Saturday, May 31, 2014

Eclipse

There’s a shadow
On the stars tonight
The sun and moon
Are crossing paths
I feel an eclipse
Will break my heart

Every day a poem
A crack in the sidewalk
A word or two
Like weeds
Growing from the ground
To break me through

The day time and the night time
Fold into each other’s arms
I come alive when night takes hold
My dreams and thoughts becoming bold

On a day like today
I can feel my heart grow warm
Under its blanketed skin
And secret beatings

The longing for another
Sends me out on a journey
Stronger than that of a search

For gold and diamonds

Flash Back

My singing lesson is well underway. I’m singing “I See the Light” but start thinking of another song.

“Stay focused,” says the teacher calmly, but firmly. I wonder how she knows that my mind went somewhere else. But my eyes have glazed over and I’ve tripped off key. I come back and get on track.

I remember all the times in my life I’ve let someone critique me. How wanting to be an actress and taking singing lessons and wanting to write, have opened me up to criticism. Reviews in the news paper, silent whispers of friends all the mistakes I made, pointed out. The time I said shit after coming off stage and they hadn’t turned my MIC off yet.

The times I’ve been told to stand up straight and say my A like an A and also like an O.
The singing teacher apologized for pointing these things out, and I gratefully admitted that it is what I paid her for.

I sat alone that night and just let it all sink in. The mistakes I make when I’m not focused, the words I say and notes I sing. All being listened to by other people and then judged. The poems I write and send away being read over and judged. It’s a lot to take in when you realize this is happening. And so I sleep it off and have nightmares; That no one shows up, no one likes it, no one hears it, reads it, and there are fires and tears.

Was I aware of this as a child? Did it affect my depression in university. Was I ready emotionally and logically for what was about to happen. When I went from all the teachers saying “well that’s Frosty, she’s awesome” to “Who the hell are you and your writing stinks.”


Can I handle it now, can I handle being one who critiques in my job and getting it back when I come home. How does this affect how I look at the world, how I see other people, how other people, who aren’t used to the artist way, react to me. How does it affect how I look at my own work, my confidence? 

Thursday, May 29, 2014

The Road

I started singing again
I started living again
But then the tears came

To mourn the heart
And all I had no idea
I was looking for

I noticed the little purple
Flowers in the ditch
And thought of the path

And where it has led me
And how every
Day I climb

For the road

I walked through my
37 th birthday
And hoped he didn’t notice me

I hope he didn’t want
To make me happy
Because then I’d see

All the years I was sad

I started to love
For the first time

And the heart broke

Tuesday, May 27, 2014

Violins And Mice

The violins in the night time
Of my bedroom
Rocking me to sleep
The conductor of the symphony
Directing my dreams
The songs they sing
Are new to me
I’ve never heard them before
My mind
In dreams
Writes songs
Forgotten with the waking sun
Today the conductor
Paused the music and said
You’re only half the magik
You should be

There’s a beauty
In the homeless soul
Eyes small and beady
Breathing laboured
And he still gives us a gift
For thinking about him this morning
Us and our blessed life

I would want someone
To leave a small
Royal Dalton water bowl
If I was lost and forgotten
Too
And so he leaves me a mouse

A part of me feels alive
Thelma and Louis
Before they go over the edge
A part of me feels flat and dead
Like the mouse
And then a friend
Pays a compliment
And for a moment
The sadness and loneliness
Disappears
And then a friend
Makes a phone call
The gifts
Keep getting better

More alive

Sunday, May 25, 2014

Universe and Dreams

I always feel surrounded
By the universe
Its webbed fingers
Dew dropped in the morning
Wake me up
And push me along
On paths I have fought for
And paths chosen for me

The universe

Like no matter
How many hours
I have spent by myself, writing
Reading or cleaning;
I am surrounded
By the universe

By spirits, energy, and love

Sometimes I get overwhelmed
From it all
The singing of the fairies,
The stories of the gnomes,
The voices inside my head,
And I sleep.
It makes it all go away,
Until, of course,
The dreams come

My trip into my dreams
Has no agenda,
There are no dependants
No regular visitors
Each night it’s a new life
And I feel what I can’t feel
While awake;
To touch, to love, to adventure, to fly

In bed I see and feel
Enough that I look at reality
And question its reality,
As much as I do question dreams
It isn’t until later in life
That I learned to question
My inner dreams
Where do they come from?
What do they mean?

I will dream of an apple pie
Unnoticed in someone’s window
The next day  
I watch a movie and there’s an apple pie.
I wonder if it’s my medicated brain
Doing the best it can to
Predict the future
And the best it can do is apple pie

I always feel surrounded,
By the dream
Its broken fingers
Twisted in the sunset
Lulls me
Dances behind the closed eye
Takes me to places
That I will never see


In the universe

Sunday, May 18, 2014

Todays Free Fall with the help of Steve Lopezès The Soloist

I’m on foot today, of course I’m on foot; I’m always on foot, unless someone drives me. But that only happens on the weekends. I’m in B town, on the corner of empire and pleasant, I’m heading to do my laundry. My pretty beige dress is the only clean clothes to my name and I’m walking up the hill with bags of dirty laundry praying to god that my clothes don’t fall out of the bag or that dirty undergarments don’t start waving like a flag out of the little cart I drag, the black one with the wheels.
I was promised a washer when I moved in, so I looked no further.
There were no other options.
They would let me have cats and the floors appeared to meet the walls until I signed the lease.
There were no other options.
They would let me have cats and the last power bill was only 90 dollars.
There were no other options.
I would have chosen the place for many reasons, the sun porch, the cats, the location, not the power bill or the long walks up the hill on Sundays.
That’s when I saw him, Billy Joel, standing on the street corner, serenading. When I was walking he was singing Good Night Saigon. My singing teacher refused to let me sing it when I was young. There’s nothing more reprehensible that your sixteen year old singing student talking about passing the hash pipe and playing the doors tape. I didn’t care I liked the story.
As I was walking past Billy Joel He sang “We met in spastic like tame less horses, we left in plastic as numbered corpse.” Tears were coming down his eyes. I didn’t think that he was supposed to cry he’s sung the song a million times. I could sing it without crying so I started to sing it; I knew all the words, from start to finish.  
He was playing his guitar in the rain.
“Hey Billy,” screamed a teenager out of his car window; “where’s your piano?” like it was normal to see Billy Joel on the street corner, dressed in a tuxedo, singing “We will all go down together,” a well dressed, very lost, prophet.
He held out his arms as part of his crucifixion and said “But I’m Billy Fuckin Joel.”
The laundry basket, the place where I do laundry was fill and everyone was talking in circles, some about like some about death. Some of the laundry looked like it came from dumpsters some of it looked like it came from Harrods in London, there were all sorts of people and smells and conversations.
“Did you walk here?” the owner asked flicking her cigarette out the door as I walked in.
I nodded
“Some guy is on the corner of empire and pleasant stopping traffic.”
“Umm.” I said, only wanting to get my laundry done. “Billy Joel, He’s in town. I guess.”
I put my laundry in the washer and sat down and watched TV. The show was about all the veterans of the war and I was being fed by tv. They talked to daughters and granddaughters about their fathers lives and grandfathers lives and how some of them never came home.
I got tired and went to play on facebook, my friend was sticking silverware to her nose with random candy and sugar substances. I laughed.
I took my clothes from the dryer and headed down to the corner of pleasant and empire. “We met as spastic, we left in plastic, the words went over and over in my head.
Wow, I get it, and I sat down where this Billy guy was singing and a single tear dropped from my eyes.

I could have stopped and listened
There were other options
I could have learned from him but instead I watched TV
There were other options
I could have shared with other people I could have cried with him
There were other options.