Friday, November 10, 2017


Shameless-A Poem

By Miriam B. Medina (C)


It was twelve o'clock, the usual time
She came bouncing through the cafe door
Her full breasts stretching her blouse,
Skin-tight pants, high heels, dressed like a whore.
She felt quite nifty at age fifty,
As the men ogled her a long time
She was the center of attention among the younger,
Even those now long past their prime.
She liked how the men admired her,
Offering to buy her coffee every time…
To some she was their Goddess, to others a cougar,
To the Stalker, she was simply a dangerous whore.
Day after day he watched her and waited to see her
From his usual table, twenty paces from the door.
He noted her movements, he watched her from behind
He pictured her naked; her body deeply etched into his mind.
He was reeling with an erotic feeling,
He chose to indulge, not ignore
He longed for her to heat his body, dripping sex from every pore.
The cafe was alive with conversations taking place
Young lovers holding hands, dreamy smiles upon their face,
She ordered her seafood salad and a cold glass of tea
The old man in line behind her winked and said:
"A moment of your precious love is good enough for me."
She giggled and walked away to find a table,
So the Stalker approached her and asked,
"Can I share this table with you so I can eat a bite?"
She looked up at him; the blush left her blanching cheek
He stood there waiting for her to answer,
While his spirits sank and his limbs grew weak,
She seemed to know this man from somewhere,
Which made her feel nervous and scared.
She didn't know quite how to respond; her thoughts were oddly impaired,
Something was odd and amiss, but of what, she wasn’t aware.
Her hands shook as she stabbed the salad, taking an oversized bite.
She continued to nibble, even though she had lost her appetite.
She was starting to feel a sense of nausea, pushing her plate away
Since she was no longer hungry, there was no further need to stay
She got up and walked out, her figure looking well-formed and slim
She always managed to look fashionable, even for her daily trip to the gym.
The Stalker followed wearing glasses, a false mustache and a cap on his head
He knew her apartment and workplace, so followed her to the gym instead.
She turned her head to see if anyone was trailing behind
She kept looking over her shoulder, paranoia commanded her mind.
He watched the way her hips swayed, as she walked quickly to the gym.
Following very slowly, he knew those hips were meant for him.
He was starting to feel horny; as his hunger became strong for her body
He decided soon enough, he would take her to a private party.
He wanted desperately to explore her luscious lips
He yearned to feel her passion under the touch of his fingertips.
She arrived at the gym and quickly changed into her bikini
Drawing looks from every roving eye.
She wished she could drink several Martinis
A nervous wreck she was, but couldn't understand why
She jumped into the pool and took her swim
While the angry stalker hid behind the hatred lying within.
She got out of the pool beckoning a man to bring her a towel
He was there by her side in a few seconds by and by
She asked for his name, he replied Richard Powell
She quickly patted and started to rub herself dry,
She asked Richard if he would get her a coffee, black
Then coyly handed him the towel to wipe her back
The Stalker became insanely jealous, clenching fists while nostrils flared,
She suddenly turned around, feeling incredibly scared.
The Stalker mentally called her a "Dangerous Whore."
Adding that soon he would settle the score,
He said, "Your day is coming closer, you pompous whore."
I am reeling with feelings that you just choose to ignore.
I'll be there in the evening before the sun goes down,
Before you have an opportunity to put on your nightgown.
Enough of all this seductive dressing, of teasing men suggestively,
You are mine and only mine, and that is how it will be.
He left in anger, walking as fast as he could
He kept saying, "How can something be bad when it feels so good.”
He reached her condo and hid quickly inside
He had a hunger for her, which he could not deny
Her sandals slapped the ground as she ran speedily home.
It was a place where she felt safe even while living alone
She stepped inside examining each room,
She just wished she could relieve this sense of doom…
No signs of forced entry, so she undressed to take a bath
Still feeling tense and nervous, oblivious of the oncoming wrath.
Meanwhile as she bathed the naked Stalker waited for her on the bed
The more he fantasized, the more his sexual appetite wanted to be fed.
Suddenly the sound of the water stopped
When she opened the door, she was in shock
"OMG! It's you, No, this can't be," she started to shriek
He quickly grabbed a rag and from the bed he managed to leap
Giving her a backhanded blow across her face
He shoved the rag inside her mouth,
To keep her quiet in case she should cry out.
He threw her on the bed, quickening his pace.
He tied her hands to the headboard behind her
As he slit her wrists he called her a shameless whore
"Your number is up; it’s time for me to settle the score."
She felt his manhood throb, as he pumped his seed unmercifully into her;
He fell upon her exhausted and saw she was still alive
He asked himself vaguely,
‘How long does it take for her to die?’
Her breathing was becoming shallow,
Her lungs were fighting desperately for air.
Rejection is always hard to swallow, and often hard to understand
He said: "Life did not turn out exactly the way I had it planned."
At that moment, his logic, his human reason, was completely gone.
"Oh Well," he plunged the knife into her chest; saying
 "Now there is nothing left of you to tease or to look down upon."
Whatever he did he felt no remorse.
He had no regrets as he took her by force.
He quickly dressed and left, as the cougar lay murdered,
A corpse dripping blood to the floor
To everyone, she was a goddess. But to the stalker,
She was merely a shameless whore.



Sunday, January 29, 2017

Writer's Block-A Poem

By Miriam B. Medina (Copyright)

Am I poet, or am I writer?
I just can't differentiate between the two.
Sometimes I'm good with poetry,
There are articles and short stories I also like to do.

Every so often writer's block visits, my uninvited guest,
Hindering the writing process, that usually flows at its very best.
Self-doubt creeps upon me, self-worth drags me down,
The more I try to write, the larger the paper mound.

The plot gets too twisted, leading characters too grotesque,
My story becomes too dark altogether.
Eventually one thing leads to another, and
There you go, a day's work for the house-keeper beneath my desk.

A habit was forming, watching pages get crumpled and thrown,
Undeniably it's a sad journey in creative writing,
All writers must travel alone.
No matter how much I try, my waste basket keeps getting filled.

Oh woe is me, what a waste of creative time,
I've gone from skilled to feeling unskilled.
Writer's block makes me angry; inspiration doesn't come quick enough,
Words that once flowed easily freeze, making it impossible to strut my new stuff.

I'll try my hand at poetry; maybe I'll be lucky then,
So I can put an end to this writer's block and sweetly say amen.
I've searched and searched for rhyming words,
Fluttering all around inside my head.

My mind keeps getting twisted, unemotionally fed.
Thoughts that keep me from sleep and a comfy bed.
Screaming to be released, requesting to be heard.
All trapped inside like a miserable caged bird.

Some of these words are wise and linger,
They're the sweetness of fruit, why should I hinder?
Others will take me to heights intense,
Everything is possible, yet together do they make sense?

Ugh, poetry in whatever shape or form does not inspire me,
It's written in a way to confuse and ruin my tranquility.
So where do I go? What can I do?
The answers were there, which I very well knew.

Play background music, burn scented candles,
Slip away to a quiet place and walk.
Visit a crowded cafe, sip coffee, and
Hear some interesting gossip talk.

Nothing is wasted, that is for sure,
For writer's block, there is always a cure!
So back to my keyboard once again,
The time I spend there, will not be in vain.

The Bully

By Miriam B. Medina(Copyright)


There he stood,
6 feet tall
All large and strong
In his head covered hood,
The bully of Roanoke High
Pompous Bastard,
Who does he think he is?

His face like stone
Flexing his muscles
Rubbing his fist
Proud as an eagle
He was the King of his turf
Surrounded by his subjects
All following him, like his shadow.

Ever in search of prey,
Many trembled when they'd hear his name
Or pass him by in the hall,
Not one battle did he yet lose
No matter how small or tall in size
I'm the King, he shouted with glee
He snapped his fingers,
And the gang drew near
Their eyes following the direction
Of his finger.

Coming his way
Was a short, thin boy
As he came closer, he looked at the group
The King noticed his eyes were slanted
He raised his hand and ordered the attack
The gang jumped on him and knocked him down
They kicked him in the face and body
They grabbed him by his backpack
And dragged him over to the king.

The King punched him in the face
Blood squirted everywhere
He cried "stop, stop; you're hurting me."
The King suddenly threw his head back,
Roaring with laughter
"Beat him up again," he commanded.

Like puppets they did his bidding
The gang kicked him and punched him some more
They threw books at him
His face was all bloody as he lied still on the ground
Just as the group turned to walk away
The young Chinese boy managed to get up and run
He was hurting, badly
He said if I don't get out of here
They will kill me.

The young Freshman kept running
Until he got home feeling safe.
He was scared, he screamed and banged on the door
His mother opened the door and saw her bloody-faced son
He collapsed in her arms.
She was hysterical crying "What happened?" she said.
"I don't know Mama. I was on my way to school
This gang attacked me.
I don't want to go back to that school," he said.

"I will talk to your Uncle Henry."
"He is a Martial Arts teacher; I know he will help you."
"How can he help me, Mom?"
"He will make you strong and show you how to defend yourself
Against many."
Peter listened to his mother.
He went to live with Uncle Henry and changed schools.

For three years he trained day and night with Uncle Henry.
Practicing techniques, improving his skill.
Uncle Henry was pleased With Peter's progress;
He worked very hard
Now Peter Chin was ready.

He went back to Roanoke High to even the score
Waiting to meet the King eye to eye.
Once again the King appeared with his followers
And spied the Chinese boy
"Hey, that kid looks familiar," he said to his gang.
"Isn't that the kid we beat up three years ago?"
"Where has he been all this time?"
Peter stared back boldly at the King.

The King felt jittery
The gang began to circle the young man
Peter only had a stick in his hand.
Do or Die rang in his head
The King laughed out loud
"Get him," He shouted.
One by one Peter knocked them down
Only Peter and the King were left,
All alone.

The King lunged toward Peter
Trained well, Peter moved quickly
Giving him a Karate kick to the chest
Leaving him breathless on the ground.
There he lies, alone, humiliated and destroyed
The once upon a time
Bully of Roanoke High.
Peter turned and walked away.