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 ....

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
 

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...

 

 

 

 

 

 

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

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





 

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.

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