Tag Archives: poem

Haiku Friday – Wait & Move

13 Feb

Welcome to Haiku Friday . . .

RonovanWrites Weekly #Haiku #Poetry Prompt Challenge #31

Taking on the challenge one more week, prompt words Wait & Move 

love-haiku-poem-vashti-quiroz-vegs-blog

 

Longing

by Vashti Quiroz-Vega

I was moved by you

Your love proved ephemeral

why do I still wait

longing-poetry-haiku-friday

♥♥♥

Do you have plans for Valentine’s Day? If so, what are you doing? Is Valentine’s Day just another day for you?

Haiku Friday –– Force & Free

6 Feb

Welcome to Haiku Friday! Today’s Haiku is inspired by RonovanWrites Weekly Haiku Poetry Prompt Challenge The prompt words are Force & Free. I must admit I struggled a bit with these prompt words but this is what I came up with. I hope you enjoy.

daisy-flower-desert-dry-land-44033598

 

Life Finds A Way

by Vashti Quiroz-Vega

From the dry, cracked earth

Delicate life forces through

Free as a daisy

daisy-blue-white-flower

blue-daisy

Did you enjoy the Haiku poem? I love daisies. They make me smile and to me they represent simple beauty, purity, and strength. What’s your favorite flower and what does it represent to you?

Haiku Friday & Criminal Minds

29 Nov

Hello! Welcome to my blog!

Ö

I’m a day late for this post. Sorry about that. I had a lot on my plate this week and I’m not talking about turkey and stuffing. Ha, ha! Get it . . . turkey and stuffing . . . never mind. I have always enjoyed reading haiku poems. Now, I’m enjoying writing them. They are so much fun to write and really get my creative juices flowing. That’s why I started Haiku Friday! Every Friday I will post a different haiku. I will feature my work, as well as haiku poetry written by others. I love infusing my haiku with a touch of horror, so most of my haiku will have a bit of a dark side.

Ö

One of my guilty pleasures is watching a show called Criminal Minds it’s one of my favorite TV dramas and the inspiration for this week’s haiku.

criminal-minds-season-10

criminal-minds-renewed-for-season-101

 

My favorite characters on the show are Dr. Spencer Reid, Hotch, and JJ but they’re all great.

cmrt-sf-46 copy

Hotch, JJ, and Dr. Spencer Reid

 

 

 Ö 

Haiku

 

black-market-haiku

 

Black Market

by Vashti Quiroz-Vega

Ö

Fall leaves blow in the wind

Chilled night air through open door

Kidneys on ice

Ö

Ö

moscow dead body snow-78787

Missing

by Vashti Quiroz-Vega

Ö

An icy pond shimmers

A blanket of snow

A corpse hidden ’til spring

Ö

Ö

Do you watch Criminal Minds or any other crime drama on TV? What are your guilty pleasures? What inspires you to write, cook, craft? Have you ever tried writing a poem, song, or story?

Angry Mountain – Haiku

21 Nov

Hello and welcome to ‘Haiku Friday’. All poetry stem from somewhere. Whether it was something beautiful you saw in nature, a great movie you watched, a foreboding you have, a dream or perhaps a great feeling you got from listening to a favorite song or from tasting something scrumptious. Well, that brings me to today’s haiku. Most of us have at least one person in our lives that seem to live only to try to make us miserable. She’s a negative force that tries to crumble your bright ideas and taint your good nature with her evil venom. She is rude, unpleasant, malevolent, and can’t stand to see a smile on your face. Trying to get along with her is futile because that’s not what she wants. You try to get away from her, before she makes you sick with her diseased nature, but you can’t, because you’re tied to her in some way. That toxic character I’m forced to live with inspired this haiku.

 

volcano_erupting_shutterstock

 

 

Angry Mountain

by Vashti Quiroz-Vega

ψ

ψ

Black mountain spews fire

Bright red lava streams wreck all

My will you won’t break

Ψ

 

Angry Mountain Haiku

Do you have someone like this in your life? How do you deal with it?

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Rainbow Bridge

19 Jun

Rainbow Bridge

This is Rascal, my 16 year old toy pomeranian. I lost him yesterday. Needless to say this year has been rough on me. My little fur ball is gone and already I miss him so much. He would have been 17 years old November 22nd. He had heart issues and I knew it wouldn’t be long. I thought I was prepared–––I wasn’t. He took a little piece of my heart with him. I will never forget him, or all the unconditional love he showed me. I know I did everything I could for him and that he had a great life. That gives me peace. Anyway, this is not a pity party. I wanted to share a touching poem that my brother’s wife Celina, whose like a sister to me, sent me. I hope you enjoy. ❤

RIP-Rascal-Vashti Quiroz-Vega

Rascal wearing his little Miami Heat T-shirt.

 

 

Rainbow Bridge

 

Just this side of heaven is a place called Rainbow Bridge.

When an animal dies that has been especially close to someone here, that pet goes to Rainbow Bridge.
There are meadows and hills for all of our special friends so they can run and play together.
There is plenty of food, water and sunshine, and our friends are warm and comfortable.

All the animals who had been ill and old are restored to health and vigor; those who were hurt or maimed are made whole and strong again, just as we remember them in our dreams of days and times gone by.
The animals are happy and content, except for one small thing; they each miss someone very special to them, who had to be left behind.

They all run and play together, but the day comes when one suddenly stops and looks into the distance. His bright eyes are intent; His eager body quivers. Suddenly he begins to run from the group, flying over the green grass, his legs carrying him faster and faster.

You have been spotted, and when you and your special friend finally meet, you cling together in joyous reunion, never to be parted again. The happy kisses rain upon your face; your hands again caress the beloved head, and you look once more into the trusting eyes of your pet, so long gone from your life but never absent from your heart.

Then you cross Rainbow Bridge together….

Author unknown…

 

rascal-pomeranian-rip-Vashti Q

 

I hope you enjoyed Rainbow Bridge. Have you lost a pet? How did you cope? Did you get another pet right away to replace it, or did you wait?

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The Crying Boy

21 Jan

the-crying-boy

While on Google+ I came across a post written by my friend Mohammad Alsous. There’s always a lesson to be learned with every post he publishes. I wanted to share this with you guys, but I have to warn you that it brought me to tears.

THE POST 

On a bright and sunny day a man polished his prized possession–his new car.  His 4 year old son picked up a stone and scratched lines on the side of the car.

In a fit of anger, the man took the child’s hand and hit it many times; not realizing he was using a wrench.

At the hospital, the child lost all his fingers due to multiple fractures.

When the child saw his father…..with painful eyes he asked, “Dad when will my fingers grow back?”

The man was so hurt and speechless; he went back to his car and kicked it repeatedly.

Devastated by his own actions his knees buckled and he landed on the ground sitting.

As he sat in front of his car he looked through vision blurred with tears at the scratches his child had made. The boy had written ‘LOVE YOU DAD’.

The next day that man committed suicide.

Mohammad’s words…

Anger and Love have no limits ,,,
Things are to be used and people are to be loved, but the problem in today’s world is that, People are used and things are loved.

During this year, let’s be careful to keep this thought in mind:
Things are to be used, but People are to be loved.

*___________________*____________________*___________________*_____________*

Curse Of The Crying Boy!

How an urban legend erupted into fiery headlines. ~ Fortean Times

(Click on the images below to read the accounts)

Curse of the crying boy

curse of the crying boy

The curse of the crying boy

The Crying Boy

Cold Touch

by Denise Morgan

A cold touch, shivers
Turned full circle, no one
Ghostly encounter.

Image

If You Love Me…

9 Jul

If You Love Me…

Hello! Welcome to my blog. My name is Vashti Quiroz-Vega, for those of you visiting for the first time. I am a writer of Fantasy, Suspense and Thrillers. I do, however, have a tendency to mix a little Romance, horror or humor (among other genres) into my stories.
I love art, creativity and beauty, and I know these come in many forms. In my quest to build my author platform, I have met and befriended a group of incredibly talented individuals. Writers, poets, artists and even singers who are masterful at what they do. I feel blessed to have found them, and I would be selfish if I kept the beauty, artistry and creativeness of their craft all to myself.
So for the next few weeks I will be featuring their art, writings and music along with my own work on this blog. I guarantee you will enjoy every bit of it.
In today’s post I feature a poem by gifted poet and writer Marta Merajver-Kurlat.

29a046b

IF YOU LOVE ME…

If you love me, do not clip my wings. Let me soar high up in the sky of my youth before the twilight dims the sun. Fear not for me. You carried me inside you. Now your sweet voice, a shield against venom-dipped spears, dwells in me.

If you love me, do not lock me in the golden cage of easy comfort. Let me fight my own battles with the weapons you taught me to wield. I cannot promise victory after victory, yet defeat will not take me to my knees.

If you love me, do not ask me to become your double. Do not wish me to succeed where you failed. Celebrate my choices and accept our difference. Take pride in my otherness, for it grew from your lessons and example.

If you love me, do not fret that I will walk the path alone. My eyes are sharp and my steps well guided. Think that on the train of life I will find fellow-travelers. Some will keep me company till they reach their destination; others will sit by me to the end of the way.

If you love me, do not weep when the door closes. Rejoice in my strength, for you spent long years building it. Rivers flow. You were a river once. When you conceived me in your desire for a child, a miracle of nature turned you into a mountain.

River and mountain feed on each other. Trust the bond between them.

Love me.

~ Marta Merajver-Kurlat

mom-teen-daughter-hiking

Visit  Marta Merajver-Kurlat at the links below to enjoy more of her work.

http://www.martamerajver.com.ar/marta/

http://www.amazon.com/Marta-Merajver-Kurlat/e/B009TC8C5A

http://www.linkedin.com/profile/view?id=7160675&trk=nav_responsive_tab_profile

 

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When Friendship Goes Awry

20 Jun

changing_seasons_by_zindy-d58xxjg

Illustrations by Zindy S. D. Nielsen

 

 

Hello everyone! Welcome to my blog. As a writer I’m always revising my work. Each time trying to make it better. I’m posting a revised version of my poem ‘Best Friend’. I hope you like it.

Accompanying my poem are beautiful illustrations by a very talented artist from Denmark Zindy Nielsen. I believe the art compliments my poem. I hope you do too.

 

 

*

Best Friend

by Vashti Quiroz-Vega

The sun shone brightly on the day we met.
The radiance of your smile promised eternal sunshine.
When darkness loomed I dried the sorrows you wept.
Always by your side, I offered dawn when you suffered stress.
I was gravity, ever-present for each trivial affair of your life.
But when I needed you most, you couldn’t care less.

As I neared my goals, and success was within my reach.
The luster of friendship began to dull in your eyes.
Why do you despise me? Tormented, in my mind I screeched.
You feigned to listen, when all the while
you gathered information to judge me with.
Why the hatred, my friend? Why am I on trial?

When you betrayed me, the skies grew gray and dark.
My heart bled within me as the storm clouds gathered in your eyes.
You held up a broken mirror to show me my heart.
Sodden by the tempest of envy, unable to tolerate my radiant soul.
You set out to drain my spirit with distorted images you presented.
Until one day, in another’s eyes, my heart’s true reflection I stole.

Eerie, cold, and turbulent was the night our friendship ended.
I was too fetching, too clever, too creative for you to love me.
How am I to release my disappointment? Will my heart ever be mended?
Your spiteful squalls tore a hole in my heart, but my spirit you did miss.
Some friends crush you with a cold glare or a hurtful word.
A jealous friend betrays you with a cowardly kiss.

Copyright © 2013 by Vashti Quiroz-Vega. All rights reserved.

____But_the_wind_was_stronger_by_Zindyone_by_zindy-d4ulqfo

Friends should encourage you, make you happy, and love you unconditionally. If you’re having problems with a friend, please check this out. http://m.wikihow.com/Detox-a-Friendship

 

Do you have a friend that acts more like an enemy? Are you in or have you been in a situation where a friend was jealous or envious of your success, job, boyfriend . . . ? What did you do about it?

Women Behaving Badly – Author Alana Munro

14 Jun

The writer Next Door-alana munro-women behaving badly

Women Behaving Badly by Alana Munro

Hello! Welcome to my blog. My name is Vashti Quiroz-Vega, for those of you visiting for the first time. I am a writer of Fantasy, Suspense and Thrillers. I do, however, have a tendency to mix a little Romance, horror or humor (among other genres) into my stories.

I love art, creativity and beauty, and I know these come in many forms. In my quest to build my author platform, I have met and befriended a group of incredibly talented individuals. Writers, poets, artists and even singers who are masterful at what they do. I feel blessed to have found them, and I would be selfish if I kept the beauty, artistry and creativeness of their craft all to myself.
So for the next few weeks I will be featuring their art, writings and music along with my own work on this blog. I guarantee you will enjoy every bit of it.
In today’s post I will feature the beautiful and talented author of the fascinating book, Women Behaving Badly,  Alana Munro.

Alana Munro_Women Behaving Badly_interview_author

 I have included an early chapter that shows Alana’s struggle to get women to talk to her, and her early thoughts. I have also included an except from one of the many true stories that have personally happened to her. These true stories are an important part of her book.

The Fight to Write This Book

I think I prefer the way men conduct their relationships with their male friends. Why do I say this? I believe that males are in general fairer on their own kind.

Women are unfair on each other and women are often unfairly critical of themselves.

We are harsh on ourselves and often just as harsh on other women.

Women, who struggle to be fair and struggle to love themselves, will struggle to play fair and love other women.

It’s an important question to consider.

How can we women be emotionally generous to other women if we struggle with the concept of respecting who we are?

Men, in contrast, seem to have an easier ride with their friendships. I couldn’t ignore these inherent differences. There was little doubt in my mind that women conduct their friendships differently from men. It was time to probe deeper. I wanted to know more.

After having two fascinating conversations in the same week, I thought this book would be easy. I naively thought women were going to expose their female acquaintances and their friends’ challenging behaviors. They’d spew it all out. I’d change the names and details. No one would know who was who. Like a free therapy session, they would express themselves and feel better for it.

Aren’t women meant to be the talkers? I had visions of us getting right to the bones of the weird feminine behaviors over a bottle of wine. But it seems that women have also been taught the art of keeping their lips sealed.

I logged onto Facebook the following week and studied my friend list. I had more than 100 friends (perhaps after this book I will have a lot less), most of them female. I figured if most of these women can sit on Facebook for hours every week playing games, uploading image after image and commenting on someone’s outstanding cake baking efforts or adorable baby, then surely they can find the time to fill out my questionnaire?

The questionnaire was about personal experiences with female friendships. The responses trickled in. In total, three or four women responded. I sighed, a lot. I guess women are busy.

That’s when reality set in. This book wasn’t going to be easy.

If I couldn’t get my friends and acquaintances to reveal their negative friendship experiences in total confidence, then it seemed unlikely I would manage to get perfect strangers to be brutally honest.

Why was it proving so difficult to get the women in my life to open up and tell me what goes on with the females in their daily life or at least what had went on in their deep, dark past?

A few were polite and said they couldn’t help as they had never experienced any negativity from women. I felt this was either a cop out, outright denial or blissful ignorance. Or maybe they were lucky sods. I thought how nice it must be to only experience coffee mornings, homemade jam and loving hugs.

Maybe I had just been incredibly unlucky or ridiculously misguided in my friend choices? I felt utterly stupid. It was maybe just me after all. I am simply a loser in this friendship game with a capital L stamped on my forehead.

But I couldn’t accept this. I couldn’t be the only woman out there with painful experiences.

Ignoring my ego, which was now a burst and saggy balloon, I patched it up with some sticky tape and carried on, regardless. I felt fatigued, burnt out, irritated and despondent by my relations with many women. I refused to accept my reality as folly. The hurt I had felt was real. It was piercing and stung.

The next type of response was, “Yes, some women are bitchy, but I just stay away from them. I have no association with such women.” OK, better. There is something to work with here. At least some acknowledgement that women are prone to misbehaving with one another.

But the trouble with this response made me think that women believe they are simply able to stay away from troublesome friends. That it is easy to notice a negative friend and just step to the side. That they have a choice and can see a crazy bitch in their sights before she gets too close! Believe me, this is not the case. Often troublesome, negative women seek us out. They hide beneath smiles and loving hugs. And often their presence surprises us entirely.

Then there were a teensy-weensy amount of women who were frank and open. Interestingly, they were intelligent young women. They had experienced a lot of jealousy, bullying and unfair treatment from their female counterparts.

Relief swelled over me. (It’s not just me! I am not a complete loser in friendships – well, hopefully!) My relief was coupled with grief for my friends who had experienced terrible pain at the hands of other women.

Then, of course, there was the non-response committee.

Perhaps they felt uncomfortable talking about personal feelings. For this very reason, I didn’t push people. I assumed for some women it would be too painful and I respected that possibility.

I also concluded that for some women, the subject of my book was perplexing and they wanted no part in it. They did not want to support or encourage my ‘woman hating’ project (ridiculously unfair – I am in no way a woman hater. I’m only trying to understand women and how they behave.).

Or perhaps (I hope this was more likely) they felt they couldn’t contribute in a meaningful way and so they said nothing. They didn’t want to waste my time. They didn’t have enough dirt. They had been luckier than me.

After many more months of silence drifting by, I decided I was pretty much on my own. I would have to wring out the few responses I received and lean on my family for support. Mostly, I would have to rely on my own reflections and personal experiences to write this book. Well, it turns out, lucky for you, I have a ridiculous amount of bad experiences to draw from. But despite having so much personal insight, I knew this would be one of the biggest creative challenges of my life.

For starters, it was never going to be an easy subject for a woman to discuss. It naturally makes females uncomfortable and close down ranks. The lack of responses confirmed this natural reaction. Let’s close the blinds and pretend no one is home, hopefully she’ll bugger off soon enough. She thinks too much, she’s too deep, too emotional. Leave me alone, you freak! Women are always lovely to me, you’re the problem!

Another issue with this book’s subject is that I am going against the widely held belief that women are always nurturing and supportive to each other. Women are the carers. We look after each other and most days hold up the sky. We care for our families, soothe our babies, kiss away the tears. We are in many respects outstanding individuals.

However, females, by their very anatomy, nature and character, are complicated creatures.

Their behavior sometimes contradicts the common rosy stereotype of feminism’s idealistic ‘sisterhood’. Sometimes a woman’s behavior towards another woman is more inhumane than accepting, engaging or fair.

What was really going against me was this notion of sisterhood. The sisterhood myth ensures women keep their lips sealed. To be disloyal to our own team is unacceptable or frightening. After all, we women have experienced years of oppression (mostly at the hands of men); we must continue to stick together.

Understandably, there is the belief that talking out negatively about females is surely wrong. We must boost each other, support each other and minimize the negatives.

Of course, I agree; we should encourage feminine solidarity. It is a beautiful and rewarding experience. It is essential for our social progress that women appreciate and consider other women. We should advocate loyalty and respect other women’s differences. We cannot possibly create positive change in this world for women if we attack each other.

But equally, we must also accept that sometimes women do not stick together. Sometimes women rip each other to shreds in a frenzied verbal attack. Sometimes respect, solidarity and loyalties to one another are far from a woman’s agenda.

With all these conflicting thoughts swirling in my mind, it was clear this book would be a tremendous challenge to complete.

For weeks, I thought I won’t bother. Perhaps it is just too dangerous and I don’t want to make waves. I don’t want to provoke women and I don’t want to plague women with dark thoughts about their own kind. What good could come from this book?

My conscious kept hissing at me. This is stupid. Women will just hate you! They won’t want to admit to this behavior. I stuffed a sock in her mouth. I was tired of smiling and pretending everything was okay.

I said to my over-active conscious – I’d rather tell the truth, expose my female reality, than spend my life pretending that all is rosy in the garden with females, because you know and I know this – some gardens have more thorns than flowers. She pouted and huffed.

I found that when I started writing this book, the words poured out. It was uncontrollable. I wanted to stop, but I couldn’t. Did the truth of women like me need to come out? I’d like to think so. Was it now time to arouse debate and stimulate our awareness of what can go on between females? I thought yes, it probably is time to awaken and challenge our perceptions of women.

And so, despite all my doubts and fears, I carried on writing.

*** And one more sample – this sample shows one of the many true stories about how females can behave towards each other. This story is from the chapter about Jealousy. This excerpt is an example of my personal stories which are throughout the book.

A boy fancied me in school. He asked me out on a date and I took him up on his offer. I didn’t fancy him, but I thought I’d give him a chance and maybe I’d find out he’s a nice guy. I decided not to date him again. After all, I was only 16. I had plenty of time to have boyfriends and he wasn’t really my cup of tea.

The trouble was there was a girl in my year who fancied him. He didn’t fancy her. He was a free agent. When she found out I had went on this one date with him, she and her friends tormented me and made my daily life at school a living hell. They wrote on the toilets, naming me a slag, a slut, a bitch, a tart. They shouted at me, sneered, spat and ridiculed me. They stood outside my classrooms swearing and glaring at me. They launched an active campaign to break my spirit and self-esteem, but most of all, they tried to destroy my reputation. I was a virgin, but their slander was changing people’s perceptions without a doubt. I was made to feel like a leper.

No other girl wanted to be seen with me. I’d try to approach a group of girls and they’d huddle together, shunning me as if I was a dangerous beast. None of those girls dared to look me in the eyes. They all believed the propaganda. No one questioned it. No one stood up for me and told them to leave me alone. Not one person in my year wanted to know where all this targeted hate and persecution was coming from and why.

I’d spend my lunch breaks on my own, often by a railway bridge. I thought, This could all end now, this hell could all end. I just need to jump off this bridge. But I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t do it to the poor train driver, I couldn’t do it to my family and I was too stubborn to allow these girls to take my life. They had my present. They had my present in their hands and they were crushing the very life out of me. But they wouldn’t take my future. I wouldn’t allow it.

I’d walk back to school just before the end of lunch bell rang out. My heart beating, my hands and legs shaking, trying to hide the fear, trying to hold it all together for one more day. When would it end? Would they ever become bored of these cruel games? Would they never tire of tormenting me? How can these girls enjoy threatening me quite so much?

As time went on, the bullying showed no sign of stopping; it had become their daily habit like a cup of coffee or a morning jog. I couldn’t live in fear anymore. I didn’t deserve to be treated like this. I walked straight to the school office and quietly asked to see the school headmaster. I politely asked the ladies at the school office if they could please help me. I told them I was desperate and I must talk with the principal. They must have seen the torment creeping out from my red eyes or they must have seen my hands tremble. They told me to come into their office and sit down. Their compassion caused me to cry a little, but I had to stay strong. I needed to be able to explain what was going on. Thankfully, the principal was a good man and could see what was going on. “These girls,” he said, “have a terrible case of jealousy and it will stop. I promise you, Alana.” The bullying only stopped when he excluded the ring leader.

In the first week alone, 500 books were downloaded from Amazon and with lots of pleasant reviews doing the rounds, Alana has been encouraged to write her second book. Here is a recent newspaper article about Alana’s debut book. Watch this space for more media coverage and new book releases.

In recent times, Alana runs a Google+ Community  for all writers, bloggers and poets. Support-a-Writer offers support and encouragement to all new writers. The members share marketing tips, discuss their writing ideas and cheer each other on. It is a very active and friendly community, do consider joining if you hope to discover new talent or you are a writer looking to connect. You will be sure to receive a warm welcome!

Alana also writes articles for STEEL Magazine. It’s an American multi-cultural life style publication ran by ZAE Publishing. Alana is open to new writing jobs. If you have a blog or magazine and you need a writer to contribute – contact Alana Munro today.

Alana was recently interviewed by ABC Radio. You can listen to Alana’s full studio interview – http://alanamunroauthor.com/about/

Alana’s debut book is available to buy on Amazon and will be available from various online stores world wide this June, with plans to release paper books.

Amazon

Be sure to check out Alana Munro’s Website!

__TEARS___by_Lorelai82

Illustration by Anne Teubert

 

Best Friend

by Vashti Quiroz-Vega

The sun shone brightly on the day we met.
The radiance of your smile promised eternal sunshine.
When darkness loomed I dried the sorrows you wept.
Always by your side, I offered dawn when you suffered stress.
I was gravity, ever-present for each trivial affair of your life.
But when I needed you most, you couldn’t care less.

As I neared my goals, and success was within my reach.
The luster of friendship began to dull in your eyes.
Why do you despise me? Tormented, in my mind I screeched.
You feigned to listen, when all the while
you gathered information to judge me with.
Why the hatred, my friend? Why am I on trial?

When you betrayed me, the skies grew gray and dark.
My heart bled within me as the storm clouds gathered in your eyes.
You held up a broken mirror to show me my heart.
Sodden by the tempest of envy, unable to tolerate my radiant soul.
You set out to drain my spirit with distorted images you presented.
Until one day, in another’s eyes, my heart’s true reflection I stole.

Eerie, cold, and turbulent was the night our friendship ended.
I was too fetching, too clever, too creative for you to love me.
How am I to release my disappointment? Will my heart ever be mended?
Your spiteful squalls tore a hole in my heart, but my spirit you did miss.
Some friends crush you with a cold glare or a hurtful word.
A jealous friend betrays you with a cowardly kiss.

 

Image

Disconnect

7 Jun

Disconnected

Photograph Feel Pain by Mehmet Turgut

 

 

Hello! Welcome to my blog. My name is Vashti Quiroz-Vega, for those of you visiting for the first time. I am a writer of Fantasy, Horror, Suspense and Thrillers. I do, however, have a tendency to mix a little Romance and humor (among other genres) into my stories.
I love art, creativity and beauty, and I know these come in many forms. In my quest to build my author platform, I have met and befriended a group of incredibly talented individuals. Writers, poets, bloggers, artists, photographers and even singers who are masterful at what they do. I feel blessed to have found them, and I would be selfish if I kept the beauty, artistry and creativeness of their craft all to myself.
So for the next few weeks I will be featuring their art, writings, photography and music along with my own work on this blog. I guarantee you will enjoy every bit of it.
In today’s post I will feature the talented writer and poet Glendon Perkins.

 

 

Glendon wrote this piece when he was struggling with a major decision in his life. His writing touched me deeply, as I am sure it will touch you.

photo

 

 

 

Disconnect

by Glendon Perkins

The nurse walked in, said to me, “It’s time.”

My shoulders slumped. I drew in a deep breath, held it, and let it out slow. If I could have prevented the moment by holding my breath, I would have.

I followed the nurse through the door and down the hall. While I followed her through the constricting corridors, I focused on the carpet. There was consistency in the bluish-gray carpet; no change. Soon everything would change.

“Are you alright?” she asked.

I hesitated, trying to find the right words. Were there words that could convey how I felt? I’m not sure. I decided a simple response was best. “No.”

“We could try some other things.” Her face was drawn, as though she’d had a long night as well. “I know we could approach the doctor and find something or someone. We could contact Mayo or Johns Hopkins.” Her voice cracked a few times

I read clearing your throat helps to keep the tears from coming. I cleared my throat, my tears stayed back. “I…I…I th—think it’s b—best if w—w—we don’t.” Covering my mouth, looked away.

She hugs me. We stood embracing for several minutes. I broke away first.  Time to finish this.

We walked the rest of the way in silence. My emotions were wound as tight as a guitar string, and the slightest plucking would send me into a chorus of tears.

She stopped in the doorway. Pointing at a laptop on a stand she said, “Just press the DISCONNECT button. I’ll leave you with him.” She gave my forearm a pat and a squeeze before walking away.

Despite the warmth of the room, I felt like I had walked into an icebox. Shivers raced across my body, my blood cold, my heart solid ice.

I felt cruel. Was I the Reaper, the Angel of Death? Wasn’t I about to do what he did?

I walked further into the room, making a wide birth around the laptop. I looked up at the life support monitors. Several lines showed vital functions with jagged peaks and valleys. Some consistently moved up and down, others were furious with activity, their readings jumbled and mismatched.

A web of wires and tubes crossed each other and meandered around stainless steel poles and computer monitors. A respirator with a white corrugated tube led to the intubation line. White adhesive patches connected his damaged brain to the EEG machine with wires of several colors. The room smells of copper wire and plastic from life-supporting devices.

I approached his bed with trepidation and sat on the edge. He lay in a beige hospital gown, blankets tucked neatly around his waist. Clear tape secured the IV catheters to his wrists. The intubation tube connected to the tracheotomy.

I wrapped my fingers his hand, “Dad, I…” The words lodged in my throat.

Wiping my eyes and running nose with my forearm, I found the strength to continue. “The doctors don’t think anything can be—”

I broke down in rivulets of tears, every pent up emotion over the last three months pouring down my face, my head bobbing with each sob.

I was about to turn off machines that kept my father alive. Would I ever find peace again? Would I wake up every night screaming in the darkness? Would every look I received on the street, at work, or from my family and friends be anything but contempt? Worse, what if my dad lay there getting better and the doctors couldn’t see it? Would my dad forgive me? Would he look at me from the Afterlife and ask me, “How could you?”

As my contemplation threatened to destroy me, a voice from the past spoke up.  “Son, I don’t want machines to keep me alive. I am going to trust your decision. Give me peace when I need it.”

I choked back my despair. I whispered in his ear, “Dad, I came here to give you peace. I love you.”

Looking at his face, I wondered if he heard me.

I stood, walked over to the laptop, and stared at the screen for a moment. I raised my had to the keyboard, fingers shaking, palms sweating. I slowly lowered my fingers to the mousepad…I pushed DISCONNECT.

I walked back to the chair and sat down. I rested my head on his chest, placed his hand on my face, and felt his pulse and respirations slow, “I love you, Dad. May you be at peace.”

Would I ever have peace?

~by Glendon Perkins

 

Please check out Glendon’s links below, and if you like smart Horror with lots of suspense, thrills and chills, you’ll love Glendon’s blog novel Buried Alive. It is a must-read for all you Horror fans out there!

http://www.glendonperkins.com

http://www.glendonperkins.blogspot.com

http://twitter.com/glenperk

Father_and_son_by_Gloredel

Photograph by Marie Gloredel 

 

 

Father

by Vashti Quiroz-Vega

His brown eyes deepened into polished onyx, and upon them came a mist of tears.

He watched with the facade of a brave man as his baby boy entered the world.

As if his mind and body were not consumed by overwhelming fears.

What are my duties? There are no guidelines. Where do I start?

The babe in his arms felt so natural, yet so alien. A fire blazed in his chest.

“You are a father now.” The words were jolting, yet pleasing to his heart.

*

His brown eyes deepened into polished onyx, and upon them came a mist of tears.

He watched with the façade of a calm man as his son toddled, taking his first steps.

As if his mind and body were not consumed by overwhelming fears.

What if he falls? What if he hurts himself? Then I would have failed as a father.

The toddler tottered to him and embraced his dad with dulcet giggles.

As he held his son, it did not feel alien. His heart gave way for love to conquer.

*

His brown eyes deepened into polished onyx, and upon them came a mist of tears.

He watched with the façade of a cool man as his son introduced him to his first girl.

As if his mind and body were not consumed by overwhelming fears.

What if he falls in love? What if she breaks his heart?

He embraced his son and slipped extra cash in his pocket.

As he held his son, it felt like love, and he rested assured his son was smart.

*

His brown eyes deepened into polished onyx, and upon them came a mist of tears.

He watched with the façade of a brave man as his son grew and had sons of his own.

As if his mind and body were not consumed by overwhelming fears.

Did I raise him right? Did I teach him to be a good husband and father?

He embraced his son, and they were swathed by the love they both felt.

As he held his son, his questions were answered, and he grew calmer.

*

His son’s brown eyes deepened into polished onyx, and upon them came a mist of tears.

He watched his father wear the façade of a spent man as he lay on a hospital bed.

His son’s mind and body were consumed by overwhelming fears.

Am I doing the right thing? Who am I to decide when his time has come?

His face dampened with sorrow. He embraced his father.

As he held his father’s weary body and gazed into his dimming eyes, his questions were answered, and he grew calmer.

*

His brown eyes deepen into polished onyx, and upon them comes a mist of tears.

He watches with the façade of a pitiful man as his son reaches for that plug.

He is ready to leave this world and grateful his son has let go of his fears.

As his son holds his ruined body, and he feels the lifeblood drain from his eyes, he knows he has raised him right.

His mind and body are consumed with overwhelming love.

His son has given him the gift of peace, and his happy spirit travels toward the light.

~by Vashti Quiroz-Vega