Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
David Beresford Oct 2011
As the warm days of summer give way to chill, and shadows grow longer as days shed their hours.
High winds and rain storms scrub the tired landscape down.
Colours are changing from rich green to gold, from yellow to red and orange to brown.

The grain has been gathered, wheat, barley and oats, cut and collected, sifted and sorted and put into store.
Grown by God, and by man with machine and by effort of hand.
Poppies and stalks now mark the spot, of the return for their labour. The wealth of the land.

Birds follow the tractor, rising and falling, swirling and soaring they move like a cloud.
The farmer is out and turning the stubble into the ground.
Rooks and crows, gulls and wood pigeons, starlings and magpies follow him round.

Hay long since mown is now bailed and in barns, or rolled up and bagged, ferments now in high silage towers.
The countryside has yielded reward for all Adam’s toil.
Work done in rhythm with the seasons, sowing, growing, reaping, ploughing and tilling the soil.

Gathering goodness, from garden, and greenhouse, carrots and courgettes, tomatoes in bunches.
Fresher than any you can get in the shops.
Picking the bounty gleaned from the hedgerow. Rosehips and cobnuts, damsons and hops.

Elder and sorrel, mushrooms and puffballs, sour green crab apples, and brambles in tangles.
Sloes that were missed by the late winter frost.
Not all are pleasant and some really can hurt you, pick only those that you know and trust.

Take full advantage of God’s generosity, share it with gladness, with thanks, there is plenty for all.
Sticky syrups and cider, wines, cordial and beer.
Pies, puddings, sorbets and ice creams, jam, jelly, and chutney and enough pickles to last into next year.

As the warm days of summer give way to chill, and shadows grow longer as days shed their hours.
High winds and rain storms scrub the tired landscape down.
Colours are changing from rich green to gold, from yellow to red and orange to brown.
This was written in a hurry as a commissioned item - a poem to be read out at the harvest festival the following week.
Reading it requires pauses, for effect, and to cover the variations in timing.
Much of it was inspired by what I saw while out running along the Hoton ridge on the Notts. Leics. border.
Becky Littmann Aug 2015
Supposedly too much television will rot your brain away
BUT... you can 't believe what everyone may say

KERMIT told us it ain't easy being green
TAYLOR SWIFT taught us people can be trouble & really mean
SEBASTIAN the CRAB told us it is better down where it is wetter
CINDERELLA taught us that eventually things will get better
SPONGEBOB SQUAREPANTS told us over & over he's READY! he's READY!
THE TORTOISE taught us that being quick may not always work
KAYNE WEST taught us people are rude, interrupting, annoying & huge jerks
MR KRABS taught us some people are money hungry & greedy
LINDSAY LOHAN taught us some people are attention needy
DORA THE EXPLORER taught us to live our life as an adventure & go explore
SWIPER taught us to always go for more
SQUIDWARD taught us not everyone has happiness to share
PATRICK STAR taught us that some people's heads are filled with air
PLANKTON taught us that you can never give up on reaching your goal
ALICE's curiosity taught us don't chase white rabbits with pocket watches down their hole
PETER PAN taught us to live carefree & have no worries at all
HORTON taught us that a person is a person no matter how small
THE LORAX taught us to take care of our trees
SNOW WHITE taught us that there maybe more than what the eye sees
TOMMY PICKLES taught us sometimes you gotta do what you gotta do
THE GRINCH taught us that deep down inside, the cruel have hearts too
NEMO'S DAD MARLIN taught us you can't protect people from all & or any danger
BARNEY taught us not to talk to a stranger
TIMONE & PUMBA taught us "HAKUNA MATATA"
LILO & STITCH taught us no one gets left behind or forgotten, that is "OHANA"
SOUTH PARK taught us not to give a **** & some friends can be a huge ****** BAG
JUSTIN BIEBER taught us what isn't "SWAG"
STEWIE taught us that even if you're talking not everyone is listening
NELLY taught us that not everywhere has air conditioning "HOT IN HERRE"
DOROTHY taught us is you want to go home just click your heels three times & repeat "THERE IS NO PLACE LIKE HOME"
SOUTH PARK'S TWEAK taught us that your underwear get stolen by the underwear gnomes

So much we've unknowingly managed to obtain
secretly stored in our brain
celebrities, songs, shows & even cartoons have taught us a lot
& that's what life lessons are all about
little hidden lessons & messages everywhere
& completely unaware you pass it on & share
Noelle Matthews Oct 2023
girlhood is clinging to each other, heads on laps and intertwined fingers.

girlhood is crying with each other, over love or sickness or the depth of life and the end of it all.

girlhood is eating ten potato chips, nine cubes of cheese, eight skittles,  seven apple slices, six chocolate chips, five small pickles, four carrot sticks, three ibuprofen, two cookies, and one tangerine.

girlhood is feeling a desperate need to get out, go far, be free.

girlhood is realizing your friends are similar to you but also so beautifully and insurmountably different.

girlhood is figuring out how to be good in a world that thinks there's nothing you could do to make that happen.

girlhood is rolling on the floor laughing at the dumb romcom playing on the tv.

girlhood is ignoring the yelling from behind you, walking faster even if you think you'll trip.

girlhood is sitting in the school office after getting dress-coded.

girlhood is hating someone but defending her to any length when a boy wants to say something bad.

girlhood is having weapons within reach.

girlhood is scary, beautiful, confusing, meaningful, formative, trivial, important, connective, loving, hating, all the feelings all at once.

girlhood is ours.
Pickles Mcburger May 2014
I sensually rub pickles

on your torso.

My lust for you

is like black coffee.

Really strong with an after effect of diarrhea

I am jittery for you my dear

Let me rub this yo-yo all over your ear.

A thief broke into my house

and saw a naked grandma

so he left.
PJ Poesy Nov 2015
Luna Tickle eats only pickles and ***** up all the brine
When her brother tells their mother she begins to whine:
“Yes I did it! And left no tidbit
Is that such a crime? My brother smells and raises hell
And leaves the loo full of slime.”

Now their mother dear began to fear her children were obstructions
Never listening, since their christening, and wished for their abduction
So she planned a slaughter and called her daughter
Outside to the woodshed, then chopped her neck in two
She put Luna’s head in her brother’s bed and said,
“Now, they’ll be no more Boo-Hoos”

Now you know of Luna and her tragic ending
But there’s more to this rhyme that’s pending
For the Tickle name is quite insane
And was never worth defending
But that’s just what her brother did
When Mrs. Tickle met Judge Knuckle
And almost flipped her lid
Screaming:
“I never liked that kid from the day she began to suckle!
Why she couldn’t be more like me, or her lovely sister Tess”
Twas all Mrs. Tickle could confess that day to Judge and jury
Until brother **** chimed-in and confessed his sin
And did so in such a fury, it was heard throughout and within
The entire state of Missouri:

“I am Richard Tickle and do confess I am not fickle
In fact I am quite pugnacious
If you do not see the circumstances like me
I’ll be forced to be disputatious”

Interjects Judge Knuckle:
“Boy, I’ll have you buckled this instance to electric chair
If you’re not scared I’ll be splitting hairs
In a place where the sun does not shine
So if you care, you’d best beware
Or your Gherkin will be in a brine”

Now Tess screamed out and her mother did shout
In perfect unison:
“**** is my love and none the likes of any other hooligan”

At this there was a scuffle
Each dame was muffed and ruffled
They could not contain
All their angst and their pain
And it led to the ugliest tussle
For each thought ****
Was devoted to she
And apparently, this could not be
As we know of the trouble with Luna
So the jury was not out
Or even in doubt
Of these sinister makings and troubles

It was the sickest of affairs
Mass-producing glaring stares
From everyone within the court
Missouri Gazette’s headlines that day
Told of how they did slay
And burn the Tickle chalet
Leaving it in incestuous rubble
The lesson today to this horrific ballet
Is don’t live your life in a bubble
**** and ****** survival is no laughing matter, but what else could I do? I challenge anyone to read this to their children, and have an open discussion. It is a sickness to be stopped in its' tracks, as nothing good can come of it.
The scene was utter madness the good long fell to the boring and bland ***** that now I write apon.
Old faces had long since been replaced by these like button zombies.
Hey commenting is hard I could hear them amoungsnt all the other voices in my head.

And here I thought everyone had a opinion just like a *******.
The zombies were at the door my trusty Pub the one true place i could talk **** about the sites owner without getting banned and taken out back while being tortured having to read the darksides blog for hours listening to Yanni and Justin Bieber.
Good lord man its like starbucks and twatter   had a ******* baby and called it Hello.

My fellow comrades had long since left for higher ground or the nut house really finger painting and graham crackers are so overrated.
Trust me I know cause i have alot of crazy friends who told me so.
Im kidding its cause im ******* nuts  just when im off my meds that is did anyone hear that?

The like zombies just kept pushing that ******* button.
I mean really if it was a free drinks or a ******* button id get it folks.
Hell id probaly have corpral tunnel by now  duh that would kick ***.

Comments had fallen to the evil zombie button of doom.
And no matter were I turned I couldnt get away from it.
This write has fifteen comments.
No the **** it doesnt there ******* likes yes much like ****** the **** was spreading faster than
clap in ******* not that id know.

I couldnt take it any longer moving at the breakneck speed of drunken hampster who cant stay in the wheel
I was off.
To the land of no return the offices of the website inwhich ive annoyed the ***** outta for way to many years
no not facebook  I only go there to read **** that no one could give a **** less about.

Tina just eat a steak mmmm.
******* fasinating Tina!

Taking a long walk okay drive cause walking really screws with my drinking.
I made my way through the land of no return no not Canada.
To the center  of mount who gives a *****.
It was there at the gates of the mighty lair of the dark lord I stood flask in side pocket
The doors opened and as i walked in the empty room I was met by a huge flat screen
hmm must be where the staff watches **** or animal planet thoose animals are
total freaks.

But enough with the foreplay children.

A face appeared apon the screen.
So I see you've finally shown Gonzo   how dare you enter the fortress of the dark lord.
Well ya know the dark lord really needs some security I mean really who the hell keeps there fortress next to a bed bath and beyond?

Look you crazy ******* the anger hampster said .
They have some really great stuff oils and canddles  why me and my other half love it.
Hey did you all meet on a trip in the mountians where you were herding sheep.
Dam you Broke Back Mountian now  my wife really wonders what im up to on my fishing trips.
Thanks for ruining it for all of us.

Well Gonzo you may have  found my hidden fortress but never will you leave.
Yeah I will.
You cant!
Oh Yes I can !
Oh no you wont!
Yeah I will!
We continued this argument for what seemed like ages then finally after a canadian popstars ***** finally dropped it ended.
Duh I do have a life after all people.
Yeah I know but ****** I could if i wanted to.

So just  how do you expect to leave my frotress of doom.
Duh ******* through the front door.
You cant its locked .
Hey like i cant get outta places i dont belong  look i got outta rehab  no no no.
Talk about a ****** party  its almost as bad as my spelling yeah sometimes jokes hurt.

But I do gotta ask lord ***** for brains how do ya get all thoose likes
I mean people used to comment there arses off even me sure i cant remember what i said
but hell i was under the influence I know shocking right?

Okay you drunken ******* I'll let you know witness my geinus!
With that the dark lords fishing buddy  pulled back a curtan to reveil  a room full of
cracked out cyber monkeys all sitting in front of like buttons .
With every push theyd get yet another hit of some sort of fruit duh like monkeys like drugs
yeah you think being they throw there **** around and all but really there just mean ******.

Mr pickles just did a thousand likes.
****** someone needs to stop the insanity.
The evil dark lord laughed like a sinister women does usally when i mention ***.
I swear no wonder I use esscorts im kidding there just regular hookers.

And now Gonzo I reveil to you your own like button.
There at a small desk with my name written apon the table in what couldnt be magic marker dam little monkeys
they love to write **** or with it at least hay whatever floats your boat or tree im just saying.

Mr pickels  pushed the button on my desk a little slot opened up
and a ice cold beer and wild turkey chaser appeared .
******* kick ***  I mean how terrible.

The dark lord slash ****** with a heart of gold laughed his sinister laugh the monkey jumped up and down and played with thenselves  while listening to there God Justin Bieber.

Was All hope lost?
Will Gonzo a infamouse party hampster be able to turn down a free drink?

Will the dark lord win in his battle to **** the site and raise the money for his *** change?
Will MR Pickels finally finish his novel titled No **** A Life story written in all organic ink.

Will Justin Bieber finally fly into the side of a mountain!

Tune in next time hampsters to the shocking finally  Gonzo And The Like Button Of Doom.

Yeah it really ***** when ya dont get a happy ending just ask John Travolta.

Till next time hampsters stay crazy
Sayali Aug 2018
My grandfather passed away on a dewy September morning;
About 17 years ago;
My grandmothers glass eyes still draw a picture of fright in front of me;
I remember as she sat silently for hours;
Cold , vulnerable;
As if she was robbed of her breath;
Since then she has sliced her life into two parts;
Before baba, after baba.
Yesterday as we sorted her cupboard;
Over hot chai;
I asked her about a saree;
" I think it was before baba" she says , like an unconditioned reflex , an involuntary knee ****;
They don't teach you how to love like that anymore;
Love like this swallows dictionaries and renders meanings, meaningless;
It moves mountains and drowns rivers;
It spoons the hatred and vaults it.
My grandmother never went to school;
Even at 24 today, whenever I see her;
She presses a 500Rs note into my fist and asks me to buy something sweet for myself;
Last time she did that, she told me he taught her how to count money after they were married;
And to say words like "curd" and "rice";
Every year on his death anniversary;
She still cooks food for people;
With a metal rod holding the bones in her thighs;
And pressing the bleeding points of her psoriatic palms;
She keeps adding cards to her monument;
And remembers love;
Everyday;
In hushed muted tones;
In lemon pickles and measures of salt;
And in a way that stuns me the most;
Without even realising.
Trevor Gates Jul 2013
A satisfied appetite is a simply joy

Overlooked and simplified

Like a growing urge, a salivating need

That is entrancing and glorified.



Everlasting for moments we call meals

Forgotten in time, lingering above

But the taste, the lonesome lover pushed aside

Gazes afar and near wanting to be enjoyed again



The young lady with a tongue of raspberry delight

And the matured widow with darkened cacao lips

Ripening nectar of a sliced peach center

Halved and topped with mascarpone crème



The man with a skin of caramel glaze

Caressing and savoring

With a fragrance and scent

Of hazelnut coffee indulgence and sin



In the pursuit of a brief love affair

What oral sensation did my taste buds want?

My odyssey of gustatory endeavors await

Through the seas of lined people and waiting staff



Generous portions and humble pies

Decadent desserts so rich you’ll die


Vine cherry tomatoes sliced and sauté

Over al dente rigatoni in a roasted cashew sauce

A robust aroma and savory appeal

Basil leaves with garlic strips

Olive oil to top the surreal


Hubristic meatball aborigine  

Elysian cuisine or many dreams


Teasing the senses, warming the pit

Of flowing pleasures

And tingling fingertips

Without moral measures

And succulent wines

Rotisserie lamb falling of the bone

Seasoned with Sicilian herbs

And paired with broiled asparagus

Drizzled with lemon juice


And a glass of Merlot

Spices I hardly know



Lachrymose apologies beside a bottle of faded sorrows

With love there is pain, passion endured through the names

Thin soups, flavorless and dull, feeding street-thrown bums

Breathing hard against the delicatessen glass


Hickory smoked hams, pepper-seasoned pastrami

Vinegar cultured pickles and hard dried salami


Unpleasured, without measure, at one's leisure.
Forever my endeavor

Blackcurrant tea laced with slivers of gooping honey
Layers of cinnamon hair atop olive skin

red-painted doors with cedar trim
crushed almonds mixed with hazelnut butter cream spread

devilish rounds of crumbling ***-swirl bread

Smells and wonders, tastes so ...

oh god

Divine and sublime.
A little hobby of mine is cooking, so I thoroughly enjoy looking up new recipes sometimes to try. Movies like Babette's Feast, Ratatouille an The Trip. Amusing how we can associate flavors, smells and tastes with more than just culinary customs. We can correlate joyous emotions, moments of sensuality and comfort.
Chimera melons Mar 2010
Good Day spoken in a bad austrailian accent
bad juju voodoo clear light poltergeist on disablity
Hoarding every scrap of miserable memories attached to trash
your apartment is a holiday for nightmares and childmolesters
******* magazines, old sanitary napkins , bad vhs movies
lay like dead soldiers waiting for the war to end
Black bags and boxes scattered every where are villages to rats
and every unknown pestilence you can only read about in medical textbooks.
half eaten pizzas covered in pickles dried up sadly looking at empty pills
You have no hold on me I can't understand your pain nor will i listen to your overdramatic ******* about whoever
or scheming to defraud Walmart
Your mutilation is a scar spelling sociopathic miscreant child trapped in an old mismatched shell of no clear gender.
Your diagnostic prophecies from the dsm5 dismissed like school on a snow day.
Will commands the unentanglement
uncurse
unfear
dispell  all your contradictions accusations monologrhthyms
bad music choices and echoes of muttered mustard.
only truth will be uplifted
Peace be with you
whereever you are currently infesting enjoy your dora the explorer ice cream
Was there ever a floor in here?
Mike Hauser Jul 2014
I walked past my pantry
Late one Friday night
To the sounds of what appeared to be
The goings on of a party inside

I grabbed a hold the latches
Swung wide open the door
With absolutely no earthly idea
Of what was soon in store

Colorful lights were flashing
Somewhere in the back
I moved aside the ketchup and mayo
To see where it was at

I took out the pickles and saltine's
So I could better see
What all the commotion was inside
Of my food pantry

That's when I saw the flashing lights
Inside the jar of Nutella
I picked it up right away
Me being a some what curious fella

As I held it at eye level
It vibrated in my hands
In what felt like a driving rhythm
From a 70's Disco band

Can't say I wasn't nervous
As I loosened up the lid
No telling what was going on inside
What dangers lay ahead

With both hands slightly shaking
I removed the rounded top
There was a party in the making
And it was going on non stop

The Nutella had it's boogie on
Or if you prefer, it's groove
Whatever you wish to call it
A party was the mood

There was a strobe light and confetti
Even a tiny Disco ball
As I gazed over the edge of the jar
I saw banners wall to wall

I guess you could say Nutella
Is quite the party treat
That may cost you at the grocery store
But once home the cover charge is free
Mariah Lockwood Dec 2012
Sometimes i wish i was just skinny,
that way my problems aren't showing every time I walk into a room.
They can be hidden within, like real problems should be.
I mean, there are bigger problems in the world,
like starvation.
But they could have my fat.
Get it out.
I sometimes think of other problems that people can hide, like OCD or chronic *******
but then I realize I just might have those too.
Yeah, just imagine a fat girl *******, as pretty as a jar of pickles.
But then, what exactly is fat?
A yellowish time was walking alone
On the Hare Road in the rainy afternoon.

Is it time to discuss with coffee or ice-cream
holding the hand like a band
Touching the sorrows before putting
coins into the evening's folder?

It's time to slice time thinner and thicker
Processing pickles on the dissection table
With likings-hates, joys-sorrows, dreams-realities
before the evening flirts afternoon!

Going ahead or coming back or even standing a while
Which one is the worthless best I don't like to know?
A small seed of wrongful dream germinates mutely
From infinity and going to the end of infinity!

Never have I seen any time walking
Nor have I seen any rainy afternoon at Hare Road!


Poem 17
Book 'Beckoning Jade-Dreams' April 2007
Copyright Musharrat Mahjabeen
Mizan Publishers, Dhaka, Bangladesh
ISBN 984-8700-82-X
judy smith Dec 2015
Did you know the East Indian Bottle Masala includes as many as 27 spices, or that an oil-free pickle served at their weddings is actually known as Wedding Pickle?

These and many such authentic East Indian masalas and pickles are available at East Indian Cozinha (Portuguese for kitchen), a food store started by Christina Kinny at Kolovery Village in Kalina, Santacruz. "I started East Indian Cozinha with an attempt to preserve and highlight our cuisine and culture," says the 24-year old, who has studied Masters in Social Work and currently, works with an enterprise that helps tribal farmers.

What’s in store?

Going back 500 years, the East Indian cuisine enjoys influences from Portuguese, British and Maharashtrian fare. The staples include rice, coconut, tamarind, fish and meats, with spices forming an integral part of the cuisine. For instance, Prawn Atola is a dry dish comprising prawns coated only with Vindaloo Masala featuring Kashmiri chilli, cumin and turmeric. "Most people from our community were farmers and would be out on field all day. So, the masalas and lemon would help preserve their food for a longer time," reasons Kinny.

At present, the store stocks six varieties of masala in 100g bottles (R150 onwards). These include Khuddi or Bottle Masala, Chinchoni (fish) Masala, Vindaloo Masala, Roast Rub, Kujit Masala and Tem Che Rose. She also offers Wedding Pickle, an oil-free variety prepared with raw papaya, carrots and dry dates. "All the recipes have been passed on from generations and are homemade," she informs.

However, making the masalas is no cakewalk. "It takes three days to dry spices under the sun. Then, we hand pound them and pack them tightly in bottles with wider openings," says Kinny. She recalls that in her grandmother’s time, the masalas were tightly stuffed in beer bottles. The bottles were darker, and hence, helped preserve the masala for at least a year, at room temperature.

Lugra love

East Indian Cozinha also stocks traditional 10-yard saris known as lugras. These are hand embroidered by Kinny’s mother, Carol. Previously made only from cotton with authentic gold borders, now, lugras are embroidered with sequins and threads. "She has been in the garment industry for the last 30 years. She also makes traditional accessories like kapotas (earrings), karis (hair pins), anklets, etc," informs Kinny.

read more:www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses

www.marieaustralia.com/short-formal-dresses
Before spring, near Grimsby, ditches run clean like trout streams,
Our vines are gray. They will be pink next, like flushed, excited skin.  
In March there is the flatness that is a big part of trouble.
Anthony's sisters are helping him scrub his apartment.

He was sick all winter. They raise his laughter like neighbours raise a burned out barn.
He had made a good start. The therapy.
He says now, "I wasn't so much sick as sad all the time."
The pills ended the depression. You can wish that life was never mechanical.

Smell of hot vinegar in the coffee-maker, smells of pine oil and beer.
Brock University jackets, damp curly hair, his sisters
Wiping their hands on sweatshirts, the open window,
His bedroom. Anthony clears books from the sills and cleans and shines the windows.
There are wicker baskets for their picnic and for his laundry.

I always wanted to know, what is consecration?
(Here is a scrap of his poetry:
"... ******* the colour of a driftwood campfire.")
His sisters laugh to think of a girl in the apartment.
The ***** clothes are gone. He's got clean denims and hiking boots.

Laughter, beer and young music,
Bread and stew and pickles and heavy  brown two liter bottles of beer
On the white wooden kitchen table where he hopes to write.
His father's pickup truck is in the yard, its bed full of garbage.

With cleaning any good thing can happen. The sisters feel it too.
I didn't know what consecration meant. They joked
That he could have a girl up there when they were done.

    
                                  Paul  Anthony Hutchinson
You creatures used to be alive,
Now you're just desks with pulses.
You preachers used to breathe lies,
Now the air just smells repulsive.

Let's toast to our compulsions!
A third-finger salute to ill-indulgence, burnt out lights, and shame convulsions.
Leave the worries to the workers and the fearful.
Let the smiles stretch further while the room's erupting by the earful.

Sub-tyrannic suburban boredom brushes with death.
Sunk Titanic bourbon lushes bearing fermented breath.
Replica. Replica. Replica.
Fried Pickles and Angelica...haha.
Laughter via Helvetica.

A Doctor of Yesterday living in a pseudo-science fiction age.
What will be found between scribbled shore and shining sea?
An empty box filled with smoke and broken mirrors may be a shattered trick on  stage,
But does that mean that progress is solely based on me?

The stage is setting. The studios offer their warm embrace in exchange for a piece of yourself.
A piece, without, you are still a whole. A piece that is meant to be harvested, for if not it will wither and wilt.
Dropping, coasting, floating.
Anything but falling. An idea left un-reaped will be purged by slithering guilt.

The world warps and billows to conform to the view of the looking glass, yet, stretches far beyond it.
Letting go doesn't mean giving up, but rather, to allow the wind to blow and twist your perspective.
The harder you try, the more you will see: It's all a lot easier to swallow when you're not being force-fed ****.
A fine cocktail, made with equal parts top-shelf desperation, and the world's finest dedication,
Served in a glass half full of luck.

Sometime's you're flush, and sometimes you're bust, but most times, you lie somewhere in the between.
A spinning brain and a sparatic heart.
An argument spun from the silk of a dying worm.
An infection of the brain with no negotiation of terms.

Sleeping on porches and storming the boredom beaches.
Mad? Surely. Angry? Not even. Discretely thanking the earthquake for shaking things up.
The missing link lies just outside of our nests, dangling from a branch just beyond our reaches.
Though my wings clipped, and yours yet to form fully, I'm down to take a dive just to find out what's up.

Sometimes I think the clouds in the sky are just a reflection of my attitude.
I'm only here to have fun. Either grow up or get lost, boy.
There's something about a yellowing onion that reminds me of home.
A line(s) was added daily for 20 days. It was a fantastic challenge and I think I'll do it again.
kara lynn bird Sep 2013
It's hard to believe that forty seven years have passed since we picked our first Macintosh off that tangled orchard tree. Fall was the best time of year. We would hop into the old truck and scoot on down the road to the local farm. Together we'd place everything in order for a perfect picnic; sandwiches here, potato chips there. She'd be certain to leave the pickles in a special container cause that sour taste of dill always made me buckle. Forty seven years since we made our first fall adventure, can you believe it?

The autumn breeze always seemed to soften the light as it glowed upon her curly red hair. So young and full of life she was. It was always a sight to see her when she'd reach for an apple and a good ol' honey bee would come buzzing around. Hell, she'd start flailing her dainty fingertips and scrunch her nose, waving her scarf all around as if the bee would surrender. Those were the moments that I searched for. Those moments (I'd swear) she could stop the universe in a shade of gray. Her ability to get so **** mad made her look as cute as puppy who couldn't run as fast as it wanted. When those moments began to unfold before my eyes it appeared I had been deeply connected to the face of God. My heart would leap, Ah, I knew I'd love her forever.

There was one year which was so special to me, I've held it safe as one of my fondest memories. We had been out all night one fall evening. Our neighbors held a festive barn party complete with a hog roast with all the fixens. We danced until our feet hurt. I remember she wanted to leave early but I wasn't sure why. Being the gentleman that I was, I stayed with the one that brought me.

I popped the clutch and off we went leaving the music behind us. Nothing seemed too out of the ordinary but then she reached over and gave me a little tap on the shoulder. She really had a way of getting my attention. "Pull over up here..." she said "down this gravel road!"

I shoulda known better. Shifting gears I made a careful right turn as the tires met with the thickly settled road. As soon the truck had made it fifty yards she opened that truck door and left me no choice but to stop! "What on earth are you doing?" I cried as she exited the vehicle and made her way past the headlights.

Before I could ask another question the drivers side door swung open. The moon must've been full that night cause I can recall light beams bouncing off her beautiful smile. She grabbed my hand and ran towards the forest. The trees lashed back against me as I chased her through the thick of it. I had no idea that the orchard would be on the other side.

Waiting like a tractor for an overdue oil change was a the most romantic thing I witnessed. My pretty girl sure did surprise me. I could have never guessed. Spread out right before me was a midnight picnic. We sat underneath that tree and laughed till the coyotes chased us home. That was the first night we ever made love. Real love...the lasting kind and Lord have mercy, I'll never forget it!

It's been ten years since she went up with the Angels. Every fall I can't help but reminisce of that night we left the barn dance- it's where it all began, but I have yet to return to our spot.

Every time I think about it I can smell the remnants of her homemade apple pie and it brings tears to my eyes. Today, something told me to muster up the courage and get down to the Orchard, it was as if she had tapped me on the shoulder again.

Different it was making my way down there alone. A lot of the landscape has changed and they've added a few things. I'd have to admit, the smell of the autumn breeze still rings true to my memories of my her as I approached the Apple Orchard.

Heavy hearted I headed out on the farm. It was different to see all the children with their families, that used to be us. But the sound of their laughter quickly replaced my own memories as I made my way down the hill to our very first apple picking tree.

There it stood as pretty as an apple tree could be. Her leaves appeared to blow to the sound of the wind, her branches looked like they were smiling. Glancing up I continued to walk closer and I couldn't believe what I saw. Was it true?

Slowly I made my way around the trunk of that twisted orchard tree just to be sure I wasn't imaging something, but I'll be ******, every apple on that tree was gone.

The moment I realized it was true I knelt down and dug my hands in the dirt. A blustery tear rolled on past my lips. I clenched my fist and lifted it to my heart. The moment was too much, I had taken too long to get there. Just as I turned around and decided that I should go- a busy little honey bee flew right past the tip of my eyelashes. I stumbled back and reluctantly began swatting at an almost invisible contender.

Jumping all around like a **** fool I was shoutin' and cussin' going off like a firecracker. All of a sudden the honey bee flew from sight and when I realized that I was so **** worked up, I began to laugh.

You see, it was that sweet little honey bee that made it all possible. It came buzzin' by like a heated stroke of lightening and changed everythin'! That's the moment I realized, if it weren't for the things that made us upset, the moments that brought on grief and heartbreak, perhaps we wouldn't have any reflection on the things that made us happy.

That apple tree may not have had a single Macintosh left for my pickin' but it taught me that my wife had planted enough seeds of love and hope in my heart that I didn't need no apple- just the memories that went with it.
Samantha Mar 2014
Boys don't like girls like me

Boys don't like girls
With frizzy hair
And red velvet tongues

Boys don't like girls
Who wear heavy boots
And leather jackets a size too big
With pins pushed through the fabric
Declaring their beliefs
Like picket signs

Boys don't like girls
With outie belly buttons

Boys don't like girls
Who shop in the men's section
At thrift stores

Boys don't like girls
Who shut themselves in ivory towers
And refuse to let down their hair
Because they're too afraid

Boys don't like girls
Who talk to plants

Boys don't like girls
Who pick the pickles off
Of their cheeseburger because
They believe its the best part
And you always save the best for last

Boys don't like girls
Who carry trauma on their backs like boulders

Boys don't like girls
Who don't know how to kiss
Without leaving
Blood stains on your lips

Boys don't like girls
Who write love poems for themselves

Who practice archery and witchcraft
Because it makes them feel stronger

Who dance in their kitchen
To the music of popping popcorn

Who shy away from touch
Because to them it feels like acid

Who have stretch marks and cellulite

Who'd rather stay at home with the dog
Than go to that party

Who have ice in their soul

Boys don't like girls like me
And I'm trying to be ok with that
David Ehrgott Feb 2016
and
The pickles
on the shelves
in the condiment aisle

are readying
themselves
for the winter

The half-sours
stand at attention

The garlics stand
at parade rest

Dill chips are
stacked so
their eyes cannot see
out the jar

Mrs. Smith's bread & butter
pickles will not be on sale
again until late Spring
(so tasty are these)

What a long cold winter
awaits those

underachieving cucumbers
I want to be super me

Shave off my eyebrows
as an act of demolition
leave no roots to grow
let sweat beads know
this is a law of prohibition
against the curse
I want to be the last one on earth
and yet the first
to birth a warrior generation
all colors
all sizes
all shapes
and variations
of a people whose DNA serves as an abbreviation
of perfect

Simply

I want to love without working

I want to kiss the thickly oiled
pus inhabitating pimpled t-zones of anglo saxon adolescent girls
and tell them they’re beautiful
just after they’ve reached out and grabbed one of my locs
only to ask me if my natural hair is artificial

I want to eat lunch with the friendless 14 year old boy
caged in elementary special ed class
Immediately following him walking me
arms pinned
in front of the boys during recess
asking them how should he **** my ***

I want to tell him of a Savior
That can mold him greater than his absentee father
or molesting godmother that has affected his behavior

I want to wrap my arms of comfort around the shoulders of every insecure woman
that was confident enough to tell me
men would only see me as ***
but never as beautiful
I want to reach my go-go-super me hand in
and choke the life out of the wormy wretched murderous spirit
that eats their lives
I want to starve its lies
leaving it to die by granting the grace of a new name
befriend them with but a call and response game-

Me: “those who look to HIM are radiant!”
Them: “their faces are never covered with shame!”


I want to sound the finger snap
hand clap heard round the world
while giving a standing ovation
to all of the open mic night writers that hid their jagged daggers in a cloak of being truthful
saying my words and antics scored high for the stage
But for the page
this thing I should think twice about calling poetry
would never ever be suitable

I want to carry the little white boy on my hip while singing
The rendition of “You Are My Sunshine” that I sing to my kids
just after he hurls “******” in my direction
in a vile attempt to reduce me from perfection
I’ll teach him that the coned sheet his father keeps neat
and breaks out for story time at night is but a cry for help
that the most important thing he could ever do with his life
is to recognize others as his brothers and sisters
and to love them even as he would love himself
I’ll tell him communication isn’t erasable
and before he speaks he should remember to care
I’ll give him a lollipop
then fly through the galaxy to land on a planet
where I’ll purchase every CD created featuring John Mayer

I’ll speak and smile at every cop
That’s harassed brown people

I’ll drop an offering in the basket of preachers
that think I can’t deliver the Word
because as a woman in ministry
I’m not equal

If mine eyes can see my shell’s end
I’ll make love to my husband
in a way his second wife would never be able to transcend
even if earlier it was his day off
but instead of living it with me
he chose to leave me alone with our kids

If loving without working is tough as a glass jar of vlasic dill pickles
I want to pop the lid

As soon as offenses are committed
my earnest desire is to be super me

I want simply

to easily


FORGIVE.
© 11 February 2010 TIA
Alyson Lie Jun 2015
When my sister played Clair de Lune
I’d go into her room and sit on the floor
with my ear to the side of the piano
so close that the sound would fill my mind
with the image of the long, coiled strings
vibrating, glowing golden in the darkened box.

I could hear my sister’s feet dampening
and undampening the pedals, muting the
strings, then letting them ring, resonating,
one note overlaying another, could hear
the creak of her piano stool and smell the
smell of wood dust, like old sheet music,
and my ear would pulse, almost hurting
from the sound of the hammers striking steel.

And I would begin to imagine things,
different things each time:
my aunt in a blue flowered house dress
standing in her kitchen holding a jar
of homemade pickles, her thin white hair
always in tight pin curls.

Or I’d be alone, in a long, softly lit hallway,
the walls covered with wainscotting and
lavender striped wall paper yellowing
near the ceiling. At the far end of the hallway,
a solarium, and beyond that a balcony
glimmering in sunlight.

Or I’d be in a field with small, white flowers
bowing with the weeds rhythmically
and sensing that I was
loved by someone.

And it would be that my sister’s
fingers were pounding deep into
my chest, and always, always
by the end of the piece
I’d ask her to play it one more time.
Amanda Shelton Jun 2017
Who’s got a pickle? I got a pickle.
I got a pickle, a sweat cucumber friend.

I’ve got a pickle, a pickle indeed,
You want some?

Now I’ve got a pickle stuck on my thumb.
Yum yum yum!

**© By Amanda D Shelton
Hank Helman Oct 2023
First find someone you enjoy *** with.
Spoiler alert it might be yourself.

Second, absence is a bit of a relief.
Minor irritations are glue like.

Third is roughness. It's a spectrum.
Don't be afraid of it and don't be cruel.

Forth and most important is humour.
What does Charles Dickens keep in his spice rack?
The best of thymes, the worst of thymes.

So there you have it.
Life is easy.
Eat pickles as often as you can.
Are we all dead and we don't know it?
Nat Lipstadt Nov 2014
prefer celery to carrots
light scrunch over an orange hard crack,
straw red over berries bluest,
coffee over tea,
skies white clouded
over
all clear, unadulterated uni-tone,
blondes, brunettes, redheads,
even pink or blue haired,
well, ain't going there
(wink wink,
too smart for that...)

but that's just me

colors viral virulent  over manhattan grey~black,
a good Pinot over a glass of Jack,
beach and sea undefined
over lake delimited, outlined bounded,
ocean caught fresh over farm raised,
city slick over country sweet,
striped bass over monk,
tuna bests salmon,
but both miso coated please...

Italian Indian Ethiopian
Sushi and occasionally Chinese,
all grand,
but my kosher deli and dogs, pickles,
yellow mustard ball parked,
tops them all
especially when serving
all-you-can-eat
over tasting portions...

but that's just me

right over left,
naked better than ****,
polite over rude,
Rembrandt tops Vermeer,
but his light nonethess,
extra over ordinarie...

Swiss over white American,
Gruyere beats goat cheese,
citrus tops apples,
sweet melon my
secret passion,
paprika and oregano,
never ever cilantro,
milk over OJ,
especially, grade A
milk of human kindness,
all flavors

love my poems centered,
(except for this one)
with no sugar added,
but a lot of cream and sweat,
both a necessity, not a luxury,
prefer mesmerizing,
crafting hard, laboring,
me writing, you imbibing,
leaving you oohing and loving
me
because of the appreciation built in
over
ditties that are semisweet
sugar nadas that populate the
easy come easy go away
poem of the day

but that's just me

like myself hard
cause when I melt,
to a child's grin shyest,
laughter silly me provoking
it is ever so better so...
tears, any kind, don't mind
laughing and sorrowing pouring,
let genuine be my only test
speed limit barrier unlimited

sorta saved a street crossing
phone-occupied-woman yesterday,
put my arm across her body
fast hard, unasked
so she wasn't
bicycle crashed,
both looks well received,
the *** and the gratitude,
but latter over former,
if I had to choose,
but I dont

but that's just me

Joanie M. over Judy C.,
Amy over Adele,
Eva Cassidy over all...
Zombies over Beatles,
Blunt over Taylor,
Rhyming Simon over Billy Joel,
no typos over flaring,
glaring no caring...

your poetry over mine,
cause it amazes,
cause mine,
just old familiar crazies,
just runaround Sues from yester pester days,
transcribed for a someday later
future grimacing laugh of
good god did I write that!

but that's just me

wrote quite the many
literary escapades
this morning,
like the yore,
good old days,
when every glance,
remark passing
made me run
to tablet them
in perpetuity ASAP

placed them before you
scattered thither and dither,
like all that jazz notes
running hands over planes geometric,
most just average,
but all there in hopes
you would love me better

but that's just me

sneaking inside you with
a wink, a tink-ering whimsy,
a stupid smile, a wicked sinning
humongous grinning
with a belly laughing,
havoc raising, me crazing,

*but that's just me
11-1-14
thinking I like celery better than carrots, and the rest you just read...
Michael Parish Oct 2013
No more komakazee crows
No more angry nehibors and
Their apple guns.
No more slow winks.
No more toilet bowls
And no more ham.
No more wet hair after a shower.
No more drooling on my face.

Remember that **** dog.
Remember you and him kissed like eskimos.
Remember sleeping in my train tunnel.
I wish I still played with trains.
I wish I still played euphonium.
I wish we never lost our house.

My old friend, is it time for me to go away.
You were the last.
The last pet mom ever will own.
She told us no more animals.
She cried tonite,
She said im so sorry soxy.

A longntime ago
A longtime 6 hours in school felt.
A long strected out cat
Waited for us on the steps.
I rubbed my face in his glossy chest.
I rubbed my third grade nose up and down
His body hoping for a play bite.
His tongue licked my ears three times,
Three times until he took a bite.
My hands resembled the bird,
The bird he never killed.
He turned me into a contortinist.
He made  my leggs cramp.
He made my matress his middle ground.
His middle my yoga sleep.

After showers he hunted my head.
He layed on my face.
He licked my dripping buzz cutt.
He licked the milk off of my first mustache.
He ruined the left over ham.
He made my favorite sandwhich
A challenge.
He could smell me open the can and mix the
Mayonase with pickles.
He left me a dead mouse on my train tracks.
He had white drops of paint on his paws.  
White furry paint,
Mom told us he had sox on his feet,
He was born with the name we gave him
Sox not socks,
Not the socks you get tired of wearing.
Not the socks you get mixed up durrning laundry.
Our sox kept us on our toes.
Our sox.
The **** cat
That really owned our house.
Hell always be sox,
The **** cat,
The **** voice my brother made up.
The **** drool I let rub against my face
Will never go away.  

Ill kiss him like an eskimo.
Ill biuld him a eskimo fire
And hope he chooses to
rub noses with My dog J.C again
I hope he goes gently into the nite (Dylan Thomas).
Alan S Bailey Aug 2016
What is this bizarre strange artificial magic that

Surrounds us in 3D neon colors man-made

Amidst this dream theory of some sort

Of tasty goods that await me (not bait)

Smashed in between two slabs of meat

That are thick hands which are said hold the

Way to get all we could want or need

This absolute promise that it's all worth it

Being placed before me only just to see

I hold my sandwiched slice of meat

With cheese and pickles high

And shout for joy that it's mine to eat!
So take a seat...!

Hehe, and it rhymes, too
:P

I'm sorry it disagrees with tele-vangicals and religious cultists. Will delete immediately. I promise. Sorry to harm ****** eyes with my trash!
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2016
oh sure, forgiveness of sin... or perhaps crimes... or just fetishes? like John Paul II forgiving sin, once polite society answered and John Paul staged the forgiveness session in a prison cell... forgiveness alright, acted out, with all the preliminary provisions readied - ode to Mehmet Ali Ağca, forgiveness always played out great for photography when all the Chinese laws were passed - Siberia welcomes all keen joggers; but you know one thing? raised in a canine environment as a child i learned to attach a different perspective with felines:*

like you'd play with a mouse like you'd play with a mouse like you'd play with a mouse like you'd play with a mouse like you'd play with a mouse like you'd play with a mouse like you'd play with a mouse like you'd play with a mouse like you'd play with a mouse like you'd play with a mouse like you'd play with a mouse like you'd play with a mouse like you'd play with a mouse like you'd play with a mouse like you'd play with a mouse like you'd play with a mouse like you'd play with a mouse like you'd play with a mouse like you'd play with a mouse like you'd play with a mouse like you'd play with a mouse like you'd play with a mouse like you'd play with a mouse like you'd play with a mouse - you keep teasing - you keep teasing - you keep teasing - you just wait... crocodile or boa insomniac - and when the opposite party has banked enough to cry about having lost it... you spit at your enemy's mother's face while ****** her; **** me! you get to prove god along the way! how's that for a Camden Market daytrip? and if you don't? well, it was a nice thought - feels like being a woman with a foetus craving doughnuts and pickles.
Ana Habib Nov 2020
The family of two would soon be turning into 3. Jasmine and Robyn  Banerjee were a young couple who had gotten married only a few short month back and were now eagerly waiting for the arrival of the baby. Jasmine, did not care if was a boy or girl. She and her husband agreed that as long as the baby was healthy had her mom eyes and dads smile everything was perfect.

Her in-laws had other ideas. They looked after her and was very understanding about her plight. The morning sickness, violent mood swings, acne, aches and pains. They advised her on what they thought was right but every few days or so her mother in law had something new to say. “ Don’t eat too much of something or the baby will have birthmark just like it somewhere on the body” or eat fish so that the “baby will be smart” or something more annoying like “ do not bathe, the baby might be born early” The mother to-be smiled politely or rolled her eyes as far back as possible while silently wishing someone would take her a way from these kooky people.

Jasmine, was a school teacher by profession and her husband Robyn ran a very successful travel agency. She had been told that it would be best if she resigned from work, at the very beginning of her pregnancy. Robyn provided for both and why did a woman need to work after a child is born?

Baby Dia was born on a Friday at 8pm in a clinic after a long and tiring labour. Both the doctor and nurse were smiling when they handed the pink bundle of cries to Jasmine. She did not even have 10 minutes alone with the baby before the door burst open with an eager set of grandparents and a father who looked, troubled.

What is it? Cried one of the grandmothers

“A girl” said Jasmine smiling

“hmm”

“a boy would have been better”

“ I Know she would bring bad luck to the family”

Not something to tell a new mom but everyone was suddenly looking each other instead of her. No one went to congratulate the mom or take a second look at the baby. Jasmine’s mother in law looked upset. Her mom just patted her hand, hurriedly mumbled something, and left the room with her father in tow. Jasmine felt bad upon hearing everything and wondered what kind of people she had been living with till now. Her husband was quiet the whole time.

Baby Dia grew up to be a happy smiling baby who made little to no fuss, slept through the night and always seemed excited about expanding her palate. She did not see much of her father or grandfather. They never showed much interest in her. They never warmed up to her. Robyn smiled, picked her up or played with his daughter every once in a while, but for the most part he worked long nights, on the weekend and went on week long trips when he needed to.

Robyn was working late again for the third time this week. He had hoped for a boy for so long but ended up with a daughter. She was precious to look at but women are complicated, expensive and overly emotional.

One afternoon, 4 year old Dia was playing outside with a few of the neighbourhood children. She had great fun but came home looking a little more then just *****. Her pink frock had holes in it, her wavy hair came undone and she was holding only one shoe in her hands. Her mother was no where to be seen but her grandmother hollered at the girl.

“Look at you, dirt all over the place,” why cant you just play inside with your dolls or toys only boys get this ***** and stay out so late” Dia paid no attention to these words and went to her grandmother for a hug. The old woman shooed the little girl away and locked her in the bathroom.  “Don’t come out till your squeaky clean” her grandmother warned. What was the big deal about getting ***** Dia wondered?

When she had turned 7, Dia started attending events and invites with her parents. They were all invited to a wedding on a Saturday night. She no longer had to wear scratchy frocks anymore. Her mother had bought her something better. A pant suit with a pink scarf. Dia loved it and dressed up by herself with no help. The dress was great, but the scarf was a nuisance. It was long and she felt suffocated. What was there to hide? Her mom draped in a pink saree, frowned when she came out wearing no scarf.

“Put on your scarf it comes with the dress”

“I don’t want to its ugly and I wont able to play with this on”

The normally calm woman, suddenly felt annoyed.

“Look, I have a shawl and your grandmother is wearing one too” that’s just how women dress, and that includes little girls.”

Her grandmother sitting in the back of the car murmured something about teaching her manners and modesty. Dia didn’t flinch

“ I have manners and my legs are not showing” Modesty in the “Banarjee” household meant that woman were not to expose their legs or back or any other parts of the body except for the hands and feet” Such rules did not apply to the men.

The next morning Jasmine spoke to Dia about the incident.

“I wanted you to wear the scarf last night because its how girls dress. You are a girl and you have to cover yourself to avoid trouble. Good girls always cover themselves and listen to their parents.”

Dia nodded but she didn’t understand anything. She was hungry and just wanted to eat.

When Dia was 11. One of her father’s colleagues came over. A kind man, his wife and annoying son. She liked them. They always brought over presents. She had gotten blue bangles last time. She saw them, from her window. She could not leave her room until her mother called for her.  It was always to work in the kitchen, Serve the guests, tea and snacks, set the table and do the dishes while everyone talked in the living room or sat in the backyard. Everything had to be cleaned up and the tea had to be exactly right. Not too dark, or too sugary. Grandmother says that if a girl did not know how to make proper tea she would not get a good husband in the future. Dia smirked when she heard this, her husband can have milkshakes for all she cared. She hated tea. Drink too much of it and she would get darker. Drink to little of it and the headaches would start. Dia could only leave the room when they left. No one really stayed over except of her mother’s parents, cousins and the occasional 50 pounds overweight aunty who always had her face in the refrigerator and inquired about her grades and skin tone every single visit. Girls were expected to stay indoors as much as possible. Always hidden but from what Dia could not always understand.

A few days after Dia turned 12 she had gotten her period. She read all about it on the internet and the librarian at school had lent her some books while explaining everything to her. Such topics were never discussed at home. It was a horrible experience. The bleeding, cramping, headaches and bouts of anger. All this because she was girl, every month for a very long time. 50 years perhaps. Her mother and grandmother smiled, when she told them. They took her out for lunch and bought her new clothes. She could no longer wear shorts or sleeveless tops anymore, even in the privacy of her own room. A brassiere had to go with everything now and long scarves and vests were a must. Along with this Dia had to follow other rules. She could not wash her hair on the first day of her period, she could not bathe in hot water. She could not paint her nails, have anything sour (pickles, lemonade) or make food for anyone because everything will spoil. She could not enter a place of worship or cradle baby because he/she might get sick. Dia thought all this was pointless and when she inquired about it, she got a smack to the face for questioning ancient rules and rituals and was told that this was how it was for every woman before her in the family. She earned a second smack when she asked who made the rules. Probably a man.

On her 14th birthday. Dia had gotten into a fight with one of her best friends. It was over something trivial. What to wear for a school event? Dia had settled for a saree and her friend settled on a gown. Dia was not fair but a little dusky. Her friends skin tone was like milk. The girl took great pride in that. She went as far as saying that Dia’s grey saree made her look like a crow. Dia was too upset to say anything in return, so she quickly walked home. She walked to her room and did not come out till the next day. Jasmine had noticed her daughter’s sour behavior and snappy remarks, so she asked what was wrong. Dia tearfully told her the truth. Her mom laughed and said that good friend’s squabble over anything and forget it 2 days later. Gave her money for ice cream and a movie and left for work. Her grandmother while doing the dishes told her that it was normal for girls for fight because women are competitive, they always want the best for themselves and have no problem belittling someone else to get it. Dia asked why, she got the usual response. “that’s how girls are” Dia through her grandma was being extra negative that day.

When Dia turned 18, she met a young man through one of her classes. She was studying health sciences and aspired to be a dentist when she was much older. Teeth always fascinated her since she was young. Her friend was a taller a bit older (21) and studying to be an Emergency Medical Technician. Dia and this boy had been friends for awhile now. He came from a good family and had no siblings. But she always thought him to be a friend. They studied together, hung around and had fun. He on the other hand started asking too many questions and took up a lot of her time. He was nice, positive and always made her laugh, but she had to let him know how she felt about him. She thought of speaking to her mom about this. Her father had heard everything instead. He sat beside her, listened to everything, and told her to wait for the boy to come to her and then break him the news gently. There was no need to talk to him first and cause a scene at the college campus. This would affect her studies and make her look her bad. This upset Dia in a major way. A woman was able to have feelings, but she could not voice them out? She could not take the first step in a relationship?  She mumbled her thanks and took a long shower that night, thinking everything over. The next day she approached her father again. He gave her a long look and said that if she broke things off with him first, he could go around spreading rumors or get her in trouble at school. No one likes a bold woman who always speaks her mind. She should just focus on her studies. Dia did not press him any further. She went on with her everyday life and lost him as a friend in a month’s time.

A week shy of her 21st birthday, Dia received an acceptance letter from a prestigious university. She was ecstatic and did cartwheels after reading the letter. Her parents had no qualms about her studying at a university that was far away from home or living in a hostel. She had matured into a young woman who they could trust and she had not made a faulty decision till now. Dia was not interested in parties, drinking, or staying overnight with friends. She was a good girl. However, they only let her go after letting her know that they would start looking for a boy once she graduated from her program. Dia said yes without thinking to much about this. Graduation was still 4 years away.

Dia went to complete university in less then 4 years time. She did not waste any time after graduation and enrolled into dental school. She had flunked only 1-2 courses during one semester. Her grandmother had died during one of them and her grades fell just slightly. This brought upon change in the Banerjee family. Her father had changed after his mom’s death. He was no longer in a rush to get Dia married and stopped working. He picked up a hobby and worked on that. Her mother took a break from teaching and now worked as a guidance counsellor for teens at a reputable high school.

During this time Dia was going steady with another dentistry student, with her parent’s permission. He was alright in most ways but sometimes pressured her to take their relationship to the next level. She always resisted and asked him to wait till they get married. Woman had to remain pure till they got married. If one’s purity is gone or lost it would bring great shame to the family and the couple. He said he he understood until one day he did not anymore. In a fit of rage, he let her know she belonged to him and he could do what he liked. They would be getting married soon so why did it matter. She resisted the urge to strike him and let him know that she belonged to no one but herself. He called her names before calling it quits. It hurt, but Dia knew that she would meet the right man sooner or later. Her parents did not say anything to her regarding this.

When Dia was 25 she did meet someone, he was a doctor and she went to become a dentist. They did not a have a grand wedding but a small private ceremony. They had paid for everything and Dia sent her parents on a much-needed vacation. Her husband, he did not pressure her to do anything she did not like. He grew up abroad and helped her in all the things that men did not normally do back home like cooking, cleaning, shopping because this was considered to be “ Woman’s work” and was “normal” This surprised her at first but amazed her later on. One night after too much wine and fun her husband went to bed.  Dia was still awake giddy from the wine and had other things on her mind. She gently woke her husband up. He was not pleased. “Let me sleep woman, its not the time to do anything and I have to get up early. He left it at that and was snoring in minutes.

She looked at him and frustration and wondered why it was normal and acceptable for men to satisfy their needs wherever and whenever possible, but a woman was always rebuked when she wanted something from her husband. She had certain needs and rights over him. She quickly undressed, slipped into a nighty, and went to sit in the balcony for a bit. The moon was out and the world was dead asleep.
Dia poured herself the last of the wine and thought about everything.

A woman always has two choices to fight or to follow the rules. Since birth woman are groomed into becoming a certain type of woman, once they get to that stage they are either married off or left to work and hop from one relationship to another. They were taught to be quiet, obedient, smart and always fully covered.

Why did a woman need to be covered at all times? Not just her body but her mind as well. She must keep mum about her wants, her needs, and desires. She always must think about the others and society before deciding on something. No one looks up to a woman who speaks her mind and focuses on herself. No one appreciates an independent woman. She must always be dependant on a male somebody (father, brother, husband, son). She must always do what she is told and taught because that is the way it is. That is how girls are.

This is all Dia grew up listening to. Who came up with the rules? Society. A society, where men dictated most things and told woman what they should and should not do. When a man will never understand what women go through or why they must handle and balance out so much. School, home, family, career. A woman always has to choose.

Everything comes down to a choice and she will forever have to sacrifice something or the other because it is the womanly thing to do. Men are never really questioned about their choices. They talk, they lead, and the women follow. That needs to change. People need to unlearn these age-old stereotypes. They hurt both the men and women. A man grows up but ends up lacking so much in terms of emotional intelligence and respect for the other gender. He grows without understanding what gender equality means and why it is needed.  A woman grows up but not without sacrifice, selflessness, and crippling obedience. She is seen as inferior, weak, or untamable if she does not do what she is told, asks too many questions and wants to better herself in some way or form.

A woman’s identity should not be made from excuses and lies.
Little Bear Mar 2016
Things that make me happy..
I believe it is the little things
that are the biggest
...if you know what I mean :o)



little things make me happy
the biggest kind of happy I can be
and so I thought that I would list them
so that you can see.

okay so sunshine makes me happy
and cats and birds and dogs
and smiley happy postmen
and kittens and hedgehogs

I like bus rides that are easy
warm socks and and being tickled
walking home in daylight
burgers with extra pickles

I like holding hands and kissing
hot coffee, the colour yellow
children playing happily
sweet toasted warm marshmallows

I like friends that make you smile
even ones that make you frown
and ones that give you butterflies
and they will never let you down

I like sleeping late and bubble baths
words and reading books
blanket forts and fairy lights
sleepy mornings tender looks

I like chocolate coins in summer
iced cold drinks on hot hot days
words of love and of kindness
that make me smile for days and days.

And I like to know you're happy
no matter who you are or what you do
what makes me the biggest happy
Is knowing you are happy too.

internationaldayofhappiness :o)
cheryl love Apr 2014
Cockles and winkles
cheese and pickles
washed down with lovely
sweet rosy lea.
Mushy peas
with mint sauce.
Yorkshire puddings with
Worcester sauce.
Clotted cream and lavender jam
The orangy bread bits on the ham
Oh to be in England
That is the life for me.

— The End —