*From Westcoastweathervanes .com -“In Greek mythology, Nike personified victory, and was also known as the Winged Goddess of Victory. Her Roman equivalent was Victoria. She is the goddess of strength, speed, and victory and was a very close acquaintance of Athena, Goddess of Wisdom and Justice. It is thought that Nike stood in Athena’s outstretched hand in the statue of Athena located in the Parthenon. Nike is one of the most commonly portrayed figures on Greek coins and her aforementioned association with strength, speed and victory has made her a well-known athletic logo.”
I always try to go to different blogs to find and learn about different writers, and of course read, and/or follow people that have read, liked, and followed me. However, a problem exists. I have clicked on numerous blogger’s photos that I’ve seen through their liking a piece I’ve written, but am then taken to the avatar site with a picture only, and no way of getting to their website/blog. I get frustrated because I am interested and do want to read their work but cannot. So, if you’re wondering, maybe check to make sure that the blog is listed. I’m honestly not sure how to do that? For certain, I’m not the most advanced on WordPress. I want to apologize if I’ve missed things because of this, and hope to be able to locate the blogs of people that take the time to read mine. I also would like to apologize for when I miss posts by people I am following due to other reasons such as time, being away, work, etc., and I will always try to catch-up! In addition, I can only read English. I am super impressed by people that do this in serval languages. Wow! I’m actually blown away by how many exceptionally talented writers there are on WordPress, and enjoy so many terrific posts. Thank you. Happy writing! 🙂
The bed has a four thousand-dollar sinkhole. That’s okay because it’s made from organic cotton, and the latest luxury foam, so I am told,
And sold: A designer’s name assumed, heaven, on a medal base.
I maneuver precariously around its mountainsides searching a comfortable groove.
Around the clock I go: right hip connected to backbone, shoulder blade connected to neck bone, tailbone—with [all] its rattled nerves—sinks. . .a painful groin!
I’ve purchased the softest sheets to forget. Four varieties of pillows travel the night, side-to-side, over and back, onto a stomach hungering for dreams. Finally to the dead-asleep floor, useless!
I do not like to sleep in a box, or with a fox, but I’m sure it would be more comfortable—
Sheep come in the night and gawk with sinister smiles. The leader is confident, and possesses a salesperson’s face. Going over contracts and stipulations, I cry, “Baaah-baaah…. The gaping hole was not included!”
Still, I’m paying sales tax for it beyond a hundred day comfort guarantee.
Suddenly, I am terribly itchy. Duped—If only I had the recourse to shear those taunting wooly animals. I’d embarrass them like they have me—
I’ve written this piece about PTSD (Post Traumatic Stress Disorder) that comes from different circumstances, can be moderate to severe, and affects the lives of the individuals and their family members alike.
A sturdy, well-shaped, clear glass allowed for an unobstructed view of fruit. —Tart lemon and lime, sweet orange, refreshing mint. A carving etched along its side said something about its personality, where it comes from, or what it believes.
The effortless flow of liquid between frozen cubes, splashing into a craving glass, served satisfaction. —Cheers!
Its handle was a comfortable, secure grip.
A mid-afternoon excursion out side to the patio, and it was placed sturdily onto a wrought-iron table fused by our dear-departed grandfather.
Overall, life, once like steel and easy grips, presented a solid foundation.
The surrounding grass was greener than it had ever been due to April showers that became May and June’s endless rain. It was now a blazing hot July.
The birds visiting managed a subtle humming, as opposed to a full clattering song.
—Soothing was preferred over cheerful.
Someone had been through war, the sort in which you don’t choose your battles, but rather they choose you; and now the time has come that it is over.
The remaining soul is propped perfectly back into normalcy, beneath a sky that knows no difference, or of dreadful particulars that one experiences before implosion.
Feeling without solid ground beneath their feet, traumatized and raw; It made all good intentions by those that cared to walk them around town, pointing out the friendly neighborhood ice-cream store, boasting of the sun shining poetically in the sky, or of joyfulness expressed by boys and girls passing on bicycles, —fruitless.
They earnestly wanted to enjoy, pleasing us by being happy, but every desire for them to be was rather interpreted as painful expectation, fear of disappointing, pressure to be part of a past way of life, that not unlike a dream, could be recalled vividly, however not lived.
Their intention to settle down and truly come home, not to simply exist like a plaid chair’s reliable comfort in the living room, or a candle halfway burned down, exposing its wick atop the mantle, was sincere—
But everything was different now:
The bicycle sounds triggered alarm. The ice-cream store reminded them of their brother who was killed. The sun’s glare hurt their wounded eyes. Joyful boys and girls created longing for innocence they’d never again behold. Too many sticks and stones!
The stench of death, while trying to save lives, in many instances their own, remained available to recall. Chaos swarmed like bees around their queen.
A toll was taken upon the strongest warriors causing an impact of fragility.
—A tulip, emerged in the tenderness of spring, deceived and exposed wickedly to frost.
Sad, afraid, and stuck— how they want to jump but simply cannot!
You need to remember for them, to remind them of love—like their mother’s apron with stains of butter and sweet jams.
Be the wife that caresses his torn-up feet, the husband that kisses the salt of her tears in hope of capturing his smiling bride.
For those the world looks immensely different to, who suffer desperately wanting to be home in their hearts, but fear a landmine—compassion,
like strings building tempo in an orchestra—tries and understands the melody of confusion that riddles the soul—patience. No limit on time that has stopped, and left creatures of a fragmented past.
The pitcher has been shattered, it’s true, but the thirst and recipe remains—
The below video has been inserted as it speaks volumes to me along the lines of the words I’ve written.
A country, wood-screen door, says to me, “Welcome Home!”
Family. Friends. Husband. Children. Dog wagging its tail, cat resting on a windowsill.
Upon leaving, it says, “All is well. I shall return.”
It is capable of smiling for us in any color: red, white, blue, green… In any season…
A natural wreath for spring, pinecones for winter.
Peace is its complement to us, captured in breezes that flow effortlessly, through its gracious ventilation. The scent of honeysuckles, or lilacs coming inside; a freshly baked pie drifting outward to a neighbor who might stop by for coffee.
The home is cream and sugar—
I want to hear the harmonious squeak, music to my ears, as people come or go, embrace the joy in the sound of wood hitting its base to close.
The contentment of my heart—
Soft, or scampering footsteps follow onto the planks of a porch.
We’ll swing and gather lemonade dreams. Look-upon a wildflower garden while bees buzz daisies for nectar.
The sun shines a memory of our nurturing mother’s humming; her floral-cotton hem. The shade from surrounding trees is our father’s whistle, his protection—though we need not any here—
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