LOVER WOMAN

I preface this poem with a message. “Lover Woman” is about someone in my past. 

I think it takes viewing the early days of a poet, to understand the updated version of poems. And so, I’m inserting a days-gone-by poem. I have also written another poem to this woman, which was included in Wet Violets, Sappho’s Corner Poetry Series, Volume 2. Edited by Beth Mitchum. The poem in Wet Violets is titled “Bluejean’s Youth Blues.”

It is one of many poems I’ve written for her over the years. It was self-delusional to have lent my heart to a Sapphic butterfly. Perhaps it better prepared me for understanding the relationship in which I am happily involved. .

The book I refer to in the final lines of this poem, is a book written, yet not published. I hope one day it will be. For knowing BlueJean, as with every brushing touch of life, impacted me. She is someone every woman who loves butterflies should know. She is indeed a lover woman.

I have been blessed in my lifetime to have known many wonderous women. In my past, yes.  And I’ve never been more blessed than I am at this very moment. 

For now, regressing –

LOVER WOMAN

BlueJean extracted my vow.
I was to write poetry by taking a direct line
through my heart and soul.
Then, I was to dedicate that trek to her.
The heart is a muscle
and the soul is perhaps softer than air.
What path was it through my beating sack of a heart?
What trail leads across my mystical, compartmentalized soul?
My lover woman’s description defied explanation, or excuses.
I’d witnessed some of her casualties with grumbles on their lips.
She’d left sad women in her wake.
Those poor left-behinds warned me with garbled, static messages.
Warnings told me to beware.
Rational inquiry didn’t help irrational decision.
There was the passion of her.
Her smiles deflected my doubt.
Caresses were not platonic.
We’d both maneuvered away from love’s clutch.
So taking a chance on a bad bet was a two-way gamble.
Answers came in mildly adequate proportions.
Depth, width, breath, and mystery were all visible.
Audible were her words, philosophies, and hidden gazes.
We pointed toward the skies and swore on constellations
we would remain within one another’s hemisphere.
Communication was from her skin to her soul.
She’d unlocked; then I unlocked.
Belonging was an exploration into sensory paradise.
We were both blatant transgressors in the land of love.
She taught me nothing is absolute.
We undressed; we occupied one another’s loneliness.
I’d believed in inertia.
We were saturated with our garbled thought’s best promise.
We believed, at least until morning when our star-ride ceased.
My Lover Woman’s previous Love Stats had come and gone.
That was little consolation for either of us.
However, I later wrote a book about her.
It was a love story of BlueJean and when I was part of a 1970s band.
The promised poetry would come later.
COPYRIGHT Kieran York
From BlueJean’s Sonnet

Please check out some of my other poetry in a collection called Wet Violets, Sappho’s’ Corner Poetry Series, Volume 2. Edited by Beth Mitchum. Books are available through http://.ultravioletlove.com and Amazon.

If you’re interested in romantic fiction, please check out Appointment with a Smile by Kieran York. Books are available through www.bluefeatherbooks.com. Or order through Bella Books distribution for books or e-books. Books and Kindle e-books are also available through amazon.

Writing Appointment with a Smile: First Glimmer – Senior Sapphic Sensual!

Recently I received a review of my latest book, Appointment with a Smile. It made me consider my good fortune. All my reviews have been wonderfully supportive of my writing a romance about mature senior Sapphics.

Some writers are very nonchalant about reviews. I am no such thing. Are you kidding me? I devour them, memorize them. Absolutely. Good or bad, they’ve enlightened me, and assisted in forming my direction. And I appreciate each of them. Appointment with a Smile reviews were welcomed and embraced.

Earlier this week one review published, was written by Sage 320. And it beautifully encapsulated my message about women of a certain age. Love transcends increments of time. It just does.

So from where did my story about wrinklies (as my Brit friends would say), in their dotage years emanate? Well, I looked around at my own vibrant, intellectual, passionate friends. They have been enhanced by age, experience, and their zest for life.

Yet general fiction does not reflect them, nor does it cater to their quest to read about themselves. In fact, the aging Sapphic topic is shunned – as if  irrelevantly hidden.

The message is If you’re between fifty and death, get over the emotional lift of love. If you want to read about yourself in a romance book, locating one is tough. You’ll find empty bookshelves filled with nope. We aren’t sex in the city, or anywhere else. Our aisle in the bookstore is relegated to menopausal reading. How to identify, how to cope, how to – everything.

What about the equation of love? That other facet of our being?

Within my first glimmer was the desire to write about a woman of age, falling in love. My main character, Danielle O’Hara, is passionate about her art, yet stagnating in both painting and romance. Her own passion shriveled at the side of the road – like lost heart songs unsung by those of us over fifty.

My novel explores love’s remembrances, as well as the igniting of romance within Danielle’s aged soul. Is that so impossible to imagine?

For me, writing Appointment with a Smile was a compelling journey that required I take it. Mature adult, Sapphic romance category? Previously vacant, or nearly so – but I would add one more voice.

I began with the premise that the book must honestly concern itself with the myriad of events culminating a life’s span. Years, emotions, joys, losses, gather into each of our lifetimes. Some events overlap, some are deleted, but all have constructed the wonder of us.

I didn’t want to ignore, or minimize the obvious. Through the decades, losses become reminders. As life pulls aside of us, we may lose our sculpted goddess bodies, and perhaps youth’s glib attitude. But replacing that loss is the ability to dabble in new and exciting wonder, with a fresh perspective.

Age offers the magnificence of reexamination. It shows the overview. Affords a glance back. There is a subtle nudge to make sense of our life’s relevance. Achievements are glory. Mistakes are life’s tuition.

Writing Appointment with a Smile was cathartic. That was a bonus. My objective was to capture an artist’s soul. I wanted to spotlight the topic of Sapphic ageing . And the importance of love. And I hope with all my heart I did that. I want to believe this unusual love story will matter to the golden, matured Sapphic.

Perhaps women in other age brackets will read it. They might want to imagine the existence of romantic love in their futures. The expedition of love beyond fifty, sixty, and on, awaits.

Encountering romance – well, that miracle simply is ageless. Being receptive to love’s possibility – beyond priceless.

Appointment with a Smile is not just for older readers. There are points here that can appeal to many ages. However, it was nice to read about life from a different perspective.” – Review by Lynn Pierce. Amazon. You can read the thoughtful review in it’s entirety here: http://www.amazon.com/review/R2WWZMWV1ROXB0/ref=cm_cr_rev_detup_redir?_encoding=UTF8&cdForum=Fx7D6LJ16ZFVD4&cdPage=1&asin=1935627864&store=books&cdThread=Tx8JQCEPEAS7AN&newContentID=Mx82F67CN2HDDQ#Mx82F67CN2HDDQ

Why Don’t Lesbians and Gays, Etcetera, Go to Hell!

A re-blog!

Sinners are told to make reservations, be packed up, and ready to hop on the slipper-slide ride down to hell. Upon their demise.

I don’t know about my sisters and brothers, but I can’t follow directions to the nearest convenience store – much less some fictional flame pit that laps at our souls.

However, upon contemplating it – it might not be a terrible alternative lodging. If as all the bigots espouse, they are going to fill the rafters of heaven – it’s probably already over-populated. A little ‘no vacancy’ sign would light up as I neared the outskirts of the celestial heavens.

And if it didn’t? Well, I’d rather reject my invitation. I don’t even like a chat with an intolerant crowd. Gives me a headache. And a heartache. So why would I waste eternity when my ears hurt from the hatred spewed?

Maybe hatred is synonymous with hell.

So I’m planning on going to hell, like the haters promise that I, and my ilk, will indeed be located, post-life. And the haters have done their job in prepping us for hell with their blistering bullying and their searing words.

Since my body isn’t bikini perfect, maybe I should just pack a t-shirt and cargo shorts for the soul vacation’s sweltering. A mug of iced-tea and a six-pack of cool brews would be nice, too. And if it got too hot, I’d like a fellow traveler to stand beside me, so we could shade one another.

Could be that’s it! Maybe shade, and warmth are the answers to what happens here on this glorious planet we share. If we shade one another, and if we warm one another, perhaps there is hope.

A poem I revere is titled “Birches” by Robert Frost. I’m going to borrow a few of his exquisite lines: I’d like to get away from earth awhile And then come back to it and begin over. May no fate willfully misunderstand me And half grant what I wish and snatch me away Not to return. Earth’s the right place for love: I don’t know where it’s likely to go better.

Much of the Holy Bible is poetry, and much poetry is my personal Bible.

I’m resigned to being the person a loving creator plunked down here. So, I’ve got my marching orders when final directives approach. Grab my gardener’s hat to shield my eyes from the fire’s glow; a nice pair of sandals to give some protection against the lava’s spit and spume; and an ice tray. Okay, I’m an optimist.

I’m uncertain if I belong in hell because someone says all my sisters and brothers and I should be there. And even if I planned on, per instruction from the haters, going to hell – I probably couldn’t find the damned place. I’ve been known to read maps upside down.

Hope I always remember what the elderly, white-haired prophet said about earth being the right place for love. Love I can easily locate.     

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What naughty words are we talking about?

I have so many bright, interesting Facebook friends. One of my most valued friends, Lynda, is both bright and interesting. A couple of days ago she commented that a male conservative posted that she shouldn’t use the word vagina if she wanted to be a feminine woman.

What does one do with that?

By what standards is it correct for a woman to be filtered via a gag in order to be feminine? Not able to use the word vagina for fear of not having female tendencies. What?

I embrace my womanhood. Being feminine or having a female tenderness is an extraordinarily positive trait. Is our personhood down to what word we use to express body parts?

And are gynecologists allowed to say vagina? What do we say to our gynecologist? Doctor, could you lift the hood, check the gaskets, and test our spark plugs? Darn thing is missing out. Starting slowly. Just not as charged up as usual.

I ask what is unfeminine and evil about saying the word. It’s a medical term for a woman’s body part. The standardized description is that it is the passage leading from the vulva to the womb of a woman.

Yes, the First Amendment allows the male every right to express whatever he likes. And allows me to counter. I’m wishing folks would stop policing language and love. There is room for critics censors – et al. There is a huge block of language space to be used for dumb on the epic-of-life wall.

I’m wondering if the male who rejects women’s femininity when they say vagina might be the same playground kid who laughed at all things sexual. Naughty words were hidden, dirty sins. With a capital S – that could also be used for sad.

And the truth be told, I’m not overly excited about male genitals being called junk. I have more respect for all parts of the body. Male and female. Reproduction moves civilization along. And I don’t believe junk enters into that. However, I don’t tell the males using the term that it mars their manhood. 

I do observe it as a ‘woe is me’ moment.

The trash collector is due today. I’m going to pitch a final parcel of junk into the receptacle. Then I’m going to make up a song with vagina included. Vagina doesn’t have many rhyming words. 

Your truly, Just Another Vagina