I love staring at the clouds.
They can even be more amazing when the sky puts on a spectacular show for our entertainment. Enjoy 🌷

Reblog: January 11 2017

Just For Laughs

Would your spouse do this?

Google images


Phone rings…


‘Spouse For Hire’,  this is Gina speaking,  how may I help you?

Hello Gina, my husband will be home getting my way this weekend so I’d like to make him available.

OK, what are your husband’s skills?

He’s great at assembling furniture but he pretends he doesn’t know how. Perhaps if he got paid he’d be more motivated!

OK. How long will he be available?

Hmm,  let’s see,  2hrs with my favorite book + a soak in the tub + a nap = 4 hrs. Yeah, that sounds good.

OK,  we have a 12pm to 4pm job available.


I’ll make the arrangements.


Later that evening…


Honey,  I have great news!

Her husband:
What’s that darling?

I got you a gig for Saturday! 

Her husband:
What? I had plans of doing a whole lot of nothing this weekend!

I know,  and now you get to make money,  isn’t that FANTASTIC!!!

Her husband:
No honey,  not fantastic,  not fantastic at all!!!

Well look at it this way,  you get to do whatever you want with that money,  it’s all yours!

Her husband:
Huh, all mine? Well that changes everything!

I knew you’d agree…


Contents written: September 12 2016
Originally published: September 12 2016
Copyright © 2016 Moylom Enterprises

Music is Oxygen, Poetry

Four minutes thirty seconds



Drowning out the noises
of the outside world,
her headphones are
the portal to another place.

She wants to hear every detail
of the song playing in her ear —
every chord,  every beat, 
every unique  compilation.

She soaks it all in.
The rhythm moves her.
She’s entranced by the visions 
as the story unfolds.

She’s in a happy place,
but in four minutes thirty seconds,
she’s back to her reality, 
the song is over and life goes on, 


Contents written: August 31 2016
Originally published: September 1 2016
Copyright © 2016 Moylom Enterprises

Poetry, Short Stories

Silenced as lambs…

Image source: Google images


As my 4yr old bangs on the doors I cringe.
She calls it music, I call it noise.
As I open my mouth
to request she stop the racket,  I pause, 
holding my tongue — I am silenced.

She’s used to me asking
that she be quiet,
so after her drum session she asks, 
“Mom,  was that too loud?”
I shook my head, “No.”

Then internally I asked myself
how often have I asked her to be quiet?
How often did I see
her 4 yr old creativity as an annoyance?

For a little while
I tolerated her loudness and smiled,
because if I keep silencing her
she may no longer want to be expressive —
I would have silenced her one time too many.

I am now aware
of the power my words can have
on such an impressionable mind,
for, I too, was silenced as a child.

I remember now, how stifled I felt.
It was then that I started 
keeping my thoughts and feelings
to myself.

My mom wondered
why I didnt communicate more.
She called me secretive, 
just like my father.

But why should she expect
communicating to be natural, 
when I spent so much time
being silenced?

Children in my Era
were raised to be
seen and not heard —
Silenced as lambs.

I have to be aware
of my actions now,
with my own children,
so I don’t repeat those mistakes.

I want my children
to be open with me,
to be expressive as individuals, 
to have a voice.

I want them to speak up
in the face of injustice,
but do so in the right forum, 
otherwise their views
will just be disregarded as noise.

I’m on a mission,
to not silence my munchkin,
but to teach her when
it’s okay to be loud and when to be quiet.

Silence should not be
a requirement but a gift —
to reflect,  to recharge,
to respect others.

Choosing silence,
knowing when to be a gentle lamb, 
is much more valuable
than being a silenced lamb.

This is a life lesson I hope to never forget!


Contents written: September 1 2016
Originally published: September 2 2016
Copyright © 2016 Moylom Enterprises

Poetry, Short Stories



As the emotional dagger
Protruded from her bleeding back,
She looked into her mother’s eyes
Searching for answers.

The pain she felt was unbearable.
She wondererd how
The one to whom
She ran for help
Could be the one
To hurt her so badly.

The betrayal left her confused.
Why would her own mother,
The one who knew her best,
Use that knowledge
To ensure her demise.

All those years
Of calculated mind games
At the hands
Of her maternal instructor,
Did not prepare her
For this final battle.

Was she a poor student,
Or did her mother change
The rules of the game?
She did not anticipate
This backhanded move.

As the blood poured out of her,
In the form of her stolen children
She would never get to raise,
She mustered the strength
To offer up one last plea.

“How could you do this to me, mother?
I’m your only daughter.
How could you deprive me
The opportunity
To be a mother to my own children?”

Her mother responded
With a cold, dead stare,
“Don’t worry dear,
It’s alright, you’ll get over it ”

But how does one get over death?
Her heart sank,
Along with the dreams
She had to be with her children.

Fifteen tortured years she waited,
But by then it was too late.
Her babies were grown
And didn’t know her.

The bond was broken.
She would never really
Know her children.
And so she dies slowly each day,
Of betrayal and a broken heart.
The blood pours out of her,
The loss, incomprehensible.

Contents written: August 23 2016
Originally published: August 24 2016
Copyright © 2016 Moylom Enterprises