.
But, I no longer yearn for,
"Having lived my life to the fullest".
It has no meaning to me now.

But I no longer yearn for
my life.  It has been taken away.
It has no meaning to me now.
Thought I understood it so well

My life, it has been taken away.
I wait here for death.
Thought I understood it so well,
the meaning of life.
This is written in the Pantoum form.  ABC refer to repeated lines
Pantoum:  ABCD  BEDF  EGFH  GIHJ and so on until the last stanza.  Then it is   _C_A.  A Pantoum can be any length.
Aug 2010 · 1.8k
Pretty Is As Pretty Does
Paula Swanson Aug 2010
My Grandmother had a sage saying,
she would regale us with, many times.
With various nouns for exchanging.
But, the meaning rang clear like a chime.

"Pretty is as pretty does".
If, as a diva, on of us girls was heard.
She would hit us with that saying because,
she knew actions spoke louder than words.

Being of a religious nature,
she deplored and showed her discontent,
of those that would shout out their own praise,
then would go about doing ill intent.

"Christian is as Christian does".
Grandma did guide us down that path.
She drummed into me that saying because,
she knew actions speak louder than words.
Aug 2010 · 754
Cards Of Fate
Paula Swanson Aug 2010
Fate always has and always will,
hold the deck and deal the cards.
The "House" has the advantage still.
In the Casino of life, play and play hard.

Play to have fun, yet , play to win.
Just keep this fact, as your haven.
No one gets out rich in the end,
best we can do is to break even.
Aug 2010 · 924
The Ballad Of Candy
Paula Swanson Aug 2010
While riding home after having beer, two,
a friend of ours ended up covered in poo.
He was tipsy and feeling quite queasy,
for an old man, he got drunk very easy.

In the back seat waited his wifes favorite dog,
who suddenly landed in his lap like a log.
She started to squirm and whine very strong.
Never did find out why he had taken her along.

His wife said "I think she needs to go *****".
He didn't care, he slurred rather spotty,
"I just want to go home and go to bed".
But, that pup had other ideas in her head.

Louder, the pup whined out her painful cause,
at the window she scratched with her paws.
Still there on the lap of our drunken friend,
one mile from home, he wouldn't give in.

Natural body functions, being as they are,
intensified by the rough ride in the car,
would not be held back, though she tried all she could.
Can you see where this is leading?  If not, you should.

Home now in sight, the pup in a panic,
her functions cut loose, with all the organics.
Not just a mere plop of a log, but loose stool.
There our friend sat...in the car...in a pool.

Down the front of his shirt, filling the pocket,
where his cell phone resided.  I ain't gonna touch it!
Covering his lap in a sticky black goo,
it even ran down his pants, into his shoe.

He wasn't allowed into his own home.
Stripped out of his clothes, the hose, he was shown.
The pup stood right there just wagging her tail,
as if to say "AHhhhh!  I feel very well"

We still laugh at our friends adventure to this day.
But, when we go for pizza, from the beer he stays away.
He no longer rides with the pup in the car,
and the pup, we all panic, when she goes to ****.


*This is a true story.  The pup is a 65lb golden Retreiver named Candy.  Thin kabout that for a bit.
Aug 2010 · 497
As One
Paula Swanson Aug 2010
Holding thy heart dear,
with thy soul, I do thee join
Never to forsake
Aug 2010 · 4.5k
Moonbeams Tickle
Paula Swanson Aug 2010
Moonbeams shining down
effervesce upon my tongue
Tickling my soul
Aug 2010 · 860
Storm
Paula Swanson Aug 2010
Ominous thunder clouds build higher, as if on steroids.
Advancing as a single unit from the mountain range.
As a joke, the unrelenting sun, hides now and then,
offering a brief relief from it's sweltering heat.
Wildlife now lies low, knowing what nature does send.
The farthest range, gone from view, behind a deathly veil.
Devouring hill and valley, the storm presses forward,
torrential rain trails along as if a wedding trane.
Thunder reverberates, pulsing through the veins with fear.
Rattling windows, shaking the smell of rain from the air.
As if one, dogs barks turn to a mournful wail, then stop.
A raindrop lands on the softened blacktop.  It is here.
Aug 2010 · 1.6k
Good Chocolate Crop
Paula Swanson Aug 2010
Bountiful harvest
evidenced by my waist line
Good chocolate crop year
Aug 2010 · 990
Oasis Seen
Paula Swanson Aug 2010
From a winding black ribbon,
I see a valley green.
Through heat waves and dusty haze,
an oasis seen.
Tucked within the mountain range,
no road leading in.
Testament that the rain does play,
in the desert wind.

From a winding black ribbon,
I turn westward.
Through heat waves and dusty haze,
I only look forward.
Tucked within the mountain range,
my stress does unravel.
Testament that the rain does play,
on the road less traveled

From a winding black ribbon,
I find my way home.
Through heat waves and dusty haze,
I traveled alone.
Tucked within the mountain range,
Off the beaten track
Testement that the rain does play,
even when I come back.
Aug 2010 · 957
Elemental Necessities
Paula Swanson Aug 2010
Keeper of the past, Mother of the future,
reclaiming death, so as to offer rebirth.
Embracing us all in your nurturing womb.
A living organism, that holds us,  Earth.

Carrier of whispers, spoken by the stars.
Mercurial mind set, as you do portend,
changes of the seasons and of coming storms.
The very breath of our atmosphere, the Wind.

Giver of light and warmth, to our darkest nights.
Within your dance, renewal on a pyre.
Hypnotic temper, fuels cycle of re growth,
ashes to ashes, we rise from the Fire.

Elixir of life, able to move mountains.
Drop by drop, your  are natures perfect sculptor,
the very essence of deadly gracefulness.
Undulating rythym, that we call Water

Earth, Wind, Fire, Water, does not stand alone.
Working together, they make this planet home.
Aug 2010 · 505
I Will Take Your Pain
Paula Swanson Aug 2010
I'll take your pain
and hold it within myself
Your tears can now fall
without fear of breaking down
I am here to hold you up
Aug 2010 · 1.3k
Fashion Forward
Paula Swanson Aug 2010
This defeat that I wear, tailor made for tears,
woven fabric of displacement, fringed in fear.
Nestled in the pattern, of pain and of time,
distrust adds that bit of gleam, that draws the eye.
Anger sets the hem, keeps my mind from fraying.
Each stitch, a day gone, never re-existing.
Tightly bound around me, as to be a second skin,
tied with knots of frustration.  No one is getting in.
Aug 2010 · 928
Transient As Wind
Paula Swanson Aug 2010
Love, transient as wind,
your fickle heart plays false.
Leaving bitter tears,
that stain trusting souls.

Leaving bitter tears,
filling an angry pool,
that stain trusting souls.
They then, shy from love.

Filling an angry pool,
with venomous hate.
They then shy from love,
missing out on life.

With a venomous hate,
eating away chances,
they then shy from love.
Left out in the cold.

Eating away chances,
leaving bitter tears.
Left out in the cold,
Love transient as wind.
Pantoum
Aug 2010 · 862
The Spill Will Linger
Paula Swanson Aug 2010
Musty, salt smell, of a deserted home,
sitting by the seawall, viewing sand and foam,
assails the nostrils when you open the door.
See dust motes fly, spiders scurry on the floor.
Curtains hang as tattered rags and swaying,
in the breeze, through the cracks, like old flags waving.
As if wearily, signaling for a truce,
between the sea and the decay induced.
Sand comes down from ceiling beams as proof,
as to the storm worn holes, in the roof.
Of shingles blown off, during cold winter blasts,
sand trickles down, as if from an hour glass.
Time and the elements have dulled the shine,
of the woodwork and trim of knotty pine.
Cast iron water pipes, rusted out in places.
The claw foot tub, rest on it's Eagle braces.
Porcelain surface, chipped and cracked,
lath and plaster of the walls needing patched.

The little house sitting by the seawall,
that leans to the left and ready to fall.
Bulldozer sits ready, engine at idle,
to be let loose, push it into a pile.
Along with others like it in a row,
that once held town folks and saw children grow.
A new hotel made of metal and glass,
sterile exterior, no style nor class.
Will take their place, sitting by the sea wall.
Years ago, an oil spill caused the fall,
of this sleepy tourist town full of charm.
No one realized, the long arm of the harm.
They filtered the sand, skimmed off the water,
it was to late, the economy faltered.
Waiting out there, like vultures that scavenge,
was the Corporations, watching it happen.
When the town gasped, gave it's last dying breath,
in they did swoop, living off a towns death.
Aug 2010 · 595
Sharp
Paula Swanson Aug 2010
A sharp sword cuts deep
As do reckless words when both
are used in anger
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