Thursday, January 31, 2013


Usually the word Perfection seems to blow smoke out of my ears. What is perfection? Who claims to be? What is the greater good of it? If so, who score 100% right off the bat on the Ten Commandments scale? Crickets! So why blow the whistle when someone makes a mistake? As human, we traits through different racial characteristics, and our spiritual evolved through different ethical beliefs, conduct, values, principles, creeds etc... Whether we are come from the Huxtables-type of family or a broken home “The mine is better, or Home! Sweet home!" Is always embedded in the back of our heads- We are all in complete denial, unable to see the boogers in our eyes. We are all full of weakness in errors. Started from the contents of how we made of, and the individuals we are- excluded our souls of course. Why aren't we invincible? Still a Perfectio-maniac?                

Wednesday, January 30, 2013

It is addictive


Reality stroke my eyes

From the moment I noticed

The reflections of the woman in the mirror

Hello, my name is Becky

I live on the Hay hill avenue

My house is the one next to the Pot’s

My associates refer to me as Loony Becky.

It all started long, far ago

Then, a lovely, kind, young lady I used to be.

Naive to the sun

Innocent to the moon;

When It made my acquaintance.

I was just a newbie in the dorm

So my peers were my concern.

Oh my very first day!

My first trial…

It manifested in me like the joy of a thousand stars.

The second time around

It conducted me into this delusional world;

My environment appeared like Eden was being in the midst of the earth.

Danced without music being played

Laughed without any joke being told

Levitated without being on a spaceship

And so, times have gone by

It had turned around on me.

It had enslaved my whole being.

It had become vindictive.

It took my all rights...

Not even the right to turn onto my faith

Not to even say hail Mary full of grace our Lord is with thee.

It had destroyed my brain cells.

It had robbed me of my education.

Through It I had grown the pair of horns.

Now to you!

You should know by now

Why I’m Loony Becky?


You would not want to follow my path.

You would not want to dance my moves.

You would not want to sing my song.


You would not want to mimic me at all.

I am brain dead!


Yeah you!

Young and sweet

Seems just the right description for It;

So very the right prey

Now I see It parading at your door steps


Be very alert

Cautious must you take

Clever you shall be

It constitutes of ruse

It has a way of arousing onto you.

It, is nothing but pretense

Offers sky rocket ecstasy

Just for a split moment

It is a brain fryer


Yeah you!

Don’t become

The woman in the mirror


She is me

The unrecognized being




My name is Becky




An addict!

© 2011 by _Patricia Etienne

All rights reserved

A note from the Author

This is a stand-up poem

Being a Nurse and through my overtime observations/ experienced with friends/ patients battled with long time drug addiction had allowed me to write this poem.

Monday, January 28, 2013

One of my favorite poets/poems

Parsley (1983)

     1. The Cane Fields
     There is a parrot imitating spring
     in the palace, its feathers parsley green.
     Out of the swamp the cane appears
     to haunt us, and we cut it down. El General
5     searches for a word; he is all the world
     there is. Like a parrot imitating spring,
     we lie down screaming as rain punches through
     and we come up green. We cannot speak an R-
     out of the swamp, the cane appears
10     and then the mountain we call in whispers Katalina.
     The children gnaw their teeth to arrowheads.
     There is a parrot imitating spring.
     El General has found his word: perejil.
     Who says it, lives. He laughs, teeth shining
15     out of the swamp. The cane appears
     in our dreams, lashed by wind and streaming.
     And we lie down. For every drop of blood
     there is a parrot imitating spring.
     Out of the swamp the cane appears
     2. The Palace
20     The word the general's chosen is parsley.
     It is fall, when thoughts turn
     to love and death; the general thinks
     of his mother, how she died in the fall
     and he planted her walking cane at the grave
25     and it flowered, each spring stolidly forming
     four-star blossoms. The general
     pulls on his boots, he stomps to
     her room in the palace, the one without
     curtains, the one with a parrot
30     in a brass ring. As he paces he wonders
     Who can I kill today. And for a moment
     the little knot of screams
     is still. The parrot, who has traveled
     all the way from Australia in an ivory
35     cage, is, coy as a widow, practising
     spring. Ever since the morning
     his mother collapsed in the kitchen
     while baking skull-shaped candies
     for the Day of the Dead, the general
40     has hated sweets. He orders pastries
     brought up for the bird; they arrive
     dusted with sugar on a bed of lace.
     The knot in his sore throat starts to twitch;
     he sees his boots the first day in battle
45     splashed with mud and urine
     as a soldier falls at his feet amazed-
     how stupid he looked!-at the sound
     of artillery I never thought it would sing
     the soldier said, and died. Now
50     the general sees the fields of sugar
     cane, lashed by rain and streaming.
     He sees his mother's smile, the teeth
     gnawed to arrowheads. He hears
     the Haitians sing without R's
55     as they swing the great machetes:
     Katalina, they sing, Katalina,
     mi madre, mi amol en muelte. God knows
     his mother was no stupid woman; she
     could roll an R like a queen. Even
60     a parrot can roll an R! In the bare room
     the bright feathers arch in a parody
     of greenery, as the last pale crumbs
     disappear under the blackened tongue. Someone
     calls out his name in a voice
65     so like his mother's, a startled tear
     splashes the tip of his right boot.
     My mother, my love in death.
     The general remembers the tiny green sprigs
     men of his village wore in their capes
70     to honor the birth of a son. He will
     order many, this time, to be killed
     for a single, beautiful word.

All in the Language

Poetry has evolved from a spectrum of sources range from archaic age to modern time.
As Shakespeare used to say  But twas not>>
Modern Poetry is of  voice, style, cultural tradition and approach
Poets are like the megaphone who transcribed words through ink, and extract the scary little voice that sometimes hides inside many hearts.
Poets express their thoughts in different ways: some choose to use direct language, and some use abstract thinking and metaphor. All Poets have one common ground ”The language.”

Sunday, January 27, 2013

The Milestone's Inquietude

The old church bell rings midnight hour
So abrupt this visitor plunges into her body
with no formal invitation
No friendly welcome
This thing, possess her mind
The apprehensive feeling
Dreadful thoughts
As it has been doing to others for a while already
It weighs heavily on her shoulders
Attempt to turn her against forty
Through much endeavor she stands by forty
** Forty will, forty be
Can't ever be defeated
A beautiful moment
Independent alive
Be proud of it
** Crossing over the heel?
Crazy, ridiculous, cannot be associated with forty
Her mind is too sharp for nonsense take
Can she be downcast?
Absolutely not, but perfect sense be
Stand by forty she's very well sure of herself
Spur of the moment?
Certainly not, profoundly grounded
Emotionally adequate with making decision
Dissatisfaction ignores?
Goals and strategies are being adjusted
** Sided forty, a very good decision be.
A woman, who comes to be erupted like a volcano
The youth waves so high and forever is in spirit.
Just as sexy and beautiful
Forty now is new thirty be.
Love and attracted by many youngins
She follows her own path.
Wisdom rising and rising
Not afraid to voice her concerns,
No intimidation, determine rules,
Sure of the equality that sustain of her relationship
** With mind, body and spirit
The bucket will forever overflow
Just another day
An extra candle light
The rules of life continue to wheel
Turning forty is like laying another egg in the nest © 2011 by _Patricia Etienne
All rights reserved

Monday, January 21, 2013

Indian women cry “Great St. Essa”

indian women

Oh great wisdom Sage of wondrous time

Shine up your great eyes on the women of India as they have been under difficulties

Their land has no place to free and their voice has no strength to cry for mercy

Each day is a struggle like a challenge for a limb to climb up mountains

For you Great Sage, stood against the great Sanhedrin's practices
Your revolutionary actions, had delivered the ultimate chance, and fair choices
That brought by far, women's and children's rights.
Like Mary-Magdalena became sin-free
The Samaritan woman spread the gospel of salvation
The crippled woman who first took steps inside the synagogue
for you broke down the hall of patriarch superiority
your affirmation on behalf of women, had brought The Pharisees to humiliation and shamed
Oh Great Master-avatar!
Why in India a woman is raped every twenty minutes?
Why such adversities on those women ?
Why tears take the place of their glowing eyes?
why sadness takes constant notes in their hearts?
Why such malevolent at large?
If follow your theory by turning the other cheek to the aggressor.
It won't be much hope and
MeditaTION wouldn't be the answer either
For those Indian women cry “Great St. Essa”
You sacrificed to create peace and gender equality.
Let the bell tolls and say “Beware, Brute-Men leave the site of those women for they are sacred and loved!”
Let those unleash rapists be refrained to normal type of behavior
For legacy of justice reigns, and the fallen souls shall depart in peace.
© 2013 by _Patricia Etienne
All rights reserved

`*Hatred rules*`


Since the ancient time
It has been a constant fight-
Between the two forces
With a profuse imbalance

The small walks on the blade of grass
With the end result-  ongoing tears of anguish;
The big delivers endless corruptions,
And makes certain their victims joy is treason.

A battle of justice versus injustice-
Knowledge debating with ignorance
Prejudice leading towards racism
Eventually proclaim world apartheid.

Oh this chronic fight of agony
Where things are taking a twist
Hopeless marches on the graveyard
It’s like bringing knife to gunfire

For the small it’s a fight without pod
Since an ant cannot tangle with a giant elephant
The scale has remained imbalance.
Again the sadist with a smile on his face!
© 2012 by _Patricia Etienne
All rights reserved

~So disturb! ~

 woman on bed

It's 6: 35 in the morning
I wake up sweat and breathless
Thoughts pounding my head
The ramblings of my brain
Wanting to come out live through ink
I slip my hand to look for you
Then, instead my hand touches
The folded sheet on the pillow
Damned you!
Damned you!
I slip my hands between my thighs
The early sun set hit my eyes
Through the thin curtain window
Allow my eyes to close
The memory of the beautiful night
Shivers my body, then I get angry
Hear my heart cry
God of skies
Why must it always have to be this way?
Like a hit and run situation
Like a Doctor's visit
You come and treat my pain
And then hit the road
Never once have the chance
To wake up cuddle in your arms.
To cry our joys of the night passé
To gaze into each other's eyes
Share a good morning kiss
Or drink a morning coffee together
Never mind!
O' ma tête me fait mal
C'est comme une piqûre d`aiguille
ça me fait si mal, si mal
Dans ma tête...
I try to think of something else
Still my thoughts want to
Transcribe on paper and
Here is my endless story (…)

Friday, January 18, 2013

~Anesthetic to heart~


Usually, Thursdays are my regular scheduled day to write, but I'm sitting at my special setting/ position, with my laptop in front of me being flustered and confused of words. My worried then... I'm at the mature stage of this book-writing, and I shouldn't feel this way. I almost called off the day, until my six-year-old daughter strolled across the room with her kindle set so loud on the audio mode, and I heard this hyphenated word “topnotch” It felt as though my heart had received this anesthetic shock. My hands were going on the keyboard unstoppable. I had no idea what I was putting down, simply my fingers were skiing on the tabs. I felt completely numb to the core, no existence of my being, my thoughts; I was lost to the realm of a bunch of characters. I got back to my normal self, by a repetitive tapping on my shoulder- my daughter wanted to open a juice bottle, which she didn't have enough strength to do it herself. As I scrolled down to look at my rambling writing. I was totally surprised. It wasn't as bad as I thought it would be, but certainly wasn't a linear fashion type of writing either. They were fragmented words, that could be elaborated into a descent chapter. In all this... I realized, that I'm the type of writer who could do creative work in a noisy cubicle. Again, if I must say so- I found another Avenue to strengthen my voice!

Thursday, January 17, 2013

Am I a Conniver?

Practice women turns her head and pease signs

For so I am a woman
All fingers are pointing at me
All eyes are fixating on me
All verdicts are going against me
For what reason ever be
Who has the right?
Who has the right to think that way?
My question is yet to answer
For so I am a woman
It’s like a stigma
I am viewed like a rotten apple
A libertine, thinking by many
For what so ever reason
Who has the right?
Who has the right to feel that way?
My question is yet to answer.
Indeed I am a woman
I am perturbed,
laughed at,
Pushed aside,
I long carry the world's burdens on my back.
For all I know
I am a woman
From Eve
Pass down the curse
Begins far, so far back
In the ancient epoch
Time of B.C.
When the pleasing to the eyes fruit got bitten
Then sins take nascence
I come to be the conniver
Alright I am a woman
Through childbirth
I hollow
I agonize
I encounter,
Pain beyond the word imagination
I pay my penance
Am I still a conniver?
He the superior of all lawyers
He makes all the laws
And he who has the right
To give all the rights;
Has already given me,
My rights
I am a woman
I am at my own free will.
© 2011 by _Patricia Etienne
All rights reserved

Tuesday, January 15, 2013

I wish that I could say “Yeah it's a wrap!”

Phew! So here I am writing the last chapter of my upcoming book. As I explained it before in a previous post- it's a mystery ghost story full of suspense, supernatural, ritual and witchcraft activities. Hopefully, it will come out sometimes this year.

Yeah, I'm taking a dare on the spooky writing genre this time. Boy! How many times I've experienced many episodes of hallucinations in reaction to this project? "I lost count." For so you know, I've started this book since the beginning of last year. Basically, I structured myself to write at least one paragraph a day, and when I'm busy with other activities- I only take one day a week to do nothing but write.

This story unfolds in Gleeson Arizona, a fully ghost town. I hold it all to my favorite main character Bonise Ann Taylor, who uplifted the veil of the undercover villains. Stay tuned

The Monopolize Way

Narcisstic Pictures, Images and Photos
With your narcissistic aspects,
How can I grow under your shadow?
Must I always carry a panhandling,
Break Away?
Either way...
The thought of you give me the fear.
Must I remain passive so I can be pet around?
Must I act coercively-
How can I break loose From this-
Hypochondria form of you?
 © 2012 by _Patricia Etienne
All rights reserved

Monday, January 14, 2013

~Just the Thought~

Sometimes you might find yourself being unlikable by the opposition; because of your thoughts/ advocacy and cause that you stand for. Remember not to coercion to their interest, and stay true to your vision. Be passionate and take alternative route if you have to. Again, remember you're not in it to gain friendship. Don't fall for the maxim of Abraham Lincoln “I Destroy My Enemies When I Make Them My Friends.” They will never be your friends, because you're taking a stand against their practice. Stay strong in your faith and continue to make your point across- as long as you get your facts straight.

Simply staring at this woman gives me the chills. Under each tree of life, may Wangari's soul repose in peace.

Sunday, January 13, 2013

Check out this poem-video-Title:'Once utopia' based on 2010 Earthquake disaster (Haiti)