Jenna: The Woman, the Writer

456043-1440x900-[]Today, Jenna’s stories are published in big named magazines and even by bestselling novelists; however, her successes in writing occurred by trial and error.

Twenty years ago: A lovely woman of thirty and a psychotherapist, Jenna’s profession is a wonderful resource for short stories and even novels; however she is not a writer; nonetheless, the thought often enters her mind. Then during a counsel a patient shares an interesting tale.

For the past three years, Charlie secretly romanced a prostitute and then fell in love with her. Falling in love with a Pro offers him a comfy spot but only on Jenna’s couch. Charlie’s steamy, sticky love life is exciting and unknown to him his therapist uneasily sits.

Although a Psychotherapist, Jenna too is a woman; the tales Charlie weave thrill, and excite her and she anticipates every session. Once, Jenna’s professionalism and imagination struggled for ground. Ending each session begins Jenna’s search, she hungers for difference, newness, excitement. One night she absentmindedly listens to a TV broadcast, something the guy said alerts her. “Good storytelling requires special abilities, a person must show the tale without telling it.”

Because her technology permitted playback Jenna replayed the comment multiple times. How does one show a story without telling it? The question drove Jenna to research, she was surprised by her findings. Years of frustrations, anger and failure ended in a tale of setting goals with workable objectives, relishing the fruits of laborious trial and error, and professionally, she advises that her accomplishments are achievable by anybody.

Jenna writes under a pen name.


The Burning Match

Finally, they are able to love; life is strange, it offers no excuses for hurt but sadness is without rules and has no boundaries. For as long as he can remember she has held his heart; and without his smile she feels lonely. Today, and while thinking of her: a poem about two lovers excites Tony; and tonight, Julia offers him everything. Love is wonderful although at times devastating…but not this day not this night and not for them…anymore.

Sweethearts of pain
But they find love
On salty seas
Under stars above

Into his eyes
She stares so deeply
His waiting arms
She melts completely

Her heavy heart
Begins to swell
Oh secret lies
To ever tell

These few moments
An eternity
For them all
There could ever be

In his eyes
Her only world
In her smile
The perfect pearl

His tender fingers
Her body touches
Her love torn soul
His rapture clutches

With panting breaths
And willing tears
Their lifelong truths
And aging years

A long lost fire
Lights the dark
The burning match
Finds its spark

Her lovely mind
Becomes his home
Inside his heart
She is never alone
© 2008 Delbert H. Rhodes

My House

934405-1440x900-[]The years passed quickly and this moment a man reflects. He thinks of his life, he remembers the things that he wished, and hoped for and as always, the pleasing memories of his old house. In childhood, he lived in the country, and near a surging river; he loved the house, and the lands and nature. The boy’s greatest love was returning home each day, running and smiling he called out, “Hello!”

One day in fourth grade he met a pretty girl and the two became good friends. Melissa, and “Monte,” as she called him, often chatted as he looked over his shoulder at her. The girl’s pretty eyes, and smile and that wrinkling thing she did with her nose, excited him. Infrequently, they played together at home but their times in school were most memorable—Because of Melissa the school day felt extra special.

Near the end of the fifth grade, Monte receives terrible news, “I’m moving away,” his friend says. Away: The boy failed to make sense of away; and, strangely, never asked Melissa about her new home. Adjoined with his greatest loves, “Missa’s” memories warm him.

Those were decades ago, and today, Monte operates a successful Manhattan restaurant; and commemorating the old house: he named the business, “My House.”

A beautifully framed poem prominently rests on a wall.


My House

This is my house
Oh, please come see
I’ve lived here forever
Ever since I was three

 My toys in this closet
My playpen this floor
Teasing my sister
A spanking for sure

I love dunking cookies
Eat more than three
Need a quick boost?
Have one it’s free

 Kris Kringle’s my buddy
He peeks in my room
A jolly old man
My favorite cartoon

Up early for school
A cheerful day’s end
A few blocks away
My colorful friend

A fun day of learning
You know how it goes
Behind me sits Missa
She wrinkles her nose

On the corner my house
It is never alone
I call out, “Hello!”
It welcomes me home
© 2004 D. H. Rhodes

I Write About You

1343536-1440x900-[]Love touches in many ways, sometimes it flows, brushing the heart as would winds whoosing the fields; and then other times, it is harsh, and cold and hurtful. Nevertheless, if love is true then lovers overcome; and suffering blends sweetly, sourly: an untethered force, driving sweethearts together while ripping them apart. Other than life, the greatest gift is love; and absolutely, it is worth and worthy of sharing.



True to love, a relationship ended: She lost him; however, the memories of him stay with her, filling the empty spaces in every moment of every day, she loves him.


I Write About You

I’ve always wanted to write a song
I never knew what words I should use
I know very little about life
But I know something about the blues

They say when writing a song
You must always have a good hook
Maybe I’ll happen into a Library
Sit and stare at a good book

Mumbling through the words
No fancy phrase comes to mind
Well, just a few more pages
Perhaps, just a little more time

The Library walls whisper my name
And still I’m sitting here
Like so many others before me, came
I’m Mach Five going nowhere

Bookshelves echo tinkering mites

Tirelessly meeting the task
I’d question my reasons
For trying too hard
But there is no one to ask

So, I grumble my way out the door
Agonizing from disappointment
Like a spider’s endearing medicinal sting
What foolish fly would want it?

Chasing the Jester’s piper-less flute
To an unknown distant place
The more I think about writing a song
The more I see your face

A lovely sight if ever I’ve seen
As I pledge to shoulder the fight
I sell my soul to diamond dark eyes
In a lost and nothing night

A quest for unyielding passionate thirst
Consumes my weary mind
Suddenly, the words for which I search
Are no longer hard to find

For when I want to write a song
And find it difficult to do
I think of someone oh so special
Then… I write about you

© 1999 D. H. Rhodes