Private Moments #56: Heart Locked Away

private moments in paintings & poetry
Private Moments #56: Heart Locked Away
Poem by Jennifer Kiley
Painting by Jk McCormack
Post Created 1st April 2014
Posted On Monday 7th April 2014
PRIVATE MOMENTS INSIDE PAINTINGS & POETRY

Private Writings: Chapter #56 — I’ve Had To Lock My Love Away

temptations to wonderland (c) Jkm 2014

Temptations to Wonderland (c) Jkm 2008

“For that fine madness still he did retain,
Which rightly should possess a poet’s brain.”
~Michael Drayton~
(1563-1631)

hands reaching out into rain

Heart Locked Away
Poem by Madison Taylor
30th September 2008

Heart locked away
In a dark hidden room
Few knew the entrance
Words protected its opening

Long ago ages upon a time
A tale of amazement was unfolding
Riches were stored away protected
Untouched wrongly unraveled through temptation

Possessing objects not your own
In sight of vision but securely protected
Without the owners permission
It is certain torture for the outrage

A definite sentence of death to follow
For the one who lusted perversely
Upon the head of the prisoner
Both shall die beheadings at dawn

Insane tales end badly

© Madison Taylor 2008

candle flame flickering gif

Maze

garden waterfall private gazebo overgrown 4pmip&p “Doorway to a Place of Enchantment”

* * * * * * *

“Creating is having the courage
to allow the seer into the private
moments of our imaginative lives.”
— JkM the secret keeper
aka Jennifer Kiley McCormack

* * * * * * *

Private Moments #49: Too High On Love

private moments in paintings & poetry
Too High On Love
Private Moments #49
Poem by Jennifer Kiley
Painting by Jk McCormack
Post Created 7th February 2014
Posted On Monday 17th February 2014
PRIVATE MOMENTS: PAINTINGS & POETRY

Private Writings: Chapter #49 — Got To Get You Into My Life

'safely dangerous' by madison taylor (c) mtaylor 2008

‘Safely Dangerous’ by Madison Taylor (c) MTaylor 2008

hands reaching out into rain

Too High On Love
by Madison Taylor
8th July 2008

Too high on love
Go smashing
Feel the pounding

Trusting hearts
Drawing closer
Time expanding

Arms covering
Warmth spiraling
Blood arousing

Bodies combining
Spirits crying
High waves surging

Minds touching
Mouths whispering
Fires smoldering

Out of minds
Fantasies flying
Not disturbing

Curiosity soaring
Censors flat-lining
Eliminates controlling

Flesh melting
Skin glowing
Bliss achieving

Too high on love
Climb higher
Depths are expanding

Awaiting the closing

© MTaylor 2008

candle flame flickering gif

Maze

garden waterfall private gazebo overgrown 4pmip&p

“Doorway to a Place of Enchantment”

* * * * * * *

“Creating is having the courage
to allow the seer into the private
moments of our imaginative lives.”
— JkM the secret keeper
aka Jennifer Kiley McCormack

* * * * * * *

I Believe

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA
I Believe
Written by Jennifer Kiley
Painting by Jk McCormack
Created 11th January 2014
Posted Saturday 11th January 2014
POETRY IN TONE

I Believe
By Jennifer Kiley
11th January 2014

I believe.
I believe in you.
I believe in art.
I believe in love.
I believe in imagination.
I don’t so much believe in reality.

I am more into fantasy.
What one imagines
Becomes real.

Yet,
Isn’t imagination
Something we create
From out of our dreams
And fantasies?

You are real
But also feel
Like the best part
Of my imagi-nation.

You give me
Such gifts
In your words.
Stating their reality.

If all becomes
A dream,
One after the other,
Or always
Was a dream,
And we continue on
Through our dream world.

Who decides
When to
Change it?

Loving to create.
Imagining something tangible
In my mind
And placing it
Before me.

Trusting others
To share it.
To be kind.

Trusting myself
To know
When it is complete,
Or when it is time again

Something new
Might be created.
The creating is
Not known
Until complete

And even then
May continue on
Into a new form.

Creating.
Knowing
When the time
Is now.

Keeping
The sense of the real
Alive
And
Remembered.

The fine line
Ravels on
Its own.

I think the pain
We feel
Are memories
Of being opened up
To waking nightmares.

To torturers
Who find
A weakness
In the flesh
And leave
A lasting
Memory.

One
Of those
Memories
That last too long
Beyond forever.

The side that feeds
Creativity,
Is the Muse,
Who becomes
The filter,
Deciphering
What to let through
And at what place
In time
For something
To be revealed.

In your own
Special way,
You have helped
Giving guidance
Touching down into
A safe landing.

The veil
Is being lifted
The sight
Of a vision
Streaming
Through the mesh

When it finds
A receptive being
To listen,
Hear, see,
Absorb, interpret,
Recreate in their own vision
And express it freely,
As it wants to appear.

It guides us
Somewhere
Within the mind.

Sleep is calling.
In sleep
We meet many
New things,
New happenings.
Ways of communicating
Within states of mind
Not in our control.

When asleep,
Don’t we give away
Our control?

Trust sleep?
Trusting sleep,
Is that safe?

What does
Sleep do
To any of us?

Do we know
Where we go
And can anything
We dream
Take us away
From our life?

A curious response.
Will read after I wake up.
Love to know what I write
After I am awake again.

© JkM 2014

love leaning - artist jk mccormack (c) JkM 2014

Love’s Ripple Dreaming – Artist Jk McCormack (c) JkM 2014

Shall I Compare Thee to a Summer’s Day

poetry out loud - day title saturday
Shall I Compare Thee to a Summer’s Day
Shakespeare – Sonnet XVIII
Video Discovered by j. kiley
Post Created on Saturday 16th November 2013
Posted On Saturday 23rd November
Happy Birthday Gran Emily 133 yrs b. 23rd November 1880
POETRY OUT LOUD

Sonnet XVIII – Shakespeare – Shall I Compare Thee to a Summer’s Day

SONNET XVIII

Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer’s lease hath all too short a date:
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimm’d;
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance or nature’s changing course untrimm’d;
But thy eternal summer shall not fade
Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest;
Nor shall Death brag thou wander’st in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou growest:
So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,
So long lives this and this gives life to thee.

Blooming Blue Flowers for Emily with Love

Blooming Blue Flowers for Emily with Love Jk

Poetry Out Loud: Funeral Blues — Four Weddings & a Funeral

poetry out loud - day title saturday
Funeral Blues
W.H. Auden
from: Four Weddings and a Funeral
Post Created by Jk the secret keeper
Post Created on Saturday 2nd November 2013
Posted On Saturday 9th November 2013
Poetry Out Loud

Funeral Blues – W.H. Auden – Four Weddings & a Funeral

Funeral Blues

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message ‘He is Dead’.
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now; put out every one,
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun,
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

© W H Auden. All rights reserved
No Copyright Infringement Intended

The Wednesday Poetry Corner with Dr. Mary Annie AV

the secret keeper:

“Do not stand at my grave and weep, I am not there – I do not sleep. I am the thousand winds that blow…” Mary Frye [1932] One of my favorite poems. Dr. Mary Annie A.V. did a lovely & meaningful presentation on death & life. Meeting the end of one and entering the beginning another. Which is which? It is the ultimate Question. Tagore states in this post “…When one dies one lives.” I wonder myself if this is true. We all know death is in front of our time here. No one is ever really told when, even if one is gravely ill, the time is not given to us in an exact moment. Some say they feel it approaching. It is a grand philosophical question, poets, artists, writers, songs, express death, love, life, probably the most popular content of most art, these three subjects, but death is the one that haunts us the most. Reading this post has opened my mind to thinking about it in a poetic & philosophical way. It is something feared & expected & needs someday to be faced, in some manner or maybe not for some people. Is it better to be surprised or to be the poet and examine it through divine words of comfort & see it as an uplifting end to pain & a beginning of life as we all are meant to experience it fully. Great post. Love that you brought Mary Annie A.V. to us Niamh Clune. She has a very unique way of expressing such a delicate subject to many. Her choices in poetry and poets are so familiar to me. I feel all will enjoy & find a comfort in reading all that she has offered to us. by Jk the secret keeper Jennifer Kiley ps. Two poets I didn’t mention that Mary Annie A.V. writes about are Emily Dickinson and Sylvia Plath, who, also, write about death. “Dying / Is an art, / like everything else. / I do it exceptionally well. / I do it so it feels like hell. / I do it so it feels real. / I guess you could say I’ve a call./

Originally posted on Plum Tree Books Blog:

It is with great pleasure that I introduce a wonderful new Indian voice to our Wednesday Corner. Dr. Mary Annie A.V. writes with depth and passion about the subject of Death ~ a subject that has long-fascinated poets and philosophers throughout history. Thank you Mary for being our guest on the plum tree today and for sharing your profound thoughts on a subject that is often not spoken of.

Speculating…

By Mary Annie A.V.

My earliest memories are those of reciting Mother Goose’s Nursery rhymes, which perhaps influenced me to write my first prize winning poem ‘My brother’, at the age of five. However, I guess it is in the Psalms of the Bible that I by-hearted, that I found my sense of language, rhythm and the sheer magic of words. I have always been fascinated by life, death and eternity. The mystery of life and death and eternity makes…

View original 435 more words

i carry your heart with me

poetry out loud - day title saturday

i carry your heart with me
by e.e. cummings
Post Created by Jk the secret keeper
Post Created On Sunday 6th October 2013
Posted On Saturday 12th October 2013
Poetry Out Loud

Edward Estlin Cummings (1894 — 1962) was an American poet, painter, essayist, author, and playwright. He was born in Cambridge, Massachusetts, USA. Cummings’ poetry often deals with themes of love and nature, as well as the relationship of the individual to the masses and to the world. Modernism prevailed major part of his work.

I Carry Your Heart With Me — e.e. cummings

[i carry your heart with me(i carry it in]
by e. e. cummings

i carry your heart with me(i carry it in
my heart)i am never without it(anywhere
i go you go,my dear;and whatever is done
by only me is your doing,my darling)
                                                       i fear
no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want
no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)
and it’s you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that’s keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)

About my Very Tortured Friend, Peter

poetry out loud - day title saturday About my Very Tortured Friend, Peter
Written by Charles Bukowski
Post Created by Jk the secret keeper
Post Created on Friday 27th September 2013
Posted On Saturday 5th October 2013

Poetry Out Loud

About my Very Tortured Friend, Peter by Charles Bukowski [read by Tom O'Bedlam]

About My Very Tortured Friend, Peter
By Charles Bukowski

he lives in a house with a swimming pool
and says the job is
killing him.
he is 27. I am 44. I can’t seem to
get rid of
him. his novels keep coming
back. “what do you expect me to do?” he screams
“go to New York and pump the hands of the
publishers?”
“no,” I tell him, “but quit your job, go into a
small room and do the
thing.”
“but I need ASSURANCE, I need something to
go by, some word, some sign!”
“some men did not think that way:
Van Gogh, Wagner—”
“oh hell, Van Gogh had a brother who gave him
paints whenever he
needed them!”

“look,” he said, “I’m over at this broad’s house today and
this guy walks in. a salesman. you know
how they talk. drove up in this new
car. talked about his vacation. said he went to
Frisco—saw Fidelio up there but forgot who
wrote it. now this guy is 54 years
old. so I told him: ‘Fidelio is Beethoven’s only
opera.’ and then I told
him: ‘you’re a jerk!’ ‘whatcha mean?’ he
asked. ‘I mean, you’re a jerk, you’re 54 years old and
you don’t know anything!’”

“what happened
then?”
“I walked out.”
“you mean you left him there with
her?”
“yes.”

“I can’t quit my job,” he said. “I always have trouble getting a
job. I walk in, they look at me, listen to me talk and
they think right away, ah ha! he’s too intelligent for
this job, he won’t stay
so there’s really no sense in hiring
him.
now, YOU walk into a place and you don’t have any trouble:
you look like an old wino, you look like a guy who needs a
job and they look at you and they think:
ah ha!: now here’s a guy who really needs work! if we hire
him he’ll stay a long time and work
HARD!”

“do any of those people,” he asks “know you are a
writer, that you write poetry?”
“no.”
“you never talk about
it. not even to
me! if I hadn’t seen you in that magazine I’d
have never known.”
“that’s right.”
“still, I’d like to tell these people that you are a
writer.”
“I’d still like to
tell them.”
“why?”
“well, they talk about you. they think you are just a
horseplayer and a drunk.”
“I am both of those.”
“well, they talk about you. you have odd ways. you travel alone.
I’m the only friend you
have.”
“yes.”
“they talk you down. I’d like to defend you. I’d like to tell
them you write
poetry.”
“leave it alone. I work here like they
do. we’re all the same.”
“well, I’d like to do it for myself then. I want them to know why
I travel with
you. I speak 7 languages, I know my music—”
“forget it.”
“all right, I’ll respect your
wishes. but there’s something else—”
“what?”
“I’ve been thinking about getting a
piano. but then I’ve been thinking about getting a
violin too but I can’t make up my
mind!”
“buy a piano.”
“you think
so?”
“yes.”

he walks away
thinking about
it.

I was thinking about it
too: I figure he can always come over with his
violin and more
sad music.

The Secret of My Endurance

poetry out loud - day title saturday
The Secret of My Endurance
Written by Charles Bukowski
Video Poem Read by Charles Bukowski

Post Created by Jk the secret keeper
Posted On Saturday 28th September 2013

Dedicated to C.D. for Guiding Me
To
“The Secret of My Endurance”

Charles Bukowski reads The Secret of My Endurance

The Secret Of My Endurance
By Charles Bukowski

I still get letters in the mail, mostly from cracked-up
men in tiny rooms with factory jobs or no jobs who are
living with whores or no woman at all, no hope, just
booze and madness.
I get most of their letters on lined paper
written with an unsharpened pencil or in ink
in tiny handwritings that slants to the left

and the paper is most often torn
usually halfway up the middle
and they say they like my stuff,
I’ve written from where it’s at,
they recognize it truly, I’ve given them some
chance, some recognition of where it’s at.

it’s true, I was there, even worse off than most of them.
but I wonder if they realize where their letter arrives?
well, it’s dropped into a box on a wire fence
behind a six-foot hedge and a long driveway
to a two car garage, rose garden, fruit trees,
animals, a beautiful woman, mortgage about half
paid after a years residence, a new car-
two cars,
fireplace and a green rug two-inches deep
with a young boy to write my stuff now,
I keep him in a ten-foot square cage with a
typewriter, feed him whiskey and raw whores,
belt buckle him pretty good three or four times a week.
I’m 60 years old now and the critics say
my stuff is getting better than ever.bluish daisies

Private Writings: Chapter #27 — Getting to Know You

private writings to a psychoanalyst (c) Jk 2013

Private Writings: Chapter #27 — Getting to Know You
Written by Jennifer Kiley
Illustrated by j. kiley
Published Introduction & Chapter #1
On 19th March 2013
Published Early Tuesday AM
Posted 24th September 2013

WARNING: ADULT LANGUAGE AND CONTENT.
NOT SUITABLE FOR CHILDREN.

ALL CHARACTERS ARE FICTITIOUS.
ANYONE RESEMBLING ANYONE LIVING OR DEAD
IS PURELY COINCIDENTAL.

Crypticistic Synopsis:

I am writing to Dr. Annie Haskell. My form of storytelling is through
letters containing dreams, thoughts, poems, music, describing my script
“Brief Sacrifice,” already made into a film but not yet released, psycho-
therapy, inspirations, reflective comments, the inner workings of the mind,
soul, body, emotions, and bipolar. I prefer mentally creative, interesting, or
having a brain misfiring. Included in the mix are childhood abuse, car crashes,
near drownings, drugs [the illegal kind at present], hallucinations, hypersexuality,
time warps, finding answers to unsolved mysteries, infatuation, imagination, fantasy,

and a need to discover my bliss.
See you inside.
Namaste! Madison Taylor

Private Writings: Chapter #27 — Getting to Know You

Tuesday 25th March 2008

Dear Annie,

Last week, I told you I felt your participating with Dr. George in pulling off his coup, to get me into a closure session with him, which I swore I would never do, he used you like a pedophile uses candy. It appeared to me after the fact, you both had conspired. After I heard in my head my accusation, I realized you were above his manipulations. I am truly sorry for even giving any credence to anything so outrageous.

It was so difficult to tell you I made a mistake. Saying I am sorry. Not my favorite choice word to use or do. Usually, if someone fucks up, they are gone from my life. No second chances. With you, I realize it has to do with my mother. She fucked my mind up with her sadist games. Made me the Apologizer.

I don’t want to behave in reaction to the way she made me feel, which was beaten down and pushed away. Inside of me, I felt I needed her. To get her back on my side, it was important I apologize until she forgave me. Groveling was the pattern. No more. I will not kneel like a slave and endure her form of humiliation.

Love is not meant to be as she made me feel it was. Something perverse and punishing. You don’t hurt someone you love by beating them into submission. To make them afraid of you. If they wanted your love, you had to obey them. Follow their orders and never stand up for yourself. Everything was in their control. My mother controlled everything. What I was allowed to know. I had to go to her just to get the basic things I needed to function as a human being.

I wasn’t supposed to know anything about my body. She tried to prevent me from attending a learning session about sex and reproduction at our school. I was too young to understand what I would be learning because she never told me a thing about sex or life or love. She was just abusive.

Her abuse, I have figured out over the years since I left my family and her behind, was grounded in sadomasochism. She was my master or mistress. There are supposed to be safe words to make the dominant person stop. We didn’t have one. She would beat me or whip me. It often was whip to naked flesh. It ripped my skin and made me bleed. There was no pleasure. I gave no consent. It was all her.

Never was there preparation for her abuse. She would corner me where she found me. We were always alone in the house whenever this would happen. The weapon of choice for any given day was always in her hand, prepared to strike. Her yelling accompanied the blows. When she stopped, it was never the end. I would be crying. This made her turn the beatings more violent. Her threats would come in shouting the words, the same words over and over. I knew them by heart.

“If you don’t stop crying, I will give you something to cry about.”

It was always the same. What more could she give me to cry about that would be worse than what she was doing to me. Humiliating me. It was often and always when no one else was expected to be around. No one would have protected me anyway. They were all abusers. I was their slave. My place was arranged so I would be there for them whenever they wanted something from me.

The detail are too difficult for me to write down. I will just say, my body did not belong to me. It was used by everyone. I hated it. I didn’t like what it made me feel or what it made them do to me. Inside of me are stored memories I have buried deeply. In my nightmares, symbols of the abuse are alive and haunt me when I attempt to sleep. It is why I avoid sleep as long as I am able.

My honesty, I hope does not turn you away. It is awful to feel and to say the words to you, the descriptions makes me ill. I can’t eat. Putting anything into my body repels me. Nourishing myself is keeping me alive. When I am alone, I think of death. Some would find my thoughts to be crazy but I am not. If the feelings come back, and I begin to cry, I will never cease. Life will pour out of me in the tears and the ground will absorb my energy. Dust is all that will remain.

Losing love is like death. Losing life is less painful. I want love but I am afraid to feel it. It will cause me pain for a moment of joy. My emotions flip over so quickly. They take me by surprise when I am feeling happy and so suddenly, I just want to die. Feeling suicidal is sweet. It is not as horrible a place as most believe it is. Being held in the arms of your guardian angel, protecting you, so you are not totally alone in the darkness set upon your soul.

It makes me think of the group member who was murdered. I feel she was even if no formal announcement has been made. Dr. George could well have done it. She was a bitch and possessed with her power to seduce. I think she was a bit of a sex addict. It wouldn’t surprise me if I had the same problem. So many people I have had sex with, no love involved. It wasn’t even enjoyable. And believe me when I say, I have no idea why it happened. Other therapists have told me it is a manifestation from the abuse I endured.

Why am I telling you this? It is so fucked up. Why would anyone want me? I am a broken toy, not even able to be played with, just used up and thrown away. Why shouldn’t I want to throw myself away as others want to do? It seems a trend. No one wants to take the time to make things work. It is a throw-away world. We are all cast aside and if not, we are forgotten where we are supposed to feel love.

I am depressed so quickly. Maybe it hides and tricks me into believing everything is alright, when it isn’t at all. The world has fallen apart. “The End Is Nigh.” That I what the signs say. They carry them around in all the big cities. Everyone waiting for the world to end or be bombed to death. No one knows how to get along.

Some know love and share it. It is something I want to do. To be loved and to love in return. To feel music when I am kissed. To be able just to feel the kiss, the touch of lips touching gently together. Is that too much to desire? To know what an honest, loving touch is without wanting to back away. I wonder what that is like.

I shouldn’t say I’ve never felt it. it isn’t true. There was someone, I felt extremely close to. We would sleep together without any expectations. No one touched, unless it was accidental. But what a lovely accident it would be. It allowed me to be free. No pressure was put on me to experience anything I didn’t want.

I never learned how to say stop and have it mean anything at all. With her, I wanted to learn how to say, “Don’t stop.” Now, that is a scary two words to think or to say out loud. I never learned how to do that either, I wish I could have told her how I felt and what I wanted. She knew but was as shy as me. People frightened her as well with all their demands on her. She was so beautiful and popular.

What does popular mean? It seems a strange state to be in. These are very heavy issues. So much to talk about and to learn. I wish I had someone like you as my mother. You speak so softly and calmly. I didn’t even mind when your hand touched my shoulder. It happened the time we met for our first session. You came out and I was so far away inside my mind. The music led me beyond the clouds. Maybe I was on the way to Neverland to escape facing you. All the time I wanted to have time alone with you to speak privately. My secrets are too dark to share with other people around me. Even alone, I am terrified at saying aloud what I just finished writing. It is too embarrassing and I feel so ashamed.

I know you are going to ask the questions and you are going to want to know the answers. They don’t exist in my conscious mind. My unconscious mind, however, it quite fertile with depths of secrets it holds for me. The secrets live in the dungeons of my deepest, darkest labyrinth. Hiding around a corner I have found yet.

You need to hold my hand and walk me ever so slowly through the dark. Until we meet each secret separately. When we talk about them, we must find a way for me not to lose myself inside. I fear I would be lost forever.

This is the beginning of the extremes of my confessions. Time to change directions.

Speaking of time, a brief update on my film script. The Friends of Nikola Tesla need to guard his secrets carefully and their own identities as well. There is an organization who are in pursuit of the secrets as well. They know the secrets are hidden and intend to find them and when they do, they will be destroyed. On the side of good, the Friends are in constant danger of discovery. The holder of the place where the secrets are held, each one separately. Tesla was not about to put them all together. He spread them out, in different locations. But there is more to where they are hidden then just knowing that piece of information.

Carter McLeod holds the key. But she has no idea what it is yet. Soon she will find out. When it is time, I will reveal what I know to you. It has to be kept between us. It would spoil the film if it ever got out. I’ve told you way too much already, but feel the secret will be safe with you. Being my therapist, aren’t you sworn to hold what I say to you in confidence? It is the only reason I would be able to share this with you. Not just the script but the secrets of my life I don’t wish anyone to know.

I kept my family a secret from the world and the rest my life, also. There are so many buried stories, it would make a priest want absolution after hearing my confession. Or is it really a confession? It’s more confessing for the sinners rather than the sinned upon.

It’s time for me to stop. We have far too much to sort through already. I will bring this letter to our next session. It should blow the lid off somewhat, and the light can set fire to the sins. Next, after a break, I want to write you a poem. It may hold within its words an understanding I really do not see at this moment of honest clarity.

I bid you a great week, as I sift through what may have been jarred loss by my writings tonight.

I am so amazed you are finally my therapist or analyst. Whichever you prefer.

Fondly, your client in need of you,

Madison

Annie Haskell --- Madison Tayler's Psychoanalyst's Office

Dr. Annie Haskell’s Office as a Psychoanalyst

Somewhere In Time – John Barry

calla lily bouquet framed

rain in garden gif

Heartbreak Deep
Written by Madison Taylor
25th March 2008

Heartbreak touches deep
Expectations protection
Never abuse foreseeing

Kneel down forgiveness
Wall impossible to scale
Borders blocked denied entrance

Wait hear not sorry
Disappear rather than stay
Closed doors rejection complete

© madison taylor 2008

Antaresheart --- Explosion of the heart

Antaresheart — Explosion of the heart

“A Dream
The beginning always starts out
With a dream.
It is all a dream
In our own nightmares”
— Madison Taylor

Patrick is our Bengal cat in tree. He loves Scotties. They are buddies.   1612x1212 Patrick-our Bengal cat up in his tree-Scottie’s buddy

Havana Brown Kitten  Madison and Scottie's kitten One of the Two   800x600

Havana Brown Kitten Madison & Scottie’s. This cutie is Toker. He has a twin brother Mikey

English Country Gardens Chateau de Rocher framed English Garden Chateau de Rocher

play is not just play meryl streep