Tag Archives: love

It’s valentines day…

And you want me to do what with it.
I’m so over valentines.
Sure when we were younger, way younger and new to this whole love caper, we did the odd bit of Valentines lovey stuff.
These days, life has changed.
We’re older, still married, more in love than ever, and have teenage kids.
But that shouldn’t stop you, I hear you say.
True. Nothing should stop you really.
But why should it be just one day only.
Why not show each other every day.
The eldest is celebrating his first valentines day.
And in a few days, the first anniversary.
And where is hubby.
At home, but not.
He’s off on a bike ride with friends.
But even if he were at home, what would we do.
Maybe go and have coffee. And that would be it.
Not flowers, no chocolates, no surprises.
I used to work for Hallmark, so I’m over all the ‘seasons’.
It was fun, but it wears thin when you’re working a season 6 months ahead of time.

I say do what ever makes you both happy.
But women, give your man a break.
Expectations, mind reading and high maintenance ideals.
Get back to basics. Does he have to try and win your love all over again.
If you’re truly still in love then it should be something that happens daily.
In the small things.
The hugs, the kisses, holding a door, paying compliments. Easy stuff.

Have a great day whatever you decide to do and may it roll into a wonderful weekend.

Ps. It seems I am a day ahead of myself. Oops. It can stay, one day won’t change much.


My Mad Monday – misc.

It’s more of a productive Monday, with me settling in to do all the computer work that needs to be done but is frequently put aside for better more fun things.
Unfortunately, there is always something that needs to be done on the computer, and no matter how productive it is, I feel I could be using my time better elsewhere. Sitting around on the laptop can be quite counter productive.
This morning I’ve got the ‘get up and go’ happening. Starting with two and half hours doing good stuffs with 2 coffees, then a shower, bowl of cereal and pop this post up to keep you, my loyal legion of fans, happy for another day or so while I get onto the other important stuffs. And I was just told that tomorrow I will be out most of the day with hubby attending to other business.

One of my laptop jobs is going through my drafts folder in each blog and doing a tidy up after I cleaned up my spam yesterday – finding some lost people in the process, sorry about that, it’s pretty scary in there.

Enough on that, so without further ado, here are a couple of creative writing pieces I found. The first from a friend back in College, 1991 when we were 17/18, the second from yours truly.

“You say you love me”
You say you love me,
but I’m not so sure.
I saw the way you looked at her
my heart went through the floor.
You say you don’t care for her or her love anymore,
but your eyes are filled with love and affection for her.
I can’t stand it anymore.
You say you love me
but now,
I’m not so sure.
Selina Kubach, 18/5/91

‘Home on the moor”  Edited briefly as I wrote from the original.
Hand in hand they strolled across the moor, warm against the icy wind in thick jumpers and scarves. Woolly beanies keeping the chill off their heads. Pausing to look backwards, they can see the river, winding like a snake through the rushes, green and brown, glowing in the sunset, waving in the wind. A place of great beauty where wild animals roam, and flowers bloom blending sweetness with the rugged vastness.

Further on wards they walk, pushing against the wind, the sun dips below the horizon and darkness settles in. They know this path,, they walk it every day, yet when the fog settles in, quite suddenly it seems, they feel isolated and lost.
The path gets steeper, as they wind their way around the lonesome hill. Their house sits at the top, perched precariously against the rocks. The fog lifts as quickly as it arrives and the sky is dark and clear.
The wind picks up, and they stop near a tree, to huddle and watch. A lone hawk circles, searching for prey, anything that might brave the weather.  He leaves with empty beak and the pair continue on their way.  A darkness comes over them, darker than the night, and looking up, they see the shadow of a storm cloud that promises a war upon the earth.
An eerie silence envelopes them as they make the final dash to the front door, the calm before the storm.  As the door is closed, the fury is unleashed and the tin roof becomes a source of thunder with the rain, lightening fills the rooms with light for the briefest of seconds, over and over again.

Finally, after what felt like hours, the storm subsides and passes on, they sneak a look from their window. The river is bulging and trees are down. The moor resembling more a war zone than a place of endless beauty.


Picture from this awesome website here
Now, as another of my friendly bloggers would say, time for another coffee!
Happy Monday 🙂

A short story – Love

Another off-the-cuff short story.

The anticipation was too much. She had waited too long for this moment, and keeping the tears in check was proving difficult. Although they had only met twice, they shared a pain that not many would understand. A shared experience. And a friendship that would last, no matter what.
The first time they met, he had come to her and they had talked. A lot. Some sight seeing. You know the drill. Visit someone’s home town, to get to know them, you have to visit their haunts, take the time in their playground.
The second time, she had visited him. A lot more talking. Theirs was a friendship that was solid. A deeper connection was made. They both knew. But were they both in denial.

It had been six months, they had spoken every day. But nothing would seal the deal more than being together.
They both knew it. But were never sure if they could admit it. They needed what the other could give. But was it too early. The conflict played on their minds. Happiness vs loyalty to the dead.
To admit was to open their heart, to face the possibility of rejection and pain. But in their hearts they knew it was right.

Walking in through the arrivals gate he glanced around, out of habit (checking out those waiting) rather than because he expected anyone to be there for him. He hoped, but wasn’t sure if she would reciprocate.
The place was packed, and he knew it would be a long process just to get his bags. This airport was renowned for being haphazard and slow.
Not knowing quite why, feeling something calling to him, he looked up, and straight into her eyes. Across the hall, she stood out like a beacon to him, and he knew coming back was the right thing to do.

He lifted her into is arms, and as their lips met, they knew this was where they belonged.


Jennifer 🙂

A dedication.

Time marches on, and so it comes round again, that hubby has gone to work. He flew out this morning (still in flight on the first leg, as I start writing this) for another stint overseas. I find this term vaguely funny, because while technically it is overseas, he needs a passport and visa to travel there, it is only a 3 hour flight from Australia and in the same time zone. He will be doing two week blocks, and this makes it easier but also harder.

After speaking to several people, some of whom are in the same position we are with FIFO husbands, unless you have been here it is really hard to understand how someone could do this. As I’ve said before, it takes a certain kind of person/relationship to be ale to do it, and not everyone can. But then I also believe a lot of people should give it a go for a couple of months and see the changes in their relationship – hopefully for the better.

Granted, 12 years ago, well before we moved to Queensland, we would not have survived. Time, new circumstances, a bit of wisdom thrown into the mix, and a better understanding of us and our relationship and we have found we love it. It suits both of us, and the benefits are pretty good too. (I’m not talking about the money here either).

This brings me to posting another poem I wrote when I was 16. I have changed it slightly, re- writing parts and leaving others out. But this is how I feel, today and every other day he flies out.
I love you babe, keep safe 🙂 ❤

His gravelly voice,
So, sexy and serene,
Probing thoughts, hidden desires.
The time comes, of desires never felt or thought of before.
So strong, so sensual.
That all things cease, and a deep warmth emerges.
Taking over the body,
Those feelings are aroused, building, growing.
His voice continues, to caress my mind,
I melt in his eyes and succumb to his pleasures.
Pleasures like I've never known, I feel so complete.
Nothing will stop me.
He can't deprive me, any longer.
I live with desire.
I live for the pleasure.

I am watching him.
He swims, lazily.
I look into his eyes, and melt once again,
Although the water is cold,
I do not notice, through the heat of our bodies.
His eyes are smoky, and full of desire.
No secrets are hidden, I know what he wants.
Because I want it to.

This love. So warm, so tender.
Beautiful, passionate and all mine.

Hope you like it,
Have a great day 🙂


I’m not a writer. Really, I’m not.

Have you ever had one of those moments where you remembered something you did in high school English class and then, knowing it is still in the house, you have to hunt it out. I did that today. I’d been thinking of this particular thing for at least a week, but tried to push it to the back of my head. I didn’t really want it to go away, I just didn’t want to deal with it. And in all reality there is nothing major to deal with. A particular poem I had written in high school was replaying in my head – like an ear worm – and I had to find and deal with it.

After we had moved into this house, I had all these boxes of those sentimental things from my youth recovered from storage. Glancing quickly through them I realised I should put them inside, and that’s when they start playing on my mind.

I finally sorted those boxes today, 2 years later. And had a few lots of cringe moments upon reading them. Amongst all sorts of newspapers, old photos, and the school magazines (one day I may show a picture of me, back when I had pigtails and glasses), I found what I was looking for. My memory serves me well, I knew the folder as soon as I saw it. And what it contained. Those papers proudly labelled “manuscripts” and story plots, a few really bad short stories and that pile of poems.

My teenage mind worked in very strange ways and if I recall, even back then I had no idea what I was going on about. If you ask me, I will deny everything, not that there is anything to deny…. Although, if I channelled it and had enough coffee, I could probably work some magic now.

But I am not a writer. No offence to my writer friends (you know who you are, I love you all) but it seems every man and his dog wants to be a writer these days. I am not a writer. Sure I loved English, and the creative writing sessions, but I have no inclination to write and publish my works.

For me, blogging is completely different style of writing to wanting a book published.
Writing is a form of release, a state of emotion, a conversation. Some of us are really good at it. Able to put meaning and emotions into a small space. Others, not so good. I try and get it right half the time. It’s one of the reasons I keep the blog going. Writing, sharing my thoughts, my life.

This first poem is vaguely amusing in its obscureness. As I read it to write, I am already re-writing it in my head. If you ask, I may put the revised version to page.
I see this relating to all the blogs out there, the plethora of voices, everyone calling out, wanting to be read, liked, enjoyed.


Converse, talk, blabber,
Yell, shout, curse,
Whine, moan and complain.
Flat tone.
Long, monotonous,

Boring, tedious annoying or funny.
Hilarious, frightening or warped.
Bubbly, chirpy, happy,
Songy, wiggly, wobbly.

Morosely, mad and zinging.

Sweet, mushy, sloppy
Thick, slimy, messy and slow.

Shrieking, drawling, crying,
Gravelly, sensuous and low.

High, horrid or hungry,
Big, beautiful or bountiful.

Panicked, preoccupied and plentiful.

Just remember. I am not a writer. I am not a writer. Please let me know your thoughts on this strange little prose, all comments, good and bad, are welcomed.

Jennifer, at 16. 😉