About Me~, Fae, Poetry, Uncategorized, Writing

Tangled

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It’s a word there , at the edge of my mind

I feel it there just tangled, but cannot seem to find

what exact word it is.

I have heard it , I know, for sure.

It calls to me, from some forgotten shore

to speak it.

In the time of dreaming it comes , almost foaming,

it drifts in  seaweed misty, gloaming,

pulled away with the tide.

Perhaps the selkies know it,

and  one day they will show it ,

scrawled on the sea-glass floor.

 

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Uncategorized

BACK TO THE CAVES WE GO~

I would like to start this post by saying, that ANYONE who knows me, knows I don’t get offended easily.  Pretty much anything , anybody says, just rolls right off my back.

However, I just recently read an article , with MEMES to go along with it, that just totally rubbed my fur the wrong way.

And once you read it, I am fairly sure you will feel the same way.

To start this off, I always thought the idea behind childbirth was to have a HAPPY, HEALTHY child. One for the parents to love, and one to love the parents.

WELL, this fella ‘ here has just set childbirth, and childrearin’ back 100 years and caused a great deal of unhappiness between women. When you read it , you will understand, and be just as outraged as I was.  Seriously, this man is half a bubble off of plumb, a donut short of a full box, and as my Daddy would say, “His bread’s in the oven , but the gas ain’t on. ”  The word chauvinist doesn’t even BEGIN to cover it.

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Because apparently , those of us who had C sections are INFERIOR.

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Because , apparently, we didn’t REALLY LOVE our babies, we are just selfish for making  different choice.

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Because apparently , we’re just drug-addled women , who are lazy and chemically dependent.

So we have no business having doctors interfere in the “natural” process of birth, even though our children came early and would have died without medical intervention.  We’re just lazy like that.  Needless to say, I refuse to feel sorry for my childbirth experience , as my sons are 16 and 14 and are completely healthy , despite the fact that (SHOCK AND HORROR!!!!) they were both born by Ceasarian section.

So perhaps there is hope after all!

About Me~, Poetry, Writing

Forty -Nine~

handsomehubs

Stars Collide

Only sixteen, 

I was a mess of clumsy limbs, 

with my head going faster than my feet most days.

Tangled curls of black hair, forever in my eyes.

He was tall, 

his eyes as green as the leafy oaks in summer.

In that moment,

the world somehow seemed,

as if gravity were suddenly released .

And I knew, 

knew that if I didn’t make him mine,

I would fly off into space un-moored,

forever losing something 

cosmically wonderful.

So I took hold 

of his lumber-scarred hands,

and I’ve never let him go.

Ruby Jeanette Woods

Happiest of birthdays to the love of my life,

Thank you for all you are, and for making the world a kinder , gentler place.

I’m a better person because I know you.

Poetry

HERE BE DRAGONS~

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Some of my art. Colored pencil, pen and ink, marker, and digital.  Image Copyright. Ruby Jeanette Woods. 

 

HERE BE DRAGONS~

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Here be dragons,

long and lean,

bold of heart,

not craven , mean.

Here be dragons,

warm of soul,

strong of mind,

wise and keen.

They guard their treasure,

not gold nor gems,

but scrolls of wisdom,

words of men.

Here lies wealth of a different sort,

books and tomes,

from every port.

Come learn what every page does keep,

while under the wyvern’s wing you sleep.

 

Ruby Jeanette Woods

 

Poetry, Uncategorized

The Boy Pilot~

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Reporters waiting at the blocked off air- strip,
to get photos of the boy wonder at the end of his trip.
Around the world in his hot air balloon,
from Anchorage to Cameroon.
Picking up treasures from every land,
grizzly bear claws, and feathered bands.
The air ship lands while the crowd cheers,
The door opens , and the boy pilot nears.
“Will you make a statement?”, they want to know,
“What have you seen , and where did you go?”
I travelled wherever the wind blew me to,
met people , went places, that I never knew.
So, I have many tales to tell ,
of the wonders I have seen,
many stories to be written,
And I am but fifteen.

About Me~, Poetry

The Visitor~

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The town lay dark and sleeping,
people safe ,in beds were keeping.
Only I , restless , hounded.
walked down the street,
heart pounded.
What called me from my nightly slumber?
Something lonely, a despairing hunger.
Through the gate , a soldier stumbles,
in the distance , cannon rumbles.
Suddenly , in my arms he falls,
“1863” he said,” do you see the musket balls?”
His blood soaks through a letter,
he pushes in my hands.
“Give this to my Jeanette,
make sure she understands!”
With one last cold and wintry breath,
Like fog he disappears,
I’m bewildered , frightened,
for he didn’t know the year.
It’s 2013 now, and Jeanette is now long gone,
I keep the blood stained letter ,
in my mind the cannon echoes on.