Author Archives: TheRealTamara

For an opinionated woman such as I, blogging is an excellent outlet. This is one of many fori that I use to bloviate. Enjoy! Comment on my commentary.

Siesta

The air is hefty with heat,
Weighted like blankets that 
Give comfort and shelter in
Colder times, the hot air 
Is distracting but holds 
Everyone's attention, it is
The subject of conversation 
And honored in chit-chats
If I were younger, I would
Notice how languid, and how
Sensual the weight of it was
How the humidity resonated
In every pore, reverberated
Making ripples appear as if
Pressed to my skin, waving 
In the air. I am no longer
Young and the stifling heat
Is no longer reminiscent of 
Long quiet afternoons in the
Cool of sheets, when we are 
Shuttered inside, a breeze
Blowing the curtains back 
Into a pale off-white window
Frame. We are sheltered in
A darkened room, engrossed
In each other, oblivious to
All else, although we feel 
Heat cover us, waving above,
The ceiling fan, noisy and
Intent on moving the heated
Air slowly around our bodies
It is early summer and our
Siesta is mandated at this
Time of day, this afternoon
Hour, it is a reprieve from
The sun's primal insistent
Rays, the heat delivering 
A break from our occupations
Heat heavy with anticipation

Roads most travelled

So I am thinking or am
I streaming my memories
Looking at all the paths
That wound in and out of
My life, running rings 
Not of smoke but similar,
Of nebulae, sparkly and
Low in the sky. Clouds
Have passed overhead,in
The myriad times of my
Life, spilling second by
Second, ticking slowly
As it does, but veering
In different directions,
As life does. We are so
Fragmented by our many
Experiences, exploding,
Unwinding, crawling over
Unexplored territory, we
Start anew at each phase
Of our life's adventures
Every turn is an episode
In a new season outlining
Occurrences, familiar or
Practiced. Life is your
Continuum, as it is mine.
Cliffs left hanging but
Dazzling as sunsets, and
Sunrise, as starry skies

Time enough

I long for time,
Reaching across
The table to grasp
At its keeper, 
As if I haven't 
Enough when time
Is all I have.
Time to think, 
To write, to 
Rearrange memory
There is plenty
Life is a long
Stretch of time
While you live
It. Shortened in
Retrospect, or
Not. There's 
Always enough
There's never
Enough. It slips
Or does it slither
Syncopated by 
The tocks ticking
Away minute by
Minute, its very
Precision a 
Rebuke of time
Wasted, misspent,
Of things not 
Done or undone
Gone in a flash
Lost in the hours
Unsaid or frivolous
Scolding will not
Bring them back,
Restore them.
You cannot keep
Time, it can keep
You, as it passes 
Not just in days
Or hours, seconds
But also in years,
Time holds such
Infinite variety
Its shape shifting
Hold this moment
These moments if
You can as they 
Slip like water
Into decades. 
Into memories of
Times passed, of
Time past.

With every hour

Upon awakening I quote
The Scottish play. Time
Creeps from, I say, then
Interject hour to hour.
Days, I say, are too long
I, whose mornings get 
Away from her, turning 
The corner at noon and
Too soon becoming an after
It's afternoon and where
Has my day gone, what is
It I have done with the
Promise mornings brought
How could it be that my
Leisurely pace sucked
Away the day's breath 
How could it suddenly
Be nearly two and I not
Ready to creep out to
Face the sunshine, I 
Misquote the Bard again,
From day to day, time
Creeps into all my 
Tomorrows. What have 
My days signified

Heredity

We are damaged by
The uniqueness of
Our parents. All
Of us, as they are
All unique, not at
All as we expected
Our parents are as
Different as each
Person is unlike
Each other person.
Our parents might 
Be accomplished or
Just eccentric or
A little unhinged.
We like to think we
Alone are special
We deny them that
Uniqueness we think
Makes us distinct
And special. We want
To keep that for
Ourselves.

There’s a lot going on

Understatements make odd headlines which is to say when you live in odd times, you go with what you’ve got. My source of inspiration for today is the inspiring Heather Cox Richardson’s morning Substack.

In the mire of regime news, ours, Iran’s, Saudi Arabia’s, and so on, we find stories of Ka$h’s bourbon. It’s literally a signature brand of booze for the 9th director of the FBI. But, that is not my point right now. I focus on the irony.

Edgar Hoover, old #1 at the Bureau, came to fame when Eliot Ness and his boys destroyed liquor stashes across America. Apparently, it is no longer prohibition at the agency. (I am well aware that Americans can have their whiskey and drink it too, it’s just a full circle chuckle is all I’m saying.)

The Saudis have dropped the mic on their participation in our Iran bombings. We can’t use their air space for that, it seems. First the Gulf Golf tourneys and now this! Iran is putting out some amusing tweets. The one I read in HCR’s post today was neither blood curdling nor blood lusting. Just referred to the failure of “Operation Trust Me Bro” to win over the regime or open the Strait.

Overhead

The clouds, full of themselves, 
Puffed up like cotton candy,
Looming overhead, more tasteful 
Than that sticky carnival abomination 
The sweet powdery stuff children 
Love and adults allow 'cause it's 
A special day. The clouds are
Always special, gracefully sitting
Overhead, puffed up but not so vain
As to make more of themselves
Than is appropriate and seemly

Once upon a time

You pass, as one does, a
Youthful woman, was that
You, way back when being 
In your twenties was real
Time for you, when walking
Coatless towards a party 
Did not send shivers up
Your arm and your allies
Carried beer and you held
The pizza box, every one
In this group gleeful and
Giddy with anticipation of
A good night out. Are they
All you? Passing time past
On this Saturday street as
If yesterday can be met in
Real time, you as you were
You as you are, a weekend
Stroll into what once was