Long time to wait

and God gave us a chance to meet again

Your blue eyes

Your smell

Your laugh

Your face when you woke up

I can’t stop looking at you

I want to tell you what I feel

But I don’t want to rush

So I kept my mouth close

And I wait for you to say something

tell me honestly about what you feel

I still waiting to hear your voice

No hug… no kiss

Only wonder eyes

In our last goodbye

I sat on the train

Thinking of you

I wish we could try and find a way

if we fall.. we fall together

But you said you can’t

I don’t want to leave

But you never ask me to stay

and still my heart full of you

I look into the blue sky every day

Remind me of your blue eyes

that makes me missing you

I wish I could see you one day

at the right time

#prose #love #life #hope

"Live a healthy life with a peaceful mind and joyous heart."~ H. Brandt

I recently created this quote after reflecting back to a time when I lived the opposite of these very words.

Today I've learned to live by these rules and apply them to my everyday life. I would recommend this to all who are in the transition of changing their ways of living.

#quotes #lifestyle #spirituality

Civilization is bracing for a situation they’re facing. This ceaseless disease has impacted billions of men, women and children - in every nation, city and town under the sun, one by one.

It’s whirling through the atmosphere without a sound, circling around the hemispheres. The unforseen with no vaccine comes swarming in without a warning - ready to strike and sicken its victims internally. 

The only remedy to fight this enemy is go inside and stay away from everything! Do your best in this midst of distress until this infested mess comes to rest. Take advantage of this break from reality to spend quality time with loved ones and family. Find ways to entertain your brain and refrain yourself from going insane. The ideal place is called destination isolation, a safe location away from the whole population, the only vacation you’ll be taking and you won’t need an invitation. 

#coronavirus #poems #poetry

I write to remember…

To capture the pain and joy of a moment.

My words reveal more than any photo.

I write to forget…

To free my heart from the raging feelings that surround it.

I put my thoughts on a page and leave them there.

I write to escape…

To get lost in the words and the worlds I build.

I’d happily live there instead.

I write to understand…

To make sense of the confusing reality we all live in.

I need to interpret it for myself.

I write to stay sane…

To keep everything controlled inside.

If I didn’t, who knows what would happen?

I’ve always wanted to taste the idle fruit of sweet ignorance. I want to get lost in it, bury my teeth into its flesh and let the sticky juice drip down my neck. At least that way, my thoughts could be silenced, for it is always the people who think the least that are the happiest. Happiness the most simple but evasive emotion. Why must it be so fleeting?

“It is fleeting because it has no space,” I can hear my mother say and perhaps she is right. My mind is too occupied with hate, anxiety, and self-doubt for happiness to take a proper seat. Lucky for me, my demons are usually steadied with good company. In those cases, social awareness takes charge and disciplines before the public sees, but in my solitude, they roam free. They run wild without curfew and I find myself struggling to sleep. I suppose I am lucky because even in isolation, my thoughts still speak to me.

“Hah-” I huffed, clutching a hand over my green sweater. I could feel myself grinning. “You got me. Right in the side.”

José and his lady friend stepped back with visible shock written over their faces. Her little red purse lay at my feet, the smell of burning leather rising from the hole blown into the side of it. It swirled in my senses, lingering with the heavy scent of blood.

“You got me.” I repeated, a sudden wave of fear rushing over me. I suddenly felt sick with realization of what just transpired. I spoke again, voice cracking, “You got me.”

The pair turned and ran, José shouting obscenities at his friend who stumbled in her stiletto heels around the corner and into his beat up junk car. I stumbled back right as the vehicle spun out and around the street, tires squealing.

“Oh yikes.” I breathed, feeling the sudden warmth oozing from my fingers and down my thigh. Wasn’t this supposed to be the part where I went into shock? Where a sudden wave of adrenaline motivated me forward? Wasn’t my survival instincts supposed to kick in? I was grossly aware of the gaping wound in my left side. So disgustingly aware I felt like gagging at the sensation of my open skin. This had been too quick. Far too quick.

José had been struggling with his drug payments--I had known that. Everyone working downtown knew that. When him and his blonde bimbo had appeared behind the video store I was resting behind, arguing about how he’d meet his next deadline, I had wanted to help. José had been a decent man to me, he’d always been respectful of my area. So when I walked around the corner and grabbed a hold of his arm to tell him to quiet down before security came outside the last thing I had expected was a swinging purse with a hidden gun inside that had the safety off. I don’t think she expected it either. Stupid whore, carrying a weapon like that so blase, she was asking for an accident to happen--and it did.

I took a hard step forward not quite knowing which direction to go. My clothes were wet against my waist and thigh, revoltingly sticky with blood. I tried to think of what direction the hospital was, or the nearest phone. The video store’s fluorescent light splayed out across the sidewalk, glowing faintly from the back. I pressed my hand against the wall, steadying myself as I attempted to walk around to the front of the store and alert the security guard I needed help.

A wave of vertigo hit me and I hissed, falling to my knees. The pain didn’t even register in my head. I slumped to the side against the dumpster, shakily breathing out. My hand was still pressed hard into my waist, I was too afraid to pull it away. The thought made me dry heave--I had always been squeamish around blood or mortal wounds. Faced with my own I felt as if I could vomit.

“Oh you’ve done it this time Adriana. You really have.” I spoke to the crisp night air, curling deeper around myself. All motivation to stand and seek help was draining out of me at a pace I didn’t care to keep up with. Had I not contemplated ending my own life to spare myself from the streets every day up until this point? A twinge of sadness resonated through me. Perhaps I was upset because this way I hadn’t been prepared for.

With suicide the ending is known. I would’ve had time to say my goodbyes to the strays I fed, or to dress up nicely. I could’ve died on the riverbank, or perhaps even under the bridge just off the highway. I could’ve left some form of identification on myself, so they could’ve at least held a memorial for me. I was at least worthy of that, wasn’t I?

I can’t be too upset. Not with this ending. This is a form of mercy, I suppose. I’ve contributed so very little to this tiny Oklahoma town. I had an alright home life, so for me to throw away my own potential by ending up on the streets as a second-rate prostitute seemed like a waste of existence. I could’ve had an average life if I’d cared more, so maybe this was what I deserved.

“Oh, jeez. Oh man, that hurts.” I hissed, a dull ache resounding throughout my side. I curled deeper into the side of the dumpster, suddenly realizing I was cold. I breathed in deeply, pain crashing into me again and numbing my mouth. A tingling sensation was creeping up into my feet. Anxiety and acceptance battled inside me forcing their way out as tears in my eyes.

This was it. I knew it was. I’d become another cold case statistic. This small town sheriff’s department would probably never piece together what had happened. An unidentified woman laid up against a back alley dumpster, a smoking purse mere feet from her. Had it been a drug deal gone wrong? A lovers quarrel? Maybe even a crime of passion?

I chuckled lowly, and then winced at the pain it caused. The tingling had grown up into my thighs now, intermingling with the warm and cold sensation of wet blood hitting the chilly Midwest air. It would be minutes now, I was sure of it.

“Lord, forgive me.” I breathed, accepting that this was ultimately what I deserved. To be absorbed into the Earth and forgotten among its inhabitants. An uneventful, miserable life that could’ve been more. A deep, wallowing sadness enveloped me. Regret rising like bile in my throat.

Hot tears ran down my face as I realized that I no longer felt pain from my side. The tingling had climbed its way up my face and wrapped around my ears like cold hands. I curled deeper into the dumpster, pressing my face into its cold metal and sighing deeply as a wave of drowsiness hit me. This was it. The finale. Breathing out once more, I swallowed a hiccuping sob and allowed sleep to overcome me for one, final time.

Lovely Friendships 29

Saalima told Tomaso she enjoyed the poetry of e e cummings and invited him outside to share a cold lemon water.

“Thank you for helping make the room a pleasant place for your parents. They will need a place to rest when they arrive.”

“I know my parents and on a thirty two hour flight they will treat it as a regular day. They will eat, exercise, use their computers and sleep just like a regular day. They are always busy and never bored. They are both bundles of energy. I hope this vacation slows them down just a little so they can smell the roses.” smiled Tomaso.

Saalima showed him her tiny vegetable garden.

“I love these tiny tomatoes and hope they continue to grow all summer long. I would like to grow them into the winter if I could.”

“I am thinking you may be able to grow them all year long if you can find a protected place in the colder months. My Mother might show you a way. She is the designer of the winery grape rows. When others had freezing problems she did not. Mama is very clever with plants.”

Cicero and Melina Ambrosia arrived on time and Saalima and Tomaso were there to pick them up. Saalima had a rack on top of the cab to hold their large knapsacks. Tomaso and his Papa Cicero sat in the back on cushions. Their two boxes of wine from the Ambrosia Winery sat next to the men. Melina sat in the passenger seat. Saalima and Melina chatted up front all the way to Saalima’s home. Tomaso was correct they loved the room. It was still light enough outside for them to enjoy the view. The Cafe was closed but Saalima had arranged for a small private party.

Kosmas, Leto, Jocasta and Moraitis were there waiting. They had made salads and bread. Adelpha and Aristotle were on their way with some home made cheese.

Demetrius and Endora walked over to meet the guests and they all went to the cafe for the welcome party.

Cicero and Melina enjoyed meeting everyone and shared a case of of their wine. Around two am the party ended. Tomaso hitched a ride with Kosmas and told his parents he would see them tomorrow.

The next morning Adelpha and Aristotle brought Cicero and Melina to Adelpha’s house. They came to see the goats and Adelpha’s paintings.

“I love your brilliant paintings. Do you ever sell them?” asked Melina.

“I tried here in Ikaria but have not made much money on them. I usually give them away.” said Adelpha.

“Well, you stop giving them away. When Cicero and I go back home we will take photos, blow them up as posters and hang them in our winery. Who knows you may get some sales.” said Melina

Later on that day while Cicero was hanging out with the guys Saalima and Leto took Melina on a tour. Mainly to see the properties for sale in and around Ikaria.

One place was only forty acres. There were two houses on the property along with a barn and a tractor with tools inside. A few other buildings were on the property. Melina could see it was an old vineyard. Very neglected but the grapes were still flavorful.

They walked around with the Realtor looking inside the big house. It was old but sound. Easy to change and update. The small house was locked. The Realtor thought he had the keys and went back to his car. Melina thought she heard a woman crying. They walked around to the back of the house and there was a tiny lady, in her ninety’ sobbing. The lady looked up and saw the ladies.

“I will be out of here soon. I do not want to leave.” she wailed with sad eyes.

“Why do you have to leave?” asked Melina.

“My grandson says I have to leave and go live with him in America. They don’t want me to live here alone and die. I have friends here that stop by every day. I am not really all alone. He said I am too old to be alone.” she sobbed.

“Well that is not good at all. I like this property and if my husband and I buy it you can stay here in the little house. In fact until we move in the big house you could be the caretaker. This would be your house and I would pay you for watching the property and keeping vandals out of the vineyard.” said Melina.

The lady was so happy she called her grandson in America. Melina explained that she and husband would be happy with his grandmother living on the property.

“Now we will not worry about her and the monies will go into a bank account for her future.” said the grandson.

Cicero viewed the property and they made the deal. Agatha Papadopoulos would be their caretaker and live in the little house for the rest of her life.

©Julia A Knaake

I warn them about the chaos and the turbulence. I tell them about the emotions and the past. I recount all of the ways I embody a soul too difficult to handle.

I am open about my inability to feel less and my lack of evasive mystery. I open up my chest and dissect each ventricle of my heart with bare hands even showing them how I restitch the seams that often burst open due to a capacity being breached.

Like show and tell, I explain that it’s content has never been discovered in any other human. I look in their eyes and I tell them how they make me feel, unafraid of their answer.

I give them the insight of my aura by stating that I am a too-much-woman and I recount how many left due to such. I display my unapologetically exhausted soul’s passion—an intensity I’ve never received but refuse to alter despite of such.

I, without script, explain why every inch of my enthusiastic love is not temporary and welcomed to the home of my heart after too many years of wishing I could rid them of their visits.

I remind them I’ll never change, that I owe it to my persistent endurance and undying loyalty to ever silence who my Me really is.

Although, I must admit, there is just one thing I never mention—the one thing that ends up being hardest for them to handle after all: their regret of leaving me.

Gemnah Maley Bray