Skip to main content

One time, one night

She reminds me of well-written song lyrics.
—the type that break my heart.

She reminds me of the innocence of childhood.
—small feet, giggles and deep, soft naps.

She reminds me of the rain.
—the slow, misty, erotic type calling to me
in a gentle, sensuous voice.

She reminds me of the snow.
—full curvy mounds and valleys like
a shapely woman’s body.

And, she reminds me of love.
—that all-consuming, fire-like, a passion that
can overwhelm you with a volcanic frenzy.

But mostly, she reminds me of fall.
—the season of color, of passage. The season
that proves the circle will be unbroken.
The season of harvest — the season of my life.

We have memories, she and I.
Memories of one time, and
one
night.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Ex-pastor suing Moore's First Baptist Church

MOORE — A former official with Moore’s First Baptist Church is suing the church for his termination, and for “spreading false rumors about his mental health throughout the community,” court documents show. Jimmie D. Lady, the church’s associate pastor, filed the suit in Cleveland County District Court last week seeking $10,000 in actual damages and $10,000 in punitive damages for “severe emotional distress and mental anguish as a result of statements made about him when his job was terminated.” Lady’s attorney, Andrew Hicks of Houston, claimed church officials terminated Lady for being bi-polar, then spread rumors about Lady in the community. “Although a man of God, Dr. Lady cannot ignore the dramatic, adverse effects these untrue and unfair accusations have had on him and his family,” Hicks said. “First Baptist Moore’s efforts to tarnish Dr. Lady’s reputation have threatened his family’s livelihood. Through this suit, we hope to restore Dr. Lady’s good name.” Church officials denied

If I were a chef...

If I were a chef, I’d spend early Wednesday mornings at the Farmers Market. I’d get there around 7 a.m., when the produce was wet and fresh and the day was young and the people were still drinking their coffee. If I were a chef, I’d wait patiently while the wrinkled granny lady individually fondled all 631 tomatoes on the table in front of her. I’d quietly tap my foot as she sniffed and touched each of the red, buxom vegetables before she finally selected two, and paid for them. I’d do that, if I were a chef. If I were a chef, I buy peaches — boxes and boxes of peaches. I’d buy them from the old, snaggle-toothed man with the radiant smile whose booth sits to the right of the entrance to the fairgrounds building. I’d buy his peaches because I know the old man understands fruit and earth and trees, better than anyone else there. I’d smile as his wrinkled, gnarly hand gently placed peach after peach in my basket. And I’d give him a sly wink after he handed me a bruised, but succulent pea

The Night Shift

  You can tell the ones who work the night shift.             Their bodies move slowly, bathed in the yellowish amber glow of neon. Exhausted by the day and drained by fear, they seek refuge beneath the glass and steel that – at this moment – is their home. Their faces betray them. Their smiles have given way to pain. They are pale and gaunt with dark eyes and hollow, almost lifeless expressions. This is not their true being, mind you, just the mask of wear and worry assigned them by the night shift.             They have no time for fun or laughter. Under the steel and glass there is no smoky jazz club, no the out-of-the way bistro. Here, instead are the operating theaters and the nurses’ stations, their walls covered in drab paint. Here is the worn tiled floor, the proof of a billion footsteps. This is the night shift. Those assigned didn’t seek the task – it found them. Once the decision was made – surgery, hospitalization, medicine – they were placed in the cue like so many oth