Tag Archives: deceit

Gypsy Soul

A fortress she built
Stronghold round her heart
Burying the key within
Tomb of ancient wonders
So that no man could do
As once he had done ~

©2015 jillterry

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Gypsy Soul ~

A fortress she built, stronghold round her heart, burying the key within an ancient tomb, so that no man could do as once he had done ~
©2014 jillterry | gypsychyk.com

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bad oyster

badoyster

Charismatic
Handsome
Intelligent

The world was
His oyster

Plucking pearls
He happened across
Basking in their
Luminescence

Until he grew
Bored

Then back into
The sea
From whence
They came

Neurotoxic poisoning
Traces left
Everywhere

Not because
They sprang
From within a
Bad oyster

But simply from
Being
Touched by
Him

©jillterry│jillterry.com


W H Y

writing_quill_eloquent

She wanted to know why, if as he said, she was the love of his life, the twin of his flame, the mirror of his soul; destined to be together, through this life and all others, what then were they waiting for, and why waste any more precious time.

Forever playing the pitiful victim and prophetic poet, he responded as such –

She stands, disgusted, watching the Hunter curl into a ball at the edge of the Forest. Shield and weapons broken. Antlers splintered and shattered, clothes and skin torn and bleeding, tears stream down the face of the weak one. The one who never has the courage or strength to even know what to do…

This is not an answer. This is me at my worst, unable to answer yet. And hoping beyond hope that you can swallow your contempt, and bear with me…

Indeed, he was the worst; the worst womanizing, manipulator she ever had the misfortune of loving. It was only after that she came to know true contempt; so tightly welled inside that she’d never be able to swallow – only purge at random, broken bits and bloody pieces, that she choked on daily and left her gasping, each time she tried to take a full breath.

©2013 jillterry | jillterry.com


The Goddess Reign

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©2013 jillie
jillterry.com


Wicked Webs

web

Its fear that keeps him
Coming back

 …Watching
   …Waiting
     …Anxiety building

Fear of her unknown
Predictability
Of the truth exposed
Absolute

Tangled in webs
Spun of silver cords
Endless lies
Struggling internal

How did it all
Get so complicated
Over and over
His personal mantra

What he’s learning
About his ugly truth
It always follows
Wherever he goes

©2013 jill terry
jillterry.com


LITTLE GIRL LOST

I wanted so much to believe she as sincere, that some small shred of her former self still remained. But as I stood across from her on the other side and watched her nod to her friend just a few feet away, who on cue, inconspicuously raised her Droid and snapped several photos of the grieving daughter sprinkling dirt over her mother’s open grave, images that would later find their way onto Facebook and a plethora of other social media sites; I knew she was gone forever, that sweet little girl I once so adored and cared for, lost in a world of self-centeredness and conceit.

It wasn’t simply teenage rebellion that led her to do the things she’d done in recent months, it was pure selfishness, greed and the feeling of empowerment, when she successfully played her parents against each other and got exactly what she wanted. It was making her mother pay, for rules she believed she was too cool to follow, because she was fourteen now and knew it all.

What she didn’t realize was that her father’s attempts at proving her mother unfit and seeking full custody had nothing to do with her whatsoever. It wasn’t because after twelve years of joint custody he woke up one day and realized that he wanted to be a fulltime dad and to have her to live with him on a regular basis, it was because his business was failing and if the court ruled in his favor, not only would the monthly child support payments stop, but he would be the one receiving them; every month for the next four years. And with his live-in girlfriend, closer to his daughter’s age than his own, he wouldn’t be bothered with the trappings or responsibility of having to entertain or shuttle her wherever she needed or wanted to go; he had someone to do that for him.

What neither of them realized, was just how sick and weak the mother really was. She hid her illness as best she could, masking it as merely stress or fatigue; refusing to allow it to interfere with her life and her children’s lives; determined to be the best mom she could be, and give her kids everything that she possibly could. But the months of endless psychiatric appointments, evaluations and interviews, left her filled with fear and trepidation, at not only losing her teenage daughter, but her five year old daughter from her current marriage as well, should the strangers who were appointed by the court on behalf of her ex-husband, decided that she was, in fact, mentally unstable and unfit.

It was the day before the hearing and no matter what she did, she couldn’t calm her racing heart, couldn’t stop the worrisome thoughts from their merciless torment, even though she knew she was a good and loving mother and she believed wholeheartedly that truth would prevail.

She called her doctor in a state of panic and twenty minutes after arriving and being led to a private room, she died of cardiac arrest; on the cold steel, paper covered table, in an oversized gown with its faded green and blue flowered pattern; alone, as she worried of her children’s fate and her own.

The daughter was promptly removed from the private school she had attended since pre-K, which her mother and step-father had always paid for, because her dad couldn’t afford tuition. Her iphone was replaced with a basic flip model that did nothing but place and receive calls, and featured an automatic shut off once her monthly minutes had been reached. The live-in girlfriend moved out after three months of being a fulltime babysitter/shuttle service, which she hadn’t signed up for and had absolutely no interest in; and having been forced to begin her high school years in public school, the know-it-all teenager found herself pregnant by the end of third semester, hoping that her grandparents would take sympathy and allow her to live with them, instead of her deadbeat dad, who she not so long ago, believed was totally awesome; for giving her anything she asked for and letting her do whatever she wanted.

©2011 Jill Terry


In Due Time

Already past the point of redemption, he sent an email of apology to all his investors, seeking forgiveness; and while his ego tempted him to wait for that first rely, he just couldn’t bring himself to do it. He’d given the staff the weekend off and spent the next hour in silence, wandering the halls and grounds of his kingdom. When the first call came in, he was sitting on the edge of his bed, pistol in hand; the incessant ringing sounding as an alarm, echoing through the house, penetrating his soul to the very core.

He couldn’t do it. He would not spend the rest of his life in prison. There was just no other way out. And so he ran from room-to-room, turning on every light in the place, then flipped the final switch on his way out the back, lighting the entire exterior and grounds. Calmer now that his decision had been made, he walked to the water’s edge, got in the skiff and motored it to the park across the river. He stood at the end of the dock, admiring the magnificence of his creation from afar, its beauty and light filling the night as something from a fairytale.

He realized in that final painful moment, that that’s exactly what his entire life had been, nothing but a fairytale, none of it real; as he put the butt of the gun to his temple and pulled the trigger; the brilliant light from his dark deception immediately fading to black.

We met by chance, at the New Orleans Café, listening to Sleepy’s Jazz Connection on the waterfront deck. He was a charmer and struck a chord all his own, on my then too tightly wound strings. We shared a bottle of Courvoisier, and I sampled one of his Behike cigars; becoming more fascinated with each passing puff, as he explained that only four thousand of the cigars had been released for sale; having been named after the sorcerer of a pre-Columbian Taino tribe; ten boxes of which he personally owned. I was already familiar with the drink – the grande champagne of cognacs, and at $1400 a bottle, I could only imagine how many clams he’d laid down on the stogies.

He snatched up the decorative art deco bottle in one hand and held his other out to me. We walked down to the marina and he gave me a tour of his yacht. As we stood on the deck he pointed out his home on the other side of the river. I told him I knew it well; for I had watched for months as they tore down the lovely Victorian that had graced the river bank and sat nestled under the canopy of live oaks for probably hundreds of years, then replaced it with a massive Italian Palazzo that he proudly told me was called, “Tutte le mine,” whose meaning he boasted, meant “All Mine” in Italian.

He was obviously intelligent, seemingly interested in my work; and while he admittedly could do nothing to improve my standings among the literati, he was confident he could take my royalties and turn them into a fortune in no time at all. He was quite possibly the most superficial, arrogant man I had ever met; yet I partook of his offerings and slipped his business card in my back pocket as a few hours later he walked me to my car.

I stepped hesitantly into his arms when he offered them up for a hug, thanked him for enlivening my evening and turned my head when he moved in to kiss me. He winked and told me he dug my spirit. I laughed and told him he knew nothing of my spirit. This only intrigued him further.

After a few weeks of unreturned phone calls he finally acquiesced. I thought about him every now and again, as I drove over the bridge that spanned the river and led to my own home, nestled deep in those same woods, only no where he would care to venture; his mansion perfectly viewed from the bridge, the largest by far. More than once I sat on the deck of the New Orleans café, dining alone, while gazing out across the water, as the crowd of people gathered at his Palazzo, for another seemingly grande affair. I never entertained the idea of seeing him again, though at one point, when my royalties were particularly paltry, I briefly considered contacting his investment firm.

And while the empty bottle of Courvoisier still sits on a shelf in my office, not for sentimental reasons, but for pure eclectic charm, it now reminds me on a daily basis, that no matter how much I thirst to taste the drink of sweet success, some cocktails are simply meant to be stirred and not shaken, sipped and savored slowly.

©2010 Jill Terry


Man of no Moon

He was a man of
No moon
No sun
And no stars

Just a man
Soulless
Unconscionable
Wandering as if lost

Staying his course
Littering his path
With pillaged souls
Broken hearts

©2010 Jill Terry


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