"bernice" poems
ever since i was young,
my gaze was drawn skyward.
i could tell you the story of orion,
and how to brush bernice's hair,
before i could tell you that two plus two equals four.
i know more about our vast universe,
than i know about many of my friends.
if you are not well acquainted with a pisces,
let me give you a bit of an introduction:
we are compassionate, imaginative,
we adapt to whatever is thrown at us,
and my personal favourite,
we are unfalteringly loyal.
however...
we are full of self-hate,
prone to laziness,
we are escapists
and horrendously easy to manipulate.
i believe my horoscope today is complete ********
i do not feel utterly lovely,
i know i will not score a date
because no one feels for me romantically.
i've nothing to flaunt.
the horoscopes are saccharine lies,
but, those traits? those are me.
my soul is ancient,
i feel the pain of struggles i have not faced,
or rather, have not YET faced;
i will split my soul in two
i will break my bones
i will give every drop of my blood
i will breathe my last breath
for those that i love.
i spent two years of my life giving my heart and soul to a sagittarius.
philosophical, adventurous.
i admired him so.
but his negatives--
inconsistent. overconfident.
careless.
he was a burning house.
my mother, also a pisces, when all was said and done,
told me to stay away from those sagittarius boys.
they're dangerous for wary, fretful fish like us,
who ask 'from what bridge?' when we are told to jump.
Aug 17, 2014
Aug 17, 2014 at 11:02 PM UTC
There once was a black man... Old at heart, he fought verbally and accordingly with bold words, which abbreviated and arbitrated great art! He spoke of activism. Not just racial, and economic racism. He fought against demonic injustices for you, yes, made me see. He stood for principles of non-violence. Acknowledged corrupt government
mileage, European knowledge and college. A philosopher, teacher
and preacher as well as a civil rights leader. When he spoke his words of fire indeed chiseled and inspired. Causing some to conspire and also perspire! Born January 15th 1929 in Atlanta, Georgia. Named in honor of the German protestant Martin Luther. Bachelor of Arts
degree in sociology. Making a mark in doctoral studies, systematic theology. June 5th 1955 This King married Corretta Scott in Heiberger,
Alabama for many to see. Proceeding with four children: Yolanda, Martin Luther the 3rd to be! Dexter Scott and Bernice to increase the peace. Despite the European police, the movements and stressed
protests, the silence, ****** and racial violence. The segregation and interrogations in force, instead of integration of course. Black mishaps, lack of differences in relapse perhaps! Plagiarized and slandered, demised by some of the wise. Accused of communistic ties. Blinded
by others’ eyes and of our world’s twisted lies. Montgomery, Georgia
bus boycott, 1955 was the year. However, forever in disguise, our fear of tears was apparently adhered. From here to near, also all those dear. Mere letters he wrote, from Birmingham jail I quote! From the slums, some of sums, hail and prevail! A creation prevailing into a deriving and thriving nation. Mr. King’s vision of a dream, mission,
opposition, optimism and truism, on our wars, welfare and more. I suppose this sounds honest and fair. Mr. King’s theories and worries in emotionalism, evangelism, humanitarianism, racism and socialism. Nobel Peace Prize won in 1964. Regretfully, you may have heard of this before. Government conspiracies and indecencies. Assassination
and discrimination, allegedly, by James Earl Ray. On April 4th, I
almost choke, because for him, his blood did soak. Some thought this **** was a thrill or forced by will. Others still procrastinate in hate! However, forever Martin Luther King was and still is one of the late greats.
Mar 26, 2012
Mar 26, 2012 at 12:53 PM UTC
The Convent at Le Cap Fureur
Lies empty, by the sea,
Its ancient walls a grim despair
Of anonymity,
No more the chants of singing Nuns
To vespers, weave their way,
A thousand years of heartfelt prayers
In silence, drift away.
The Sisterhood of Sainte Bernice
Is cloistered there no more,
The end came in a fury from
The world outside, at war,
The Nuns were fasting, deep in Lent,
When soldiers came across
To find each sister worshipping
The Stations of the Cross.
No godly men were in their ranks
No thoughts of sin or Christ,
The Nuns were ***** and beaten in
Some pagan sacrifice,
The Abbess stood with arms outstretched
And prayed, ‘Forgive them not!’
Was taken to the courtyard where
The sergeant had her shot.
There’s blood still on those convent walls
It leaches out at Lent,
Runs down the walls of dim-lit halls
And stains the grey cement,
We lodged there late one April night
Myself, Joylene and Drew,
Lay staring at the stars above
As round us, silence grew.
We slept within those hallowed walls
Until I woke in fright,
And roused the others, ‘Come and see
This strange and fearful sight!’
For out there in the entrance hall
We heard a weird chant,
And two long lines of Nuns approached
To keep their covenant.
Two lines of candles in the dark,
The Nuns wore hoods and cowls,
And as each candle flickered out
Their chant gave way to howls.
Screams and pleas then filled the air,
The sound of steel-capped boots,
A pagan army from the east
Of rough and raw recruits.
Joylene was in hysterics by
The time this vision went,
And Drew was praying loudly on
That final day of Lent,
We grabbed our things, rushed out and then
We heard a single shot,
The blood-stained Abbess blocked our way
And cried: ‘Forgive them not!’
David Lewis Paget
Sep 27, 2013
Sep 27, 2013 at 10:27 AM UTC
Eleven dead; six injured.
How does a person try to explain
The enormity of such a crime--
The inexplicable loss, the pain?
All were shot at a place of worship--
At a synagogue in Pittsburgh, P-A,
On what began as a peaceful morning
On a late October Sabbath day.
Early that morning no one could have
Imagined the horror the day would bring,
Even though we live in a time
When hatred seems to be in full swing.
It takes only ONE hater
To change the course of many lives
In a country where underneath
The peaceful appearance, violence thrives.
The president says that armed guards
Are what we need and not tougher laws.
He bows before the gun lobby,
Addressing the symptoms, but not the cause.
Helping refugees get settled:
For that the synagogue is known.
That was an issue that irked the killer,
Who was from here. Yes, homegrown!
Do we ignore red flag warnings
And turn our heads when someone spews
Hatred of groups such as Muslims,
Asylum seekers, gays, or Jews?
Do we ignore the poisonous words
That constantly drip down from the top?
At what point do the majority
Of people say: This must stop!
Give praise to those who strive for positive
Change with every heartfelt endeavor.
And hold in your heart the many people
Whose lives have now been changed forever.
_____________________
May the victims' lives inspire us all by showing us the power of love,
and may they rest in peace.
Joyce Fienberg
Richard Gottfried
Rose Mallinger
Jerry Rabinowitz
Cecil Rosenthal
David Rosenthal
Bernice Simon
Sylvan Simon
Daniel Stein
Melvin Wax
Irving Younger
And may thoughts of love and healing embrace the injured.
-by Bob B (10-28-18)
Oct 28, 2018
Oct 28, 2018 at 3:45 PM UTC
Our final steps
are never meant to be
one step on the moon
or a leap for mankind.
It was your memory,
intangible.
metaphysically physical
synaptically existing.
My mother's
mothering
mother, Bernice.
or
A lover's
loving
love, Helena.
or
Writer's
writing
wrote, poems.
Apr 10, 2025
Apr 10, 2025 at 5:53 AM UTC
Ariadne
liked her *** best
on an armchair
or the sofa
with her lover
Bernice, in charge
of the *** games,
especially
those involving
sweat cream being
slowly licked off
of her body,
or a warm tongue
moving between
her naked thighs,
which, through pleasure
over again,
brought the warm tears
to her dark eyes.
And in moments
reflecting back
to her childhood
and her father's
cruel sadistic
abusive ways,
she wondered how
over the years,
she kept intact
inside her mind
and injured heart
and tortured skin,
the deep seated
capacity
to allow love
not to be spoilt,
or the places
he had tainted,
to be tabooed
to her lover,
especially
when she slowly
slides her finger
along her spine
or between legs
satisfying
her paradise,
her pudendum,
as her lover,
laughing, calls it.
But most of all,
despite the past
of abusive
hurts and foul touch,
she still has that
ability
to overcome
the dark years,
to love her hot
lover, Bernice,
that **** *****
all too human,
and all too much.
Dec 9, 2013
Dec 9, 2013 at 2:17 AM UTC
We met at a coffee shop,
her name tag read Bernice.
Painted black hair, with devilish brown eyes.
She had a mesmerizing stare, which led me to believe, possibly speculate, she was rare. “I live upstairs” Bernice said with a ****** wink.
Her shift ended at 9, I was at the doorstep on time.
Cordially awaiting my appearance,
lit candles, no hearth, no fireplace.
Sweat dripping, mucking up hard wood floors,
A goat? Chained to the radiator sitting in the corner, loud as can be. It was a sacrifice of her virginity, the goat would watch.
I took it like it was candy, screams echoing throughout the night.
The sheets were white, now painted with blood. The goat, still kicking, making a ruckus.
I left the next morning, she gave me a quick tug. Scampering out the room, as naked as could be. A small mutter rang out,
“will you worship me?”
Aug 23, 2014
Aug 23, 2014 at 2:43 AM UTC
Bernice sits in the seat of the bus
and moves to its motion.
She smiles at the thought
of Ariadne dressing that morning;
the slow removal of the nightgown,
the hands holding and lifting
over her head; the brief nakedness;
the pulling over her head
of the I LOVE *** tee shirt;
the slipping on of blue jeans.
Once dressed she leaned over
and kissed Bernice’s head.
Come on you lazy *****
get yourself out of that
love nest, she had said.
Someone sits next to her
on the bus; disturbing her
thoughts; breaking up images.
She looks at the person
beside her: a man of forty
something. She looks away.
Ariadne is constantly in her
thoughts. She knows her well.
She can sense her presence
even without seeing her.
She knows each part of her body
as she dies her own; has lain
in the arms and felt the small
bosoms press against her.
Her one fear was the loss of her;
the taking away of her being;
the coming of age and death;
the coming of illness and departure.
Live for the day, Ariadne said,
tomorrow’s fiction. Bernice closes
her eyes; brings to mind Ariadne’s face;
the look of her; the eyes;
the way the lips moves;
the sway of her hips when
she moves from here to there;
the feel of her finger along
her skin; that closeness, that
love, what others call sin.
Jun 25, 2013
Jun 25, 2013 at 9:53 AM UTC
Snow Dancers
Snow Dancers in the clean crisp air
Falls fancy free on every rooftop, and tree
In snow drifts and window panes
Beholding its purity while making snow mine
The innocence of a child like spirit
As the cares of this world flee away
Bringing laughter, peace, and joy
All over the world again
© Bernice Mendoza, 8 years ago
Sep 2, 2015
Sep 2, 2015 at 2:57 PM UTC
An old and tattered Bible Is the crux of a dispute.
Bernice King has possession of what her brothers see as loot.
The book was dear to Doctor King thru trials and tribulations
And with him on the Selma march in the days that changed the nation.
To her; a priceless heirloom of King’s Dream to equalize.
To her brothers it’s an asset that they hope to monetize.
This book, signed by the President, is not a ****** prize
to be bought by some collector and hid from others eyes.
So now there is a lawsuit and I hope the judge is wise
Wise as a modern Solomon in how he will decide.
This Bible is a legacy, inspired word and proof
Of what one man can accomplish when addicted to the Truth.
Jan 12, 2015
Jan 12, 2015 at 11:58 AM UTC
Ariadne got up from bed
and stood naked in front
of the dressing table mirror.
A small tattoo
with the legend KISS THIS
on her left buttock,
showed in the light
of the morning sun
coming through the gap
in the curtains.
Bernice propped up on pillows,
said, why just the left one,
why not both?
I've no idea,
I was ****** at the time,
Ariadne said,
looking over her shoulder
at her lover.
And the tattooist?
What did he think?
Bernice said.
It was a she,
and I can't remember,
what she said,
Ariadne said.
And do I know her?
Bernice said.
I hope not,
Ariadne said,
she's a sadist,
and I’m the only sadist
you're permitted.
Bernice smiled.
Get up you lazy cow,
Ariadne said,
we're got go see
your mother in hospital.
Bernice closed her eyes.
I know, not looking
forward to it,
Dad'll be there
and he hasn't spoken
to me since
I’ve been with you,
Bernice said,
opening her eyes,
recalling her father's
harsh words about Ariadne
and her for being
with that lesbian witch.
Ignore him,
it's your mother you're
going to see,
Ariadne said,
sitting on the side
of the bed and placing
a hand on Bernice’s
naked shoulder.
Easier said than done,
Bernice said,
but he won't want you
being there.
I won't be,
I’ll be in the cafe
drinking coffee
waiting for you.
Bernice felt relief,
sensed a sort of betrayal
on her part,
giving into her father's way
with things,
not having Ariadne there,
keeping them apart.
Ariadne kissed Bernice’s brow
and said, you can kiss my tattoo
if you like,
your lips on my skin,
a bit of *** before we go?
So she did,
kissed the tattoo,
made love,
then off to the hospital
to her mother who was ill,
dreading her father
being there,
angry with her still.
Dec 2, 2015
Dec 2, 2015 at 3:11 PM UTC
Love's Enduring Song
I see the joy in your eyes
As you talk about the one you love
The panting of your heart
Beats with her every thought
nourishing her every way
If finding a love so true
That would draw out a passion so pure
As to create something so beautiful
if only mere words could express
Shadowing over a vessel so longing
of love’s enduring song
© Bernice Mendoza, 7 years ago
Love
Sep 2, 2015
Sep 2, 2015 at 2:48 PM UTC
Childhood Memories
Summer ended with a blast
Getting ready for school is a task
Mommies shopping in a dash
Making impressive school ware her tasked
fall colors, hints of yellow, red, orange
Trickling down the path
New clothes with colors matched,
Pencils, papers, and notebooks all in the best
Smells of crayons and falling leaves
Scents of summers past
© Bernice Mendoza, 8 years ago
Fall
Written September 17th, 2006
Sep 2, 2015
Sep 2, 2015 at 3:23 PM UTC
Ariadne dresses slowly,
dresses with an eye
on Bernice,
who lies in bed watching
her dress
in the dressing table mirror.
I can dress slower
if you want,
Ariadne says,
eyeing Bernice,
watching the eyes
watching her.
Undress again
would be better,
Bernice says,
come to bed again
would please me more.
Can't got work to get to,
Ariadne says,
buttoning up her blouse,
fingers fiddling slowly.
Shame on you,
leaving me alone
in this bed,
all on my lonesome,
Bernice says.
Ariadne brushes her
short red hair,
eyeing the girl
in bed behind her,
the nakedness visible
where she lies uncovered.
Can't have me
all the time,
need to work,
need to get out
and earn,
Ariadne says,
putting the brush down,
smiling shyly.
Bernice sits up,
and gets
to the side of the bed,
and walks to where
Ariadne stands,
and hugs her tightly.
I got to work too,
but wanted you
just one more time,
Bernice says,
then kisses
Ariadne's shoulder,
lips on white blouse.
Time waits for no one,
got to go,
have me tonight
once I'm home,
Ariadne says,
turning,
kissing Bernice's brow.
She departs
and leaves the room.
Bernice stands,
and gazes at
the door now closed.
The bed is empty.
The smell of mixed scents,
and body odours,
and stale juices
fill the room
like invisible ghosts.
Bernice goes out the room,
and walks to the bathroom,
and goes in,
and closes the door,
and sits and pees,
and hums a few bars
of a Smiths song,
feeling unloaded,
but nothing's wrong.
Jul 7, 2016
Jul 7, 2016 at 12:52 PM UTC
Falling Stars
Looking up into the stars of heaven
shining brightly
Brings wishes for
another level of love
Loving me
Laughing with me
not at me
not about me
Compassionate soul
forgiving
forgetting of
wrongs long since passed
Love lost furlong
Empty emotions
Desire stub
starts a life
each star could light
a fire in my heart
And let its light shine deep within me
Gaining back the youthful lust
Laughter’s fuller
Believing in the unbelievable
Entering into a world only
dreams could bring about
Feeling the warmth from a fire long since burnt out
Never holding with deep emotions
Lost believing things could be different
As the stars fall
falling down
on meadows of ashes
© Bernice Mendoza, 8 years ago
Sep 2, 2015
Sep 2, 2015 at 3:18 PM UTC
Bernice turned in the bath:
Ariadne was watching her
every movement. The red
hair once cropped short, had
now grown long again, the
eyes peered at her tiger-like.
Do you have to stare at me?
Bernice said. No, I don't have
to, but I like to. She continued
to wash herself aware that
Ariadne was still peering.
You can wash my back if you
must watch, she said. Ariadne
took the sponge and began to
soap Bernice's back. Like being
a child again, Bernice said, like
when my mother used to do
when I was little. Ariadne
sponged gently, over the back
and under the arms and down
the ribs and around the front.
I can do that area, Bernice said.
So can I, Ariadne said. She sponged.
Bernice sat there childlike bemused.
Didn't your mother bath you when
you were a child? Bernice said.
No, she Ariadne, I had to hurry up
and not take so long, or she'd hit
the back of my legs with a wet hand.
She never mentioned her father;
Bernice knew that was taboo.
She handed the sponge back to Bernice.
There you are, job done. Shame,
I was beginning to enjoy that,
Bernice said. Ariadne smiled.
Anytime and anything to obliged.
She left the bathroom. Bernice
finished off the bathing. Her mother
had to be bathed herself now since
the crippling disease. She sighed.
She got out of the bath and stood
drying herself with a towel. Some
days she wished her mother was
well enough to bath herself somehow.
Mar 12, 2018
Mar 12, 2018 at 5:10 AM UTC
Ariadne dresses,
Bernice watches.
The putting on
of the small
white bra,
the fingers fiddling
at the back
to do up,
the task complete,
the stepping into
the white underwear,
foot after foot,
the pulling up
and the staring back
at the bed
and Bernice
lying there
staring.
Had your look?
Not yet.
Smiles
and looks away.
Puts on her
I LOVE ***
tee shirt,
over the head,
arms through
the armholes
and pulls down
and settles.
You know
your ***
looks neat in that,
Bernice says.
Ariadne looks back
and says:
Looks neat without.
I agree,
Bernice says.
The clock on
the shelf tick tocks.
A dog barks outside.
Ariadne climbs
into blue jeans
and zips up
and stands gazing
at Bernice.
Got to go.
Shame.
Ariadne kisses
Bernice's cheek
and leaves the room.
Tick tock
of the clock.
Bernice turns over
and thinks
of the ***
the night before,
the holding,
kissing,
love making,
and in the background
a tick tock
and bed shaking.
Sep 24, 2015
Sep 24, 2015 at 6:34 AM UTC
Ariadne lies
beside Bernice
on the big bed
her once cropped
red hair
is now long
and over her shoulders.
Bernice sleeps
facing the wall.
Ariadne's
abusive father
is dead
alcohol poisoning
her mother
shacked up
with another drunk
as if she
were attracted
to that type
like a moth to flame.
She looks at her lover's
long mousey hair
the naked shoulder
visible from the duvet.
12 years together
since that pop concert
in the Park.
She wants to kiss
her awake
make love again
before work.
But she lets
her sleep
enjoys the sound
of her breathing
and her nearness.
They'd made out twice
in the night
each taking
the other
to a seventh heaven.
The sunlight pours
through the gaps
in the pink blinds.
Bird song
from outside
the window
and inwardly
a soft warm glow.
Jun 6, 2017
Jun 6, 2017 at 6:36 AM UTC
Yours
is a contented sleep
of hot ***
and deep love
wrapped in the arms
of dream's hold.
Ariadne
beside you
in the bed awake
and musing.
Your mother
is dead
her MS
having taken
its toll.
Your father alone
in his moroseness
and grief
and non belief.
Your younger sister
married in New York
writes occasionally
in her scribbled hand.
You turn in your sleep
the dream demanding
the images bright
and eye blinking.
12 years
in your lover's
care and love
and rows and ***
and down
the long avenues
of trust and jealousy
of have and hold
doing what you want
and not what
you are told.
You sleep on
leave the outer world
to the waking hours
of tick and time
and love and kiss
and tell.
Sleep on you
same ***
loving girl.
Jun 6, 2017
Jun 6, 2017 at 12:57 PM UTC
Ariadne rose from bed.
Bernice slept on in sound
sleep. There was a beauty
there in that sound sleeping.
The way her fair hair lay on
the pillow. Her eyes closed
and the soft smooth lids.
The slim hands idle on the
covers of the bed. She stood
in the morning light and
stretched her arms upward
and outward. She would have
wished to stay in bed and
make love to Bernice but it
was time to shower and dress
and eat and prepare for work.
Bernice had the whole day off.
Ariadne went to the bathroom
and urinated then showered.
The water refreshed her and
washed away the stains of
sleep and *** Stepped out
of the shower and dried herself
with rapid motions of the towel.
She dressed while Bernice slept.
Once dressed she breakfasted.
The radio played softly in the
background. Some pop music
and chat. Just as she was about
to go Bernice came in with that
sleepy gaze and soft ****** glow.
Mar 28, 2018
Mar 28, 2018 at 7:04 AM UTC