Dance to the cheering of men
Show yourself and dance, Dear Gwen.
They pry on you but that's alright,
You'll serve three for tonight
Take it light

One at a time, do not rush
With two hands and a mouth, pure cold cash
You get your pay, they get their pleasure
With a body as if porcelain like yours
Women have no pressure

Your price is high so let no customer down
Satisfy and obey, smile never frown
Dance gwen 'till the sun arises
Until then, you're trapped in your own darkness
Poor gwen, used to satisfy moree than less

Take a quick sip, this liqour has its magic
Makes you brave, night less tragic
It's the moon again, the spotlight is on
The room is dim but the eyes are dawned

Dance Gwen, dance 'till dawn
Dance to the cheering of men
The less you wear, the more you gain
Dance Gwen, Dance until you're worn
Worn out, keep your thorns.

Pressesd tenderly,
your carnal flower opens,
its butterfly released,
hovers like a hummingbird
drinking from the bill.

Oh, I too would steal you away
and cage you happily,
to get under your black-fringed skirt; 
to see that pretty dress,
fly off once more,
and see you bare;
burned now forever in my banks,
a first sight,
of dark curls!

As I think of it,
my desire stirs,
but of us
I have already masturbated twice:
jammed,
hips pinned,
sliding over our wet perspiring bellies,
in our jungle heat:
'cause in the firmament of our embrace
- it's hot -
where glued we **** into each other,
stoking flames,
until sleep,
when we disappear from each other.
My mind crowds,
with niggling neurotic inanities;
yours with manic dreams where bed-wetting criminals in cages beg to be freed,
before better spaces overtake.

When I awake,
I am lying next to you,  
Gwen over the horizon of your fertile valley,
a mountain,
white and reposed.
You,
murmuring desire for me.
****!
I can't wait to answer.

It is late,
late morning,
and we are all half asleep.
You have your back to me,
as we lie,
rubbing feet,
stroking hands,
(the oiled bulb at the end of a finger),
your fine shoulders,
(that delicate but persistent bone in your wrist that stretches with pointed elegance);
as quietly inside,  
(warmly enveloped),
my couched *****,  
rocks us:
each diffusing into the other
like the early morning brew.

Lust and love,
closing-in,
which for a good while on edge had been:
the weeks,
days,
hours;
faint promises from afar;
sometimes a little closer,
our shadows in daylight cross,
as one over the other storms;
and once (or twice),
a sleeve brushes,
even better,
hair crackles,
as a speaking lip touches lobe,  
and for a moment,
taking in the other's scent,
a hint sublimely overpowers.

And these,
dearest of fancies,
are just some,
with which to penetrate your mind,
as you have mine:
the energy of my yielding tenderness,
inviting you to complete me,
as I spread for you with desire.

Much later,
those daring looks you have,
the way you walk our stage:
your beautiful elongated face,
those quick-fire arousing eyes,
your sultry self-assuredness,
your pre-possessing self.

I could talk about your couple,
of generosity,
reaching up,
beyond mere comprehension:
of the fact that I like Gwen
(his love gift for you, me);
but actually,
in truth,
I prefer to take this moment to make love to you;
to say how wrapped I am,
folded in your limbs,
in our mingling sweat;
how with your joy,
you touch my desires,
into yours,
so they flow,
run rather:
honeysuckle from your blessed nymphae.

You love my smell,
you say,
and I dream of gathering you in pheromones,
of drugging you,
of intoxicating you,
so once again you will find me,
take me,
have me.
Entice you once more like a creature from its shell:
Come!
where I can ravish you,
all of you,
lay naked to me,
flesh,
sinews,
everything,
your very bones;
those fine elbows,
those knees I would like to ******* over;
wash their smooth surfaces in my come:
from these cliff heights,
rain ***** on the rocks below.

To once more cast aside your socks and get at your toes,
to pour oil on 'em,
to rub and squeeze' em,
while in the moist cavern of your insides,
we ****,
half washed over by our own tide.
And as we do,
I quail,
speaking sweet nothings of appreciation;
from full lips,
your sounds return,
the hypnotic rhythm of your breath:
I engorge and in our labyrinth,
- the maiden and the bull -
we consume ourselves.

There,
Sweet Lentiform,
you did it,
you got me rolling in flesh,
lusting after your intimate parts,
wanting you in bed as I know you must have me:
pulling me on you,
kissing and biting;
my arousal in your palm,
pops,
as you run a curved finger over my nethers.

Lying,
lying,
side-by-side,
lying prone,
lying ******,
never unconsumed,
because,
please,
please  us,
with more;
so rarely,
unfucked even for a pause,
nothing doing more than sleeping and carousing;
our sustenance barely enough to keep us at it,
an occasional comic thrown in.
Oh,
God,
throw the ******* comic at me,
will you?
Beat my ******* flesh with it if you like.
Anything to see you standing in all your pearly naked glory!

And if you can,
keep texting me,
so I can hang on your every word like a ******* puppy!
Beautiful
long-haired,
skin tight,
upright,
wise,
gorgeously wild,
woman ...
Now pull me by my **** into your **** -
where I love it best.

My father had a propensity for a peculiar type of sparseness.
Enhanced with items of furniture collected from many sources.
Not a mean man but coming from a very poor family off Labrook Grove in London his few possessions were meaningful.

In the 1970s my parents moved to Totland to take up residence in a new bungalow on The Isle Of Wight, situated overlooking rambling countryside and narrow, windy lanes.
There was a wide but shortish back garden needing to be established. The front garden a sloped bank to meet the pavement.
Mother brought with her, from Streatham her London home, favourite hardy shrubs easily transplanted.

My father retired early finding the strain of being a hospital administrator at St Georges Hospital, Hyde Park Corner, too taxing.
Recruitment was problematic and mainly filled with applicants from overseas.(Not much has changed in fifty years.)My mother wanted to spend time with Frank, her father, sharing his latter years at Totland where he and his wife, Gwen, lived overlooking the Solent on a considerable plot of land.
This included the new bungalow built about 1952-4 and designed by John Westbrook, Frank's son, and acres of beautifully planned flower gardens, a vegetable patch and large wooded area where the trees held tiny toys, to the magic of Tolkein. As children this place was as close as one could get to paradise.

Usually we entered by the back lane entrance rather than from The Alum Bay Road. The plot stretching between the two.
The rows of backgarden fences looked much the same
Crumbling and split wooden planks, large tree roots
Dividing up the length and making mysterious openings
Where rather dilapidated gates, latched firmly
So animals could not stray,
Allowed for the start of magic.
Out of all these fences one belonged to my grandparents and
Through which our travels to Narnia began.

So twenty, mainly, glorious years on The Island, enjoying its many beautiful walks, the beaches and a few precious friends and neighbours. It had been my mother's dream to inherit her father's bungalow and spend her final years watching the boats float on the Solent and breathe sea air sitting on a swinging seat surrounded by primroses. Unfortunately this dream did not materialise due to my mother's poor health. But she was grateful for the years Bill and herself  had together on that green and pleasant land.

My maternal grandparents were, quietly distinguished, letter writers
Who embroidered their days with poetic licence. They had few visitors, apart from the local vicar, the vet and gardener. Gwen being a rather possessive and eccentric lady and having no children of her own, treated the dog as one would a child and life centred around dog walks, feeding and playtime. Frank was also frail and being older than Gwen needed much care and attention.They both liked to read and write letters which they did after lunch with an added snooze. Every day flowed with regularity and neat routines interspersed with many hours tending the garden, picking raspberries from heavily laden canes and gathering long, plump runner beans.
Throughout the Summer months high tea was set in the garden on a rickety table, and consisting of thick slices of current bread coated in salt free butter, a variety of homemade cakes, sandwiches, and ice cream and jelly with a *** of tea or lemonade.
I am reminded of 'The Bloomsbury Set' and Vita Sackville -West, a tranquil but harassed life with too much need for perfection.


Geographically some distance from our London home visits, both ways, were infrequent and by the time I was about nine Frank was too old to travel to Streatham. However their presence formed a significant part of our lives and is still with me today.
Unfortunately letter writing was for my brother and I a chore not undertaken with glee,
Especially as the gift was often a box of embroidered hankies sat in someone's drawer for an age.

The family structure, having married in their fifties, consisted of Frank and Gwen, Mother and always a wire haired terrier, often renewed as age took this species young. Mother was in her nineties and having brought up Gwen and Kath singularly now lived with her daughter in the bungalow at Totland on the Alum Bay Road.

Frank had been part of the Boy's Brigade movement from his teens, taking his love of camping into his marriage to Alexandra Emily Giles, the mother of his two daughters, Grace Emily and Betty Rose. His wife sadly died in childboth leaving the girls orphaned at five and seven.
Frank then moved from Reading to Tooting in south London and married Vera, a girl of twenty one, to whom he had a son, John.
Vera was flirtatious with the boys in the brigade and left Frank and her son, John, at the age of nine, to the care and protection of my mother Grace who was then eighteen. Grace loved them both but it restricted her life and she feared she would never marry. However she found my father, a wonderfully loving and wholesome person who made her very happy in most ways.

Throughout my mother's and John's childhood time was spent camping on the Isle of Wight and so strong associations were made with Totland where the brigade camped in a field in Court Road.

The two bungalows were approximately two to three miles apart.
My mother visited Gwen and her father twice a week spending
A couple of hours sitting in the open planned hallway, glass doored, which faced onto the Alam Bay Road. If warm it would be brunch in the garden at the back. These visits were my mother's anchorage with her life as she missed me very much and her grandchildren in Watford.

Innisfail (meaning- The Ireland of Belonging) was the name of my grandparents' bungalow. ( please see below for more lengthy meaning and interpretation, kindly, written  by John Garbutt).

My parents' bungalow was named  'Crowhurst'  and carved on a wooden plaque as a present by John Garbutt my auntie Betty's partner. The origin of the name came from a retreat that my father, Bill, attended and connected to a church in Streatham where I lived as a child.

Almost all my childhood annual holidays were taken on the Island so we could visit our grandparents and my mother spend time with her father. After my parents moved and I married and had children the pattern was repeated. And till this day it is a favourite with all my children and grandchildren. A special place fixed in time and beauty.

The bungalows are both sold now as their residents have all died.
Clearing out the garage of my parents' bungalow my brother found many of my father's precious possessions although the house was quite sparse still having the wooden floorboards laid when first built twenty years before.

May they all rest in peace .Love Mary ***

My Family and our long and happy connections with The Isle Of Wight. By Mary Kearns April 2018.
John Garbutt wrote the following piece on the meaning of the name 'Innisfail'.

My belief that the place-name came from Scotland was abandoned
on finding the gaelic origins of the name.
‘Inis’ or ‘Innis' mean ‘island’, while ‘fail’ is the word for
Ireland itself. ‘Innisfail’ means Ireland. But not just
geographically: the Ireland of tradition, customs, legends
and folk music, the Ireland of belonging.
So the explanation why the Irish ‘Innisfail’ was adopted as the name
of a town in Alberta, Canada, and a town in Australia,
can only be that migrants took the name, well  over a century ago
to their new homelands, though present-day Canadians
and Australians won’t have that same feeling about it.

------------------------------------------------------------­---------
The bungalow was designed by John Westbrook, who was an architect, as a wedding present for his father and Gwen Westbrook.
I do believe he also designed the very large and beautiful gardens.
I no longer know whether the bungalow is still standing or what it may be called .Mary xxxx

first step

when he looks at a woman he searches for qualities that attract him because he wants to desire her yet this tendency creates an imbalance or disadvantage he is rendered weak to a woman’s beauty or whatever traits he idealizes self-realizing this propensity he looks away from women years of disappointment neglect change him he becomes afraid of women gynophobic

2

when she looks at a man she searches for qualities she is critical of because she wants to be impervious to his power she is suspicious of all men their upper body strength penchant to be in control misperception of women as property misogyny emotional immaturity neediness to be mommyed selfishness insensitivity or over-sensitivity depending she wants to be treated with equal respect a loving nurturing relationship she is suspicious of all people their alternate realities passive aggressive behavior co-dependence craziness

3

he sees her then looks away she suspiciously notices nothing happens they go back to their separate homes alone always home alone grown calm in resignation yet disbelieving of this destiny saddened by this fate both worry about future she looks at her face naked body in mirror her stomach churns feels sad sickening remembers time when she was more carefree he puts one foot in front of other then walks tries to remember who taught him to walk how many times did he fall who taught him to laugh where did his sense of humor go

4

he sees her thinks she is lovely resists the urge to turn away he smiles says hello she notices nervously smiles her shaky voice articulates louder than a whisper hi

Tucson 2-step

they are standing in line at a café on 4th avenue he is directly behind her she is lanky wearing white background faded colors patterned summer dress thin straps over bare shoulders long brown hair few gray strands small unfinished tattoo on left calf leather slip-ons 1 inch heals he is at a complete loss for words thinks to make remark about the weather decides not to overhead fan stirs hot humid July air barista girl asks what she would like her eyes scan blackboard menu behind counter she hesitates remarks help him i need an extra moment to decide he steps up to counter money in hand orders small to go Arnold Palmer half black current lays $3 on counter mentions change goes in tip jar thank you barista girl moves fast he lifts cup from counter glances at woman still deciding then at barista girl says have a wonderful day turns walks out door dawns on him woman grows hair under her arms his 2nd most compelling female physique adornment fetish oh god he thinks to himself should i wait for her to make up her mind then approach try to craft conversation at least find out her name no i’m too weak in this moment she is so lovely let her go

2

she orders double Americana in small cup to go room for soy milk thinks to herself he did greet her perhaps their paths will cross on street why did he run off so fast she glances toward front of café notices window seat changes her mind instructs barista ******* 2nd thought make it for here digs through purse realizes she left wallet in truck explains to barista girl she needs to run out to her vehicle to retrieve wallet forgotten under front seat the air on the street is heavy dense she smells her own perspiration looks north then south does not see him walks to truck feels exhausted appetiteless almost nauseous wishes she did not order a drink thinks to get behind wheel drive home go to sleep

Tucson 3-step tango

she feels disappointment by her recent writings as if she is reaching a more sophisticated audience and setting a higher standard for her work yet she is not living up to her ambitions her recent writings smell of her past writings too emotional the damaged woman wounded child she wants to write more introspectively with detached humor that only comes from keener intelligence she slams her laptop shut decides to go to Club Congress for a ****** mary or margarita but Club Congress is haunted with small town cretins losers wannabes she considers Maynard’s decides Maynard’s is too safe suburban yuppyish finally gives in to thought of glass of pinot noir at Plush next comes what to wear jeans in mid-July desert heat is unacceptable perhaps loose fitting thin cotton white summer dress thin leather belt ankle high indian moccasins hair in ponytail no pigtail braids no ponytail no makeup maybe little ylang ylang oil no she thinks about her recent writings

2

i am one breath away from crying in every moment one breath away from flying m.i.a. in every moment one breath away from destroying everything there is beauty in ugliness beauty in decrepitude disease beauty in harm hurt suffering beauty in greed injustice betrayal beauty in corruption contamination pollution beauty in hate cruelty ignorance beauty in death we spend our whole lives searching for a good death we spend our whole lives searching for eternal love this modern world is too much for me over my head the horrors of this place are beyond words unspeakable voice inside maybe mom yells quit your whining or dad hollers stop complaining i am trying to smile through tears one breath away from giving in one breath away from becoming stranger to myself winter spring winter spring there is beauty in nothingness we spend our whole lives searching for ourselves learning who we are not finding grasping secrets from dark paths light trails winter spring winter spring i am one breath away

3

she sits alone at bar at Plush glass of pinot noir glass of ice water in front of her 2 bearded older men eye her from other end of bar she ignores them glances at her wristwatch tries to look like she is waiting for someone music from speakers antiquated rock standard it is early friday hours from dusk moderate middle aged crowd mingle wait for local jazz trio to begin she thinks about her recent writings wonders is it too late for love considers lesbian affair from 5 different perspectives 5 woman’s voices each describing same lesbian affair in 5 opposing accounts hmmm she sips dark red wine from glass chases it with ice water she considers a story about a gang of female bikers who ride south to Mexico

4

the Americans came through here last night crossing border illegally climbing over our fences digging tunnels beneath our barrier walls littering along their trail they travel in packs of every skin color carry guns knives explosives wear leather boots some are shirtless tattoos dyed hair mischievously smiling conceitedly stealing when in question murdering they rob our homes slaughter our chickens ransack gardens loot our harvest you can still smell the stink of their fast food breaths

5

she swallows the last dark red wine from glass chases it with ice water local jazz trio begins to play as bar fills with more people she decides to walk home one foot in front of other wonders who taught her how to walk how many times did she fall she laughs to herself

Tucson square dance

TPD 10-18 unconfirmed data report

7 post-University of Arizona female graduates go to Cactus Moon for several drinks and dancing then drive to Bashful Bandit for more drinks and dancing 2 women get into scuffle victim Brittany Garner female 23 years of age race #5 (Native American, Eskimo, Middle -Eastern, Other) 5’ 2” long black hair cut-off blue jean shorts clingy light blue top falls hits head on side of bar dies of fatal blow to skull forensics report crushed occipital lobe assailant Stacy Won female 31 years of age race #4 (Asian) 5’6” black jeans black leather jacket red helmet Honda motorcycle still at large

witness accounts

Jess Delaney female 33 years of age race #2 (White) 6’ tight black pencil skirt white sleeveless undershirt no bra 3” heels blond ponytail “that squirting little **** deserves everything she got she lied told Stacy i’m a ***** i never cheated on Brittany i don’t understand we were all having a good time getting buzzed and dancing we should never have left Cactus Moon **** Kerrie thought some biker dude might be hanging around the Bandit hell maybe the Bandit was a biker bar once but now it’s just a college sink hole full of drunken frat boys when Monique flashed a little *** they went crazy cheering and buying us shots it just got out of hand never should have happened the way it happened Stacy didn’t mean to **** Brittany it’s ****** up i want to go home please let me go home”

Sabrina Starn female 29 years of age race #2 (White) 5’8” trendy corporate gray suit black pumps red shoulder length hair “i have to be at work at 8 AM Stacy was drunk out of control she gets crazy when she drinks Brittany was trash talking pushing all Stacy’s buttons then Stacy accused Brittany of sleeping with Monique and all hell broke loose i didn’t see what happened i was in the powder room it’s a terrible tragedy unfortunate accident can i please be released i need to sleep this is madness”

Kerrie Angeles female 27 years of age race #1 (Hispanic) 5’ 6” black pants white shirt black hair cut stylishly short silver crucifix around neck red fingernails “when we got to the Bashful Bandit i was ***** soaking between my legs thinking about a cowgirl at Cactus Moon ready to **** anyone i saw fantasized pulling a train with those frat boys Monique had been kind of quiet at Cactus Moon but when we got to the Bashful Bandit she lit up dancing wild unbuttoning her top jacket Sabrina went to the ladies room to snort coke with biker dude Kerrie wanted but he wasn’t into her then Brittany started saying crazy stuff accusing Stacy of stealing Monique from Jess Jessie goes through women heartlessly she doesn’t give a **** about Monique Jessie knows if she wants Monique back she can simply fiddle a finger my guess is Stacy is half way to Argentina she never meant to **** Brittany i’m going to miss her real bad she was a good kid”

Ann Skyler female 28 years of age race  #2 (White) 4’ 11’’ green white red Mexican peasant skirt black t-shirt black high-tops hair in messy bun “i’m confused i saw them dancing laughing grinding up against each other Rage Against the Machine came on then Nine Inch Nails the room felt quaking dizzy claustrophobic then they were pushing each other shoving yelling frat boys cheering the next thing i knew Brittany was supine on the floor blood pouring out maybe she just slipped hit her head i don’t know what to think i feel real sad confused sick to my stomach scared”

Monique Smithson female 24 years of age race # 3 (Black) 5’ 9” blue jeans jean jacket cowboy boots nose ring braided pigtails “Stacy had it in for Brittany from the start i saw it in her eyes at Cactus Moon she made several clever toxic remarks they snapped at each other i never thought it would escalate to ****** poor sweet Brittany was always so susceptible i was looking down adjusting my jeans over my boots when it happened i heard felt a big thump glanced up Brittany was lying there lifeless blood spilling everywhere Stacy ran out fast i heard her bike engine take off in a hurry”

Rodeo Drive Tucson

matt’s hats tom’s tools & tobacco lou’s liquors fred’s beds frank’s planks bill’s drills jane’s drains & panes chuck’s check cashing cheryl’s barrels hank’s tanks tina’s trucks & tractors walt’s asphalt sean’s pawn rick’s rifles mom’s guns terry’s tires charlie’s harleys rhonda’s hondas jim’s rims art’s parts gus’s gasoline mike’s bikes frank’s feed gwen’s pens ann’s cans nancy’s nursery joes‘s clothes jess’s dresses bert’s skirts steve’s sleeves paul’s shawls michelle’s shells & bells al’s pails & snails sam’s hams & jams patty’s pancakes phil’s chili don’s donuts betty’s spaghetti bob’s burgers alycia’s quiches jean’s beans jerry’s berries anna’s bananas andy’s candies cathy’s taffies tony’s ponies roy’s toys kim’s whims marty’s parties jill’s pills rick’s tricks alice’s palace debbie’s disposal dave’s graves

Quinta Waltz de Tucson

she is definitely displeased profoundly disappointed in her latest literary efforts she dreams aches to create deeper discourse higher insight more thoughtful philosophical inquiries about life’s challenges beauty a better world overpowering love inspiration instead she writes paperback television trash stupid inadequate answers to solemn questions she wonders if she is too scratched dented to find love her ******* are definitely changing she is deeply disturbed not ready for menopause too young for menopause she wants to remain a fertile woman with smooth skin wet ******

2

her neighbor Leslie awoke to horrible morning Leslie’s 6 chickens were assaulted overnight precious Mabel dragged off feathers everywhere trail down the street other hens cowering slumped together with wilted necks 3 of them with puncture wounds Leslie carried them one by one inside washed their wounds hugged them cried who did this terrible act a neglected abusive neighborhood cat or some desert predator why didn’t Leslie wake to sounds of savage marauding now this creature knows hen’s whereabouts when will it return for more massacre what modifications need to be enforced to ensure their coup before nightfall

3

she wants to remain a hen keep producing eggs does not want is not ready to enter the next **** stage of this **** existence it was fun being pretty for men inspiring them to say do whacky things she wants to remain a hen she is definitely displeased profoundly disappointed in her latest literary attempts “Tucson square dance” (self-referential) ****** bit about Americans came through here last night in “Tucson 3-step” ****** "Rodeo Drive" tepid perhaps the pinot noir lowered her standards everything is becoming nothing she cannot sleep tosses turns thrashes sheets in humid heat of her lonesome bed is she is too scratched dented to find love she worries for Leslie

4

tomorrow is another day they say the rain will come last year’s monsoon never came the baking sun smothered her garden died one by one sleepless she will miss tomorrow’s pilates class the infrequent delightful chatty breakfast afterwards she dreams aches of deeper discourse higher insight with detached humor that only comes from keener intelligence more thoughtful philosophical inquiries about life’s challenges beauty a better world overpowering love inspiration she crossed the line tonight her ******* are definitely changing

Tucson 666

he decides to shave eighth to quarter inch length salt and pepper beard a.k.a. unshaven look he has worn for years and grow full mustache the whiskers on his upper lip are darker with sparse gray at first no one notices after weeks the mustache gradually fills evoking many contrasting remarks several women loath it several men admire it girl at grocery store suggests he grow Fu Manchu so she can tug on it shopgirl says he looks like Charlie Chaplin downstairs neighbor from Turkey explains most Turkish men traditionally wear mustaches he read mustaches masculinize and empower men especially men in authoritative positions he thinks back to the 1960’s when many hippie males grew mustaches then in the 70’s gay men fashioned mustaches then in the 80’s cops adopted mustaches he wonders why a swatch of hair beneath nose is so provoking examines his visage in mirror discerns the mustache confers a Pepé le Pew quality or European accent to his appearance he remembers when he was young hippie with many amorous episodes how his mustache preserved the scent of a woman but there are no women in his life for many years do post-menopausal women possess scent? he feels indecisive whether to retain it or be rid of it

2

she observes her figure in mirror thinks to herself maybe her ******* are not changing perhaps it’s all in her head she inspects the little lines forming near her eyelids studies her features for signs of aging hardly any silver strands in long brown hair she examines neck ******* arms elbows fingers tummy hips pelvic region thighs knees shins calves ankles feet detects subtle changes thinks to herself my ******* are possibly slightly changing turned 40 in March married briefly in late teens no children a 15 year old dog beginning to suffer veterinarian promises to warn her when the time comes she wonders why it is so difficult finding fitting mate men sleep with her several times then move on maybe she is not such a great lover perhaps she would be better if one of them stuck around perhaps she is a lesbian the whole ide

CHAPTER ONE

My geographic movements during the past year could be called “A Tale of Two Couches.” So as June draws to a close, I assume the position here again on Couch California. I am back in Hemet, the place the smug among us call Hemetucky--as if there was nothing a couple of Mint Juleps and a **** of Blue Grass wouldn’t cure. It is the year of our Lord, 2014: so far an interesting year for women. There was a woman who wore socks to bed. There was always my long-time, here today-gone tomorrow, long time companion, currently teaching somewhere remote on the Big Rez, a southwestern Navajo concentration camp near the 4 Corners.  Next, there’s my current object of affection, that fine and frisky lady from The Bronx by way of Bernalillo--currently at home in Laguna Beach, Orange County. Trixie: my main squeeze at the moment.

And now, completely out of the ******* blue this afternoon, my cell phone rings and it’s ******* Juanita--my all-time favorite woman, Juanita Mi Favorita de La Quinta--a Coachella Valley town and desert wadi, extending its lucrative winter tourist season to become a significant, year-round retirement venue and a robust service economy feeding off it.  Juanita arrived there in the late 80s, in middle of her early forties.  She was unemployed, homeless, just a suitcase to her name and a two-year old toddler in tow. Her parents were there, as was her Aunt Peggy.  Juanita was always Peggy’s favorite niece, her favorite child, actually, Peggy herself being childless, never married.  Aunt Peggy put her maternal instincts to work on Juanita Rodriguez, her Sister Rosalia’s second favorite twin daughter.

Maria, Rosalia’s first favorite daughter, Juanita’s twin sister—MARIA: lives in Newport Beach and acts as an extra in many commercial ads shot in southern California and elsewhere, an irony never without sting for Juanita. “Que lastima!” Poor Juanita: as her would-be Hollywood Movie star aspirations disintegrated over the years, along with her unrealized lower expectations to be TV star, and even those semi-glamorous modeling gigs at trade shows and fairs—the elephant’s graveyard of the acting profession—failed to materialize, and now her celebrity habitat shrunken even further, to that sporadic but consistent mockery of stardom, I refer to any would-be thespian’s ignominious one-celled visual protozoan: The Extra Call List.  And—*******-- what happens next? Juanita’s sister Maria starts getting these parts, starts getting hired by filling out a ******* postcard, starts getting paid to look good in the background. *******: no professional education or instruction, no agent, and no need to **** off both the producer, the producer’s cousin Morey, the director and the director’s wife’s huge Golden retriever, Genghis--actually a mighty handsome animal--or needing to spill $4K on that Derma-brasion, Juanita inflicted on herself last year.

Juanita, as you already know, was the second favorite daughter and the second favorite twin of the family. She became the third favorite child in her three-child family upon the arrival of her slick baby brother Nico-- the Golden Child, who grew up to be a glib Merrill-Lynch stockbroker, office and residence, Beverly Hills 90112.  (Enter forcefully into the narrative, His Nibs himself, Sir Nicodemus of Hollywood, Juanita and Maria’s baby brother Nico. He speaks: “Excuse me, stockbroker my ***, as it says in a 11 point Rockwell Boldfont, right here on my gold-leaf embossed business card: Senior Large Capital Investment Counselor.”)

No, Juanita had a hard time just treading water in that Cleveland shark tank. And though she lacked nothing in the cuteness department, she had this one fatal flaw, namely, the gift of ***** and sass and a reflex to speak truth to power. Juanita: rejected by Rosalia as a threat to her hegemony as Boss of the Girl’s Club, was cast adrift on a tempestuous childhood cruel Montserrat sea, out there on the briny deep . . .  
                

                                      



High Seas: where many a tuna has a Sorry Charlie moment: “Star-Kist don’t want no tuna with good taste; Star-Kist wants a tuna that tastes good.”

Finally, Juanita is rescued, taken aboard the Good/Soul Aunt Peggy—that wayward bark Elisabeta Rodriguez, home-ported in Southside, Chicago, Illinois—the rescue at sea performed in classy, rather low-key manner; no Andrea Doria drama, but understated:

{Camera One, Helicopter above, zooms over turbulent ocean surface. Peggy, an oasis of calm, aboard the raft Kon Tiki with Thor Heyerdahl and his crew, floats by, whispering, “Going my way, Honey? Climb aboard. Have a homemade oatmeal cookie and a small glass tumbler of Jack Daniels.” Okay, no, that’s not fair. Sure Aunt Peggy drank, but never got round to offering you a drink until you were well into your 30s. Let’s just say she offered you a warm glass of milk, the mother’s milk deprived you by your mother, her sister Rosalia. Dear Aunt Peggy: a seasoned survivor herself, flawed by early childhood deafness and grotesque speech.  Yet, she had refused to settle for life in an asylum. She made a go at life.  She learned; she prospered; she flourished. And when the time came, she was there for you in the Coachella Desert, there for her feisty niece Juanita Ann.  Aunt Peggy: a loving spirit personified, became Juanita’s special confidant and counselor, her personal cheer squad of one. Juanita, of course, a former cheerleader herself--an early hint of greatness to be sure, a highlight, perhaps the highlight of her life, shown off every Halloween, still celebrated at American high schools each Fall. She is the Principal’s secretary at a huge suburban high school in Indio. Each Halloween, if the date falls on a school day, Juanita arrives for work wearing that scrupulously preserved, vintage 1966 cheerleader uniform, looking real foxy still, snug now in all the right places. Eternal Truth: Juanita has always and will always be good looking. Life with Juanita is perpetual “ooh la-la.”

So, I am on the couch that afternoon, reading more of Gramsci’s prison notebooks, specifically the philosophy he calls “Praxis.”  Completely out of the ******* blue, Juanita calls me on a RESTRICTED phone, as I said, Juanita, a torch I’ve kept burning for years, flaring up like a refinery flame--oil still very much in the present energy mix--hope springing eternal as they say, and instantly my mission in life is rekindling our lost love. Juanita’s conceived her mission prior to her phone call:  using me to keep her son from being whacked by the local Eme--the Mexican Mafia—that ethnic-pride social club that the RICO-squad-- using family tree socio-grams and other expensively-printed graphics, the one RICO keeps trying to convince us is some sort of organized crime conspiracy. The Mexican Mafia: like everything else practical and utilitarian in this world: THAT’S ITALIAN! And, if you are starting to sense a bit of ethnic chauvinism on, between & below the lines, you are barking up the right tree.
                                                           ­     
      
                                                            
(AUTHOR’S POST-SCRIPT EDIT: And, an ad for dog food right here? Not the best choice of sponsors, perhaps, at the moment. Juanita was far off from the ****** ***** that start looking not half-bad at 2:30 in the glazy morning, not anywhere near those beasts you find lingering in the airport bars you usually frequent near closing time on Saturday nights. No, I remind you that Juanita was all “ooh la-la.” In my next printing—and my Lord, there have been so many, haven’t there, Paulie “Eat-a-Bag-of-****” Muldoon? I will change out the Alpo ad, plugging in a spot for Aunt Jemima pancake syrup or Betty Crocker whipped cream, you know, something more apropos.)

Juanita, I really must hand it to you. You showed the greatest staying power, year after year as I moved further and further away from La Quinta, California. Juanita: you embraced what was good in me, ignored my flaws and strengthened me with your love for so many years. As far as you and Peggy, I guess it was a case of the “apple not falling far from the tree” one of many endearing Midwestern metaphors you taught me.  Peggy taught you, taught you to be kind and then you taught me. No matter what bizarre venue I pulled out of my ***, you showed above-average staying power, continued to visit me wherever I went, Casa Grande & Buckeye, Arizona, Appalachia, West Virginia, and even Italy, when I thought I’d try Europe again after so many years.  With each move, each time, Juanita renewed her commitment to the relationship. Meanwhile, I continued to test her, quantifying her dedication, undermining her sense of mission to disprove my worldview on the expendability of women. Surely, you know that one: the unreliability of women, women who disappear without saying goodbye. That old deeply etched conviction to never get attached to a woman, any woman, based on the empirical fact that women have been known to suddenly die, a fact seared into my still tender metal by the surprise death of my mother on 11 January 1962.

1962. It was already an insecure world, to wit:  The Cuban Missile Crisis. Nikita Khrushchev, in his time both Dr. No and Dr. Evil, namely the Premier whom we Baby Boomers saw as Boogey Man of All Time (Although Putin is showing potential, lately)—the Kennedy ****** (what else could you call it?). All these events scary, whether or not I got the chronology right . . . I remained on high alert for any threat to my delicate adolescent psyche.  My mother-Rosa Teresa Sekaquaptewa-died at 2 o’clock in the morning, screaming in agony while apologizing to my father for not having his dinner on the table when he walked in from work that prior afternoon. She’d already been in bed since noon, attended by two of my aunts--both my father’s sisters--who loved their Hopi sister-in-law, Rosa.  Also present was Lafcadio Smirnoff, M.D.--last of the house call medicine men--a dapper, mustachioed, swarthy gentleman, misdiagnosing her abdominal pain as a 24-hour virus, while she bled out internally for at least eight more hours, her whimpers alternated with screams, well into the wee hours of the morning.

I was upstairs in that dormer bedroom listening to her die. An hour later, Father Numb-nuts of Our Lady of Lourdes Parish teleported in, beaming directly into my bedroom from the parish rectory.  Father Seamus Numb-nuts, an illuminated Burning Bush . . . not quite the bush I ‘d conjured at other times, so many times alone with Gwen Wong, ******* Playmate of the Year, 1961, one of Hefner’s hot centerfolds. No, give me a ******* break, you momo! Whacking off is the last thing on a libidinous, adolescent guinea’s brain when his mama is being tortured and killed by God. Even Alexander Portnoy, Philip Roth’s early avatar would have drawn the wanking line at that unforgettable moment.

No, perhaps what I’d had in mind was The Burning Bush Golf Course where so much of Fletcher Kneble’s political mischief and government shenanigans got cooked up. You remember his books, some of the Cold War’s finest: Seven Days in May, Vanished, etc.

Or better yet, perhaps the greatest political slogan of the 20th century: “STAY OUT THE BUSHES!” Thank you, Jesse. “Thank you, Reverend Jackson,” I slip into my Excellence in Broadcasting mode, my very own private Limbaugh. Announcing my on- air arrival is El Rushbo’s unmistakable, totally recognizable bass line bumper, courtesy of Chrissie Hynde’s Pretenders band mate, guitarist Tony Butler: Dum, dum, dum-dum, Da-dum, dum-dum-dum-dum-da-dum-dum. Single, “My City Was Gone” by The Pretenders
Rush Limbaugh Song– YouTube www.youtube.com/watch?v=SScW9r0y3c4

I become Reverend Jackson. I emerge from the vapors, an obscure abyss of deep family pangs and disappointments, ever-diminishing public relevance and fade to black (no pun intended) and media oblivion. The only thing left is that line:  “STAY OUT THE BUSHES!” You will always own that line, Jesse--true political genius (to wit: Rainbow Coalition) Jackson that you are, despite El Rush-Bo’s virulent anti-Black animus, his predilection to mock you, Al Sharpton, Corey Booker, Barack “Hussein” Obama, and any other professional ***** in America. Isn’t it time someone came right out and tagged Mr. Limbaugh as the Father Coughlin of our time.

Meanwhile back in The Bronx, enter another man of the cloth:  It’s Seamus Numb-nuts, making one of his many well-documented spectral visitations, his splendiferous miracles and wonders. How much longer will the Vatican ignore this humble Bronx priest, this epitome of Sainthood; this reverent man, lacking only the stigmata for a unanimous consent vote? Quote the Numb-nuts: “God Works in Mysterious Ways.” An old standard to be sure, but a lovely, all-purpose bromide for explaining why evil exists in our world. Needless to say, I was underwhelmed; I lost God at that moment, consequently shooting myself in the foot--metaphorically-speaking-condemning myself to an unshielded life, life OUT THE BUSHES!  I went forth into the world without God, without that handy divine crutch, that Andy Devine metaphor for when one’s legs grow weary: a puff of smoke, a reverb twang and a nasty frog croaking “Hi-ya, Kids. Hi-ya, Hi-ya. Hi-ya.”

   Andy's Gang - Pasta Fazooli vs. Froggy the Gremlin - YouTube
► 3:55► 3:55
www.youtube.com/watch?v=H35odPm7b3w Aug 8, 2012 - Uploaded by jmgilsinger
Froggy the Gremlin -Tuba ... Andy Devine (Aug 24, 1952)

Life for me became lonely and purposeless. And probably explains my susceptibility to military discipline and a subsequent career in clandestine government service. In 1968--the very day I turned nineteen, September 25th of that year—that fateful day when I should have shot myself in the foot—literally not metaphorically--earning that coveted 4-F physical rejection, a draft deferment to be desired, that 4-F classification of unfitness for duty, a necessary loophole in U.S. conscript service law.  The Draft: last used during that great commonwealth Cold War purge, that culling out of the unwashed, uneducated children of immigrants, that cut-rate, discount, lower socio-economic ***** bank—the only bank where after you make a deposit, you lose interest, to wit: most Black, Hispanic and Poor White Trash parents.  We were cannon fodder, many of us got to be planted at Arlington and other holy American shrines, still wrapped in black or olive drab leak-proof body bags, doing our generational bit to strengthen the gene pool left behind. A debt, some would say, we owed the country and, given the sorry state of the global wicket, increasingly an obligation to the species. And if I had to predict an outcome, Fascism in America will arrive riding the white horse of the environmental, anti-nuclear Bolsheviks. One could argue that Communism has moved so far left on the political spectrum that it’s now the far right.  Concoct a legislative policy goal, accomplish it legally as the bill becomes Law, signed by the President, endorsed and blessed by The U.S. Supreme Court, the highest court in the land.

To wit: “Three generations of imbeciles is enough?” declared Oliver Wendell Holmes, Jr., an Associate Supreme Court Justice at the time, buttressing a majority argument harnessing the power of U.S. law as a legal means of purifying the race.  When euthanasia failed to win over American hearts and mind, the Federal Government played the war card again and again. Vietnam: undeclared and therefore unconstitutional--except for that Gulf of Tonkin ******* resolution. Vietnam: a cost-plus eugenics project, if ever there was one, although responsive, of course, to the needs of the Military-Industrial Complex.  ******* Ike: he warned us against Fascism in America. As usual, we ignored the man in charge.

Eugenics? Why didn’t the government just put all the retards on the stand, as John Frankenheimer did in Judgment at Nuremberg, a crafty Maximilian Schell humiliating a feeble-minded Montgomery Clift?  Why not, make everyone face a public tribunal, forcing all of us to testify in court, exposing our many substandard and borderline substandard cerebral deficits?  Why not force everyone to demonstrate just how ******* dumb we are, using some clever intelligence test, something l

My father had a propensity for a peculiar type of sparseness.
Enhanced with items of furniture collected from many sources.
Not a mean man but coming from a very poor family off Labrook Grove in London his few possessions were meaningful.

In the 1970s my parents moved to Totland to take up residence in a new bungalow on The Isle Of Wight, situated overlooking rambling countryside and narrow, windy lanes.
There was a wide but shortish back garden needing to be established. The front garden a sloped bank to meet the pavement.
Mother brought with her, from Streatham her London home, favourite hardy shrubs easily transplanted.

My father retired early finding the strain of being a hospital administrator at St Georges Hospital, Hyde Park Corner, too taxing.
Recruitment was problematic and mainly filled with applicants from overseas.(Not much has changed in fifty years.)My mother wanted to spend time with Frank, her father, sharing his latter years at Totland where he and his wife, Gwen, lived overlooking the Solent on a considerable plot of land.
This included the new bungalow built about 1952-3 and designed by John Westbrook, Frank's son, and acres of beautifully planned flower gardens, a vegetable patch and large wooded area where the trees held tiny toys, to the magic of Tolkein. As children this place was as close as one could get to paradise.

Usually we entered by the back lane entrance rather than from The Alum Bay Road. The plot stretching between the two.
The rows of backgarden fences looked much the same
Crumbling and split wooden planks, large tree roots
Dividing up the length and making mysterious openings
Where rather dilapidated gates, latched firmly
So animals could not stray,
Allowed for the start of magic.
Out of all these fences one belonged to my grandparents and
Through which our travels to Narnia began.

So over twenty, mainly, glorious years on The Island, enjoying its many beautiful walks, the beaches and a few precious friends and neighbours. It had been my mother's dream to inherit her father's bungalow and spend her final years watching the boats float on the Solent and breathe sea air sitting on a swinging seat surrounded by primroses. Unfortunately this dream did not materialise due to my mother's poor health. But she was grateful for the years Bill and herself  had together on that green and pleasant land.

My maternal grandparents were, quietly distinguished, letter writers
Who embroidered their days with poetic licence. They had few visitors, apart from the local vicar, the vet and gardener. Gwen being a rather possessive and eccentric lady and having no children of her own, treated the dog as one would a child and life centred around dog walks, feeding and playtime. Frank was also frail and being older than Gwen needed much care and attention.They both liked to read and write letters which they did after lunch with an added snooze. Every day flowed with regularity and neat routines interspersed with many hours tending the garden, picking raspberries from heavily laden canes and gathering long, plump runner beans.
Throughout the Summer months high tea was set in the garden on a rickety table, and consisting of thick slices of current bread coated in salt free butter, a variety of homemade cakes, sandwiches, and ice cream and jelly with a *** of tea or lemonade.
I am reminded of 'The Bloomsbury Set' and Vita Sackville -West, a tranquil but harassed life with too much need for perfection.


Geographically some distance from our London home visits, both ways, were infrequent and by the time I was about nine Frank was too old to travel to Streatham. However their presence formed a significant part of our lives and is still with me today.
Unfortunately letter writing was for my brother and I a chore not undertaken with glee,
Especially as the gift was often a box of embroidered hankies sat in someone's drawer for an age.

The family structure, having married in their fifties, consisted of Frank and Gwen, Mother and always a wire haired terrier, often renewed as age took this species young. Mother was in her nineties and having brought up Gwen and Kath singularly now lived with her daughter in the bungalow at Totland on the Alum Bay Road.

Frank had been part of the Boy's Brigade movement from his teens, taking his love of camping into his marriage to Alexandra Emily Giles, the mother of his two daughters, Grace Emily and Betty Rose. His wife sadly died in childboth leaving the girls orphaned at five and seven.
Frank then moved from Reading to Tooting in south London and married Vera, a girl of twenty one, to whom he had a son, John.
Vera was flirtatious with the boys in the brigade and left Frank and her son, John, at the age of nine, to the care and protection of my mother Grace who was then eighteen. Grace loved them both but it restricted her life and she feared she would never marry. However she found my father, a wonderfully loving and wholesome person who made her very happy in most ways.

Throughout my mother's and John's childhood time was spent camping on the Isle of Wight and so strong associations were made with Totland where the brigade camped in a field in Court Road.

The two bungalows were approximately two to three miles apart.
My mother visited Gwen and her father twice a week spending
A couple of hours sitting in the open planned hallway, glass doored, which faced onto the Alan Bay Road. If warm it would be brunch in the garden at the back. These visits were my mother's anchorage with her life as she missed me very much and her grandchildren in Watford.

Innisfail (meaning- The Ireland of Belonging) was the name of my grandparents' bungalow. ( please see below for more lengthy meaning and interpretation, kindly, written  by John Garbutt).

My parents' bungalow was named  'Crowhurst'  and carved on a wooden plaque as a present by John Garbutt my auntie Betty's partner. The origin of the name came from a retreat that my father, Bill, attended and connected to a church in Streatham where I lived as a child.

Almost all my childhood annual holidays were taken on the Island so we could visit our grandparents and my mother spend time with her father. After my parents moved and I married and had children the pattern was repeated. And till this day it is a favourite with all my children and grandchildren. A special place fixed in time and beauty.

The bungalows are both sold now as their residents have all died.
Clearing out the garage of my parents' bungalow my brother found many of my father's precious possessions although the house was quite sparse still having the wooden floorboards laid when first built twenty years before.

May they all rest in peace .Love Mary ***

My Family and our long and happy connections with The Isle Of Wight. By Mary Kearns April 2018.

You're Gwen Stacy, I'm Spidey
Don't leave me, I'll make you happy
I don't need anybody or money
Just the two of us, you and me

To others, I'm cold as ice
To you, my heart always melts, Oh nice!
Now, I'm going to roll those dice
To unfold what the future lies

My love for you is absolute
You're my boss, I salute
If I love you means I am Groot
Then I am Groot, I am Groot

Dear Gwen Stefani Circa 2006,
The first music I chose to like that wasn’t
just my mom’s tuning of the radio was

Your solo CD, the first and best of two, which
I made sure to get on my twelfth birthday, after
I made sure to get my first kiss.

We were not rookie sixth graders anymore,
In soggy bathing suits teeming with pubescence,
So I publicized my plans to plant one on

Yeorgios Mavromatis, the new seventh grade boyfriend,
The first boy to buy me jewelry I would not like,
The first boy I used to make myself infamous.

Our hallway bottlenecked with twelve year olds,
Alone we sat on the bed, legs dangling above
The stained beige carpet. The kiss was damp and boring.

But the crowd that pressed at the door was an ******,
Surged voices told me my dad was walking up the stairs,
I arched around to throw the boyfriend in the closet,

My father caught me, and I wore the walk through them
Like your scarlet lipstick. The album of
My first kiss was not passion, but gossip.

I’ve seen you in red lipstick, bindis, and blue hair,
A pink wedding dress, and a Platinum Blonde Life.
I knew you were making art meant to publicize.

The songs and the clothes and the Harajuku Girls,
The boys and the clothes and the Children’s Theatre,
The day I made a scene was the day I knew.

Catholic guilt and couture gilt and creative goals
Took two West Coast girls, only twenty three years apart
And turned them into people you paid attention to.

Tell the ******* truth, Gwen Stefani, bleach blonde vamp.
Questions stack up in the recesses of my mind,
A renovation’s trash pile of drywall dust.
You changed me, but there are things to clean up.

Did you just take a break to remake your image
For swarms of chubby white suburban pre-teens
Swarming in packs at the middle school dance?
Are those the only bees you could catch in your hive?

How did you meld and mold the Harajuku girls
To fit in the camera’s crosshairs or to walk
the thin line of a New York fashion week runway?
I must admit I still have my bottle of L.A.M.B.

Was the woman who screeched she was Just a Girl
Just floundering for fame? Does this happen to
Every mid-level artist? Will my inkwell turn
To the blood of an easy fan base too?

I wanted you to be my mother, but you picked
my platinum model sister as your favorite.
But will I still become you, even though I know
You’re false? Your press coverage can’t reveal the future.

Black tar lies spew from US magazine covers
Eyes dark, I gobble them up in violent shudders.

Nerds, Geeks, Fanboys or Girls
We are more than your Sheldon
We love our worlds
Our passion is more than T-Shirt Deep.
You've seen Spider-Man?
Good for you!
I can tell you in which issue Gwen Stacey dies
I can spoil 4 future seasons of Game of Thrones
and no I didn't need a ****** show;
Walking Dead.......whatever
been doing that since 2001
Our entertainment is far from the television or movie
You buy your toy or your ticket
but don't think you know us.
We created these worlds
they are by us and for us
We are not just maladjusted brainiacs
we feel deeper and want more
You watch; we experience
We fly through the sky
on the backs of dragons
We know the regenerations of The Doctor
We don't just relate To fiction, but THROUGH fiction.
We know the Allomantic properties of pewter
You don't.....?
Wait a year, you will...

My name is Gabrielle Rose Pimentel
But everyone calls me Gwen
My mom wanted to name me Gaby
But my dad insisted that my nickname should come from their names
So I got the G from grace and the WEN from Wendell and formed Gwen

I have 4 moles on my face and a ton more on my body
One eye is smaller than the other
I have dimples on my fingers
I like to connect my moles
My hands have caught so much pain, they are blistered
My shoulders swelling from the weight of the world
My feet red from running around in circles trying to figure out what I did wrong
And yes, I have a double chin

I can get pretty random
From the pyramids of giza to why does soap bubble?
I’ve loved and it is the most amazing thing I have ever experienced
It takes you on this rocket ship into the void
And it makes you feel like all the shooting stars are falling for you
But with love comes hurt
I’ve been hurt and I’ve learned
That the more i try to stop the bleeding, the more it goes
So I let it bleed, and I allow myself to feel the pain
I feel things very deeply and
every feeling is either a bandage to a wound or a punch in the stomach
I don’t know if it’s a blessing or a curse
I’ve been careless, I am learning
I walk on the glass shards of life barefoot, hoping that the wounds teach me a lesson
As if the blood on my feet carry the answers to my biggest questions

I am just 15 years old
My eyes wide as the universe, ever expanding, ready to see all there is to see
My brain, eager like a little child at the ice cream store, wanting to taste every flavor there is
I am at the peak of my own age of exploration
Waiting for my marco polo moment, when suddenly everything will be clear
Do questions have legs? Because a ton of them run through my mind
Do aliens exist? Is God real? Are there really mermaids? Can dogs feel? Do plants talk? How big is the universe? Is everything real or merely a dream? Why is there poverty? Is there a cure for cancer? Why do bad things happen to good people? Is there any hope left in this world? Will my questions ever be answered?

If life was a new movie everyday,
I would be at the front row
I wanted to see everything that was about to happen
I would stare at it all day in fear that if I looked  away I would’ve missed my prince charming
I will obsess over every detail, trying to figure out what it means
And this is probably why its good that life doesn’t have a movie
It’s the uncertainity of it all that makes life so special
It gives you the choice whether you want to embrace it
Or let it hold you captive and paranoid of whats about to happen
In my case, I learned that I should just let life go and take its natural course of action
Never mess with the universe because the universe is beyond our imagination
We think we’re so important
Like the world revolves around us
but really we aren’t even as small as a speck compared to everything

I'm Gwen and I'm just 15
But this is me, this is who I am
And I'm so done changing myself just for others

They had said that he was dying but
He might as well be home,
He was taking up an empty bed
At the hospital, in Rome,
And no amount of medicaments would
Bring him back to life,
So they threw him in an ambulance
And sent him to his wife.

And she, poor girl, was mystified
She didn’t need the stress,
Of tending to a cadaver while
She wore her party dress.
He saw the world through greying eyes
But he never made a sound,
He’d married her through thick and thin
But on thin, she’d let him down.

His days were grey and mist-like as
He looked around his room,
She’d kept the curtains pulled across
So he lay there in the gloom,
And shadows of her sister would
Stand pensive at his bed,
He’d loved, and he really missed her
But the sister long was dead.

Perhaps he should have married Grace
As the younger of the two,
But that would have left the elder one
Not knowing what to do.
The eldest must be married first
Or so the father said,
So Raymond Royce was given no choice
He’d married Gwen instead.

It seemed as if he woke sometimes
And he went to greet the day,
Out in the broader sunshine where
His pains had gone away.
But Gwen was never there with him
As she’d never been in life,
While Grace had sat and talked with him
As if she were alive.

And when Grace reached and held his hand
He thought that his heart would burst,
The tears he shed from his lonely bed
Said he had loved her first.
He asked why Grace had died on him
And she gave him his reply,
‘My sister Gwen had put poison in
That gift of an apple pie.’

‘She knew I only had eyes for you,
And she thought that you would leave,
She saw the way that you looked at me
And her heart began to grieve.
It wasn’t as if she wanted you
But she knew that if you left,
The world would see it as scandal
And would leave her quite bereft.’

And so he lay there, day by day
While his wife brought boyfriends home,
They lay there in the adjoining room
In that little flat in Rome.
While he could not decide between
Reality and dream,
The grey days were his night, he thought
And the brighter days his cream.

He knew just where he would rather be
In the day-like days with Grace,
But Gwen would settle beside his bed
And would mutter to his face.
He saw her dimly through the mist
And repeat beneath her breath,
‘How long, how long will you resist
When the end for you is death?’

The day came that the sun was bright,
It was time that he was fed,
While Grace looked on as her sister sat
Beside her husband’s bed.
And Grace had whispered between her tears
‘Don’t you even wonder why…’
While her sister, with a face so grim
Sat and fed him apple pie.

David Lewis Paget

She sat at the edge of the second floor,
‘I’m going to jump!’ she cried,
He stood well back from the balcony,
‘You lied,’ she said, ‘you lied!
You swore we’d marry before the Spring
That I’d always be with you…’
‘I didn’t promise you anything,
It’s not what I want to do!’

‘Well, why did you lead me on,’ she said,
‘Did you want to break my heart,
I’ll fling myself from this building if
We’re going to be apart.’
‘I’ve got a lot of living to do
Before I take a wife,
You said that you’d never tie me down,
That you wanted to live your life.’

‘I wanted to live my life with you
Is all that I really meant,
But now you’re twisting my words, you want
To set up an argument.’
He said, ‘You’re getting hysterical,
I think that you ought to jump,’
Took one step back, and lifted his foot,
Then planted it in her ****.

She flew off the top of the doll’s house
And sat squat on the gravel drive,
Just as her mother motored up,
‘I see that you’re still alive!’
His father wandered from out the door
And waved to her mother, Gwen,
‘I thought I could trust you two out here,
I see what you’re doing, Ben!’

‘I think she’s been watching the Soaps again,
She’s always the drama queen,
What have you said to Ben,’ said Gwen,
‘He’s just as bad,’ said Deane.
‘What have you got to say for yourself,
Apologise to Gwen!’
‘She said that she wanted to marry me,
But she knows that I’m only ten!’

David Lewis Paget

(Written by my daughter Gwen)
As it appears on my wall lovingly written and painted with a Butterfly wing and roses hand painted by my daughter on a small canvas. The words are carefully inscribed in white.
I placed the picture lovingly and carefully below her picture.
Her Quote reads:

    Don't spend your life
    wondering if you'll be missed
    spend your life
    being so amazing you don't miss your chance
                             at
                     Living

I hope by sharing this quote it might inspire others.
   Gwen, if you are reading this you inspire me with your beautiful words. Your encouragement to reach for my dreams continually gives me wings especially on rough days and gives me the courage to overcome obstacles that I face in life. I hope that my belief in you gives you wings also.
I love you more than words can adequately express.
  Sincerely your Butterfly mom,

We’ve navigated the old canals
Since the roads were blocked with cars,
And we were stuck when the highway truck
Rolled over the top of ours,
They poured a layer of bitumen
Across the roofs of them all,
Then crushed them under a steam roller
Until they were flat, and small.

They didn’t bother to pull them out
The ones who were trapped inside,
Just wrote them off the accounting books
And made a note that they’d died,
They needed to halve the ones who lived
Or the earth would sputter in space,
Spinning across that great divide
With the death of the human race.

But we got out, and we made a break
For the fields and the old canals,
And found a deserted barge afloat
Thanks to the help of pals,
We got some paint and we cleaned it up,
Made it all right to roam,
Then once inside it was quite a ride
And started to feel like home.

Most of the waterways were clear
With some of them overgrown,
I’d send Gwen Darling back to the rear
To steer while the weeds were mown,
I’d scythe them out of the way ahead
And steer the barge through the gap,
Then rest at night by a harvest moon
With Darling Gwen on my lap.

I’d bag a hare on a winter’s night
And steal the milk from a cow,
The earth was dying, but we survived
And Gwen kept asking me how?
‘We’re going back to the way it was
Before computers and such,
Before the Banks had us by the throat
When love was lived by a touch.’

So still we wander across the land
As they did in the days of old,
Those ancient barges, covered in dust
But laden, carrying coal,
There’s a merry fire on a metal hearth
And an oven, full of a goose,
And a woman’s wiles, to gladden my heart
As her stays are coming loose.

David Lewis Paget

I long to meet a Guinevere
So many poems I'd pen
Like Guinevere by the Azure Mere
Or simply, My Sweet Gwen

I taste the sound of Guinevere
Tis salt upon my lips
Perhaps she'd be my Gwenhwyfar
Sweet wine of Arthur's sips

Smooth and fair my Guinevere
Of her so many songs be sung
I'd love you o'er and o'er, my dear
Tomorrow I'd have ye hung.

r ~ 4/22/14

Abbie hailed a yellow top cabbie

Brenda had a sister in-law named Glenda

Cate ran late on her first date

Delly ate seven bowls of lemon jelly

Edwina drove to the town of Catalina

Fran burnt her finger on the very hot frying pan

Gwen had a strong yen to go and see her aunty Jen

Hope bought her husband a towing rope

Isobel fell under the magician's spell

Joann took her mother on a holiday in a caravan

Kylie went to the dentist with her brother Wylie

Lesley liked listening to Elvis Presley

Marcia enjoyed eating a freshly baked focaccia

Nell saw a turtle coming out of his shell

Olga lived at the top end of the river Volga

Primrose had a Pinocchio nose

Queenie knitted a multicolored beanie

Ruth could never tell the whole truth

Stacey loved playing dress ups with her friend Tracey

Tilly behavior was always rather silly

Una bought a house in the suburb of Yagonna

Verity wanted to be a well known celebrity

Winifred never stopped taking about Alfred

Xena was presented with a court subpoena

Yale told her teacher a tall tale

Zealand ventured out into the bushland

When your eyes became the heart of the sun
And your hair shined bright like its rays
I remember you amidst every battle won
And your glory shone through your heart
I see each day passing by
Reliving your hand holding mine
Your laughter the only music I hear
Your love the only feeling I hold dear
When days are dark I will remember you
How you showed bravery and courage
Even amidst evil and death
I live each day
Without you by my side
But every passing morrow
I feel your love rising between the mountains
As the wind greets me hello
Your face I see within the clouds of the heavens
Because though my heart breaks every day
I am happy to have lived a life
Only loving you

matt’s hats tom’s tools & tobacco lou’s liquors fred’s beds dale's doors frank’s planks bill’s drills jane’s drains & panes chuck’s check cashing cheryl’s barrels hank’s tanks tina’s trucks & tractors walt’s asphalt sean’s pawn rick’s rifles mom’s guns terry’s tires charlie’s harleys rhonda’s hondas jim’s rims art’s parts gus’s gas mike’s bikes frank’s feed gwen’s pens ann’s cans nancy’s nursery joes‘s clothes jess’s dresses bert’s skirts steve’s sleeves paul’s shawls michelle’s shells & bells al’s pails & snails sam’s hams & jams patty’s pancakes phil’s chili don’s donuts betty’s spaghetti bob’s burgers alycia’s quiches jean’s beans jerry’s berries anna’s bananas andy’s candies cathy’s taffies tony’s ponies roy’s toys ron’s batons kim’s whims marty’s parties jill’s pills rick’s tricks alice’s palace debbie’s disposal dave’s graves

The benefits of Mary, would vary
Unlike June, ended at noon
Chelsea played away
So did May
Holly turned to folly
With Molly wanting lolly
Sandy was always randy
Just no satisfying Mandy
Ann says she can
But Gwen needs a plan
Jo is good to go
Teri doesn’t know
Daisy says it’s not working out
May,  i’m never about
Mary, who the hell is Mandy
God, Molly’s talking to Holly
Chelsea’s playing away
Be with her May
Oh Sandy not today
Mandy’s on the way
Jo, could you go
Gwens found a plan
Involving Teri
Who’s talking to Ann
Mary and June
In the afternoon
Chelsea’s playing away
Where will it end
Daisy, i love you so
Oh no, make them go
Who’s at the door
Mary and June, Holly and Molly
Oh golly
Sandy and Mandy, Ann and Gwen
God, amen
Teri and Jo
Please not Daisy
It’s all going hazy
We’ve just got one thing to say
What’s that
Chelsea's playing away.

Best Week Ever

Just had my best week of all time,
I'm 42 but still in my prime.
Spent some time with Brittany Spears,
I left her begging and in tears.
After a night with Beyonce,
she wanted me to be her fiance.
Just one night with Pink,
now she can't even blink.
Had a date with Katy Perry,
she asked me to pop her cherry.
Spent some time with J-Lo,
she was more sloppy than a joe.
Rihanna likes to play rough,
**** she looks good in the buff.
Me and Fergie ate some black eyed peas,
then we were joined by Alicia keys.
Had a blast with Taylor Swift,
we did it on a ski lift.
Avril Lavinge wanted it never to end,
now she wants to be her boyfriend.
I turned Miley Cyrus back into Hannah Montana,
its a secret what we did with a banana.
Me and Kesha sang her hit Tik Tok,
then she ****** on my clock.
Selena Gomez is a witch no more,
I turned her into my little *****.
Carrie Underwood won't slash my tires,
the heat between us started some fires.
Gwen Stefani left the singer from Bush,
she loved the way I smacked her ****.
Lady Ga Ga showed me her poker face,
with her I reached every base.
Me and Lita Ford kissed each other deadly,
then she sang me a **** medley.
Madonna said I was her best,
we spent no time dressed.
I was man enough for Sheryl Crow,
let me tell you, she can really blow.
As the week ended, I had Shakira moving her hips,
then I woke up and it was an **** with Gladys Night and her Pips.

Still, there are days
all the Andrea Gibson poems remind me of you
you were the one who made me love them
at first only because I loved you

I was never good enough for you
an everlasting dissapointment in the corners of your life
A needy friend, never offering you support herself
while we all knew your life was harder

I was jealous of everyone who read your blog
and of every personal message on twitter (I only joined twiiter because you asked me too)
And lousy friend or not, you were always on my mind
I begged the world on a daily base to treat you better

But had no idea how to do that myself
I was so young, back then, and you so filled with wisdom
you taught me how to be myself, even when you weren't you yet

Years later,
you're still the person I loved the most
and I'd still die for you if you'd ask me
but we haven't been in touch for years
and your life went in all kind of directions I  could never go

Years later,
I still love you
and a big part of me knows
I always will



You're still with me every now and then
walking trough my head to remind me
of all our hour long conversations
I'm still convinced I was a fool for hurting you
and it's still too bad you're out my life

Your picture, in my wallet
8 years ago, you look so innocent
so different from how I remember you
but so peaceful I want to ask you to protect you

I often dream of meeting you again
But it wouldn't happen - you live in Sweden now
and it wouldn't work - I am no where near awesome enough for you

You and I became ancient history
but I'll be always greatful
for that day in the zoo, where we met.

Gilderoy Lockhart - The Chamber of Secrets
Leela - Futurama
Laney Penn - Grojband
Flonne - Disgaea
Raquna - Etrian Odyssey
Lilligant - Pokemon
Gwen - Total Drama Island
Dawn - Total Drama Revenge of the Island
Wednesday Addams - Addams Family
Thalia - Magic the Gathering
Isperia - Magic the Gathering
Cloistered Youth - Magic the Gathering
Ellie Nash - Degrassi
Gretchen - Camp Lake Bottom
Nina - Crash Bandicoot
Sunako Nakahara - The Wallflower
Nami - Harvest Moon
Georgia - Harvest Moon
Falkenrath Noble - Magic the Gathering
Marcelline - Adventure Time
Flame Princess - Adventure Time
Dorian Gray - The Portrait of Dorian Gray
Finnick Odair - The Hunger Games Series
Emma - Stoked