Myself

Whenever, I start writing I know I am giving a piece of myself. These ideas and thoughts bubble to the surface like air does when forced underwater. With every word I write, I know that someone...somewhere will be inspired. Whenever I write I share something burrowed deep within the vessel of my body, almost like a journal. The thoughts of my inner most self put on display for many to view.

Something of my inner core moves something in myself, I find that words can't help but pour from me. They form complex and simple phrasing that makes me crave the need

to write even more.

I can't stop myself.

The Hour of Waking

I know you will be reading this soon upon your waking

and feel that before our secret meeting that I say to you.

I love you forever, I like you for always

Together forever my cowboy you shall be.

I love you.

Something Like a Secret

I can't stop the aching pulse between my ribs, not even my own breath is safe

my mind and thoughts and ideas aren't either.

Whenever I actually stop to think you are always on my mind

whenever I lay in bed at night and hear the soft notes echoing from the radio, I think of you.

I glance at the clock and wonder if your eyes are wondering the same direction.

I stare at the night sky, my thumb imprinting the moon,

I know you are doing the same, no matter where you are the moon is always as big as your thumb.

I know that with every breath and exhale I am exhaling a piece of you. I can't escape your presence.

Though I am content knowing that I am bound to you in more than just the physical aspects...you actually care. When I ask myself about your connection, I find I do do not care much, to understand it...just as long as you

remain

forever branded

within my soul.

Fall Behind Your Eyes

He looked so different. I never really observed the way he mouths the words to lyrics that mean

something to him. His lips mold each word into a language that becomes his own. His eye gaze at me

with with something sparkling deep within him- a soul maybe- something that makes him even more

desirable- more desirable then the glitter of the stars and the dancing of the moon.

He was different as soon as the song changed and the lyrics replayed some flashback from both our

pasts...how could I forget the gentle caress of his hand across mine and the deep cowboy comfort of his

 sleepy voice. The heat from both our bodies makes the car hotter than the air streaming in from outside.

 Mostly from the steam of the late night hot tub rally with friends. But, maybe something a little more

with body chemistry and late night hormones. It's silly how my brain over-thinks the most simple of

meetings but, he was different and so was I.

It echos still within the everything we touched- the car seat, the windows, the hot tub, the hand that held

 mine. I can't take any of it back and either can he, our meeting is mirrored across the heavens in some

twisted propaganda scheme, but angels won't lie they know the truth. I can't take any of my actions or

his away for I don't want to...it would be like erasing the feelings that shook in the moment that he was

different.

Fine Line Aura

I look at the sky and wonder. Wonder at the purest shade of blue. I look at the sky and try to envision a world without this shade. Would the night not know when to turn the darkest of blue? Would the stars simply lose their shine?

I look at my skin and wonder. Wonder at the wrinkles that fine lines of wisdom tread. If our skin remains unchanged will our body not know when to change from mere childhood to adolescence from adolescence to adulthood to adulthood to elderly? Will we remain unchanged? Will our knowledge become a one page memory?

I look at the sky, I look at the water flowing beneath my feet, I look straight ahead, I look right at you and see....

eternity one that lives behind the stars, the nova, the milky clouds around the stars, the foam above the ocean, the sand caressing my toes, the soul breathing within your chest.

Picasso's Abstract

I have to admit falling in and out of love was not part of my agenda anymore. Chasing after handsome boys that played even the smartest of girls and the boys that were a little too committed to the relationship. I was done, it was like growing out of a bad habit, it was a pain to deal with an it was so easy to fall back into. But I was done, looking for this abstract idea of love was taking up too much time in my already clustered life. Love, can't be searched for, and I learned that the hard way. Searching for a needle in a haystack sounds too cliche, searching for a star across an already dying galaxy---doesn't sound much better. Point of the matter is that men have already wasted years and centuries searching for a piece of romance that isn't a tangible thing. Men have slaved away lifetimes believing that love was like catching a rare form of a butterfly, but their nets had flaws and holes that could not catch the butterfly. Searching brings about disappointment especially when one sets their expectations way too high. I was being stupid and over-thinking, but I wasn't about to waste a perfectly healthy lifetime looking. Life isn't meant to be searched for but lived and breathed upon. Now I am just rambling, perhaps not making any more sense- head filled with country songs and a conscience haunted by a past full of ghosts. Love, I have been hurt by this so called miracle of the human race.

Until it all happened by accident, like a child walking in upon christmas presents, or a couple slipping under some hidden ice and speeding out of control to a destination they hope doesn't end in death. Accident, he was a friend, someone I only knew by name. I knew nothing about him, I thought nothing of him, thinking that this night would again be left with a given number and no phone call in the morning. But boy was I dead wrong. Maybe that's what people mean when they say love is unpredictable along with God- he works in mysterious ways to bring joy to our lives. I fell, but it felt right for a change and still feels right---with every day that I live, breathe, and walk with him.

Maybe love is not so abstract after all.

Ribbons

I remember the first time I saw him, cowboy boots and all. He didn't notice me at all to intent on the competition. I was the competition. Three years he has taken home the big blue ribbon. I am just a rookie at this playing field, but competition is still competition. He would race his horse the hardest no matter his chances. Even looking back now my focus was not where it should have been, being my naive self thought I could pull out a win and see him eating the dust of my horse.

I was being stupid, all the mistakes for some blue ribbon and a bunch of flowers that would wilt by the next competition.

He couldn't win this time, I wasn't going to let him, barrel was my bread and butter; he wouldn't know what hit him. Speed, that's all I needed was speed and lots of it.

I was careless. I pushed my horse to hard, not only would I pay the price, but she would too for a stupid blue ribbon.

His number was called first: I saw his horse before I saw him....a paint. Typical.

His control and respect for his horse and his limits was unmatched by anyone else that went before him, he knew his horses strengths and weaknesses and helped his horse move past them, incredible is what the judges said, outstanding is what everyone else said. I will beat him is all I thought.

My turn came faster then expected

Coming out of the gate was the last thing I remember, speed and rounding the barrel...then nothing. I don't remember hitting the ground or even falling off the horse, it was just dark, no pain, no noise, no light.

I would find out later when I came too what happened.

My horse had fallen and crushed me in the process, she was alright but not the limp rider that dangled from the saddle, she pulled a muscle of some kind and I got a lot worse. Broken femur, collarbone, wrist and a fractured skull.

Looking back I do remember, I remember feeling my bones shatter as if they were toothpicks, I remember the pounding in my head and the intense agony that flowed across my whole body. Blue, blue everywhere, the sky and the ground. Both blue, the shade of the ribbon, blue. I remember being freed from the saddle that my boot was tangled in, I remember only his face. The boy that had gone before me, his face, he reached me first. Unlike the others that surrounded me he focused only on me, not my mistake. He rode with me to the hospital and stayed by through all the surgeries.

We became close friends and later something more, he doesn't see me for my mistakes; instead seeing my scars as a way of healing, he has taught me so much more than anything I learned through racing with my horse. So many things I can't even describe. Today, even though he sees my fear and knows that I might never ride with horses again he understands. As he did in the competition that day he is helping me overcome my weaknesses and reach the limits of my strengths. He knows nothing of how I long to be in the saddle again without him sitting behind me, he has no idea that his positivity and patience is training me to be better than the worth of a blue ribbon and I can't ever pay him back. Though with each step closer to my goal I know that I already am.

No Reins

The story of the west most people say is written by the saddle of the horse, but what would men know about something that they tamed. The wild west. It's not a story written for men or by men, but rather by a voice that most modern day cowboys and ranchers take for granted. Wild horses, mustangs. Those that can't be tamed, that through the miles they have traveled, the sunsets they watched and sunrises that ended really know the spirit of the west. Wild horses no nothing of limits, unlike their ancestors that were broken, these horses that walk without the companionship of a boot beside it know that the west was never won, that the west remains untamed as long as their spirit can't be broken. Wild horses. Run.

Painted War

Words scratched in an ancient tongue

Hidden upon scroll upon scroll

Secrets buried behind to save the revolution

It's the cause the cause

If found the cause would die

People among burnt ashes

Corpses pressed to ardent

Marrow of roots

The cause the cause

Your sons

daughters

wife

murdered for

the cause

Revolution of a king

of an empire

Corpses soaked in rancid

water

hoping to soak the last secret

for the cause

the cause

no victory within sight

Indigo

Today I woke up and felt different it had nothing to do with the change in the month or the warmer temperatures. Today was just different. Being away from the city you tend to notice little things like that. How, the noise of rushing cars and shouting people doesn't echo through these fields. It's funny, how this country air affects people. People like me that is. Funny how wrangler jeans and cowboy boots change us deep within without us realizing it. Funny how the smell of horse dung and hay provides better therapy than the pills downed at home. Funny how when atop a saddle it feels as if nothing can break the bond between horse and rider. It really is silly, especially coming from the mouth of a city slicker. You would hardly recognize me. I tread side by side with bronco, mustang, mare, or stallion and they tread by my boots and spurs. We share a connection that I don't understand yet.

Indigo. Indigo Skye is what I call him, the horse that changed me. He was nothing but a wobbly colt when things turned sour for me, I wouldn't meet him till some years later.

I remember our first meeting, he glared at me with his brown eyes, I wore designer jeans, red heels, and a very expensive silk top. I was downright City, if you know what I mean. I gave him the glare in return making my assumptions that there was no way in hell was I going to ride him. I didn't have any choice in the matter however. Ma and Pop and sent me to Grandpa's for a reason and I wasn't getting out of it anytime soon. Grandpa introduced us, just a gangly three year old he was and with no name. Grandpa said it was up to me and the horse to decide. Though at the time, I assumed he would offer no help this dapple grey horse was supposed to have a personality? and feelings? No animal could have feelings- it was just an animal or so I assumed.

He changed me and I won't soon forget it, he changed me so much I never returned back home but stayed with Grandpa and Indigo. I still stay even if it is the end. Even though grandpa has moved on to greener pastures and Indigo now spends most days waiting for those pastures. My kids are growing and even care for their own horses, but they don't have that bond that me and Indigo shared. Today they still don't know the whole story of us, but seeing how my days are numbered, I don't want our story forgotten and left unspoken.

These are the memoirs of a city-slicker cowgirl and one not so Indigo Skye