Possession

I give you my heart willingly.

Once you accept it,

You own it.

Take it.

Keep it.

Care for it like it’s your own.

Don’t break it.

Don’t abandon it.

Don’t forget its value.

Don’t forget to keep it alive.

Protect it.

Give me yours, willingly,

And I will do the same.

I won’t break it.

I’ll cherish it,

Carry it with me wherever I go.

I won’t let anyone steal it.

I won’t forget it

And replace it with another.

I’ll own it

And care for it like it’s my own,

Because once you entrust it to me, it is.

manandwoman
Man and Woman

Photo credit: Leslie Jane Moran

Broken Hearted

Faded hope,

Broken fantasies,

Distant memories,

Repressed emotions,

Getting comfortable with emptiness,

Acceptance of loneliness,

Denial of possibilities,

Focus on reality,

Looking for evidence in actions,

Symbols are meaningless,

Destiny is a vocabulary word,

The darkest end of the tunnel is ahead,

Floating in a sea of teardrops,

Analyzing every approach,

Doubting every advance,

Seeing nothing but takers everywhere ,

Because givers don’t exist,

Eros is a myth,

“The One” is a lie,

Wearing a smile,

Saying “I’m fine,”

When a part of you died

After the love of your life

Has gone away.

But life goes on

Until the pain goes away

And “Alone” becomes the new normal.

The Painting

Today’s blog post is in response to the one word prompt posted by The Daily Post. The prompt was the word: Paint. I hope you enjoy it!

Nude Girl tumblr
Artist Unknown, Image found on Tumblr

My day at The Ebony Oliphant started at 7 a.m. The restaurant was located at the end of a shopping center, frequented by tourists. Once I lifted the security doors and opened the shutters at the front, the place had a very open feel like a veranda. Our menu was made up of various Caribbean dishes, beverages and desserts. We served lunch and dinner during the week, and brunch and dinner during the weekends. We usually had a live band, and dancing on Fridays, Saturdays and Sundays. It was a great spot to do business and I met a lot of interesting people.

 

For the last month, a gentleman, a street vendor, set up his “shop” in front of one of neighboring business. His name is Charles. He showed up one day with a stool, three easels, a card table, canvases, paint and drawing supplies. He sat in that spot and drew caricatures for visitors to the businesses in the courtyard. On a slow day, he would paint sceneries or anything else that sparked his imagination. On rainy days, he didn’t show up at all. He’d start his day by coming in to get a cup of coffee and fruit salad. Sometimes, he would mix it up and order a grilled cheese with his coffee. He was a handsome man. His skin was as dark as the black coffee he ordered, his voice was deep and as smooth as the honey he added to his drink. He was slim, but I caught a glimpse of his well maintained pectorals through his shirt that was never buttoned all the way up. His dreadlocks were neatly pulled back into a thick ponytail that reached the middle of his back. He was starting to get flecks of gray in his perfectly trimmed goatee. Yes, I thought he was hot! But I didn’t let him know that. I maintained my professional demeanor and kept the small talk to the topics of weather, traffic and menu items. He did the same, but I could tell that he was also studying me as I fixed his meal. There was nothing disrespectful in the way he looked at me. He was a people watcher. I usually had a chance to look in his direction sometimes, between the lunch crowd thinning out and the dinner rush. He seemed looked at most passers-by the same way.

 

He showed up this Sunday as the band was setting up for the Jazz Brunch. He set up his station in his usual spot outside with the back of the canvas facing the front of the restaurant. This was the position he took when he intended to paint scenery. He came in and spent some time chatting with this week’s band. Based on the banter and laughing I heard, they all seemed to know each other. He made his way to the bar to order his breakfast.

“Let me guess,” I greeted him, “Today you will have a tall black coffee with two honey packets, scrambled eggs and sautéed spinach. Right?”

“You know me well, Shannon! I’m going to sit here at the bar, today.”

“No problem. Your food will be right up!”

He usually took his plate to a table or back to his station outside. But today he decided to hang out at the bar to eat. There was still roughly an hour before we officially opened, so some of the guys from the band came to the bar and ordered warm beverages or other quick breakfast items before the doors opened and the brunch crowd filed in. Charles talked to them and watched me as he ate. Once the crowd came in, my staff and I were busy until closing time. We were short handed at the bar, so I filled in, mixing drinks and taking orders. By the time we closed and cleaned up it was 11:30 p.m. The band was gone and the courtyard in front of the restaurant was empty. I closed the shutters, pulled down the security gate and headed toward my car. It was then I noticed that Charles was still there.

“Charles? I thought you were gone a while ago! What are you still doing here?”

“Uh, I’m…uh…waiting for you.”

He sounded nervous. He wasn’t a loud person, but I’d never heard him speak so quietly before.
“Is everything ok? Did your car break down? Do you need a ride?”

“Oh! No! Nothing is wrong. I just…I don’t even know where to begin. Um….Shannon, I think you’re beautiful and want to get to know you better. I own The Cleric’s Inn on Water Street. One of the visitors told me about your place. I came to check it out and saw you. I had to meet you, but didn’t know how to go about it. So, I had my brother, Ian, take over at the Inn. Jerry owns the gift shop next door, and told me he didn’t my me setting up in front of his shop and painting.  I came up here to figure out how to ask you out on a date. Awkward. I know.”

“It took you a month to work up the nerve,” I inquired with a smirk.

“Hey! It’s not easy for a guy to do this! You might say, ‘no,'” he said with a nervous laugh. I noticed then, that he was holding a canvas in front of him. “I made a painting of you the first day I came here. I’d like you to have it, but please don’t think badly of me! You’re such a beautiful woman, and I’m a man,” he said this while gesturing to indicate from my head to my toes, “And there is this way that you turn around and look over your shoulder when you are working at the bar that is just…wow…”
I became concerned about what he painted on that canvas thirty days ago, until he turned it around and showed it to me. My jaw dropped. It was beautiful and tasteful, simple and pure.

“Charles, it’s beautiful! I’m not going to say, no. What are you doing on Tuesday?”

A relieved smile spread across his face.

 

 

Sometimes I Think About You

rose-764267_1920
I wonder if you remember my name,
my favorite color, my favorite foods,
my favorite song.
Do you recall the plans we made?
The talks about the house we would buy,
and the porch we would sit upon
on warm summer nights,
watching the fireflies perform
and the scent of honeysuckle
wafting on warm lingering breezes
while we shared a tall glass of lemonade.
I remember.
Do you remember our six month anniversary?
You thought it was silly
but bought me flowers anyway
and pretended to be upset
when you realized I hadn’t bought you any.
Remember how you laughed later that day
when I gave you a homemade anniversary card?
I went back to my kindergarten-artist days
and broke out the construction paper,
crayons, glue and glitter.
I even misspelled a few words
just for poops and giggles.
I remember that you kept that silly thing
tucked into the frame of the mirror on your dresser.
You had a picture of us tucked into that frame, too.
I remember the day you said goodbye.
That’s the story I tell people, anyway.
We ended on quiet, friendly terms.
The truth is, you just went away.
You gave no explanation.
I was left with hundreds of promises
you made to my heart,
that would never be fulfilled.
I wonder if you ever felt guilt or shame about that?
I guess it doesn’t matter.
You left me with only one choice:
To remember the good times,
and to look forward to the future.

Kintsukuroi

kintsugi-bowl-honurushi-number-32
Kintsukuroi – “To repair with gold.” The art of reparing pottery with gold or silver lacquer and understanding that the piece is more beautiful for having been broken.

 

The Potter formed me in his hands,

Gently pressing and pulling me into shape.

He adorned me beautifully,

And placed me in the fire

To strengthen and finish me.

From plain and without form,

Disorganized and without purpose,

To new and useful,

And designed with a specific purpose in mind.

I was used,

On purpose,

And misused

With intention.

I looked like what I’d been through,

Cracked and broken,

With missing pieces

That never again fit back in place.

I was pushed aside,

Deemed unfit and useless,

Until I was discovered by one

Who saw beyond the broken fragments

And recognized The Potter’s design.

He took the shattered pieces,

And figured out where they belonged.

He saw the gaps and ragged edges,

Mended them with gold,

And covered me with a protective shield.

When he was finished,

He stepped back to examine his work.

Gone were the broken pieces.

His tender touch and ministration

Restored purpose,

And made me beautiful, again.

Valentine’s Day 2016

Good Morrow and Happy Love Day, Citizens!

In all the activity surrounding romance today, make sure you take some time to love yourself. You’re totally worth it!

But since today is about love, here are three of my favorite original pieces on romance and affection. Enjoy! ❤

Dear Future Husband

Intimacy

Unequivocally

P.S.,

Here’s a little mood music for you as a bonus! 😀

Love Ballad by LTD

The Point of It All by Anthony Hamilton

He Loves Me by Jill Scott

african-american-couple-flirting

It Was Only A Kiss

Happy Throwback Thursday! I went digging through the archives and found a piece that I have visited in while. Send to kids off do some chores and grab a glass of wine for this one! 🙂 Enjoy

Nikewrites Blog

He uttered few words

Allowing his actions to be his voice.

I was a prisoner

Trapped in his strong embrace.

His eyes were focussed,

His every move deliberate

As he tilted my head up

And brushed his lips

Softly across my mouth.

He gently sucked and nibbled

My bottom lip

Between feathery kisses.

I tasted passion,

I felt his desire

And restraint.

He did not rush this encounter,

My heart raced with anticipation.

I wanted to feel his hands

And those oh, so tender lips,

Explore every inch of my body.

He kissed me like

A starving man,

Savoring nourishment,

Rationing his portions

So he could return for more

As he had need.

I leaned into him,

Not hiding my desire,

I devoured his kisses

Like they were my last meal.

And then he pulled away.

Holding me away from his body,

Examining me carefully,

He let me go

Then…

View original post 16 more words

D is for Dear Future Husband

Image by Neerav Bhatt
Image by Neerav Bhatt

Dear Future Husband,

I know that you are out there

Praying for me, your Future Wife.

I know you are strong and smart,

A provider and protector.

You will not bruise my body

Or leave my heart shattered.

You will see my worth

And celebrate it, cherish it.

My beloved Future Husband,

I pray for you daily.

I will care for your heart

Like it is my own.

I won’t just hear you,

I’ll listen to you.

I will not harm you

Or allow harm to come to you.

I will stand by your side.

I’ll hold you up when you feel weak

And be a safe and gentle place

When you are wary.

You are special to me, even now,

Before we ever meet.

Together, we will be unbreakable,

And unstoppable.

We will have each other’s back.

We will be faithful and loyal to each other.

We will be an example to our children

Of what a marriage with God at the center

Should be.

Dear Future Husband,

I’m here.

I’m waiting for you.

 

Sonnet 116

Because it is Valentine’s Day and William Shakespeare defined love so beautifully in this piece…Happy Valentine’s Day everyone!

SONNET 116

Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O no; it is an ever-fixed mark,
That looks on tempests, and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth’s unknown, although his height be taken.
Love’s not Time’s fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle’s compass come;
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error and upon me proved,