It’s Cold Outside!

I don’t like winter or winter-like weather. I feel the cold beneath my skin, into the bones. I need warmth. I like warmth. Cold air makes my body retreat into itself.

On the upside, winter makes for good cuddling if you have a cuddle-buddy. Hot chocolate or warm apple cider and a good movie or two while bundled in a warm blanket makes for a comfortable evening. Throw in some bulky yarn and your choice of needles or hooks (my fellow yarnies know what I’m talking about) and you have a recipe for heaven – for some.

But me, I like the yarn and chocolate and cuddles yet I’d rather do without the freezing temperatures. I don’t like opening my front door to Sub-Zero yelling “Finish Her!” for three – six months out of the year. That is not my cup of tea!

But since I am on the East coast of the United States, there’s no getting around it. So I’ll just bundle up, stock up on yarn and hot chocolate and knit my way to summer! Stay warm in the meantime.

To NaNo or Not to NaNo?

I am debating whether or not i have the stamina to attempt NaNoWriMo this year. I made the attempt in 2015 and had fun although I fell short of my goal. Various ideas haven’t stopped flowing through my mind though. Just being able to flush them out into a fully formed story line is a whole other story of it’s own.

Recently I started practicing yoga and working on clearing out my mental clutter so I can hear what my mind wishes to produce. Whispers have been seeping through… Subtle, sultry flashes of ideas here and there. This is a bit of one of those whispers…

Cheryl parked her car and looked at the sparkling lights emanating from the building. As she turned of the ignition she felt the buzz of her cell vibrating in her leather clutch. Opening the text message notification she read the simple message, “Room 315. Meet me in the shower.” A flutter rose in her chest and she smiled at the phone. Cheryl grabbed her clutch, slipping her phone inside and got out of the car. Walking into the brightly lit lobby, she eased past the desk and headed towards the elevators. Stepping inside, Cheryl pressed the 3 and stepped back as the doors closed.

Cheryl adjusted her breasts inside of her black, lace lined corset. Her 36 DD cups swelled just above the top of the corset and her black leather pants hugged her ass like a second skin. Cheryl smoothed her hands over her hips and checked her reflection in the console when the elevator dinged and the doors opened. Following the signs on the wall, Cheryl proceeded down the hall to room 315 and pushed on the ajar door.

Setting her clutch on the couch and closing the door, Cheryl stepped out of her heels and unfastened the clasps on her corset, dropping it to the floor. Peeling the leather from her curvaceous ass, she began walking toward the shower. Steam filled the bathroom as Jason lathered his body with soap. Opening the shower door, Cheryl stepped inside and wrapped her arms around George’s solid frame letting her voluptuous breasts press into his back…

 

What do you think should happen next? How should this play out? Leave your suggestions in the comments below.

 

Black Without Apology

Too many times I have encountered individuals who behave as though only they have a right to exist on this planet. As big as this rock is… really? I can’t say I’m surprised with 45 fueling the flames. But I was inspired by the words I’ve been reading on here tonight. I wrote this poem, Black Without Apology, as an in your face call out to those who are closed-minded about anyone who is different:

Does my skin offend you?

Has my DNA mocked you?

Has my resilience taunted your very existence, pushing you to hate me?

Does my intelligence frighten

the very idea of your

subsistence on the degradation of my genetic make-up?

I guess nightmares and dreamscapes of terror

encourage you to intake artificial courage

to defile the image of my being

solely because you can’t bear

your child-mind of feeling inferior,

that gestating seed of uncertainty

that gnaws at your immorality

while you justify your (lack of) humanity

to your brotherhood of nonsensical brethren…

But I digress…

Your inability to come to terms with your ideas of the world

belong to YOU.

I am my melanated self because I am

and always will be

Black without apology.

– Why Yet 4/3/17

It’s National Poetry Month 2017!

Poetry month has returned again. I always find myself enthralled reading other’s words and feeling surprise at someone being enthralled by my own.

Don’t misunderstand me. I LOVE my works. My poetry is my therapy – therefore it is very personal and raw for me. Which makes me shy and proud to share it.

The first poem I remember having to memorize was Langston Hughes’ A Dream Deferred. I didn’t understand that poem at the age of ten but it stirred something in me. That quiet stirring continued until I read Maya Angelou’s Phenomenal Woman

Maya Angelou’s passion ignited the stirring in me and I began to slowly release my words onto paper. Not ever did I think, “I’m going to publish these poems and sell books.” But here I am, poetry collection published, writing more for another collection and pondering what to do next.

But every April for thirty solid days I am reminded, by myself and other poetry friends acquired over the years, that all poetry has beauty in it and speaks to someone somewhere.

Poetry is appreciation of life in the raw. Simple. Elegant. Rough. Raw. Love. Hurt. Deppressed. Happy. Excited. Sad. Mournful. Erotic. You get where I’m going with this.

Should you be a poet or know poets, show them some love this month. Read, share and/or review some of their work. Let them know their words mean something to you. In the meantime, I’ll keep writing and expressing my emotional transitions for all who choose to enjoy them!

Transition State of Me

I am learning to recognize when my life is in transition. You know those moments in life that you don’t realize you’re moving from one phase of life into another until after it happens? I get glimpses of those phases when I quiet my mind enough to hear the whisperings of my spirit.

My moments are unique to me. When I begin to feel suffocated in life (with my job, family, obligations) I know there is change brewing within. When the ‘adults’ around me irritate me with their childish behavior, I know there is change stirring up inside of me. Many times I have found myself feeling restless and unable to maintain my thoughts on singular ideas. When my mental space is crowded, I know it is that time of transition. 

Learning to recognize my signs for life transitioning is important. Once I started noticing the signs I remember to be more mindful of my thoughts, words and actions. I can also be more deliberate with my thoughts, words and actions. That is a powerful feeling. To be deliberate with the thoughts I choose to focus on, deliberate with the words I choose to speak. To be deliberate with my actions that choose to (or choose not to) partake in.

That is power. Power over myself. That feels strong. “Life and death are in the power of the tongue…” I heard that said at a Mary Kay convention in 2004 and it is so true.

Hopeless Romantic

I was chatting with some online writer friends the other day and the topic of branding came up. I read the commentary in silence because I understand it is necessary – I just hadn’t figured out what my ‘brand’ is… yet. 

Basically, what I took away from that conversation is that your ‘brand’ is your message. What message do you want to relay to your client/customer/follower/audience base? How do you want your base to perceive you? These questions helped me further understand what a brand is and why it is critical to any endeaver you engage in. How people perceive you determines how they interact with you.

Fair enough. That got me to thinking about what message I want to project. I immediately thought of my favorite t-shirt with the saying, “I’m A Hopeless Romantic With A Dirty Mind”. That t-shirt describes me perfectly! That’s why I love it so much. 

That’s when it hit me! That’s my brand all the way down to my poetry. I’m a hopeless romantic with a dirty mind. And with that, a new poem surfaced that I had to scribble down on my way to my day job this morning:

Hopeless Romantic

Fantasizing about you

brushing my hair away from my face

with fingertips that set fire to my soul.

A flamed blush

coursing through my veins

as thoughts quickly skate

south of the border of your waistband,

mentally encouraging this inferno inside

to become contagious

and catch you like a whirlwind

of Caribbean heat…

– Why Yet 3/16/17