Cracked and twisted. It happened in the war,
It was brave, not pointless, what I was fighting for.

The beast was lingering. An one-eyed man sound the attack.
I charged, I pulled and pushed. And it stroke back.

And then I fell,
I felt it everywhere.

I heard the laugh and I got up.
Admit defeat and search safe haven.
And even there I felt unwelcome.

But still, they patched me up real good, professional,
Now, sometimes when I stand, I am diagonal.

The delighted shrieks of kids as they play marbles on the cobbled sloping streets,
A Ramadan pleasure while adults sleep off the heat of the day.
Men watch with quietly stirring stomachs as we stroll past, ice-cream in hand and flip-flops clicking on the pavement.
A woman tuts.
We are foreigners here in this foreign land,
Lending our British gaze to the hill-top view.

Let's go back there, me with you,
To the town of white and blue.

We have ridden the waves of discovery to this place where love has found a home in the natural existence of our subconscious selves, we react to each other without intention, we offer freely to each other the fruit of our desires and suffer the consequences of a current interrupted and diverted. We talk as though there is no clock, an hour could be three, a day could be a week, a lifetime together could easily be eternity with no desire to look back. We have been blessed/cursed with a standard by which to judge the future, we have danced with the music of our souls and stayed in step with the common heartbeat therein.
We have found love in a place where few have good fortune to pass, without our consent, inspite of ego, pride, cunning, and fear, to this plateau we have come and upon this plateau our love will stay to await the return of the hearts responsible for its arrival.
This love, which chooses to live and breathe on its own, has no need of nurture or direction, for it knows it’s home is home where it stays, and will stay in the cloud of comfort it has created regardless of time’s passage.

Do not hate your age
Or the fine lines that plague
Your face.
They are marks of wisdom,
Worn by years of sun and stress.
You dreamed of the future when
You were younger,
The world you would create.
Now, you fear the future
The final punctuation at the end
Of your story.
Do not fear death
Though it comes more soon each day.
Progress is a thing borne from
The passing of time
And would never have come if
Years had not gone.
When the light leaves your eyes
And the breathe is gone from your chest
Know that Death has not won.
You are written into books of history;
Trails of papers, poems, memoirs and
Memories you leave behind.
And these things will keep you
Forever alive.

I tell you of the time I almost drowned in the sea, because I wanted to know the taste of salt and ocean freedom. I was young, foolish and curious; a combination that invited disaster merely by existing in the same spheres of thought. The ocean was warm that day, although I thought it would be icy cold. I swam out against the tide and current, closed my eyes and let the murky turquoise waves wash over me; then darkness. Even in the midst of my suffocation, the loosening grip of this world never scared me, only calmed me. I wondered how it would be like to sink to the bottom and find serenity, peace and tranquility, away from the glaring rays of the sun and the fears that remained on the surface.

I lived to tell the tale of course,
but I never forgot how the sea gave me death and life all at once.

You laugh, and say you're very glad I'm still alive.
I smile in return, because I am too; to be able to meet you.

-

I never tell you how you are now the ocean for me.

(A.H.Z)

Tick tock, tick tock.
One more minute til I can clock in.
On goes the apron,
and my name badge pin.
Up goes my hair,
pony tail style,
perk up the cheeks,
for the fake prosthetic smile.
I clock in and walk,
small little talk.
Five more minutes til opening,
tick tock, tick tock.
I wipe off the tables,
open the blinds,
look outside,
and there's a small line.
Oh great,
here we go.
It's now twelve,
so let's start the show.
I say my little speech,
and give my little greet,
take down there orders,
and repeat, repeat, repeat.
Not even close,
to being done,
I have one table,
with a Mom and son.
Another with a man,
old,
newspaper in hand.
Both are polite,
funny and nice,
only request,
is a refill with ice.
The old man waves me down,
probably wants the check,
I have it in my grasp,
and make sure it's correct.
I hand it over,
he leans in closer,
and asks me about the lady
at table 480.
He says,
"has she paid for her bill"
I reply, "no not yet,"
"well then put it on my tab,
as a part of my check."
I stood there shocked,
mostly surprised,
cuz in my town,
no one does things of that kind.
His next request,
was to stay unknown,
as he said to me,
in a soft sincere tone.
I changed his total,
a smile cracked,
never met someone so nice,
he replied,
I'm just giving back
The lady with the son,
is now ready to go,
and when I tell her it's taken care of,
she moves really slow.
No longer in a hurry,
her eyes become blurry,
and in her purse,
she begins to scurry.
Looking for cash,
in disbelief,
and with a soft touch,
her arm I reach.
I say it's okay,
you don't have to pay,
someone took care of it,
for you today.
She begs me to tell,
and let her know who,
but I explain,
that's just something I couldn't do.
She understood,
with joy in her eyes,
and then the tears fell,
as she began to cry.
With her sons fingers,
tangled in hers,
they left me with a feeling,
I can't put in words.
I clean off the mans table,
grabbing an empty ranch dip.
I glance at the check,
and he left me thirty dollars tip.
This person,
giving generosity,
with the gratuity of their hand.
Doing it out of sincerity,
this gentle hearted man.
My day of repeat,
comes to a pause,
by the thoughts,
of this individuals cause.
My boss barks
"we just sat you two in the back,"
but this time,
my repeats,
don't seem as bad.

© Copyright 2013 Desiree Sheppard