Love is Never Ending

Love is like the sunset
it comes;
it goes;
It lasts forever
until darkness falls.

It breathes within
the ocean;
it washes
out the sand
drifting to the sea.

It is like the seasons
changing with
the times;
coldest in the Winter
born again in Spring.

Love is never ending
like the verses of a poet
as sharp as the pen
that strikes the paper
it ends without a chorus.


Original Poetry by Lucy Tamajon

Shakespeare in Love

How crazy am I? Wait do not answer that. I am afraid to know what you really think. No, wait. I really do not care what you really think.

Last night, an old friend quoted some Shakespeare which got me started because I love Shakespeare. I fell in love with him when I first read him in 8th grade, and I have loved him ever since. Shakespeare that is, not the friend.. although, the friend is kind of cute, but I digress.

I do not really have one “favorite” play because everything he did was masterfully done. From the sonnets to the plays. Genius. Years ago, I wrote a poem, “Romeo”. Today, I still read that poem and have the same exact feelings I did so long ago. I am, at heart, the same girl I once was.

I have friends that tell me,”don't worry, you'll find someone.” I laugh because I have had great loves in my life and have no regrets when it comes to love. I have loved well.

Hence, Shakespeare with his endless knowledge about the tragedy that is love. From Othello to Romeo and Juliet where the quest for love is crushed by society's boundaries; to Anthony and Cleopatra where one man's love for one woman surpasses all human boundaries. He understood the plight, pain, and agony that is love.

I wonder how often his own heart was broken. How many lonely nights he spent wondering when “true love” would come. I think he did not have any lonely nights for men often do not; cannot experience the vast desert that can be the heart of a woman. The heart of a woman aches as no other can. We dream. We hope. We wait for that Romeo to save us, to love us, and to rescue us. But, rescue us from what exactly; perhaps, from ourselves.

Oh, Romeo, Romeo, where for art thou, Romeo? Six hundred plus years later, his words of love still grab the heart of the young holding it hostage for all eternity setting the standards for romance that perhaps can never be achieved by mere mortals.

If he were here beside me I would say:

“My Lord, cursed be thy wicked ways that sets the stage for life's sweet tragedies and keeps me waiting at bay for love's sweet kiss.”

Copyright ©Lucy Tamajon 2009

"Pardon me, is this your noodle?"

It's a hot Sunday afternoon in Miami, and I decide to go and hang out at the community pool. It's a beautiful day. I get to the pool and there are barely any people there. Nice. I find a spot, settle in, grab my book, and relax. Not five minutes pass enters a family of four. The kids are adorable maybe seven and five. They grab a spot near me, and quickly my peace and quiet comes to an abrupt end.

Now, it's not the kids that are the issue. They are sitting by the steps playing with pool toys and floating around. It's not Arthur, that's the husband, I quickly learn his name from his "nagging" wife who's name must be the "Sweet Lenore" because all she does is tap, tap, tap at his chamber door. Arthur grabs a big raft and jumps in. No sooner he hits the water, the Sweet Lenore yells out for him. She has a nasal voice that makes me want to get up and, well, you know the voice. She doesn't seem to care that there are people trying to relax, i.e, me!

"ARTHUR!" She yells as she slaps on sunscreen. "Yes." answers softly. "We need to get the invitations for Jenny's party printed." She settles in her chair. I try to read. "We will." He says. "I don't like the print on that printer. Can we make it smaller and bolder. It's too big." She goes on, he responds. "I don't know, probably." I try to read. "Arthur! Did you remember to put sunscreen?" She looks as if she is going to go check and make sure." Yes, yes. I did." He lays back. I put down my book, maybe I can close my eyes and nap through this. She goes on and on.

"What about the goodie bags?" Everyone ignores the Sweet Lenore, but she just keeps tap, tap, tapping on his chamber door. "Arthur! What about the goodie bags." He looks as if he wants to submerge his head in the water, "I don't know. I just want to float. Can I float?" She looks at him, "Where's your hat?" Arthur is bald, I guess the Sweet Lenore was worried about a sunburn. "I just want to float.. I don't need a hat."

After about half an hour of this, I get up and decide to join Arthur. I walk in the pool, smile at the kids, and just float. I notice a noodle floating by. The Sweet Lenore is going on and on about pizza and prizes and guests for little Jenny's Birthday.

"Pardon me, but is this your noodle?" I ask Arthur. "Yes it is." He smiles. "Mind if I use it?" He is very nice, "Oh, no. Of course, please do." I grab the blue noodle. "Thanks. I usually bring my own, but I forgot today. Isn't beautiful today?" I smile. "Why, it sure is. What's your name?" But, before I could answer.

"ARTHUR!" it's the Sweet Lenore. "What is it!" Arthur actually snaps back. "It's time to go." She is standing by the edge of the pool. "But, why? It's early." He looks like a five year old himself. "Arthur. Get out. We need to leave." She turns around and starts gathering her stuff and telling the kids to pick up they're going for pizza.

"I guess you better go sounds like she'll put you on time out." He looks so sad, "Nice talking to you." He says. "Same here." He starts to turn to walk away. "Oh, Arthur." He turns and smiles. "Yes." I hand him the noodle. "Here's your noodle. Thanks."

And they leave. Finally. Some peace and quiet! Now, I can read my book and just relax as planned. Ain't I rascal?


Lucy Tamajon
Writer

Copyright ©Lucy Tamajon 2009

The 7th Inning Stretch

It's the 7th inning stretch. It's been a heck of a game. Action everywhere. Stolen bases, hits, runs, and errors. Ah, yes, those nasty errors that leave you completely stunned and in dismay. Errors really suck, everyone knows they cost the game. You can't go back and fix them, what's done is done.

Well, that's the mid-life "crisis" in a nutshell. Now, I really dislike that term "mid-life crisis". I call it the 7th inning stretch. It's when we realize we are half-way done with this game called life, and we can't help but come to that realization. It's not a crisis, it's an awakening. We are stunned and completely dismayed at the "errors" and the things we thought we would get done and haven't. I am not sure about anyone else, but nothing has turned out as planned. Life happens when you are making plans and usually knocks us on our asses in the process.

So, here we are faced with the fact that we're not twenty anymore but not wanting to be, well, I won't mention a number; we all know our own number. Kids move out, marriages fall apart. Men go crazy looking for twenty-year old Blond Barbie's and buy fast cars to get the twenty year old Blond Barbie's. Women get botox up the yin yang making them look like crazy-ass blow fishes. It's a mad dash to discover the fountain of youth, turn back the hands of time, and cram everything you haven't done in the last twenty years into the next three.

Of course, then you have those few select people that just cannot cope with the fact that they are older and are determined to live in the past. It's not just about reminiscing, we all do that. It's about actually being stuck in the past. It's nuts. Snap out of it!

This is a restless time for us in our lives. Our generation is a unique generation. Our parents were not faced with the challenges that we are faced with. They got married, raised a family, got old together, and "The End." Our generation does not have a game plan. We have had to figure it out as we go, and we're terrified. We cling to that which we think will bring us back to who we were.

Bottom line is that we've got all the time in the world. We are exactly where we need to be. We need to stop questioning the "whys" and "why nots"; dust ourselves off, and get right back in the game. Not living in the past, but embracing the present. Knowing that we have come a long way and accomplished much. I don't know about anyone else, but I've learned how to play a curve ball. I sit back, wait patiently, and swing. Believe me, it's not too late to hit a home run.


Lucy Tamajon
Writer

Time in a Bottle

I have had a couple of conversations with some friends regarding the time that they feel they've lost; mostly in relationships where they are not happy. I know, I do not have an answer on this one, but I can speak from personal experience. We do not lose time, we live. As we live, we learn and grow.

It's natural to glance back and wonder "what if"? I personally do not believe in this practice, but understand why we do it. I believe it is wasteful and serves no purpose. If you feel that you have stopped loving someone, it means you never loved them to begin with. We can fall in and out of love numerous times. Being in love and loving are very different things.

Pure and simple, we love when we meet our the other half of our soul. This soul completes you and compliments you. This is the soul that understands you. You don't need to talk to them ten times a day; you don't need words,; you don't even need explanations. This soul knows how you feel and what you are thinking without words being spoken. You can look into their eyes and know everything that is their hearts. You can be miles away and feel them close by your side. There is no conflict, no fighting, no arguing, no pain. There is just complete inner peace. You belong together and you know it.

When we are young it is so difficult to understand this concept. We fall in love with how the person looks on the outside. We think jealousy and possessiveness is love. We fall in love with the sexual part of love. Sex is good; well, sex is great. Come to think of it, it's wonderful; however, I digress. Let's stay on track. Where was I? Ah, yes, Love.

When we are younger, we do not realize that looks fade; jealousy is insecurity that can only breed fear; it grows and it festers. We fall in love with love. When the passion and the looks fade, we are left with the reality of the person we choose to be our companion. We realize that we have not been sharing our lives with the soul that the Master intended for us. We need someone to love body and soul; and this is not them. We fear the unknown, and settle. The more we settle, the more unhappy we become.

Time is never lost, we bottle it up. As difficult as it may be to realize this, and it will be painful to say the least, we owe it to everyone to walk away. To be kind to the stranger beside you and go your separate ways. The longer we stay in a painful relationship that drains us of all that we are, the more we lose of our souls. We may have one day, ten days, or fifty years left on our earthly journey. How do you want to spend the rest of your days?


Lucy Tamajon
Writer

Copyright ©Lucy Tamajon 2009

The Writer's Block

Sometimes, I want to write. I have so much to say, I know shocking isn't it? There are all these different conversations and ideas floating in my head. All at the same time. Again, another shocker. But, I can't get it on paper. It's not a writer's block. It's a huge cement wall that knocks me on my ass.

I have a ritual for releasing ideas. Lately, this is not even helping and the voices and conversations are way too many and too loud to even get on paper at my rapid speed. I have notes all over the place. Piles of papers and notebooks on my night table, notebooks in my purse, on the coffee table, random notes on the computer, on the calendar, planner, and on and on. It' just insane even by my standards.

My fifteen year old son who watches my insanity on a daily basis had a suggestion yesterday, "have a seminar of the minds." He said matter of factly. "What?" I asked surprised. "Yeah, that's what I do. I have mind seminars with all the voices in my head." I just looked at him in awe and thought, "Oh! No! You've inherited the voices!!!" He continued, "seminars are great because they are organized and the leader takes control. You are just having random conversations and no one is in charge."

You would think I would be worried about the fact that at fifteen my son is hearing voices and having mind seminars in his own brain, but I wasn't. I was actually listening to what he was saying because he was making sense! How weird is that! Disturbing.

Writing is all about emotions, pure and simple. It's pouring everything you've got into a blank piece of paper and hoping that you strike a cord or several cords with the readers. Not an easy task to transform yourself into other characters and experience their feelings. It's exhausting. I call it Time Traveling. I'll get into that on another blog.

For now, I'm shifting gears and scheduling a Seminar of the Minds. Hopefully, the cement wall will come down, and the emotions will pour out and onto the blank paper striking all the necessary chords creating a beautiful symphony.

Copyright ©Lucy Tamajon 2009

A Blanket of Stars

There are dreams
embedded deep within
the petal of a rose;
they do not fade with time
they grow.

There are wishes carried
on the wings of doves
to secret places
in our hearts.

There are souls that are
crotchet with loves
sweet threads;
they live as one although
miles away.

There are moonlit nights
when two hearts torn apart by fate
find comfort and rest
under a warm blanket of stars.


Original poetry by Lucy Tamajon

Goldilocks & The Three Bears

Kids are not easy. I don't care how many of these deranged "perfect" moms go on The View or anywhere else and tell us, "how easy it is to parent when you have a plan." You know the crazy-ass soccer moms I'm talking about. With their cute little hair cuts, driving a neat and tidy mini-van, chit chatting about "play dates", and "time outs" as if it was all so perfectly packaged. They sit there and organize their 5-year old lives in perfect little sections and talk about creative scheduling while they squeeze in their semi-annual "me time" collagen injections with their local plastic quack.

We all know them. I personally know a couple of these deranged moms. I hear them talk about the ease of parenthood and how fabulous being a mom is as long as "you've the got a planned schedule". Planned schedule, my ass! I think they've had one botox injection too many and it's gone straight to their brain and killed whatever brain cells they had left to begin with.

Being a mom has got to be the most difficult job in the world and don't let anyone tell you otherwise. You bring home this little life that by the way comes without any training manuals whatsoever. It's a learn as you go project and a life sentence. You are never officially off the job. You get puked on, shitted on, cried at, yelled at, food thrown at, smacked in the head with waffle blocks, and scared out of your wits end on an ongoing basis just because. You lose whatever shred of sanity you have left and all capacities of ever sleeping a full night again. Ever.

I was blessed with the Drama Queen. There was drama about everything. "I'm thirsty. I'm hungry. I want a coloring book" Everything was done whining and with dramatics, a full show was to be had so take a seat and relax.

Then there was the Interrogator. The interrogator needed to know the "why" to everything. Questioned it all. Curiosity made this child take everything apart and leave it in pieces. The answering machine, the VCR, the computers. For awhile I thought he would grow up to be a pathologist. Oh, yes and he loved to put "hats" on his head, usually a pot or a pan from the cub bard.

And, lastly the Fearless Explorer. The Fearless Explorer crawled and climbed over everything. At ten months old, he knocked over the play pen and broke out of the joint. I was not aware of this escape plan as there were a house full other little monsters running in and out wanting snacks, water, and screaming at the top of their lungs. Suddenly, I tripped over what I thought was another toy but was horrified to see it was my ten-month youngest terror sitting in the middle of the living room with a wicked smile on his face. "Yeah, I broke out of that joint lady. You can't keep me in."

My mother called once in the middle of one of these fabulous "planned scheduled" play days, and I was out on the couch. The Interrogator answered the phone. I can only guess she asked where I was like maybe she thought I was down at SoBe with a hot guy and a mojito. Where else would I be! I heard the Interrogator say, "She's dead on the couch. We killed her." Enter the Drama Queen, "Dead! Oh my God! No!" To which the Fearless Explorer proceeded to poke me in the eye with his finger to make sure I was still alive. "Na. Na. Mommy is still alive."

I crack up when I see all of these crazy silly women reading books on how to be a "mom" and setting up schedules and planning these "perfect" play dates and such. Maybe it's me. I'm so screwed up in the head that I just couldn't even do that right.


Lucy Tamajon
Writer

Eternal Souls

A silent scream echoes the endless night;
in the darkness,
your flesh burns mine.

I hide deep inside your heart
immersed within eternal souls.

Your body crushes me,
a gasp for air.

Your mouth consumes
the life within,
breathing a silent prayer.

And, when it's over,
I'm cold and bare.

I search,
I reach,
there is no life,
you are just not there.




Original Poetry by Lucy Tamajon

Only a Carry-On is Needed

I recently traveled and like most travelers, I pack a bag. Of course, we do. We need to get away, "detach" ourselves from the routine, leave the world behind, but we must take with us everything we own. I have to admit, I'm a horrible packer. I wait to the last minute and stuff, stuff, stuff my bag.
Once at my destination, I don't use have the stuff I brought. It just sits there in the suitcase a reminder of what I wanted to leave behind in the first place.

When we travel through this incredible journey of life, we seem to do the same thing. We not only carry baggage with us, the load is so heavy we drag baggage with us. We stop often and unpack all our baggage, look at it, and continue to take it with us. We really do not need any of it, but yet, we choose to keep the load heavy, open it up, look at, talk about it, re-pack it, and continue with the heavy load.

It is impossible to enjoy our stay with all this baggage. Impossible. Cannot be done. Today, we need to go through our suitcase of life and do some major unpacking. We will unpack, anger, resentment, fear, neglect, worries, anticipation. You name it. We will unpack all of the past as needed. However, we will not repack any of it. We do not need envy, jealousy, and the dreaded ego. Get rid of it all and dump it. Lighten your load.

Who the heck wants to go through this beautiful life with all that crap. The past is gone. Done. Does not exist. It is an illusion. It is not real. Forgive and move on. We make it real when we continue to bring it up. When we continue to carry it with us. This is a difficult task, some loads are heavy, and we've had them for a long, long time. They've become a part of us. But, it must be done.

I'm tossing out my big suitcase and getting a small, small carry-on. And, the next time I travel when the lovely attendant asks me, "Baggage to check in?" I will flash my big smile and say, "Nope, just a carry on and it's a Gucci."


Lucy Tamajon
Writer

Free to Love

We are trapped within a prison fabricated by the mind not realizing that the soul has been free to love. You can only experience true love when you set the soul free; yours and theirs. Souls are not meant to be confined by expectations and boundaries set in the material world. Set them free and love beyond belief will be yours.

Have absolutely no expectations of the person you are with. Just live the moment for what it is. Accept all that is given to you at this moment; this minute without questions because that is all that is real. Cease questions; questions are mere obstacles; live the questions because the answers will come in time.

We cannot own a person, they do not belong to us. We cannot set expectations or rules. Souls are part of the universe, they are not ours. Souls are the sunset and the sunrise; the ocean and the sand; the mountains and valleys. They are the air that we breath; the roses that bloom in summer; the smile of a child. Souls are eternal, they are not meant to be confined.

Say to the person you love, "you are free". Free to be what you want to be. Free to do what you want to do. Free to love as you want to love and set them free. Let them be. In doing so, you set yourself free. You will achieve the most incredible peace within that you have ever experienced.

If this soul is meant for you, they will give all that they are to you. Willingly without your demands, without rules, without judgment. They will return on their own to you to find comfort in your heart, to share your existence.

They will look into your eyes and right to your heart. Words will not be necessary. Not one word will be spoken. Time will stand still and be non-existing. The world will cease and you will melt into one another. As if notes in a beautiful symphony composed at the Master's hand without your understanding, you will come together in perfect harmony. You will be free to love through the ages and for all eternity.


Lucy Tamajon
Writer

this is the original writing of the author, Lucy Tamajon, it cannot be copied, distributed or published without her consent or authorization. <3

Take Me Out to the Ball Game

"Take me out to the ball game. Take me out to the crowd. Buy me some peanuts and Cracker Jacks, I don't care if I ever get back."

"Hey! I think the ump needs glasses!" A fan yells out. The Blue turns around, smiles, and shouts back, "probably!"

You got to love it. There's nothing better than a good old fashion game of "softball" to bring the masses together. But then again, I'm an old fashion kind of girl.

Friends of all ages gathered in what probably may have been one of the hottest days of August here in Miami. Yet, there were nothing but smiles and good times to be had. This weekend Hudson County came together at Tropical Park in Miami for what was to be, and was, a great reunion.

In my humble opinion, the hi-light of the reunion was the B-Line Boys bringing everyone together for America's favorite pass-time. No frills, no special effects, nothing but a bunch of guys swinging the bat, running the bases, and scoring some runs.

From the days of old West New York Little League to present day Tropical Park, these guys still got it. This hometown girl was impressed by the quick moves, speed around the bases, and even a home run. The game had it all, action-packed from the first pitch to the last out.

In our old home-town where some of the relics of our youth no longer exists, Roosevelt Stadium, gone; the Hillers and the Bulldogs, gone; it took a bunch of great Tigers to bring us together. Hats off to the B-Line Boys for keeping the spirits of America's favorite pass-time alive across state lines reminding us decades later that we are all still one.

"Cause it's root, root, root for the home team! If they don't win it's a shame. Cause it's one, two, three strikes you're out! At the old ball game!"

Copyright ©Lucy Tamajon 2009

I Do Not Remember You

I do not remember you at all;
nor the way you looked at me,
nor the comfort of your smile
I'm sorry.

I do not recall at all,
the way you kissed my lips;
nor the way you held me
on those hot summer afternoons
so long ago.

I do not have a shred of memory
of your flesh burning mine;
nor the sound of your voice
as it whispered in the night.

I do not remember you at all;
I am sorry;
nor, do I recall
your heart melting into mine
when you loved me
through those bitter winter nights.

And, now you stand before me
once again,
but, I do not remember you at all
not your eyes, nor your smile,
nor the way you loved me.
I'm sorry.
I don't recall at all.

Lucy Tamajon

A Band of Gold

I just have to put this out there because I have been hearing all different excuses for this or lack of for years. Men that do not wear their wedding bands. Now, I have about heard every story in the book about this one.

"It's too hot, my fingers sweat."
"It's too cold, I can't wear my gloves."
"It bothers me when I drive."
"It gets caught on stuff."
"I don't really like jewelry."
"It's so uncomfortable to wear all the time."
"I usually wear it, but I forgot to put it on this morning."


I have heard them all. I'm not buying it. Not buying it one bit. I am a homing pigeon when it comes to wedding bands. .

I was a bar once, it was dark, crowded, and my friend says, "Oh, look cute guy across the way." I smile, "No, good. He's got a ring." She looked at me astound. "How the heck can you see from all the way here!" "Ahhh, it's a combination of raw talent blended with years of experience on the single scene."

I have become so good at it that I can even spot the occasional guy who tries to pull the wool over my eyes. At one occasion, a guy wearing a ring that I had spotted a mile away, looks my way and smiles. He starts approaching me to ask a question when he suddenly must have remembered, "Damn! I have a wife!" And, so he starts to very smoothly cover the ring. "Too late." I said. "What?" He looks at me trying to be slick. "I saw the ring, dude."

Here's the deal guys. Single girls are pretty good at spotting single guys. Married men whether they wear their rings or not are branded. Sorry, but you are. So do everyone a favor, keep the ring on. If wearing a simple band of gold is a burden, I can only imagine what the actual marriage must be like.

Love Story

It is ironic how Ryan O'Neil started his young career, with a movie by the name of "Love Story". His character falls in love with the love of his life only to lose her to at the end. I watched this years ago, I was very young, and missed the message. Decades later, life imitates art, and the message is crystal clear to this little girl who still believes in everlasting love.

Tears of joy should be shed when souls find one another and are able to share whatever time the universe allots them. Whether it is a "brief" romantic encounter or "years" of this life's crazy ride. No vows are necessary when true love is found, and words are even more of a burden. All that is needed is to look into one another's eyes and you will know.

Love is not about a big fancy designer dress, or flowers, or a big reception. Love is not about standing at a church, temple, or even a court room to utter vows. Love is not about diamond rings and empty promises that will probably never be kept not because you did not mean to but because promises almost always are broken. Love is not about spending thousands of dollars in a huge production to please the masses.

Love is simply accepting the soul that shares your life as they are. Love is being frightened in the middle of the night and being able to find comfort in the warmth of the soul next to you. Love is knowing that your time together is precious, that you both have demons to battle, and that regardless of life's challenges, you will stick it out together. Love is understanding that we are spiritual souls in human form and will therefore have faults. Love is sharing all that comes our way in sickness and in health, for better or for worse, till death do you part. And, this does not have to be said out loud, it just has to been known in the heart.

You do not need a priest, rabbi, pastor, or judge to confirm your love. You do not need special vows or a big party. You just need to know, and you just need to be there. Vows are a soft whisper from the heart on a cold winter's night.

Oh, yes, and my favorite line from the movie that was etched in my mind forever, "Love means never having to say you are sorry."

Copyright ©Lucy Tamajon 2009

For Whom the Bells Toll

The life of a poet is probably the most difficult of all. You may think I am crazy, well, I am but that is not the point I am trying to make. Poetry is almost never understood. People just don't get it. It is confusing, upsetting, and just too coagulated to comprehend for most.

The poet's job is to describe emotions through words in the simplest of forms. We give feelings to objects that normally cannot feel. Trees bleed, ocean's roar, bird's cry. Often times the reader just does not understand.

Most of my poetry is dark. I rarely share it, and I understand why I don't. When I write poetry, I tap into a very dark and hidden place within me. It is almost as if it is not me at all. I transform into what I try to write about. I know that this sounds insane, perhaps, it is.

I had a professor once pull the most deepest of emotions from me through an assignment. The lesson was not to just write a poem, but become the object in the poem. "I don't think I can." He looked at me, "if anyone can. You can." And, I learned to transport myself out of my body to another place. I became the person in the poem, the tree, the river, the sky. I closed my eyes and learned to feel emotions and relate the feelings into words of that object. I remember writing about piano keys. He was impressed, "this is exactly what a piano's key would feel like if it could feel."

I keep my poetry hidden deep, deep, deep within my soul because it opens a window that few can relate to. I can now understand completely why some of the great literary minds have retrieved and lived confined within their own minds. The more we give of ourselves through our writing, the more vulnerable we become, and the less understood.

Hemingway was an alcoholic, ultimately committed suicide. Virginia Wolf filled her pockets with coins and walked into the ocean. Sylvia Plath put her head into an oven could not handle rejection. Yet, she earned a Pulitzer Prize for her dark and disturbing poetry. Elizabeth Browning was prescribed opium for her "affliction". Even the great master, Shakespeare was laughed at and struggled as an artist and died thinking he was a failure.

Emily Dickinson was said to be an anti-social and secluded herself. She died a premature death diagnosed by doctors as a cause of stress and depression. Upon her death, her sister instructed all letters and writings not published to be burned. Thank God a friend intervened. Emily kept her poetry vague and was often criticized and labeled as crazy and having a "fictitious lover." The more her work was torn to shreds, the more secluded she became, but she did not stop writing.

It takes great courage to pour emotions onto paper. Your heart bleeds and as it does, you write not with ink but with your own blood. And, then, you are misunderstood. You accomplish what you set out to do in the process, bringing the reader into a world they had never thought of. But, you, the poet is misunderstood. Hence, the struggle of the great love I have for words. Memorized by the power within my soul, I can only write what is in my heart.

My life closed twice before its close.
It yet remains to see
If immortality unveil
A third event to me,
So huge, so hopeless to conceive
As these that twice befell,
Parting is all we know of heaven,
And all we need of hell.

Emily Dickinson

The All About Me Newsletter

It amazes me how egos get the best of us. How we lose track of what is really important in order to feed our ever growing and never ending egos. Most people think that it is just men that have these egos, but I beg to differ. Egos are gender-free.

I was recently asked to contribute to a local friendly newsletter put together by a group of what appeared to be very sweet ladies. We'll keep the identities of the parties anonymous so that we do not further feed their egos What started out as a group effort by all parties involved has turned out into the "ALL ABOUT ME" Newsletter for one particular lady. So much so that she is screening and deciding what to print when it is not even her job. Not only does she want to decide what is going to print, she is going to tell the writer what to write. It has become a one woman show all about her. What was a simple five or six page newsletter with basic and simple information has turned into a monster 15-page ego feeding declaration of "look at me! Look at me!" Oh, yes, and we cannot forget to put her name on everything even if it has nothing to do with her.

As a creative soul, I respect her ego's need for attention. However, I will not partake in the One-Woman Show. I simply withdrew from the drama and the bulling. Yes, sorry, bulling of this sweet little lady that wants everyone to know all that she does and how good she is and how much love she has for the whole wide world because she does not miss a beat and reminds us daily.

Oh, brother, lady. Give it a break and get over yourself. Here's a newsflash for your "All About Me Newsletter" ... the world does not revolve around you. Put that in your pipe and smoke it.

Why I Write

"No Tears in the writer. No tears in the Reader." Robert Frost

Writing is more than just a craft or a talent, it is flesh of my flesh, blood of my blood. When I write, I open my heart and soul and pour every emotion into the blank pages before me. The colors come alive not with a paint brush or paints but with words.
I sit quietly listening to the voices in the silence that feed the words. Words that will come alive in my pages. I listen to the rain and the sound of the pain of every rain drop. I hear the laughter of the butterflies that frolic in the yellow roses in a random garden. I grasp the shade of blue in the ocean and spill it on to the white page before me. I never cease to ask questions and wait for the answers that come in the form of all that is created by the Master's hand.
I open my heart, and in doing so, I invite the reader into the world born from all that is within me. If I do not shed tears then the reader will not cry. If I do not laugh then the reader will not find joy. My infinite and daunting task is to bring the reader into my heart, open the door to my soul, extend a chair, and let them into to the depths of all of my emotions. In doing so, I become naked and at the mercy of the reader.
If I cannot become one with the reader than I am not a writer.


Lucy Tamajon

Taps

Taps

What must it be like
to be a million miles from home;
in a foreign land
strangers staring
while you sleep.
Hungry, tired, and in defeat
marching in the blistering heat.

What must it be like
to be frightened and alone
wondering if anyone truly cares;
praying in your mind
never giving up hope in your heart.

What must it be like
to watch the world pass judgment
on the uniform you proudly wear
and those filled with hate burn the
flag of your loving homeland.

What must it be like
to love your country so
and serve without remorse, questions,
or rewards.

What must it be like to
be brave and cry a silent tear
to defend what so many disregard
for the land that you hold dear.

What must it be like
to hold your brother in your arms
and sooth his restless heart
as he makes his final stance.



7/6/2009
Lucy Tamajon