Little girl filling big shoes

Little girl steps into her momma's high heeled shoes. Wobbly, she looks in the mirror and tries ever so carefully to apply the red lipstick, like her momma does every morning.



I am pretty sure that my current waves of thoughts is being brought about by my upcoming birthday (yes, it's true; next week I turn 26). But it's a thought that's been reacurring for the last couple years.


Do you feel like an adult?



Strangely enough I feel embarassed to say that I don't, not quite. I often feel like the little girl in the shaky high heels, trying to act the part. But i'm going to be 26. Where is the finish line for 'youth'?

I'm a Grad student at a University in a different country then my home. I have a car. I do dishes. Cook. Clean, etc etc.

Introspection gets the best of me.

I suppose it's inevitable, that I should be nostalgic and such a few days before the next year of my life. Maybe i'll need to be the so-called 'settled' (aka: married and a house) in order to feel that adult-y feeling. We'll see. There's a quote I love, "Grandmothers are just 'antique' little girls." At the end of the day, perhaps the feeling I have is not one of being 'young or little', but maybe it is simply the feeling of my own unique being. Maybe it is the 'me' that will stick with me for the rest of my days.

It wouldn't be that bad...When I'm 85, looking in the mirror, how cute would it be to picture myself as a little blond-headed girl, wobbly in the high-heeled shoes..

What do you think?

Poem titles stress me out.

A longing deep inside me
Exists
And sways in the breeze of untrollable thoughts
A yearning
for the touch.
There's a look
We all know
A hooked
heart
a comfort
even apart.

You are a mystery to me
The face with no distinction
But what I would give
To know who you are.

I will hold you someday.
I will try to take your breath away.

Your name will flow from my soul
As we meet, I know.

Mossy adventures through time

Blogs have never been my strong point; I forget to update them. This week, I was reading a blog (not mine), and I was suddenly filled with ideas, inspiration. That happens to me sometimes when I read. Not often. But it is the Why to ‘why’ I love to write. It’s how I release those ideas.

The blog was Jader Bomb's, and she wrote about finding colored glass buried in the wood. As though she had tapped a magic wand on my head (preferably a sparkly one), I was transported back in time (the art of writing, my friend, is indeed the ultimate time machine). I was placed square in my grandma’s backyard, in the woods, underneath the canopy of tall pines, the ground a soft blanket of pine needle and moss. It’s another world there. As a child, I would often go play in there… the summer rays would create a great ambiance and the smell of the pine made me feel alive. Sometimes I would find old bottles, often broken, half-buried in the ground (how safe this was). I was tremendously excited to find these! I would picture my grandparents, in the ‘old days’, drinking from these bottles. I imagined young men sneaking a few brew… It was moments like those that were the golden moments of my childhood. Jader Bomb’s colored glass brought me there again.

Cheers yall. I hope you find yourself in great spirits tonight. and everyday. :)

a new unfinished poem

we are all vagabonds
strumming our own tunes listening to the waves as they
play the bongos and djembes of our rituals
strum humming along the seasons everchanging
cracks on the sidewalks as a little girl
have now become the cracks in the heart

-- -- --

Embark with me on a snowy cloud
that trails the frail

Enlightenment is just beyond
Cradled where the sun blankets the
Forest floor
The Spring is but a hot winter's caress
Nothing. Less,
Mother Nature
Hear my call
I won't ignore yours.

hmm

A little over a year passed since I saw Bob in concert for the 1st time. A whole YEAR. A lot has changed, yet bigger changes are coming. Life is like that.
Decisions, decisions. That's what life is made up of...decisions... We'll all make choices, and there are no right or wrong decisions made. We follow a path and nonetheless, we learn. There's good in everything. Really.
So now - am I looking for work? School?

Fleet Freeriding.

Flying fleet of a Freeriding
Wave
continuous motion
our solution.

swirling, Falling

As the hipster
burning Sun man
pierces its crimson
promise
Reflecting in the grey-eyed dog
ol' Master we are not
in it for now
But in IT for the long haul.

Breathe Life Smoke.

The road snakes its way past the farm house

Where the red barn

Brown cow

Pigs cat dog

Hauls the hay

And picks at the pantry

The old lady

Bent over

Sizzle, the eggs

Hard work

Bad back

As the smell of the cowboy

Spooks the lonesome traveler

As the black car

Smoke fumes

Escapes the pipe, coughing

The hitchhiking vagabond who doesn't believe

In you me them or god

Smokes his joint as the horse watches him

Black eyes

Stare.

And the sweat rolls off the labourer as the hobo

Hums and strums and licks

And spits at his harmonica

Everyone's watching

Through a window we call our eyes.

It's a slow day

Mist and moon

There's no time for thinking or waiting

The road snakes its way down

Horizon swallows it up

It doesn't matter

Where it goes

Promises kept unkept

And lies like the spider

This web beautiful

But traps unsuspectfully

Creatures.

Inhale.

Exhale.