Drowning Above Water

Turbulent waters soothe the gypsy, calming and evoking blue myth mystery. The maudlin, tumultuous sea, her wishing wells of fragile glass trinkets, forgotten treasure, and pools of sunken love, long discarded. The ocean and her black ink mystery whisper in tongue, tales only I can decipher. The beach house perched precariously on a bluff, is blurred and out of focus. Drifting farther and farther from reach, I am flailing and kicking. I scream sea bubbles trying desperately not to

Buried In A Beach

I didn’t start out like this. I was a goddess, a fearless warrior eager for the unchartered. I was happy at birth, an easy smiley baby; always trusting, overly naïve. I took for granted that kindness was around me. I grew up, acquired the hate and problems and stuff and distraction. I do not want to live in any old house with four walls, filled with rules and regulations and

Looking Glass and The Windowpane

Looking Glass and The Windowpane By Jacqueline Cioffa Let’s face it; there’s no fooling. The sagging skin, the wrinkled face, the ridiculous forty something woman in short skirts and bottled-up Botox. The gravitational pull and the eventual flight back home were booked in advance. You already hold the winning ticket. I recognize the faces in the street, the fear, the familiar grimace and disgust at the sideways glance in the

Forever Betrothed To The Night

Forever Betrothed To The Night By Jacqueline Cioffa The rotten apple bobs atop the pond scum drowning and dunking under the sweet, brown silence of murky still waters. And me, I understand. In tune with the dark, the death concept softens the breath in an instant. My heart does not skip nor quicken under the harsh white rays of a chilled, September sun. It is calmed and quieted, intoxicated by the still-birth possibility. The

The Highway Halfway Mark

The Highway Halfway Mark  by Jacqueline Cioffa I wonder, I do. I cannot help but wonder what’s down the road from the place I have ever truly called home. The wood and grass and nails and bolts, the wet familiar dew smells and giggling baby sounds.The joy and the sorrow. I can’t help but observe and wonder. The funny, peculiar, crooked way of seeing the world that is all my own. The structure has cracks, fissures

37 Windows ~ home & family matters

Sifting through blog posts working backwards I found this. Family memories shift and time changes but the love can never be deleted and a home not a house never erased.   37 Windows by Jacqueline Cioffa My parent’s house has 37 windows and countless memories. It’s the home my Mom grew up in. I know every nook and cranny; I’ve heard all her childhood tales. It’s the 37 windows that her father,

Liquid Angst ~ Jacqueline Cioffa #StolenMoments #Poetry

Liquid Angst By Jacqueline Cioffa Jan. 2005 You are the one Constant My forever Miami man My moon, my sun, my tsunami Amongst devastating destruction you are the storm in my soul My liquid angst But at least I love you To know that I really love you Quietly with a certain steadfastness 20 years full and counting That’s really something …hold up, that ain’t right the year is 2015  the

Waiting on Oprah: Never Quit Your Dreams

Waiting on Oprah I close my eyes and can almost see the perfect fairytale life I envisioned in my wildest dreams. Dear Fantasy (Oprah), “I feel that I am a very fortunate person …” I was fifteen. Fifteen, gawky, wickedly uncomfortable in my so called ‘model frame.’ Somehow fifteen was the perfect age to concoct wild fantasy adventures and the fastest way out of a stifled, small town. There was

Gypsies and Pixie Dust

Gypsies and Pixie Dust By Jacqueline Cioffa I exist therefore I am, mistakes and imperfections one and all. I don’t want to be considered an artist. I want to be thought of as a student of art. I want to ingest the human condition, live and breathe it. I want to eradicate all traces of ego and relate. I want to roam the globe and hear the stories, while not missing out on the neighbor

White Boots and Freckle Faces #StolenMoments #TuesdayShares #Poetry

From time to time you’ll see Stolen Moments show up on the blog. Words forgotten and misplaced, poetry, anticipatory memories, prose, joy and sorrow, pensive emotion, random and not so random thoughts scribbled in tattered notebooks. To not forget but remember the precious, fleeting stolen moments in time. I’m a writer trying recapture on paper how it feels to be alive. White Boots and Freckled Faces Jacqueline Cioffa 1998 Where