Black widow

Bitten tongues
Pulling in the urge
To slander loose falsities
That infest my sanctuary
Wrapped in tight jeans and curly hair
Ready to lay open and devour
The libidos of it's victims
Venom dripping from her fangs
Lies spewing from her pouty lips
Dripping poison like a black widow
She dances on the graves of those
Consumed
Drawing them in
With the promises of fuck
I sit, I smile
Knowing it knows what I see
That it's games don't fool me
And when it's disease eats it alive
I will still be standing

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Wrote this back in 2003, ok I was feeling a little vicious. Obviously a nasty tramp that was trying to molest an old boyfriend. In retrospect I should have let her.

Untitled, is that not always the hardest part?

Simmering embers
Heat smouldering in the caverns of my soul
Passion, fire strong, blazing in truths
Hidden by the subtleties of demeanor
Flames doused by proper ettiquite
Pulled back by the invisible force of
What must be
I scream with rampant turmoil bursting
In a voice with no sound
Pealing laughter hides the tears
I'll never cry before you

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I think I was feeling a little squashed by protocol of a certain situation. Not good, perhaps I will tell more someday.

Urges

Perceiving you in silent tension
Aching hands map out your flesh
Your motions both innocent and vulgar
Striking silent erotic pose
Mind reeling in lewd fantasy
Contrast of you, soft and steel
Penetrates, permeates my senses
Watching you, sprawling languid easy
Desire ebbs, flows through my core
Fighting urge to touch, feel, taste
Pull so strong
As hands wrapped in hair
Come now, yes
This love is primal
Your body an act of constant seduction
Your power wholly organic
To see your naked lines
Under the banner of your clothes
Closing my eyes I feel
Your hands touching flesh
Torture in waiting
Constant in craving
Memorized in its intensity
But for one moment of
Blessed release

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Back in 2000 - wow, horny tart.

From afar

As I lay still awash in slumber
I see the face my heart remembers

Eyes of blue that pierce the soul
In ways that only I will know

In waking times I cannot speak
My burning passion, future bleak

Rather I carry through the days
Relinquishing the hold that preys

Upon my inner sanctums fury
Holding tight to forthwith bury

My heart and soul for I cannot
Proclaim the one unending thought

That crowds my memory day by day
And haunts me in my sleep, I wake

With loves name upon my lips
Imagine form with fingertips

And hang my heart for I cannot show
Unquenched desire only I will know

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You know, as I look at this later on, I realize I am not so certain I like it, unsure of when it was written. Ah well, cant be thrilled with everything. Though I like the way it flows.

Fill, a chuisle mo chroi

There is a time a place they say
With hills of green and skies of grey
Where sits a woman on the strings she plays
Of her lost love, forgotten days

Fill, a chuisle mo choi she sings
Passion in her gives words wings
To her tale of woeful things
Lovers caress she gives her strings

The heart that's broken stronger cries
Of love that's lost and broken ties
From the depths, her soul, it sighs
And still she sings her ode to rise

From far away her song breaks through
Caught the beating heart it's calling to
Her sorrow sighs her voice calls true
To find the source away he flew

To follow the call she sent he soared
The simple songs that strike the chords
Of simple folk, ladies and lords
Yet could not find the sad sweet source

From sea to sea, unending days
He labours on, to the Lord he prays
For the girl who in his heart takes place
While under skies of grey her songs she plays


(Fill, a chuisle mo chroi - translates in Irish Gaelic to "return, the pulse of my heart")
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written this morning for a request for a sad song. lol ... Inspired by wonderful music I was listening to today while folding laundry and daydreaming. (a common state I admit - the daydreaming not the folding as much)

Looking through some old poetry

Well it has been a little while since I picked up pen and wrote prose of any kind. Though through some interesting circumstance I find myself pouring through the piles of paper I have, letters scrawled in lazy handwriting, looking for something that is worthwhile.

It is interesting to read things you have written in the past, bringing up the memories of the inspiration, whether it be a person, a situation, a feeling, or a flight of fancy. Sharing them, I find, is a bit of a frightening notion. The thought that someone will glimpse into my thoughts at the time of writing, that they will intimately know the workings of mind at the moment pen hits paper, and the unnerving thought that it will come up rather insipid and uninteresting. And with that notion, I thought I would display a few for all to see, or rather the 2 people who actually read this thing. I will put up any new ones, and throw in some that I have dragged up from times of yore. Happy reading.

(All writings on this page are by Juli Harland)

Just another bloated Tuesday

Well, it is the day after National Turkey Day - Thanksgiving, also known as eat fixings till you lay on the couch and moan with the family day. Well at least that's the tradition in my house. Since as far back as I can remember Turkey Day has been full of far too much gravy and mashed potatoes with cabbage (it's an Irish thing), griping with your fellow family and friends about how you are never going to do it again and next year you will have restraint. Really, how many of us have restraint like that when you have a crazed woman standing over you with a ladel coyly telling you how she slaved over this food all day long just so you can enjoy every last bit of it?

Ah guilt, the emotion that makes the world go round.

But that is what thanksgiving is all about is it not? Leftover turkey sandwiches, turkey stew, turkey pot pie, family you would hide from most friends, friends who get drunk and spill your blackmail material (thankfully everyone else is just as looped so it doesnt matter), way too much food, the feeling that you are going to explode if you eat another bite, and everyone wondering what the hell the purpose of the holiday is in the first place. Woohoo the pilgrims ate dinner with the natives! Is it that big of a deal? We all gotta eat. They all had to eat. Why shouldnt they have eaten together? It is not like they came back from the dead or ate dinner that was cast down from Heaven and prepared by Ghandi years before he was even born. It was a turkey dinner, and they likely had a little native lady standing over them telling them all how she slaved over it all day long and they had better eat it all up. Ahhh .. perhaps that is the answer, guilt. Whatever it is I say it is a pretty good reason for a lot of drinks and far too much bird.

Traveling Pants

Another great rehearsal. The lines were flowing, we all fell into line just at the right moment, there was no worry about the 3 week mark and we all felt fresh as a daisy. Well at least in my world that is how it all looks. In reality...

The rehearsal was getting long and sticky, my throat screamed for a drink of liquid, I remembered that I left my wallet at home leaving me with the bottom change in my purse to furnish the pop that would be my only refreshment at the long awaited bar visit later in the night. Another scene ... Alright .. Not too long now. The group is getting giggly, you could tell it was coming to a wind down. The comments were flying and the air was changing from work mode to that of of the ensuing frivolous nature. That was alright by me. I had already warned the kids I wouldn't be home anytime early and I left the house looking rather cute today (though 3 hours in rehearsal saw to it that I was not exactly sparkly any longer, but I no longer cared much). After a pretty good rehearsal, after all they are always a bunch of fun, it was time to get ready to take off for good company and bad karaoke. What could be better? (ok I really need to get out more) Off I ran to get changed; I flitted, in as much as I can flit really, off the stage and over to where my ... What the hell? ... WHERE ARE MY PANTS???

Lo and behold my pants had mysteriously walked away and left me. No not the "fell behind the counter" or of the "oh here they are, just over the other side of the cupboard" kind of variety, but more of the "oh my fricken god, they are gone!" kind. This created quite the kerfuffle as everyone went on a mad hunt for my pants. hmmm ... People don't rush like that to get me out of the pants. Makes a girl wonder. Regardless, everyone sure was in a rush to get me into them. Or perhaps it was the call of the bar that was causing the chaos. One never knows. The pants never did appear. Though I hear there is an alternate universe that has stolen socks and other gadgets ... I may have to look into that.

So now, clad in my rehearsal skirt and surrounded by comments of not being able to keep my pants on - off we went for another good night at the bar. All in all, an interesting night full of duck calls, Chinese ninja karaoke kings, and vivid diplays of human function. But those are another story.