An Everyday Man

I enjoy a beautiful man, one whose lusty presence and smiling eyes warms my mornings no matter the weather outside. His beauty issues forth from his spirit, his zeal for life and not from his face or frame.

Breakfasts and dinners I want to share, although our lives may have different interests and demands. An everyday man to journey with, not regular trysts or vacation flame: his or mine.

Someone to take charge and tend those things that need masterful hands; a male to keep me on my toes, and make them tingle too. Helpmate, housemate, partner, friend--an every day man, I seek.

I desire my bearings, a true north, who shares my values and world view. I want to amplify my love. Love is energy, you know. I relish a fuller life, and this life welcomes you.

Remembering Michael Jackson

Michael graced us with his talents,
He gifted life with his joy,
Spirit imbued him with heightened energies,
The man-child surrounded himself with toys.

No matter what his flaws, foibles or sins,
Simply love him, admire his best.
His temporal challenges are over now,
His Maker will take care of the rest.

~

Thanks Michael, for your extraordinary presence.

What happens to my dream deferred?

As February concluded I decided to reflect on the history of a WRITER. I selected Langston Hughes, author, poet, playwright. One of his more famous poems gave me content for the following journal piece which I'm sharing with you. It had me pondering 'what happened to MY dreams or lack of them? It made me question, "now what am I going to do about it and them?" Febrary 2009

"What happens to a dream deferred?" – Langston Hughes

Defer – put off, postpone; submit to the opinion or judgment of others [in my case in the absence of other opinions or in spite of my fears]

I didn't dream; as a youngster I didn't know what it was to dream, imagine, or how to hope -- not really. I had a notion about writing, knew I liked it and received occasional praise for how I phrased sentences or wrote a paragraph, even an essay. I drafted a few promising pieces but suffered a broken spirit by even slight criticism. I adored words, revelled in them; thoroughly enjoyed reading, loved how some could wield power and stir the imagination with their writings. Stories were interesting inventions but I dared not imagine that I could assemble a plausible storyline, fill it with interesting characters, or craft intelligent dialogue. However, I felt great when I wrote. Time collapsed when I wrote.

Back to the question of what happens to a [my] dream deferred? My notion grew sullen, melancholy and lazy; these fledgling thoughts of penning words took deeper refuge in my shy personality. During my academic years the writing demands in literature classes constricted my imagination. I could not recognize opportunities to branch other styles. I lacked the discipline to learn the mechanics of grammar subsequently, writing paralysis set in. No professors, guides nor muse appeared to help me or acknowledge nascent skills. Introversion seized my timid soul, my few words lapsed into a coma, my passion faint until years later, until now.

But the moratorium is over. I dare to dream of the flow of words, sentiments, and ideas flooding my consciousness daily. It is no longer simply the "I" that wants to speak out but the Spirit within that seeks to be freed. I recognize that I have been given gifts that must be shared—my medium is the printed word (though I wish I could sing). It wants to elicit a hearing, to extend an invitation to action, to inspire others to service. It is not I but the Spirit within that seeks greater expression. I shall not tarry nor brook delay further for I am a world of possibility for creative expression. And yes my ego lives too, it wants to be excellent at something, something real, something that is me.

So what happened to my dream deferred? It has awakened from its comatose state, it is ravenous, and anxious to get out and about! I dream of words and they want to play.