mp3 Nostalgia

My kuya installed our old hard disk in his new PC, said HD has the mp3's we've collected from the Pinas... Brings lotsa memories to me, especially now that Yuletide Season's approaching, but not as fast as in the Pinas... Gawd! I wanna go back home! Waah! Anyhoo, for the following days, I'm planning to post some songs and the story behind as to why I feel so nostalgic about it...

Friends With Benefits

I just finished watching the foreign flick "Y Tu Mama Tambien", my reaction to the movie led me to remember my conversation with my grandfather's third cousin two years ago.It's not related to the movie, really. My feeling sad and sorry for the friendship lost is. That's why I promised to myself that I won't step over the line of friendship.

Aunt Vi (that's what she wants us to call her) and I met for the first time on her nephew's wedding, she practically lived her life in the US. She invited me for a chat the following week at her brother's house where she stayed while she's in the Philippines. That weekend, I complied to her request.I found her setting up the videoke mic thingy when I arrived. She said she wants us to sing some songs while "bonding", she called for the maid to serve us the snacks. The first song she sang was "I Finally Found Someone" by Barbra Streisand and Bryan Adams, then "I've Never Been To Me" by Charlene. After the song was finished, she talked to me. With eyes looking straight at mine she said, "You remind me so much of myself. That song was for you."

"Me? Why?" I asked.

"I can see it through your eyes, but I won't tell you why..." then she smiled the I-know-something-but-I-won't-tell-you smile. After two sips of sugarcane juice she said, "Go on dear, don't be shy, ask me why I didn't marry until I reached the age of 58." The old lady knew what's in my mind, and she must have read the disbelief written on my face so she went on. "I was and still is a woman of the world. I love myself first before others. I love my career and my freedom. Have you seen the movie The Mirror Has Two Faces?"

"No, not yet. But I heard Barbra and her leading man married for company's sake."

"Yes, they got married because they don't want to grow old alone. And that my dear is my reason."

"You didn't marry because you love your husband?"

"Oh no, don't get me wrong. I love him but in a different way. I love him as a friend, and mind you deary, a friend's love for another is deeper than that of a lover's. He was first my friend before he became my lover, just like the other male friends I have, and they are still my very best friends."

"Ha---how? A-a-a--I mean they are your friends."

"Friendship is the best foundation. Besides it's more comfortable having a sexual affair with your friend than with a complete stranger."

"Did you...ahermn..."

"Did I what? Have sex with all my male friends? Yes. My first kiss was with a male friend at a friend's house. He has a girlfriend and I know her, but there's an attraction between us, we can't help it. And the first person I've given a head was a friend too, and I know his girl friend too, we sometimes shop together. Surely you're familiar with physical attraction, yes?"

"Yes, of course." I felt so scandalized. I may liberated, sort of, but my morality regarding friendship is very different from Aunt Vi.

"You befriend a person from the opposite sex because you were first attracted to them. Do you have an ugly guy friend?"

"Yes."

"Really? I'm betting he became your friend because he's a friend of a friend."

"Yes."

"See? My husband, he was my crush at the hospital, when he invited me out the first time I went with him. He was married twice, once widowed, once divorced, he had four children. We were friends for so long. But, I only sleep with him whenever he's free, meaning if he's not married. I don't sleep with married men. That's why I just sleep with male friends, even if they have girlfriends, because I know for sure that they are not married."

"Did you ever had an argument or a misunderstanding with any of them?"

"Of course. It's normal, dear. But our sexual affair and friendship didn't get in the way. It's just a casual thing, a part of the bargain of being friends."

"Your friends knew they were sharing the same uhm..."

"Mistress? Yes."

"And it's fine with them?"

"They are being loved equally, why would they get mad? I know dear... You can't believe what I'm telling you now, but that's the truth. What are the benefits of having friends? Having someone to cry and laugh with, someone to be beside with, someone to give you c-o-m-f-o-r-t, and sometimes giving comfort meant being too personal and intimate, from a very simple kiss and hug to making love. I understand you too have lots of male friends, haven't you? History has a very funny way of repeating itself my dear. Come on, let's sing some more, it's your turn now."

The Cons of Having Big Cups

My favorite Peyups columnist (Loviedo) and my recently experienced frustration gave me the idea to write something about having big jugs. Personally, I don't really think having big-sized bra cups are of advantage. Bigger boobies doesn't necessarily mean 'tis more sensitive to touch and easily subjected to stimuli 'coz the number of nerve endings of the bigger ones are similar to that of the smaller ones. I'm not writing this because I'm bitter for having small ones, I actually am a buxom gurl.

I started developing my mammary glands at age 9 but I thought those were just baby fats deposited in my chest so I didn't wear "baby bras" unlike other girls my age who started developing theirs. Baby bras¹ became part of my pang-alis wardrobe, (I don't wear it as part of my pambahay and I never get accustomed to wearing bras as pambahay), when I was already in sixth grade since the uniform in the public elementary school I was enrolled to was just plain white tetoron blouse and a red checkered skirt unlike my blue overall uniform in my old school.

I was in junior year in high school when I became envious of my girl classmates' junior bras² that I wanted to have one for myself, since my baby bras don't fit me anymore 'coz I grew bigger. Unfortunately, there are no junior bras made for my size so kesa naman sa wala akong panloob, I just bought the next best thing which my girl classmates found exciting, the misses' bra³. But their excitement were short-lived when they found out that my bra size was similar or bigger than their moms'. Traumatized by that fact, I went wearing sports' bras and some garters (with some slouching) in order to conceal (and somehow wished it would shrink) my 36B bust.

But some wishes weren't bound to come true. I grew an inch in my freshman year (college), but 'tis not as bothersome as before for I was told by a sensible woman that I have nothing to be ashamed of and have something to be proud of. Inde ko na iniintindi ang mga mapanuring tingin at patutsada ng mga kamag-aral ko at taas-noo na ako.

My newly found confidence was shattered after a year when my dad complained of having to buy a new set of bras (3 pieces) almost every year, not that he's been the one doing the buying nor the one giving me the money, nanghihinayang siya sa pera na pambili kase mahal ang malalaking bra, especially since big-sized bras are signature ones. Thinking that my big babies were just a result of my chubbiness (ayaw pa amining mataba eh noh?), because I don't do some hiking in the metro anymore, I went on a tuna-crackers-pure freshly squeezed lemon juice in the morning diet and water and green tea therapy. My penitensya paid-off on my waist but not on my bust. My size went up an inch and a cup pa! And so my dilemma went up a notch too. Finding the right bra, meaning right cup size and length became more difficult, walang gaanong manufacturer ng 38C bras sa Pinas, kung meron man, either panget ang design or sobrang mahal.

December last year, my US visa was given to me and I flew to Bush's country right away. And since 'tis holiday, a lot of parties were held. So having a 42D bustline didn't come as a surprise by February, but the backpain was. My mom said that my spinal cord can't support the weight of my breasts anymore and that I have to loose some fats up there. Spring came and my walking decreased my bust size by 2 inches (but I still need to shed some pounds I gained since December, aheheheheh!).

Equipped with a 40D bosom, I went to Victoria's Secret's Halloween Sale last October only to be disappointed because they not bargaining plus-size lingeries and negligees. Sheesh! It slipped my mind that my size is just a "normal" size here and that the smaller sizes (36C and below) were the ones left to be bargained.

Seems like I'll be forever stucked to expensive ones... Meh nagreregalo ba ng bra sa monito-monita?

-----------------------------------------------------------
¹pure-cotton undergarments similar to sports bras only the fabrics are thinner it let your boobs breathe.
²akin to a misses' bra only smaller and has no pads nor underwires.
³those bras you regularly see.

Tikman

Lulain ako sa loob ng saradong sasakyan. Summer ngayon, mainit ang hangin, kaya kelangang buksan ang aircon. Kasasakay ko pa lang pakiramdam ko lalabas na ang kinain kong almusal... Pauwi kami ng West Covina mula sa Camarillo. Ang init kase sa freeway eh! Tsaka mala-disyerto 'yung daanan.

Isang oras lang ang hihintayin ko, sabi ko sa sarili ko, pwede ko nang buksan ang mga bintana ng kotse...

'Di nagtagal, tapos na ang isang oras, Sa wakas! Hmmmmnnn... Ang sarap ng simoy ng hangin dito, presko, marahil dahil sa maraming camphor sa paligid. Aaahhh... Sarap!

*singhot, singhot*

Bakit parang merong iba akong naamoy?

*singhot, singhot ulit*

Nakakagutom... Parang amoy ng bibingkang kagagaling lang sa pugon. 'Yun bang klase ng bibingkang mabibili mo sa labas ng simbahan pagkatapos ng Misa de Gallo kasama ng puto bumbong at mainit na tsokolate... Na-miss ko tuloy lalo ang Pilipinas, lalo na ang mga pagkaing Noypi.

Nakakatikim pa rin naman ako ng sinigang, adobo, at bistek na natutunan kong iluto mula sa aming Home E. Pero naglalaway pa rin akong matikmang muli ang sinanglaw ni Inang (yaya ni Mommy), ang paborito naming pulutan na sisig at dinakdakan, at ang buro ng Mommy ng ex ko. Kahit pa na-master ko nang lutuin ang kare-kare, pinakbet, kilawing tagalog, laing, at bicol express, iba pa rin 'pag ang mga tiyahin ko ang nagluto, mas masarap sa panlasa ko, lalo na 'yung sinagul ng bespren ko kahit pa medyo malansa ang pating.

Kailan? Kailan muling sasayad sa dila ko ang mga pagkaing ito?
At para pang nanadya ang Eraserheads...


* Hindi mapakali, magdamag hinahanap... Nababaliw tuwing naaalala... Hindi malimutan... Kailangang muling makamit... *

"Anak gising na, andito na tayo sa bahay. Ipaggayat mo nga ako ng bawang, sibuyas, at luya, magluluto ako ng pinapaitan."


x's: Autumn na ngayon at malapit ng mag-Winter, kagagawa ko nga lang ng blog ko kaya ngayon lang ito nai-post...

Pusong Ina

"Hello baby ko, Happy Birthday! Kumusta ka na? Miss na kita..."

The instant my niece heard my voice she sobbed and replied,

"Hello Mumsy, mabait po ako tsaka pasok na ako ng school. Marunong na po ako sumulat tsaka bumasa."

"Wow! Talaga?! Galing naman ng baby ko!"

I nearly cried just hearing her progress. In my heart I felt this pride and joy... Mae and my other nieces and nephews are like my own children. And to them, I am their second mother. Since they were still babies, I was one of those who took care of them. Bathing them, nursing (bottle-feeding) them, changing their diapers, and sings and rocks them as they fall into sleep. As they became toddlers, I stand by them while they were learning how to walk and babble. I play with them and teach them some values in life. Whenever they are hurt, I too get hurt. Whenever they do something wrong, I talk to them and tell them that what they did was wrong. In short, they grew up with me around them, to support and to guide them. Kulang na lang talaga iluwal ko sila...

Contrary to what others percieve me, I am not that much of a party animal. I prioritize my "children" above all these gimmicks. My friends teases me that I am practicing motherhood at a very early age. Well, I'm not. It just so happened that my nieces and nephews stayed in our house from time to time. And you don't have to learn being a parent, there's this instinct to be one. Sa totoo lang, ayoko ng merong isang buhay na naka-depende sa akin... But once it's there, it's there. You can do nothing about it.

After talking to my little girl, I talked to my Aunt (the one who raised me, heheh, maybe it runs in the family that an aunt will raise her nieces and nephews!) and learned that Mae always cry whenever she sees my pictures because she misses me that much. Syet! Haba na naman ng buhok ng lola nyo! That Mae would always ask when will her "Mumsy" be back home. I felt this pang in my heart. I missed my children too.

Have I really been that wonderful of a foster mom to be missed like that? I asked myself afterwards. And then I reminisced... It seemed like I can hear them calling me "Naynay!" and "Mumsy!"... I have to stop, baka bumaha dito, wala pa namang timba o tabo...


x's: sinulat ko ito nang wala sa sariling wisyo...

Walt Whitman

I CELEBRATE myself;

And what I assume you shall assume;

For every atom belonging to me, as good belongs to you.

I loafe and invite my Soul;

I lean and loafe at my ease, observing a spear of summer grass.

Houses and rooms are full of perfumes—the shelves are crowded with perfumes;

I breathe the fragrance myself, and know it and like it;

The distillation would intoxicate me also, but I shall not let it.

The atmosphere is not a perfume—it has no taste of the distillation—it is odorless;

It is for my mouth forever—I am in love with it;

I will go to the bank by the wood, and become undisguised and naked;

I am mad for it to be in contact with me.

The smoke of my own breath;

Echoes, ripples, buzz’d whispers, love-root, silk-thread, crotch and vine;

My respiration and inspiration, the beating of my heart, the passing of blood and air through my lungs;

The sniff of green leaves and dry leaves, and of the shore, and dark-color’d sea-rocks, and of hay in the barn;

The sound of the belch’d words of my voice, words loos’d to the eddies of the wind;

A few light kisses, a few embraces, a reaching around of arms;

The play of shine and shade on the trees as the supple boughs wag;

The delight alone, or in the rush of the streets, or along the fields and hill-sides;

The feeling of health, the full-noon trill, the song of me rising from bed and meeting the sun.

Have you reckon’d a thousand acres much?

Have you reckon’d the earth much?

Have you practis’d so long to learn to read?

Have you felt so proud to get at the meaning of poems?

Stop this day and night with me, and you shall possess the origin of all poems;

You shall possess the good of the earth and sun—(there are millions of suns left;)

You shall no longer take things at second or third hand, nor look through the eyes of the dead, nor feed on the spectres in books;

You shall not look through my eyes either, nor take things from me:

You shall listen to all sides, and filter them from yourself.

I have heard what the talkers were talking, the talk of the beginning and the end;

But I do not talk of the beginning or the end.

There was never any more inception than there is now,
Nor any more youth or age than there is now;
And will never be any more perfection than there is now,
Nor any more heaven or hell than there is now.
Urge, and urge, and urge;
Always the procreant urge of the world.
Out of the dimness opposite equals advance—always substance and increase, always sex;
Always a knit of identity—always distinction—always a breed of life.
To elaborate is no avail—learn’d and unlearn’d feel that it is so.
Sure as the most certain sure, plumb in the uprights, well entretied, braced in the beams,
Stout as a horse, affectionate, haughty, electrical, I and this mystery, here we stand.
Clear and sweet is my Soul, and clear and sweet is all that is not my Soul.
Lack one lacks both, and the unseen is proved by the seen,
Till that becomes unseen, and receives proof in its turn.
Showing the best, and dividing it from the worst, age vexes age;
Knowing the perfect fitness and equanimity of things, while they discuss I am silent, and go bathe and admire myself.
Welcome is every organ and attribute of me, and of any man hearty and clean;
Not an inch, nor a particle of an inch, is vile, and none shall be less familiar than the rest.
I am satisfied—I see, dance, laugh, sing:
As the hugging and loving
Bed-fellow sleeps at my side through the night, and withdraws at the peep of the day, with stealthy tread,
Leaving me baskets cover’d with white towels, swelling the house with their plenty,
Shall I postpone my acceptation and realization, and scream at my eyes,
That they turn from gazing after and down the road,
And forthwith cipher and show me a cent,
Exactly the contents of one, and exactly the contents of two, and which is ahead?

Trippers and askers surround me;
People I meet—the effect upon me of my early life, or the ward and city I live in, or the nation,
The latest dates, discoveries, inventions, societies, authors old and new,
My dinner, dress, associates, looks, compliments, dues,
The real or fancied indifference of some man or woman I love,
The sickness of one of my folks, or of myself, or ill-doing, or loss or lack of money, or depressions or exaltations;
Battles, the horrors of fratricidal war, the fever of doubtful news, the fitful events;
These come to me days and nights, and go from me again,
But they are not the Me myself.
Apart from the pulling and hauling stands what I am;
Stands amused, complacent, compassionating, idle, unitary;
Looks down, is erect, or bends an arm on an impalpable certain rest,
Looking with side-curved head, curious what will come next;
Both in and out of the game, and watching and wondering at it.
Backward I see in my own days where I sweated through fog with linguists and contenders;
I have no mockings or arguments—I witness and wait.

I believe in you, my Soul—the other I am must not abase itself to you;
And you must not be abased to the other.
Loafe with me on the grass—loose the stop from your throat;
Not words, not music or rhyme I want—not custom or lecture, not even the best;
Only the lull I like, the hum of your valved voice.
I mind how once we lay, such a transparent summer morning;
How you settled your head athwart my hips, and gently turn’d over upon me,
And parted the shirt from my bosom-bone, and plunged your tongue to my bare-stript heart,
And reach’d till you felt my beard, and reach’d till you held my feet.
Swiftly arose and spread around me the peace and knowledge that pass all the argument of the earth;
And I know that the hand of God is the promise of my own,
And I know that the spirit of God is the brother of my own;
And that all the men ever born are also my brothers, and the women my sisters and lovers;
And that a kelson of the creation is love;
And limitless are leaves, stiff or drooping in the fields;
And brown ants in the little wells beneath them;
And mossy scabs of the worm fence, and heap’d stones, elder, mullen and poke-weed.

A child said, What is the grass? fetching it to me with full hands;
How could I answer the child?
I do not know what it is, any more than he.
I guess it must be the flag of my disposition, out of hopeful green stuff woven.
Or I guess it is the handkerchief of the Lord,
A scented gift and remembrancer, designedly dropt,
Bearing the owner’s name someway in the corners, that we may see and remark, and say, Whose?
Or I guess the grass is itself a child, the produced babe of the vegetation.
Or I guess it is a uniform hieroglyphic;
And it means,
Sprouting alike in broad zones and narrow zones,
Growing among black folks as among white; Kanuck, Tuckahoe, Congressman, Cuff,
I give them the same, I receive them the same.
And now it seems to me the beautiful uncut hair of graves.
Tenderly will I use you, curling grass;
It may be you transpire from the breasts of young men;
It may be if I had known them I would have loved them;
It may be you are from old people, and from women, and from offspring taken soon out of their mothers’ laps;
And here you are the mothers’ laps.
This grass is very dark to be from the white heads of old mothers;
Darker than the colorless beards of old men;
Dark to come from under the faint red roofs of mouths.
O I perceive after all so many uttering tongues!
And I perceive they do not come from the roofs of mouths for nothing.
I wish I could translate the hints about the dead young men and women,
And the hints about old men and mothers, and the offspring taken soon out of their laps.
What do you think has become of the young and old men?
And what do you think has become of the women and children?
They are alive and well somewhere;
The smallest sprout shows there is really no death;
And if ever there was, it led forward life, and does not wait at the end to arrest it,
And ceas’d the moment life appear’d.
All goes onward and outward—nothing collapses;
And to die is different from what any one supposed, and luckier.

Has any one supposed it lucky to be born?
I hasten to inform him or her, it is just as lucky to die, and I know it.
I pass death with the dying, and birth with the new-wash’d babe, and am not contain’d between my hat and boots;
And peruse manifold objects, no two alike, and every one good;
The earth good, and the stars good, and their adjuncts all good.
I am not an earth, nor an adjunct of an earth;
I am the mate and companion of people, all just as immortal and fathomless as myself;
(They do not know how immortal, but I know.)
Every kind for itself and its own—for me mine, male and female;
For me those that have been boys, and that love women;
For me the man that is proud, and feels how it stings to be slighted;
For me the sweet-heart and the old maid—for me mothers, and the mothers of mothers;
For me lips that have smiled, eyes that have shed tears;
For me children, and the begetters of children.
Undrape! you are not guilty to me, nor stale, nor discarded;
I see through the broadcloth and gingham, whether or no;
And am around, tenacious, acquisitive, tireless, and cannot be shaken away.

The little one sleeps in its cradle;
I lift the gauze, and look a long time, and silently brush away flies with my hand.
The youngster and the red-faced girl turn aside up the bushy hill;
I peeringly view them from the top.
The suicide sprawls on the bloody floor of the bed-room;
I witness the corpse with its dabbled hair—I note where the pistol has fallen.
The blab of the pave, the tires of carts, sluff of boot-soles, talk of the promenaders;
The heavy omnibus, the driver with his interrogating thumb, the clank of the shod horses on the granite floor;
The snow-sleighs, the clinking, shouted jokes, pelts of snowballs;
The hurrahs for popular favorites, the fury of rous’d mobs;
The flap of the curtain’d litter, a sick man inside, borne to the hospital;
The meeting of enemies, the sudden oath, the blows and fall;
The excited crowd, the policeman with his star, quickly working his passage to the centre of the crowd;
The impassive stones that receive and return so many echoes;
What groans of over-fed or half-starv’d who fall sun-struck, or in fits;
What exclamations of women taken suddenly, who hurry home and give birth to babes;
What living and buried speech is always vibrating here—what howls restrain’d by decorum;
Arrests of criminals, slights, adulterous offers made, acceptances, rejections with convex lips;
I mind them or the show or resonance of them—I come, and I depart.

The big doors of the country barn stand open and ready;
The dried grass of the harvest-time loads the slow-drawn wagon;
The clear light plays on the brown gray and green intertinged;
The armfuls are pack’d to the sagging mow.
I am there—I help—I came stretch’d atop of the load;
I felt its soft jolts—one leg reclined on the other;
I jump from the cross-beams, and seize the clover and timothy,
And roll head over heels, and tangle my hair full of wisps.

Alone, far in the wilds and mountains, I hunt,
Wandering, amazed at my own lightness and glee;
In the late afternoon choosing a safe spot to pass the night,
Kindling a fire and broiling the fresh-kill’d game;
Falling asleep on the gather’d leaves, with my dog and gun by my side.
The Yankee clipper is under her sky-sails—she cuts the sparkle and scud;
My eyes settle the land—I bend at her prow, or shout joyously from the deck.
The boatmen and clam-diggers arose early and stopt for me;
I tuck’d my trowser-ends in my boots, and went and had a good time:
(You should have been with us that day round the chowder-kettle.)
I saw the marriage of the trapper in the open air in the far west—the bride was a red girl;
Her father and his friends sat near, cross-legged and dumbly smoking—they had moccasins to their feet, and large thick blankets hanging from their shoulders;
On a bank lounged the trapper—he was drest mostly in skins—his luxuriant beard and curls protected his neck—he held his bride by the hand;
She had long eyelashes—her head was bare—her coarse straight locks descended upon her voluptuous limbs and reach’d to her feet.
The runaway slave came to my house and stopt outside;
I heard his motions crackling the twigs of the woodpile;
Through the swung half-door of the kitchen I saw him limpsy and weak,
And went where he sat on a log, and led him in and assured him,
And brought water, and fill’d a tub for his sweated body and bruis’d feet,
And gave him a room that enter’d from my own, and gave him some coarse clean clothes,
And remember perfectly well his revolving eyes and his awkwardness,
And remember putting plasters on the galls of his neck and ankles;
He staid with me a week before he was recuperated and pass’d north;
(I had him sit next me at table—my fire-lock lean’d in the corner.)

Twenty-eight young men bathe by the shore;
Twenty-eight young men, and all so friendly:
Twenty-eight years of womanly life, and all so lonesome.
She owns the fine house by the rise of the bank;
She hides, handsome and richly drest, aft the blinds of the window.
Which of the young men does she like the best?
Ah, the homeliest of them is beautiful to her.
Where are you off to, lady? for I see you;
You splash in the water there, yet stay stock still in your room.
Dancing and laughing along the beach came the twenty-ninth bather;
The rest did not see her, but she saw them and loved them.
The beards of the young men glisten’d with wet, it ran from their long hair: Little streams pass’d all over their bodies.
An unseen hand also pass’d over their bodies;
It descended tremblingly from their temples and ribs.
The young men float on their backs—their white bellies bulge to the sun—they do not ask who seizes fast to them;
They do not know who puffs and declines with pendant and bending arch;
They do not think whom they souse with spray.

The butcher-boy puts off his killing clothes, or sharpens his knife at the stall in the market;
I loiter, enjoying his repartee, and his shuffle and break-down.
Blacksmiths with grimed and hairy chests environ the anvil;
Each has his main-sledge—they are all out—(there is a great heat in the fire.)
From the cinder-strew’d threshold I follow their movements;
The lithe sheer of their waists plays even with their massive arms;
Over-hand the hammers swing—over-hand so slow—over-hand so sure:
They do not hasten—each man hits in his place.

The negro holds firmly the reins of his four horses—the block swags underneath on its tied-over chain;
The negro that drives the dray of the stone-yard—steady and tall he stands, pois’d on one leg on the string-piece;
His blue shirt exposes his ample neck and breast, and loosens over his hip-band;
His glance is calm and commanding—he tosses the slouch of his hat away from his forehead;
The sun falls on his crispy hair and moustache—falls on the black of his polish’d and perfect limbs.
I behold the picturesque giant, and love him—and I do not stop there;
I go with the team also. In me the caresser of life wherever moving—backward as well as forward slueing;
To niches aside and junior bending.
Oxen that rattle the yoke and chain, or halt in the leafy shade!

What is that you express in your eyes?
It seems to me more than all the print I have read in my life.
My tread scares the wood-drake and wood-duck, on my distant and day-long ramble;
They rise together—they slowly circle around.
I believe in those wing’d purposes,
And acknowledge red, yellow, white, playing within me,
And consider green and violet, and the tufted crown, intentional;
And do not call the tortoise unworthy because she is not something else;
And the jay in the woods never studied the gamut, yet trills pretty well to me;
And the look of the bay mare shames silliness out of me.

The wild gander leads his flock through the cool night;
Ya-honk! he says, and sounds it down to me like an invitation;
(The pert may suppose it meaningless, but I listen close;

I find its purpose and place up there toward the wintry sky.)
The sharp-hoof’d moose of the north, the cat on the house-sill, the chickadee, the prairie-dog,
The litter of the grunting sow as they tug at her teats,
The brood of the turkey-hen, and she with her half-spread wings;
I see in them and myself the same old law.
The press of my foot to the earth springs a hundred affections;
They scorn the best I can do to relate them.
I am enamour’d of growing out-doors,
Of men that live among cattle, or taste of the ocean or woods,
Of the builders and steerers of ships, and the wielders of axes and mauls, and the drivers of horses;
I can eat and sleep with them week in and week out.
What is commonest, cheapest, nearest, easiest, is Me;
Me going in for my chances, spending for vast returns;
Adorning myself to bestow myself on the first that will take me;
Not asking the sky to come down to my good will;
Scattering it freely forever.

A Sapphic Poem

We were friends who became lovers.
Yes, the three of us.
Three girls who share the same passion.
We're artists.
Never been drunk, always sober.
All three of us.
We love the adrenaline rush, the action.
We're adventurists.

We have an agreement,
Boys were not to be taken seriously,
All boys have an expiration date,
They are just for fun.
No attachments.
We only need them biologically,
For sex, to copulate.
They are just for fun.

We were happy
Just us three.
We fornicated
And we love it!
We were happy
Making those boys pee,
Leaving them brokenhearted,
And on their head we put a pile of shit.

Those were the days.
Because the two of you left me.
You two broke our pact.
Both of you are foolish!
Now we're on separate ways.
Because the two of you left me.
You have turned your backs.
Because you two fell in love...

*note: a very silly poem I wrote when I was in grade school...