Tuesday, July 22, 2014


November 20, 2008 

It may be said in truth in regard to women there is not much any man could say that might be considered truth, but I feel compelled for the attempt. In my life, all the men folk I have encountered were very much the same, and perhaps it is because I have known too few to make a comparison, but no matter be a man a poet, a drunk, a construction worker, or a president, there is a commonality amongst men that defines all of them to their gender. The women I have known in my life have been different. It is easy to define a woman by her trade, as it is men, be she a waitress, an artist, or a construction worker, but each and every woman I have ever known, there is some quality about her that defies explanation, definition, or description of any sort.

With men, the answer to who they are grows more clear each day, but with women the fog settles and lifts. The light within blinds and then grows dim, yet rarely burns steady on. To love a woman is to love this about them or it is to never love at all. To demand a woman not be this way is to demand of the moon to chose to be sliver or full, bright or dark, yellow or silver. To demand of a woman is much like making demands on the moon, a man can only hope his demand has guessed what it is she desired, and make believe his will bent her so.

The only common quality of the Sisterhood of women is that of magic. It is the magic to heal, to sooth, to excite, to silence, to confuse, to determine, and to bring forth in any man everything that might have ever been good in any man. Not for money, nor fame, nor glory, nor material gain, nor life itself will any man be shaken in the manner the love of a woman will fling him forth. No threat of death nor pain of torture would haunt a man more, or hurt a man worse than to lose the love a good woman. Not in this world, nor any other I have heard describe, is there any heaven greater than that found in the eyes of a woman I have loved.

No labyrinth of ancient fable, or dark cavern of deepest earth, or forgotten glyphs of forgotten civilizations have ever confused and befuddle me as a woman's silence. Like some incompetent wizard I have cast spell upon spell, words upon words, and effort upon effort at easing some woman's sudden refusal to converse with me. Perhaps it is the effort itself she sought, but if that is true I cannot say for certain. This day she is done with me, and all her actions say so, yet the sun comes up tomorrow and nothing was ever wrong.

There is much I might write in consideration of a woman's body for neither man nor nature has yet to match such beauty in any creation. If there is a sight more beautiful than a female human in natural nude I cannot speak of the experience of seeing such. There is no science of humankind that can describe the curves and lifting of a woman's breasts, the downward growth of her legs to Mother Earth, the eternal light and ice of her eyes, the purity in sculpture of her hips, and the absolute stunning grace of the body in her entirety that every woman in some way possesses in whole. Dance was invented with a woman's walk, I am sure, for there is such a rhythm that demands music. There is a grace in a woman's simple act of breathing that in and of itself, is enough to take the breath away from a man.

The only common quality of women is magic. Every woman I have loved, or sought to love, or even loved for only a very short time had this magic, yet I have never found that magic twice. Each woman arrives on this earth with something about her that total defines her as a sister to all women, yet a stranger to all men. No woman I have ever held, for ever how long I held her, did not first hold my heart in her hand, or at least her eyes. From my first kiss from a young girl to the last woman who set my world afire, there has not been one moment of my life when some woman did not, or could not, hold sway over me. In each and all of them, in women I have known, women I have loved, women I had gazed upon in distance, women I had read, watched, studied from the long dead past, and of those I will never know, I have in some way, worshipped them all.

Take Care,



  1. Polishing your fiction skills I see.
    Waxing poetic to impress some lady friend… maybe even a lady enemy?
    Balderdash, there’s two kinds of women, those who like dogs, and the others. :o)

    1. November 20, 2008, Bruce. Someone asked me to repost it.

    2. Doesn't matter, you wrote it and I stand by my comment.

  2. Well, it does stand to reason that if a women doesn't like dogs she isn't going to like me either.