Wednesday, September 28, 2011

question: to create or to consume


“All children are born artists, the problem is to remain an artist as we grow up” ~Pablo Picasso


my consumption. feels. alone.
empty time filling i
ingest world newsfeed updates.
morning. night. i
the created asking
show me art made without intent.
a thread pulls tight.
remembers
your name and renown.
that stitch tucked way back
begs
o created one 
create.

Friday, September 16, 2011

a few of my favourite things

Joanna Newsom ~ Ys

the first chill of early fall

kitties that snore

the birth of  a new confidence

new friends

not having to scrape the corners of my mind or world to find art to experience, to do

settledness






humaness ~ written November 30, 2008

When it happened,
ended there was
darkness, your light
taken from this place

Before then, I had held
a radiance within
but now in this black
I am not even a flicker

And so (in secret)
you sent to me
your light
it touched my face

Caught in my ear:
“Those who mourn are lifted to safety
    The poor have hope, injustice shuts its mouth
        What did you expect, only good and no trouble
            Your God is no further than the closing of your heart”

So with heart in open
palm waiting, I sit
a mere creature with glints
of heaven inside

nothing ventured ~ written April 9, 2009

If you were less
to me
I would take you in,
lay it all bare
and hold tight

But as it is
I keep a reserve
revealing only fragments.
Any more
and I will not get all of me back

Besides, this sweetness
when eyes meet
and the sharpness
in turning away
do seem risk enough

And yet, while tucked away,
both brutal and lovely parts
are each only half
what they could be
if you were less to me,
or if I were more

new skin ~ written September 20, 2010

The dream transforms
nothing
but I will awake
in new skin, taught and shiny
watch the tears just run off

I will know I can have you
but I will pass
and be left
surface to core
softly impermeable

I will not know
that this softness when I dream
misses you
(though it does)
I will awake in new skin
let the dreams just run off

careless ~ written January 14, 2011

 A beaded purse
tattered from
holding
the shattered, appears
on snowy path
and you ask how
 it came to be
The little
purse, worn
from keeping
such things
spills
in your palm, revealing
shiny, hard
a thousand
heart-shards
You walk a while, then
purse in warm palm
slips through
fingers so entrusted
        Oh!
looses soul-splinters
into
snow



suitcase ~ written February 21, 2011

I packed up
all you left
A suitcase and
the stuff that made
it full
        It’s by the door
It seems
a little cold
bare, but you’ll
get used to that
        I certainly did
In losing everything
you left, I find
space
that you never
really filled

what do i know ~ written March 20, 2011

The funny thing about life and knowing is that you can only know what you know. You may be told things are not the way you see them, but you only know what you have actually lived.

And call me cynical, call me distrusting, call me afraid, unable to make a commitment, but if any of these things are me it’s because of where I’ve been.

This is what I know. I know that people leave. Sometimes they die and sometimes they choose to leave; sometimes they choose to die. The point is, they leave and you are still here, left with fragments: emotion, memory and the stuff that makes a life. The stuff people call baggage.

And this is what you have and what you know and no one can tell you that this isn’t the way things are. You know differently.

“For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future. Then you will call upon me and come and pray to me, and I will listen to you. You will seek me and find me when you seek me with all your heart. I will be found by you,” declares the Lord, “and will bring you back from captivity.” ~ Jeremiah 29:11-13

Oh, please, bring me back.

we grew up in water ~ written July 24, 2011

We grew up in water. Like crayfish, scratchy-clawing our way over and around rocks, what we did and why we did it as elusive as it was intuitive. Beat by the summer sun, we dunked under water to soak, sink, rejuvenate.
As evening fell, we would shiver-shrug our way up the beach, trailing sticks, riverbed pebbles dropping from wrinkly palms, in search of someone to scoop us up in itchy blankets and then, thrown in the back of the station wagon, we’d push-crawl over each other in a desperate attempt for supremacy.
And space.
Finally curling and flopping in whispery, algae-damp piles of tired on the seats, the floors.
We headed home.

Today, I wrote just to get these images and stories out. I wrote about two of my favourite things, water and sun, and then I had a deja vu moment...had I written this before? As it turns out, I had. Well, almost.
Fall 2003
SAND DOLLAR WISHES
I remember the grit between my toes, in my ears
on my hot dog
and the sun’s touch on my freckled cheeks
as you showed me where to look
for sand dollars

I remember the taste of salt
water on my tongue
the way it stung my eyes and how I loved
it regardless
the way I loved you

There was the day that we
with our small, grubby hands
worked for hours sculpting
a masterpiece that in one crashing moment
dissolved into the sea

I remember the allure of the froth-blue waves
as they dragged us deep
into their midst
leaving us gasping, our laughter turning
to salty hiccups

I remember the day that you left
how everyone brought mom casseroles
and how I was so mad
knowing you had gone
without me

Today the feel of my sun-toasted legs
reminds me
of the glimmering heat of past summers together
just two kids splashing about
eating purple snow-cones

Today I place a sand dollar in my palm
surprised how small it now seems
and I trace my finger along the star
soaking up summer
for the both of us

dreams that lie ~ written summer 2011

Never believe
dreams are
more than what
they are
(I open eye
and it’s you)

                              What do I know

Maybe you
means more
something
than others
mean anything
(The question
begs)
                                Why you

The ceiling
says
it hasn’t a clue