MINE

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You are mine, I own you

We bleed together, shedding life

Being with me every step, through thick and thin

I love you, I know you

You are a part of who I am, although you don’t define me

The reasons my life has meaning came from you, my blessing I give

I will always protect you, my sacred gift

Never third always first, the best

Knowing when you are hurt frightens, can thrill me

Wars are fought for your attention, dying for your affection

Be still and wait my precious, you will be loved by me soon

Enter into your warmth, desires met

A slick donation is given to me, I thank you

The tingles you create, goosebumps cover my body

Acceleration leads to exhilaration, ecstasy the pay off

Breath deep, release

You are mine

– Heather Lombardo 

Three

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A whole new world
They say
Dreamed on countless nights
One love, one soul
The blessing of three
Intense moments begot intense reaction
Coming to share, to fill a need
Try to Bi to Triple to Three
What does it mean, where do you go
Deep love awakened, the beauty, the beast
Love is all things right? In every meaning
Finally seeing the world through a kaleidoscope
Perfect prisms of rainbow color, hiding the dark spots of reality
Learning, sharing, not too much, not too little
But where are the lines drawn in the sand?
Like acrobats swinging on a trapeze, you must not take the wrong step
Who says what or why or where or how
Does it even matter?
Love is love
Love is a gift
Love can lose

– Heather Lombardo

Ode to Men

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The smell of your skin and the taste of your lips, men.

Musky like whiskey. Tender yet callused at the edges.

The strength of your arms around us, men.

Feels safe, secure, a stones throw from malice.

You could snap us.

Like a twig, be your puppet but we trust you, men.

The coarse hair you grow mends the soft skin we glow.

Hands that touch, bringing us to ecstasy can crash our larynx in a moment, men.

Your speech, constant consideration lure us.

The jealousy can be titillating until you get mental and we leave you be, men.

Cavemen instincts floating at your surface.

We the gatherers the epicenter of life.
You the hunters and the seed, men.

The most basic of us and we fit together.

You’ll protect us, no matter.

I thank you, men.

                           – Heather Lombardo

  

If you Want Me Baby

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You catch the curves of my lips and the swing of my hips, baby

I glide towards you in a sea of strangers, they study me like a restaurant lunch board.

My devotion, lies with you as I pass the starving, baby. 

My laughter reels you in, fingertips tracing the outline of your chin.

Staring directly into your eyes when you talk, I’m here for only you baby.

My scent is invading your psyche, I’m designed to seduce you.

You whisper “I want your lips on my lips, I need to have you, I need to be inside you, no other woman compares to you.”

Oh, baby, you want the theory of me, not the real me.

If you really want me baby….

Get my lips tattooed on your wrist and impress me with prose rather than innuendos.

You want to be inside me baby, penetrate me with knowledge, create a base.

To have me? You can’t possess me, you can borrow my time, hour by hour baby.

Compare me, it’s okay, women are beautiful. They don’t intimidate me baby, they empower me.

What’s the real me you ask? Oh baby, it is so much better than the character you chase.

-Heather Lombardo

Watch “Chris Rock white girls” laugh and read my thoughts

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I shared this, because one it is hilarious and two…it is true.

As a white women, especially a curvy one. The lure of our submission is legendary.

The first time I realized my power was at 14…yeah 14. I saw this older black guy at the mall, I batted my eyes, not even sure what I was doing. He followed me and asked for my number…I gave him some bullshit sequence and never thought about it again. Well that was easy.

I grew up in a pretty colorless town, but driving 12 miles took me to different worlds. HOUGH, Denison Ave, West Park etc. It was a surprising reality. I was a prize to be won…it was alluring. I never gave in because I was a good catholic girl, but it was noticeable and it let me hoon my skills. Often called a tease, but I didn’t care. I was told if I smiled at a man, my certain way…I could get whatever I wanted. I don’t, I reserve that smile for love.

On to the point, please stop reading if you get offended easily.
White women are raised by European moms or women raised by European moms. Remember us white folk only took this country by force a couple hundred years ago and the real immigration boom was at the end of the 19th and beginning of the 20th centuries. Women’s liberation truly began in the 60s, so the old country hasn’t left our blood.
Our European moms and grandma’s always did what their husband said…we aren’t a matriarchal culture. Women are to be seen and not heard, keep your opinions to yourself, keep your husband happy and supported no matter what. I’m gonna share something personal, but it is honest. I haven’t passed gas in public ever, bodily functions and talking about that stuff is off limits especially with a man, sinful!
Not that they weren’t incredibly, loving, sweet, honorable women. We are just breed to be dominated. Period

I of course say all of this as a broad statement. I have met all different types of ladies from all segments of personality. This is my theory…

Every culture is different, we are who we are…all women are unique and I think we will start adopting each other’s traits, the more we learn and mix. We just have to be kind to each other and stop judging.

Speechless- Well Sorta- Here is a Review

Reviews

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You know when something reaches in your guts and stirs them up so much the only possible cure it to run out and create change? No? Then download or purchase a copy of ISSKOOTSIK (Before Here Was Here) by Gyasi Ross, Cabin Games and KRecords.

The above is my arm while listening to it…

It will invoke an emotional response, which track is responsible for that reaction will be different for all of us.

Before Here Was Here. This track did it for me. The calmness of Ross speaking about such importance and truths that I struggle to understand. The positive vibe in the voices singing “Here is the love, standing together.” Feel like they are smiling at the heavens, the message being clear, “It’s not me, It’s not me….It’s we.” That is an anthem we should all be enforcing. I remember screaming at a lover once, “IT ISN’T ABOUT YOU or ME, IT IS WE!” Hearing almost those same words uttered and I thought, I’m not alone. Always feeling like in a world that focuses on possessions, the core should be people. This song speaks about being indigenous and of course that doesn’t pertain to me. Yet, it gives me strength…I left crying, just as the song said, I guess I am a white liberal.

Not every track is about involvement, protest or changing the world. There are candid tales and an insight into the life of a rez kid. Interludes that honestly will piss you off and recorded speeches that snapshot history. The guest artist collaborations are seamless, I’m talking Aerosmith/ Run DMC greatness.

I wrote last year the 7th generation will fight not with force but with art, music, storytelling and tradition. ISSKOOTSIK combines these into a harmonious package that any age, race, creed, national origin or socioeconomic status can identify with. Some of these tracks will become anthems and I predict a movement.

Bob Dylan sang some of the most notable protests songs in history. He wrote beautiful lyrics about his generation’s struggle, that connected to the young ones and put a fire in their bellies. He spoke to their frustrations, he gave them an outlet. Dylan BELIEVED his words and that’s what makes him memorable. Ross unknowingly emulates the same characteristics, he recognizes an issue and educates. The artists that created ISSKOOTSIK are proud and fully involved in the success of their work of art, they live and breathe these stories and concepts.

Pre-Order Now or download May 12th. Pick your anthem and let the creators know

@bigindiangyasi

@redskin206

@cabingamesllc

http://shop.krecs.com/collections/frontpage/products/klp257

 

 

 

 

“Hold up, Ima let you finish, but I need to misappropriate your culture”

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While organizing a Native American Cultural festival here in Cleveland I am asking a lot of questions. We are striving to bring money and awareness to the Native community, if you try to bring in product made in China, I will send you packing.

They say “I am Native American”…”Wonderful, how do you know that?” A lot give tribe names and even clans, but some have really creative tales and goodness this Cherokee princess, not the best reputation.

I don’t know…there are people that self recognize. Looks are deciving and really it isn’t my place to say you are or aren’t. Plus, Cleveland was used as a relocation city, so you never can know. We just want the money earned to go where it should.

I am curious though, there are some people that identify so much they speak it, dress in some way that the text books told them to, make refrences to “their people.” Yet they are as white as my Irish ass.

Why does that happen? I mean we both know you aren’t.

This lady had two braids in her hair, wore beaded moccasins, talked about sweat lodges and how “her people” have been so wronged throughout history. Little did she know…her son was a friend of a friend of mine (thank you social media). This woman is straight up German/ Irish like most Clevelanders.

I let her keep going…she told her tales and ended with a prayer to the Creator. She was good, smart and maybe she did love the culture so much she wanted to “be” it.

I just kept thinking in my head “Actually, I’m sure it was your ancestors that caused harm to the indigenous people, just like it was mine.”  This woman does some great things for the community, but they aren’t “her people.”

I LOVE turquoise and Native American designs, but as I put on my ring, I would never say “my people” this isn’t magic. I admire it, I will support it, but I will never BE it.

I will never see that stuggle and shame on people who do take it and use it for their odd use and even try to make money off it.

People need to understand their own culture and use that to uplift other cultures and peoples.

“Imitation is the sincerist form of flattery.” Is it though? I think the greatest form of flattery is really liking something and no matter what you do with it giving credit to the originator. That is pretty dope.

My Dancing Queen

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It is hard for me to start this post. I still look at the illustration Saby did for me and I am speechless. Take away the beautifully detailed regalia, flowing hair, perfect lips and look in those eyes? Saby brought the twinkle I wanted for this character…you can see a beautiful life in her gaze. This is what it means to love your character so much that you can describe to an illustrator whose first language is Italian and lives 14 hours away in a different country yet still she gets it.

On to WHO this amazing character is.

Her name is Winona Andersen

She is the ex-wife/love/the only to Major Chase Andersen.

Winona is of the Navajo nation. She is a strong woman in love with a very complicated man. She is a mother, dancer, poet, sister and daughter. Spending her days taking care of ailing parents, Winona devotes her nights writing poetry. She knows leaving Chase was the best for her small son and daughter, because sometimes love isn’t enough and intense passion can turn anyone into someone they aren’t.

Read about her in Volume 2: Chasing Dreams

Winona’s words

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They call it a broken heart, but it’s our mind telling us to feel that stinging hurt in our chest, deep in our gut and somehow making us choke. Why didn’t that same brain say no and save me the torture.

I heard about you I knew your deal, all the women, trails of affection and admiration. Yet when you looked at me with those maddeningly gorgeous brown eyes, I was the only one, in a crowd of a million. Time stopped, it was over…fate slaughtered knowledge. ¬†-Winona Andersen

Constant Moon

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There are many myths about the moon.

Werewolves come to life, singing to her.

Or two lovers punished to spend eternity apart. Only touching at dawn and dusk when horizons can disappear.

My moon is the one he sees.

The one my love sleeps under.

Where he prays.

Watching him fight.

It makes me wonder if you’re thinking of me staring at the moon…

Can I count on you? I say to the moon, will you be there?

Or will I be played a fool…

I stare at the moon, this constant thing.

Is my heart too fond of you? Do I need to let you go?

Tragic love…

I am the forlorn lover that only feels your touch when hidden behind the horizon.

Always waiting, always willing.

Tell me my love, are you so willing?

I am the sad constant moon.