Sunday, July 27, 2014

to be or not to be...


First I was fashion blogger, then I needed to learn
to take photos so I graduated from a point and shoot
to a camera with adjustments, a decent photographer,
then in a serendipitous moment,
I published a poem on my fashion blog,
and readers liked it,
so my fashion blog morphed into a poetry blog,
a strange mix,
Now I'm writing a piece of prose for possible publication,
and another writer called me a poet.

I am confused, what the hell am I?
Do I fit under the broad title of title of writer?
That seems like a giant leap into a profession
to which authors belong who possess skills
and talent far beyond mine,
works I read in high school and college
and grad school and since....
There were no questions about their entitlement,
but me, a writer?

I feel like a young boy in a suit several sizes too big,
sleeves down to there, pant legs puddling on the floor,
it weighs too heavily on my slight shoulders.
What makes a writer?
Publication, recognition by peers, something elusive?
My mind is blurry with imagery, words, pages...

For now I'll be a fashion blogger
who takes photos,
writes poetry,
and an occasional piece of prose.
That seems to fit, though it's a mouthful
and evades the question ....




Friday, July 18, 2014

all hail....



Two tragedies in one day,
lives lost, innocents, civilians,
MH 17 cut down from the sky
by terrorists in the midst
of a Ukrainian combat zone,
Israel and Palestine attack each other
in an unending conflict.

With these incidents preoccupying my mind,
and weighing down my heart,
I saw a production of Macbeth,
a play of predictions come true
through a wash of blood and guts and gore.
A story of long ago and yet a story of today.

We claim to be more civilized,
we have evolved,
We have learned to mediate,
arbitrate, impose sanctions,
but these alternatives are quickly abandoned
when the results do not
satisfy our need for an immediate solution.

We have tossed aside our swords,
only to replace them with more
sophisticated weapons that kill hundreds,
thousands, in a split second,
with a click on a computer keyboard.

There is no peace on earth,
It continues to elude
as we reach for more powerful arms
because we are certain
that violence will beget peace.

All hail Macbeth, he lives amongst us,
yet again.





 
photo by author
 




Wednesday, July 16, 2014

Ms. Lonely Heart



I am tired of the aloneness,
it has become loneliness,
no human contact other than social media,
which is not the same.

Max is in the house,
he was my dog,
but has become my husband's dog,
so he is of limited comfort.

My husband returns from work,
soaks his paint stained, aching body in the tub,
changes into fresh clothing and leaves
for one of several watering holes he favors.

I am by myself for the evening,
a reheated leftover for dinner,
suggested by him,
as I begin to feel like a leftover myself.

It's not healthy for me
to have so much unstructured time,
I get depressed as you know,
I do not want to dance
around the rim of that black hole,
it scares me, as it draws me closer.

No, tomorrow I will go out into the world,
even if it's errands,
just leave the house behind for a while,
and see the sky, the grass, 
smell scents, hear voices
of people, even better,
intelligent people who want
to engage in conversation.

I know where I will go for breakfast,
there are intelligent people in that space,
so there's a chance...


 
 
 
 
 
 



Thursday, July 10, 2014

being me, (again)...



Uncertain, unfocused, no confidence,
no abilities, no chance to succeed,
I tumble so easily, quickly
from a moment of doubt
into nothingness,
from an anxious thought to a depressed being.
Immobilized by a mental process so swift
that I am at the end of it 
before I can identify the entry point.
A challenge to analyze this,
it does not logically reverse itself,
it requires slowly crawling back
through the darkness that envelopes me.


There have been times of no light, not a sliver,
those have been the hardest,
nonfunctional, wishing the days away
as only sleep, unconsciousness
brought some comfort, solace.
Mindless television shows,
background noise, senseless voices,
I lived in that place,
survived it somehow.

The return journey took all my energy,
to stand, place one foot in front
and drag the other to meet it,
lost in the struggle to move an inch.
A tiny glimmer appeared,
at first it quivered,
not knowing whether it would extinguish,
at its mercy for stability,
time was still,
a minute an hour, a day forever,
finally it was constant.

I left the house, my safety net/my prison,
the sun seemed too bright,
I looked pale, thin,
I wore black for many days,
no capacity for other decisions.
At work, I stared at pages for prolonged times,
processing the words difficult,
I rarely ventured from my small office
as conversation drained me.
At home, I collapsed into bed and slept,
it was afternoon, but I did not care.
I awoke briefly to eat something tasteless,
and drifted into med induced slumber,
to repeat it all the next day and the next day, etc.

Until a day came and I decided to wear a color,
a day or so later, I exchanged a few words with a co-worker.
It became less a chore,
occasionally the corners of my mouth turning up slightly, 
a smile?
I remembered the other parts of me,
neglected for so long,
I felt myself filling in the empty spaces
of the shell I had become.
I walked more loosely, talked more freely,

I still looked back, fearing the pit,
But mostly, I looked forward,
on my way to being me,
(again).





a point of light...
photo by author





Monday, July 7, 2014

ink blots


I washed my bedding today and it is stained,
strange patterns, Rorschach blots,
Ink, the ink of my poetry,
the many pens used in the creation of my poems,
left open at night as I drift into sleep and dream of them.

They reflect the themes of my life,
the complexity of me,
what ties my poetry together,
sometimes tenuously,
other times strong as a knot.

Though the stains faded,
they are still noticeable,
a reminder to continue to write
as long as I have meaningful words to share.



courtesy of Polyvore





 

Saturday, July 5, 2014

field of dreams...


Someone recently asked my favorite movie,
the title above, my reply.
He followed with a question
about my choice of a sports movie.

I thought about the many levels of this film,
layered one upon another.
Most important is its philosophy
that a dream starts with a single person
who has a vision, hears a voice,
as well as the belief and the fortitude
to make it happen,
to hold fast, never let go,
though others doubt or scoff or dismiss it.
Until it is no longer a dream,
but a reality, tangible,
in and of this world.

Amazing.




Tuesday, July 1, 2014

the silent summer...



This afternoon I rest, I don't know why,
I've not exerted myself,
I am bored by lack of life.

The days run together, they all seem the same,
up early, coffee, watch the am news,
then to the computer to see what's up,
nothing needs my attention,
to the TV as the news loops back upon itself, turn it off,
time to dress, hair, make-up,
I'm ready for nothing because that's what is on my plate.

A vacant agenda, calendar, 
no work, no socializing, no activities. 
Today's date? I'm not sure,
the last time I checked, oh well, I don't care,
the days go past me slowly, ditto, repeat.

Everyone else is busy, their lives seem full,
while mine is on empty.
Unless I reach out, no one reaches for me,
and even that misfires,
"I can't, no time, wish I could, maybe next week, I'll give you a call".

But the phone doesn't ring
and the silence roars.



photo by author,
courtesy of Jean-Paul Gaultier exhibition at Brooklyn Museum








Sunday, June 29, 2014

true grit...



What can I say about the poem I wrote yesterday,
that it took all day,
that it is different from any previous work,
and that it is gritty and dark,
with explicit sex and violence.

The main character directed it,
I envisioned Juliet but she turned into Lady Macbeth.
I allowed her to take control,
which caused extreme anxiety,
and total depletion of energy.

Yet it is my first completely creative piece of poetry.
So I take another leap and say I am proud of it.




Friday, June 27, 2014

catting around RVA...



Thursday evening: Worked at Anthropologie until 10 pm, drove to Balliceaux to listen to Fool's Errand and the Moonbees.

Conversations at the back bar:

Interesting young man recuperating from facial injury due to capoeira, a Brazilian form of martial arts that cominbes self-defense, gymnastics, dance and music.  This is not ballroom dancing, it is intensively physical and requires strength, training and mental concentration.  There is a well-known teacher from Brazil in Richmond with a school in Bon Air.  Tracking down information for you now...

Joined by Enzo Andimari, the man with the mellifluous voice, who has a show on WRIR and is the manager of Pane e vino near Broad and the Boulevard.  He is using his musical connections to showcase local talent on Sunday nights, no cover, and half price bottles of wine.  This week the Transitones will return from 8-9 pm.

Enzo is a buddy so we chatted, topics ranging from Kafka to Godot to the characteristics of an introvert vs. an extrovert.  Really...

The Moonbees finished their set and so it was time for me to trek home.  I had an opportunity to compliment the incredible violinist of Fool's Errand, Alex.  He seemed genuinely surprised that anyone would notice his talent.

Right outside the front door, I saw the members of the Moonbees who were taking a smoke break.  They are accomplished musicians with an eclectic style, friendly and full of good humor.  As I love to joke around, too, we enjoyed each other's company. 

Tonight they are playing on Forest Hill Avenue at CrossRoads Coffee and Ice Cream starting at 8 pm, no cover.  If you haven't heard them, it is worth the trip.

Made it home safely and ran into neighbors returning from country music show in Charlottesvillle. 

Seems like music is following me around these days...










Thursday, June 26, 2014

serendipity



Finished re-reading, purging, organizing my writings,
not realizing the volume I created,
or the amount devoted to the elusive one,
so vivid in my imagination,
so non-existent in reality.
He seemed alive for those days,
we shared a lot, I felt his presence,
he saw me, heard me, touched me,
we conversed in the shadow world.

I am talented at attracting this personality type,
they allow me into their lives for a while,
and then lock me out forever.
Drawn in by the mysterious,
I am left with hurt and rejection.
Though I contemplate the possibilities,
No explanation, no resolve.

Today the process is completed,
each piece placed in its folder
and I see what I have made out of the voices in my head.
I never expected to find this strong voice.
It demands to be written on the pages,
edited, released into the world.
I've become a writer, a poet,
finally at the right place, at the right time.

A brief thanks to the spirit who inspired me to begin this process,
wherever he might be.



photo by author







Tuesday, June 24, 2014

summertime, the feelings uneasy...



I have fallen off the cliff into the sea of nothingness,
known as summer,
school is over, no subbing,
store hours are extremely limited,
and my friends seem to be hiding under rocks.

I'm reading and writing in the back room,
in my (wo)man cave,
and wondering where the pace of my life went,
working two jobs, meeting friends in the evenings...

I am unable to adjust, 
leaving me with anxiety, the jitters, 
pacing within my tiny house.


A lot of alone time affects my mental/emotional energy,
I grow more introspective, my socialization skills erode,
a downward spiral.

Summer is hellish -
the negatives swallow me like a rip tide,
and I must struggle or be buried in the deep.

I will survive
as I do each June to August.

Somehow, some way...



photo by author
riding the wave?









Monday, June 23, 2014

can't find my way back home....





My head is filled with scattered thoughts,
they bounce as a ball,
randomly, at odd angles, 
the paths tangle together, crisscrossing,
until I can not remember where I started
or how I arrived at my present state of mind.

It's an ADD episode
though that's one diagnosis I do not have,
I am stuck in the midst of poems, essays
directionless, clueless,
my focus off, no compass at hand.

I am anxious that I have lost my inspiration,
it's a jumble inside, a maze
and I don't know my way out.





photo by author


 
 
 
 

Sunday, June 22, 2014

to post or not to post?


I apologize for not posting in a few days, but I find my thoughts extremely scattered. 

I am writing several poems and essays at the same time and yet nothing has taken shape and been completed.

I am working, but I need inspiration, creativity to make it happen. 
 
Still awaiting my muse...



photo by author,
 courtesy of Jean-Paul Gaultier exhibition at Brooklyn Museum
 
                                                     My muse taking a smoke break...







Friday, June 20, 2014

TOD



To live in an emotional void
for a prolonged time
skews one's perception of what a relationship is,
the components, the moving parts,
what keeps it alive.


The expectations are lowered,
it continues with less effort,
providing a level of comfort.


Yet to step away, gain perspective,
it is clear the core is deeply damaged,
in an state of atrophy,
a broken heart is my perception,
beyond repair,
to acknowledge this is to be the one to call the time of death.


Did we try long enough, hard enough,
the years flash by in seconds,
so much shared, yet not enough,
it's over.



photo by author









Wednesday, June 18, 2014

ave atque vale



It was the beginning,
it was the end.

The kiss -
the first, the last, the only.
The feel so urgent,
the scent of him so close.
The memory remains,
the regret finds no comfort,
He is gone.