Welcome

Sisters of the Page has been on the web since 2007. We have featured the works of Misti Rainwater-Lites, MK Chavez, Judy Brekke and Craig Sernotti.

SOTP is a place where we promote female writers, artists, and photographers. This is our goal and our emphasis however, from time to time, we will open the page to our male counterparts in order to showcase some of their works.

Please feel free to click on our archive for past works. It is located at the bottom of each page. If you have comments, please post them under the artist's work, General comments may be directed to the editor at midulcevida66@gmail.com.

Abusive and deragatory comments will not be tolerated and will be immediately removed.

We hope you enjoy your visit. Thanks for stopping bye.

Juliana Vargas
Editor-Sisters of the Page



Tuesday, August 31, 2010

Ripping Scabs by Juliana Vargas (First posted Myspace Blog March 2008)

Glossy sheen of pristine contentment


Like Alice before Rabbit Holes and Cheshire Cats

The Queen screams "Off with her head!"

I want to pick open the hidden wounds

Fucked up childhood scars

Ripping off my scabs and exposing years of poor parenting

Cerebral brutality

Sexuality overexposed like a bad mental snapshot

And the beat goes on

I pick, pry, rip and bleed

From every hole in my soul

It fucking hurts so bad my brain is in shock

Survival mode means eating my own misery

Little Deaths by Juliana Vargas (First posted Myspace Blog February 2008)

Press the breath from my body


Lay me, depleted

Spent

Lifeless

On display

An unholy viewing

Lined up at the casket

A procession of the faceless

The faithless

I see with dead eyes

Cannot speak my anger

I watch them shuffle past

Mourning the many

Little deaths

Offering my soul

One piece at a time

Like communion

Screams by Juliana Vargas (First posted on Myspace Blog March 2008)

Screams


Piercing the darkness of night

They wake me from my sleep

Like only the darkest night terrors can

I pinch myself and hide under my bed

Sliding on the wooden boards



I sit in your sunny kitchen and recount the memories

You pat my hand and pass me the sugar

Trying to make my bitter memories go down a little easier

"It never happened"

"You always did suffer from terrible nightmares"



You smile

But your eyes are dead

Shattered windows

On the soul that I hope will burn in hell

They tell the truths of our life together



You with your uncontrollable rage

Me with my uncontrollable anxiety



I wrung my hands

When what I really wanted

Was to your wring the truth from your wretched throat

The Seduction of Me by Juliana Vargas

"Good sex starts in the head and not in the bed."

She said this as she grasped me in the palm of her tiny child-like hand.

The sex was definitely starting there.

I could feel the blood rush from my brain.

Something akin to bathwater down the drain.

Grasping her tiny hips, I rolled her to her back,

Yet never loosening her grip, she used her other hand to

give my ass a resounding smack.

I had allowed this temptress, this cyber goddess

to overrun my days.

With her wanton ways, she kept me in a perpetual state

of turmoil and arousal.

It wasn't love, yet somehow

I loved her.

Perhaps it was the feel of her small, firm breasts .

Pressed into my chest, they burned a hole through

to my heart.

I said silent prayers every day,

wishing away

the hours till I could hold her again

The love we made was hate.

Passion this fierce could be nothing less,

unless

it really was love.

Burning more fiercly than the kind that poets write of,

a flesh and bone eating desire

She set my nerve-endings on fire.

Then all at once

she was gone.

Forever gone.

And my passion lived on

like a gut-wrenching disease.

She never said good-bye.

But again, she had never said hi.

Just sauntered into my life

Overran my limbs,

my bed.

Crawled into my head.

And now she is hostage there,

a prisoner.

And yet, I am the one who is forever captive.

The Price We Pay

I read a story once about black market weapons sales from Italy and into Iraq.

The story was written in a way that was meant to elicit shock and horror,  

but when the streets are red and the sky is black and the reality is reduced to marching characters in black and white print, who can feel the emotions anymore?

Is it shocking to know that alternate avenues of bloodletting are always an option in a world where people are dying, and crying, and lying in the dirt like refuse waiting for pickup?



Where a mother's tears mean nothing, not even a sidenote on news page?



Is it shocking to know that others see a monetary opportunity in death and annihalation?

There is no shame in bloodmoney

No glory in death


No victory in war


We all lose, die, cry and become history.
Social commentary is nothing more than words to fill space on empty airwaves. A tool to generate big dollars.

Opinions are vocal posturings by people sleeping safely in their beds.

There is a reality taking place in the home of a family tonight.

And someone is being paid in a pound of flesh.

While one mother sleeps with her child wrapped safely in her arms, another will get the news that her's was blown into unrecognizable spray on a foreign roadside.

All because someone wanted to line their greedy pockets. All because Allah, Blackwater, politicians, and weapons manufacturers needed to fatten their bottom line.

So they started a war that no one can win.

And we all pay the price in losses with no pricetag.

 If you have to ask the cost, you can't afford it.