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She stands on the end of the pier staring at her feet...
the water rushing on an endless journey beyond.
It captivates her.
Inviting to lavish in it's tides....
to feel the coolness as it carries her,
anywhere but here.
Her hair dances out beyond,
her aura spreading ever wider...
enveloping her with the love she's dreampt of.
She's wondered at the lives of fish...
and their freedom.
Now she knows...
where the water goes...
It's bringing her home.
Free.
So.... free.


Copyright H.Boucher 2009

Let Fate Be Parted

Come dance within this sphere of love
Let its tentacles draw you in
and entangle you in a web of desire
You dream of rapture....You pray for peace
Let me be the air that caresses your nakedness
You will beg for the softness of my lips
as they graze longingly over your sweet tenderness
Lie still, my love. and let my body cover yours in an instant
its warmth surrounding you
threatening to submerse you fully into ecstasy
Crawl into my arms and let me hold you until fate has us part
and then relive the memory of my love through your dreams..

copyright H. Boucher 2010

Empty

I've noticed that people want to be heard, and to be known, but do not want to hear, or know.

While saying they want to give... they really are just takers.
Perception is colored by learned experience.
In a sea of people... I am invisible.
I am hesitant to expand on life... as it will just be taken from me in pieces.
My soul, fragmented... held together by unseen substance...the rest grasped in others hands.
I linger here... wondering why.
Choosing to wish or hope no longer...
I stagger forth as the animated corpse I have become.
Not only does it rain on the outside...
it is storming on the inside...
threatening to overflow.
You can look at my housing...
but you will never see clearly into my window.

Copyright H.Boucher 2009

MEN-strual Mabel

Sometimes I have to ask myself why I decided to incarnate as a woman in this lifetime.  I think perhaps my soul may have played a trick on me before shipping me here.  My soul, (which for the purposes of this piece we shall call Mabel) was snickering as she kicked my ass through the time warp knowing full well the torture I was to be gifted with.

For years I’ve listened as women complained about one hardship or another of being a woman, and how easy men seem to have it.  I didn’t think anything of it until I sprouted breasts overnight and earned the nickname “Paper Tits.”  Oh Sir Darrin Freeman thought he was some clever coming up with such a spunky name for  my pre-pubescent mounds!  Really, it made me not feel so bad for stepping on his face as he hid under the teachers desk!  This was to be a first of many embarrassments caused by my female bodily betrayal.

Next on the list from dear ol’ Mabel were the horrendous cramps and vomiting that led to a bloody, drooling vagina.  All I wanted to do at age nine was curl up in a ball and sleep… however life demanded I go to school, the land of the never ending teasing, complete with a winged mouse mattress between my legs.  I am not sure what the true purpose is behind the need to have a period along with all its symptoms, other than
God is a male with an evil twisted sense of humor that no one else gets.

Periods lead to temper tantrums, acne, and being grounded until you’re old enough to get the boot out into the “real world.”    Hormones rage and soon you find yourself wanting to dry-hump everything within reach.  And this is where you really find out what a cruel joke it is to be sent to earth as a female!   Boys are given wet dreams as their coming of age gift.  They get to have hot sexy dreams, perhaps grinding their lil ol boners into their mattress, and wake with an ooey gooey mess in their sheets.  We get the periods, with all the madness they entail for the next 30 years, while these bastards experience a little goo in their shorts, and the toe curling orgasm as well!  Great planning Mabel!  Did I mention I think Mabel is a man?

Periods also lead to wardrobe malfunctions of all sorts.  From making the mistake of wearing a pad with a skirt, and losing it on the stairs only to have a boy corner you and offer it back with sheer secrecy and sweetness, (not my story, but one I have heard over the years) to being the pitcher in a kickball game with half of the entire gym class behind me seeing the big redspot in my jeans that I was otherwise oblivious to.  Or the lovely white jean catastrophy!  The only time you ever see a male have to plan his wardrobe according to some kind of seepage is when his very smart girlfriend slips exlax into his burrito as a form of revenge for all of Mabel’s abuse!

So as the years go by, and the periods come and go, or not at all in cases such as mine, we find out about all the other little quirks of what being a woman means.  First they get the goo in the shorts, then they get the scoreboard of how many girls they bang, while those girls end up being called a tramp.  Sometimes, they are even called a tramp when they are not putting out at all!  The joys of a double standard at work here.  And as if that isn’t bad enough, women learn that life is all about the penis worship.  Male worship of it, that is.  Women get to go without orgasms, until the guy leaves, anyway.  We learn very well how to take care of ourselves, because otherwise we don’t get a chance to since it’s all over too quickly!  We become fantastic actresses!

I won’t even go into the idiocy of childbirth where women trick themselves into thinking that their insides exploding is a beautiful experience.  Just once I’d like to see a man try to give birth and have his member explode like Elmer Fudd’s Acme rifle!!  Oh the pleasure this would give!

Then, just when you’ve gotten used to rolling with the punches… here comes good ol menopause!!  There’s a reason the joke points out that awful experience has “men” in its title!   We feel like we have a rocket ship inside us preparing to blast off from our ass out the top of our heads.  Yet, it never manages to break out of our hard heads!  Just zips around inside there driving us madder.  We can go from committing large scale terrorist acts to being blubbering babies in two seconds.  Top that one boys!!

Men are said to get better with age, and women are traded in for newer models.  I don’t know about you, but even now that I am 35, I still don’t want to see a pair of old, wrinkly balls!  It’s no wonder they yelp when they sit, their balls are fighting to get away from their ass too!!  They get sports cars when they hit middle age, we get botox and labia lifts!  Yep, good going Mabel!

The only satisfaction I get, is watching mens ears as they become satellite dishes off the side of their heads.  I am able to rest assured that they can tune into Mabel with those things, and then fly their asses back to wherever they came from!

I’m not a man hater.  I am just “post-MEN-strual!”

Mabel, when I get back there, I am so kicking your ass!

Blush No More!

An oldie.. but a goodie! Thought I'd share here!


Today I was thinking about my friends teenage daughter, and how she appears to have gotten through her awkward stage. I was wondering if mom finally sat down and said "ok honey, this is how you apply your make up". Make up application is like a rite of passage for all women. And you either get it... or you just don't... or better yet... you get someone else to do it for you.
This made me go all those years back to seventh grade, and my own rite of passage. I wish I could say I glided through it with ease and grace. But it was more like those stories of starting your period while wearing white jeans and having a cute boy make you aware of this grand joke on women. Yes, this too happened to me. But, that is another story. For now.. I will thrill you all with my "cake-up" skills.
I am not sure where I got the stuff. Where on earth did this shit even come from and how did I of all people end up in possession of it? I had some bright pink blush, and green eyeshadow. Now remember this was the 80's after all.. and bright was in. Although it seems to me the in color was blue then... not at all green. But that, my friends did not stop me!
I sat poised in front of my mirror... carefully eyeballing myself thinkin... "Oh yeah... I can do this... and I will be HOT... and the boys will fall at my feet in awe!"
And so it began. I masterfully applied the eyeshadow... not bad I thought to myself. It was on my eyelids where it belonged. Bonus for me. Then came my only other makeup accessory... the blush. Did I mention it was bright pink?
Let's skip the application details, and get right to the juicy stuff shall we? I boarded the school bus that morning, trying to be confident and beaming. As I looked at the faces... I started noticing these little O's spread through the isles. Jaws were dropping... and I thought... "I'm HOT!" Then I heard some snickers... and I'm not sure what exactly the comment was, but it went something like this... "Did you fall into a vat of makeup?"
That's it... my teenage life was over... my hottness deflated like a hotair balloon gone cold....and I said the only thing I could think of. "No, I have sunburn stupid." Stupid truly is as stupid does... since it was January here in Maine... frostbite would be more likely. But... that little white lie came across my lips so many times that day. Swearing on so an so's life that I in fact was suffering from a supernatural sunburn. And ya know... it only dawned on me just this morning... Why the hell didn't I just go into the bathroom and wash the shit off??? Talk about delayed reactions and hindsight.
So, instead of applying a gentle amount of blush to my cheeks, I had applied it to my entire face. A tanned face always looks better. Although... Marylin Monroe certainly pulled pastey white off quite nicely. This got me to thinking about all the women who use this ridiculous item. What is this stupid stuff called blush? I thought blushing was a bad thing. You get teased for your cheeks turning red! Now we want to go around and fake being embarrassed? As if it's not bad enough that women world over are forced to fake orgasms but now we even have to fake embarrassment about it. We really do get the short end of the stick. ;>)
Now ladies... some of you can really apply just enough and look rather nice. For me... I never have touched the stuff since my supernatural sunburn, and I never will. There are others young and old... that still seem to dabble in the art of blush, and fail quite miserably. You've all seen them. The ones that wear a shade that is fifty-seven shades darker than their own skin, skillfully applied to their so-called cheekbones. Do these ladies even know what the hell cheek bones are, let alone WHERE they are? Some of them apparently don't because they just paint half their face from just above the jaw line to just below their lower eyelid. MmHmm.. some sexy.
Never has any woman ever heard a man compliment her on her blushing cheeks. And honey, they may look at that awesome Hot Rod and think to themselves..."That's a HOT paint job... those SS stripes are AWESOME!" They will not however look at a woman with that same thought. Racing stripes do not belong on a womans face... they belong on a car, plain and simple.
No, it does not look attractive... it looks like clown day at the office.
Football players wear stripes on their face because as they are out there sweating their asses off, the sun glints off their cute lil quarter pounder cheeks and then they are blinded and then tackled by that 400lb burrito! Their stripes look ridiculous, but let's face it.. they are a safety measure. Just as you would'nt see me strap a safety cone on my ass to go walking, you will not see me with SS stripes on my face if the sun is particulary bright and it's 180 degrees out.
So... my last advice on this lovely feau-pax.... if you insist on continuing on in the racing stripe regimine... take your butt to the local salon, and have one of those skilled ladies apply it for you! Don't have the time or cash to do it daily... either throw the shit out forever... or they have this even more idiotic application technique... you can have it permanantly tattooed on! We've grown up with unrealistic soap operas... where the chicks wake up all fresh looking, not a hair out of place after a wild night of passion...You no longer have to get out of bed looking like a bedraggled fraggle, You too can have this look! Hell... you can even have a look of permanent suprise etched into your face if that's your fancy!
But better yet... let's all really be women about this. Be honest with yourselves, and honest with your girlfriends... this shit is just plain silly, and looks ridiculous. We should gather all of these ridiculous shades that you wouldn't even apply to canvas... and send them back to the cosmetic companies COD. Simply put in the return address section... 'Dear Mabeline... now the joke is on you'

Copyright H. Boucher 2009

Apologies, Blaming and Dancing with Mirrors

In a new city... with new people, and it's amazing to find the same kinds of games being played.  It never ceases to amaze me at how people will behave and get their feathers all ruffled up when they feel victimized and hurt.  In the last few days, someone I came to respect sort of had a situation and threw it into everyone's lap claiming it to be an apology when really blaming them for said meltdown.  Wanting no response, allowing no one to either console or commiserate, we've all been left playing the worst scenarios over and over in our heads.  Completely baffled, and lost.

My first reaction is always anger.  The more time goes by, the angrier I get.  It started making me doubt this persons motives and intentions, making me not trust what he says or does.  Wondering... does this man truly walk his talk?  I started thinking this is a poor pitiful me attitude, and makes me want to say put on your big boy pants, stop sitting around complaining and blaming, rather than doing something to change your circumstances.

Now, there's where I find common ground. I always try to put myself in the other persons shoes. And although at times it can be difficult, because the shoes seem most absurd, there is always a lesson in walking...  if they are 8 inch stilettos or a simple pair of loafers.

I've been finding most of my annoyance lately with people that sit and complain about their lives. No matter how many suggestions you give, they find ways to dodge them, and find yet MORE reasons to wallow in misery.  They sit complaining, and blaming everyone else for the place they are in until something Divine and purposeful swoops in and forces the changes they've been claiming to want, and spent numerous amounts of time bitching about.

The kicker is... they continue to bitch and moan, and try desperately to cling to the old things that were on their enemy list, trying to justify them, and remold them into something more tolerable and less ugly.  But, truth is truth... and if you weren't happy before... chances are no matter how much glue and spackle you apply... you're still going to be sitting in a vat of shit... only now... you have big gobs of more shit added in for a not very attractive shit collage.

So... as all this was running through my head... dear Oprah's AHA! moment snuck in, smacked me upside the head and left a welt of a handprint! 

I do the very same damn thing!

How many times have I piss and moaned about my weight, my marriage, my sex life, my job situation, and then merely sit around waiting for a miracle to happen that will magically make life a fairytale with lollipops galore?!  How many times have I been so hurt, real or imagined, that I come unglued then hide in silence, afraid of reaction, leaving everyone to wonder what the hell just happened?  It is a rare occasion to take steps to do anything other than vent or complain.  And sometimes it takes me a long time to bring my tail out from between my legs, and show my face again.  I am sure my friends wonder why and scream at me in their minds to shut the eff up and do something already!

It is our choice to sit in our misery, day after day, seeking out validation as to why we are justified to be angry and complain and view life as just another shit sandwich.  I know I get tired even, of hearing myself complain.  That energy would be much better spent on finding ways off the piss & moan carousel.  I've never known where to begin. Too overwhelmed by the mountain of what sucks,  I bury my head in my plastic horses mane, and take a few more laps around the wacko ride!

The sayings,  'the best way to start is just to begin', and 'to start, start at the beginning', are always so damn elusive, and ping around in my brain. Just do it, like Nike.  But what the hell is IT anyway?

Here's where I start with this particular thing on my shit list....

First, I send my friend love.... because ultimately this, above all else is what he needs and cries out for. I also send understanding, because we all just want to be understood. 

While I may not agree with how others handle things, I must respect their process, and allow them to come full circle in whatever way they need. I ask for patience, because everyone's rates of processing are not always the same as mine, and I get that ants in the pants thing going on.  I don't want to be like the baker that continuously opens the oven to see if the souffle is done.... only to have it come crashing down and have to start all over again.

After all, it is their life to live, and I sure as hell don't want to be dictated to on how to run mine.  They can't learn or find their way out of their darkness by someone dragging them kicking and screaming the whole way. Something is always, always missed along the journey.

Instead of being fearful that this is just a ploy to get me out of their life, realize that not everything has anything to even do with me. And to take a step back to ponder just exactly why this whole thing even ignites such a flaming reaction within me to begin with.  Like I just did.....

And found myself staring at my own reflection.... since we are after all, mirrors of each other. 

The things that drive us the absolute craziest in others are the very things our Soul is calling  our attention to within ourselves to heal. While the clothes and accessories may change, the mannequin stays the same.

Voice Mail, Boxes, Trash and Plunders

       It's rather strange to be doing spring cleaning as I'm packing.  Everything feels so nice... making me home sick already.  It's been a rather quiet day. 
      Don't you hate it when you are trying to call someone, you repeatedly leave messages and no one calls you back.  And we aren't talkin about a friend or lover that you've somehow managed to piss off, I'm talking professionals.  Not so professional to me. 
      However, as the day was quiet and I've puttered around putting this and that in boxes, I came to realize that it's really my issue and not theirs.  I need something done, and they too have a life to live, and who knows what's happening with them?
      I've been guilty of this myself...  in fact right in this very moment.  And while I may have "stuff" going on, I really have no excuse for not returning the call. 
                             BUT SO HELP ME!
        If I find out they blew ME off.. hahaha.

       Getting stressed with the move.  That's for sure.  It's getting down to the wire, and we can't find a house.  I am beginning to wonder if they have any normal size dogs in California, or if they are all toy arm warmers? 

        The one great thing though is that we started packing and moving things around WAY in advance.  Normally we wait until last minute and stuff is thrown here and there in a complete jumbled up mess, with things that end up breaking.  And... I get so overwhelmed that my wonderful husband usually ends up sendin me home because he can't stand my whiney crabbing anymore. 

        Here all this time I thought he was being oh so sweet.  Until I got to the storage unit to see what we were going to keep and what to part with... and what did I find?  TRASH!  That's right folks.  I'm not only talking bags of trash, yeah we had those.  But I'm talkin boxes and bags that had clothes um..."packed" on top of old pizza boxes.  Who does that? 

      Now I should say... this stuff has been in storage for oh... close to 2 years. HAHAHAHA!  Guess I wasn't the only one that was overwhelmed.  And I supppose he's still sweet.... I can't say I would have done any better.. I probably would have just closed the door and never went back! 

       Oh well.... better to have gone through it all now instead of unpacking it on the other end.  Could you imagine the movers faces had they gone to re-pack it?  Priceless. 

Maybe I should have left it, just to see their reaction.