Quiet songs for a cold december

A song I wrote:

Favorite Fan

You were the girl that I thought I would never meet.
You were just sexy, and smart, and ever sweet.
We were up on the roof, you were my only queen,
But now we're stuck on the ground, in the mezzanine.

I'll take it. We might make it. It hurts too damn bad to break it.

There you were my favorite fan,
We should be dancing, but you just stand.
Why didn't you try to take my hand,
When I asked for another dance, tonight?

Our summertime highs, were a sight to see,
All bubbles and froth, and a happy we.
Now the strain in your eyes, its hard to see.
I think I should take from this jail and set your free.

You fake it. We won't make it. It hurts too damn bad to take it.

There you are my faithless fan,
You are dancing with another man,
It's sad I wasn't in your plan,
So now I'll seek another fan, tonight.

Undeserving

I don't deserve my family. I wish I was a better man; hopefully some day I will be.

Pain

Broken

I cannot sleep, for I shall dream,
Of you and me, and all our scenes.
My mind is broken, my heart unfurled,
As tears turn limestone into marl.

Writing

The thesis writing begins! It will be a long road to finish up, but I am looking forward to finally being done with school after this year. This was written for my muse at an earlier:

The Artist She Is
Love paints the portrait of the perfect sunset,

But before she was done, the bristle frayed.

Now pain mutes the stroke of the tremulous brush.

Tears run the colors, but the picture hangs flush.

And this was written when I was in high school:

Color

I do not see in black and white,

For color does not blind my sight.

You and me, we're just the same,

So why're we separate in this game?

The very same way we walk to school,

Yet "Not Allowed" is your rule.

Does color really matter much?

Ain't I human, with a human touch?

Your sniffling nose when your sick,

Your beaming face in total bliss.

I cry, I whimper when I'm sad,

You do the same when feeling bad.

We all the same,you and me,

We're no different as you see.

I laugh, I love, I listen too,

I'm in this melting pot with you.

Finished Reading:
"Simulcron-3" by Daniel F. Galouye

"The Unacustmoned Earth" by Jhumpa Lahiri

"Gitanjali" by Rabindranath Tagore

Currently Reading:

"Tuesdays with Morrie" by Mitch Alborn
"The Line of Beauty" by Alan Hollinghurst

Character

The weather wasn't bad but it wasn't pleasant either. It was cold. There was a slight breeze, and that only made things worse. It was the perfect day to sip a hot chocolate, but there was none to be found.

A middle-aged couple walked down from the mesa, where they had just seen a brilliant sun lazily fall into the bosom of the earth. A languoring end to a slow day.

That's when they saw the child. She was squatting on the floor next to a display of homemade trinkets. Cheap jewelry made from desperation, sweat and tears. "Two necklaces for ten or one for six," her mother offered.

Another couple brushed by, commenting, "That isn't even real turquoise."

"Poor girl," the gentlemen whispered to his lady. "Let's buy something for her troubles."

"I know," she murmured, while he rummaged through his wallet for cash.

He pulled out a twenty and exclaimed, "We'll take one!"

The joy on the little girl's face outshined the sun. "Which one, sir?" she asked.

"Show them the hematite, Chantel," the mother urged. Scrutinizing the lady, she explained, "Those would look better on you, I think. My family made all of these on our reservation, they are genuine."

Chantel handed the lady the necklace, and the lady handed her a twenty dollar bill.

"Do you have any change?"  the mother asked. "You were our only customer today."

"I'm sorry," the gentlemen said. "I don't."

"I might have some change in my purse. Our car is just down the trail," the lady offered. But then she remembered she had left her purse in the motel room.

Sorrys were exchanged and the couple wandered down the trail. Suddenly, they stopped, looked at each other and smiled. No words were said, but the lady ran back up with the money.

She came back down with four necklaces she didn't need. She gave her husband and hug and they walked quietly to their car. Twenty dollars for that smile was a steal.

-----
That man was my father; the lady my mother. People I want to become before I die.

The Harlequin Caper: An Offensive Children's Novel For Adults

Hey folks, I will be publishing parts of my novel for your viewing pleasure in the next few months. Hope yawl enjoy this:


It was a quiet day at the office for all the grammers. There had been no "incidents" so far. Gable was enjoying his morning cup of milk, even though he was lactose intolerant--knowing full well that his mild gastric discomfort would pale in comparison to his co-workers' impending olfactory duress. A small smile passed on his face. This would teach Mrs. Airy, the plump company secretary and team mom, to force him to play on the company softball team. He could picture her nasal reaction now:

"My goooooodness gracious! What is that aaaaawful smeeeeell." 

He imagined the gallons of smell-sol she'd spray across the acres of Grammville's programming farms. That obnoxious clean car smell would permeate into the deepest recesses of the workplace, causing even the smelliest of employees to be fragranced away. He shuddered at the thought, recalling the old adage they taught him at the grammer academy: "A smelly grammer, is a productive grammar because that means he works instead of showering" (despite an exquisite nerd-based education, the rectors at PAOG had wanton regard for the intricacies of the English language, lacking a zen-like knowledge of homophones.) Gable, none-the-wiser about this grammatical Waterloo, took comfort in the refuge of his teachers' wisdom. Maybe he would make up for the loss of his stench with a gaming purge at the local LAN cafe.

You see, though he wasn't Korean, Gable fancied himself as a real time strategist. He had showed inklings of this talent at a very early age, winning his first speed typing contest at the precocious age of seven. He had cleanly trounced the imposing opposition, consisting of middle aged professional typists, airline gate attendants, and nerds. When the score board showed that he had neatly bested the Lemon County record (which had stood for fifty years, since the heady days of Typewriter Harold, a local legend of sorts) coming in at 200 words per minutes, he jumped quicker than a brown fox, exclaiming: "Jeepers! I'm the bestest typer the world as ever seen!" Sadly his perfunctory typing skills did not parlay into either grammar or spelling bee victories (but you see, he wasn't Indian either, though he did love tikka masala, so this was to be excused.)

Musings

Written for my muse, wherever she may be:

The muse has come and gone,
And yet the willow weeps.
What can I say to her,
When sadness slowly creeps?

Serendipity, come find me again. :(

Finished Reading:

"On Her Majesty's Secret Service" by Ian Fleming
"Indecent Proposal" by Jack Engelhard

Currently Reading:

"Simulcron-3" by Daniel F. Galouye
"The Line of Beauty" by Alan Hollinghurst