Silhouette

(for my mother)

i see you through the window
your silhouette against the wall
the white paint has never been touched or changed
because the kids kept coming
and the grass kept growing
and it was just more comforting to have it stay the same
i am looking up at you
i am shocked by your frame
you haven't started to wilt yet
your figure is full
your hair is there
 you let me play with it
i stick in barrettes and curlers
you look ridiculous and you laugh
though i can't hear it
i remember this house as you
everything and everyone else are just pieces of the memory
they swirl around you in a haze as you
prominent
stand in the middle of it all like a pillar of light
a symbol of unity that we used to have
proof that we were once a family and we did family things
like dinner at 6 o'clock
and birthday parties
and wrapped christmas presents
and easter egg hunts
i remember that house as you
it was never as grand as it appeared
it held us all there
we slept in it's care
peacefully together
and you
in my mind
a silhouette fading with time
your voice is already gone
i try to remember your features through my own
our mouths sort of match
but our resemblance is small

Ups And Downs, Highs And Lows, Back And Forth, We Didn't Know

ups and downs

highs and lows

back and forth

we didn't know

we left you standing

all alone

an empty shell

with no one home

we took for granted

all you had

stuck on what you didn't give us

focused only on the bad

we miss your comfort

we miss your warmth

we miss your cracks

we miss your charms

you hold the memories

you held us up

we left you broken

we just gave up

Today I Feel Like Writing

Today I feel like writing

So I am

Sparked by the embers of

Pure, potent talent

I want to let the ashes mark my skin

In the hopes some of you will seep in

I no longer take to pen

Instead I pound on the keys

Qwerty

Makes no sense

Wrists wince in pain

That old carpal tunnel I gained

Working years in front of these screens

Has given me bad knees

And wrists

And a back with twinge of knotted muscle

Right under my right shoulder

I stretch like I’m told to do

Via pamphlets on how not to

Get this way

But it doesn’t seem to help

So I sit up straight and write

Is it still called writing?

Type

Typing out whatever hits my brain

Searching for a rhythm within the words

Searching for a flow like hers

But not exactly

It’s nice to be inspired

Nice

Nice to know what you want

To peer into the tunnel and see the other side

And know where you need to be

It’s just the getting there

I’m always trying to get there

But the flames are in the way

New (Anniversary Poem)

i have nothing new to

give to you

today

stories have been told

in every possible way

like the one about me

and the apple river

or the pets i had

as a kid

i have nothing new to

show you

today

you’ve seen all of my scars

both real and metaphorical

seen my hair in the morning

and the way i

chew my food

yet i wake up in the morning

with a touch of your hand

on my ankle

a gentle reminder

a new day is here

that you are here

a new way to say

good morning

without saying anything

i don’t know how you do it

i have nothing new to

tell you

today

i’ve said it before

it stays the same

i said it in a garage

filled with family

filled with friends

9 years ago

today

and it’s nothing new

how much i love you

Happy Anniversary, Baby

Mending The Moment

mending the moment

that i’m only partly there

while conversations drift off around me

i’m settling in to this

i’m setting the table even with the weight

of my pint glass

like if it wasn’t there

the table would just topple over

and the smooshed carcasses of cigarettes smoked

would stumble onto everyone

the sun peaked out

so then did my arms

so then did the insecurities

that come with them

laughter

is happening in the discussion that is happening

around me

somebody said something funny again

i smile like i know

take a drink from my glass

and watch the table wobble without its weight

To Sleep

if i dreamed of you, then it would be unnecessary
as i would be enjoying your presence
eyes closed
adrift in slumber
a place of unknowing and vulnerability
chest rising and falling
in rhythm with the feeling of peace

Lyric Of The Day

"i had to leave the house of self-importance
to doodle my first tattoo
realize a tattoo is no more permanent
than i am, and who
ever said that life is suffering
i think they had their finger on the pulse of joy
ain't the power of transcendence
the greatest one we can employ"

-From Ani DiFranco's "Shroud"

SWIM

My amazing friend, Jen March, started a project called Co-Kisser. The idea is to put poetry to film, but not just to read poetry over pictures, but to actually create a film based on a collection of poems. She kicked off the project with her own film and I was asked to help score it. I was honored by the request and had a great time collaborating on it with a couple of other folks.

You can learn more about the project and view the film, titled SWIM, on the website: www.co-kisser.com .

(and…Hello!...going to write more….starting….NOW)

Jellyfish

One step in a blind man's direction
taking with me every ounce of perspiration that my pores can push out
what's this about?
self doubt, for sure
every door an ominous undertaking
my knees making me move like jellyfish
my arms are heavy and my back is sore
my body pulling closer to the floor
what am i doing this for?
throwing a sound mind to the seas
i lock my knees
and try to breathe
...breathe...
...breathe...
...breathe...
breathe in what makes confidence
what gives people arrogance
enough to shake off this pesky nest of fear
that has made a home in my gut
twisting and burning up my insides
unitl it shows in my eyes
but, hey, at least i'm giving it a try

Performance Art

Our performance on Saturday went beautifully. My friend handled most of the teaching instructions, thank goodness. I just sang it for them. What was the performance? Well...

Our performance was part of the Talking Image Reading Series. The idea is to connect writers with visual arts. The writers attend an exhibit and create a story, poem, whathaveyou inspired by that exhibit. Then everyone gets together at the exhibit and shares what they wrote.

This particular exhibit is called "The New Land of Milk and Honey". It is a satire on communal living and new age touchy feely-ness. It's splendid. It is at the Soap Factory. You should check it out before it goes away next week.

My friend Jen is a fantastic poet. She was inspired to create something with the audience. So we created a song. She wrote a poem and asked me to put it to music and to find a chorus within it that everyone could sing to. Then, at the show, we handed out the different lines to different people within the audience. They were asked to restructure the verses how they think they should be. Each person called out a line and we put it all down. Then, when complete, I sang it for them as a song while Jen and Sarah performed a dance they created. It was a great moment.

Though they were not my words, it was so amazingly beautiful hearing people sing along to something you had a hand in creating. I was a bit choked up when we sang the chorus for the 4th round at the end. I was just so happy that people participated.

Happy Birthday To Me!

Today is the day. My 30th birthday. And though I'm not nearly as depressed about it as the following may lead you to believe...I just really liked this poem.

Turning Thirty

This spring, you’d swear it actually gets dark earlier.
At the elegant new restaurants downtown
your married friends lock glances over the walnut torte:
it’s ten o’clock. The have important jobs
and go to bed before midnight. Only you
walking alone up the dazzling avenue
still feel a girl’s excitement, for the thousandth time
you enter your life as though for the first time,
as an immigrant enters a huge, mysterious capital:
Paris, New York. So many wide plazas, so many marble addresses!
Home, you write feverishly
in all five notebooks at once, then faint into bed
dazed with ambition and too many cigarettes.

Well, what’s wrong with that? Nothing, except
really you don’t believe wrinkles mean character
and know it’s an ominous note
that the Indian skirts flapping on the sidewalk racks
last summer looked so gay you wanted them all
but now are marked clearer than price tags: not for you.
Oh, what were you doing, why weren’t you paying attention
that piercingly blue day, not a cloud in the sky,
when suddenly “choices”
ceased to mean “infinite possibilities”
and became instead “deciding what to do without”?
No wonder you’re happiest now
riding on trains from one lover to the next.
In those black, night-mirrored windows
a wild white face, operatic, still enthralls you:
a romantic heroine,
suspended between lives, suspended between destinations.

-- Katha Pollitt

I Need To Be Inspired

Last night I attended a poetry and short stories reading at a local bar. My friend, a poet, was doing a reading. I haven't been to many of these things. I'm always fearful of being forced to sit and listen to people who take themselves way too seriously or ranting women cursing out ex-boyfriends. But last night was entertaining. The readers were mostly humorous.

What happens after I attend anything like this, an evening watching talented people express themselves either with words or music, is that I begin to feel very inspired and just want to run home and write, pick up the guitar, sing, turn on Garage Band and start creating. I go to bed with words and rhymes and verses running through my head. I begin to feel like I should be doing something like this or with this. I do believe I have a creative talent in me somewhere. I'm just not sure how to harness it.

I've been told repeatedly that I am a good writer (not that this blog is any indication of that). Usually, when told this, the person appears suprised.

But, I don't want to be a writer. I'm more into poetry and lyrics. I would love to be a little folksinger who plays at little bars every once in a while. I, in no way, would ever want it to be how I make a living. I don't strive for the spotlight. But I just think it would be a fun thing to do on the side. A hobby. A creative outlet.

But I am too shy and musically, not quite there. I can play guitar just fine. Well enough to hold my own, alone. But my voice is not up to par. I can sing. I can sing well. But not consistently. I don't have a lot of control over my voice. Some days I sound quite lovely, and the next like horseshit.

I do think I need to stick with writing and stick with this blog. It's been nice to come in every morning and just babble on to no one and everyone.

Like I'm on my very own stage.

To Music

I have a musical obsession. Out of the 16 hours a day I am awake, I spend at least 8 of them with music in my ear. The other 8 are spent either wishing I was listening or playing my guitar or singing to myself. Maybe it's more of an addiction.

I am constantly on the search for new music, yet have no time to listen to all of the music I currently have. Most of the time I'm not looking for new new music, I'm just digging for hidden gems from my favorites. I can't get enough.

And once I find an artist I like, I need to own everything they've ever done.

I love all kinds of music, too. I'm not picky. Sure, there are certain areas I prefer: The singer/songwriter/acoustic guitar formula will usually draw me in the fastest. But I love me some Britney Spears, as well. As I said in an earlier post, I'm also enjoying American Idol winner David Cook and his flyover rock sound. Other favorites include: Cloud Cult, Rilo Kiley/Jenny Lewis/The Elected, Jens Lekman, Ani Difranco, Damien Rice, Air, Erin McKeown, Bob Dylan, Regina Spektor, Cat Power, Sufjan Stevens, Blur, Mates of State, Oasis....the list goes on.

As I said above, I play guitar, as well. Love to play my guitar. If I'm just sitting around watching tv or waiting to go somewhere, the guitar is in my hands. I've been playing for 18 years now. I think I'm alright. I have some issues with my pinky finger that cause it to lock up, so I don't get too tricky. I love to write songs. I love to just sing and play as loud as I can. Unfortunately, I don't think my husband or neighbors appreciate that so much. I've decided when we finish our basement that I need to create a room down there that is sound proof so I can have my own space to play.

I love going to live shows. I get so inspired. I'm not one who likes to hang out afterwards because I usually just want to go home and play my guitar. I just love the immediateness of them. I love being in the moment with the musician.

I also love to dance. Put a couple of beers in me and I am a dancing fool.

Where am I going with this? Nowhere. I'm at work with my headphones on. The New Pornographers are currently playing. I was just thinking about how if I'm awake, I have music in my ears. I love music. I wrote this ode to music a while back:

TO MUSIC

the notes emanating from the fuzzy black speaker
swirl around my head
making my thoughts go deeper
inside my little room or shoved in my ears
they speak to me in a volume i choose
in melodies i love to hear

and it seems there is never enough
i can never get my fill
or soothe the itch that creeps through me still
i long at all hours to hear the plucking of strings
or the pounding of ivory
i long to hear voices from heaven
or voices from hell
snarling or harking
sometimes it's hard to tell

the difference

the difference between love and hate can be smudged in a song
the song is sometimes the only thing that can keep me moving along
whether down in the deepest pits
or high on the northern most star
it follows my mood no matter how far swung
takes hostage my lungs
vaccuums up my breath
pulls the water from eyes
doesn't matter whether a flower blooms
or a friendship dies
there is hope
in harmonies
there is realness
in wrong notes
there is change
in melodies

there is a life in every song ever written
every word is lulled from somewhere
every chord is a call to every emotion within
everytime i sing
or just listen
i can seem them
memories as distant or as new as the day
floating from behind my eyes
wanting to share their tales
of successes and failures
of songs lost in time

lives lost to my eyes

i toast to music
to the song and the writer
i toast to southern harmonies
and to smokey clubs
and to concert halls and stadiums
i toast to jazz
to r and b
i toast to what moves me
i toast to folk
the protest singers
i toast to the pop tarts
who make the skies more blue
and the grass a little greener
i toast to garages across the world
and all the songs i'll never hear
i toast to the outdoor festivals
with eclectic bands and domestic beer
i toast to rap for making life more interesting
with all it's controversy
and to funk
for making me dance
i toast to every artist who's ever made it
and for those that never got a chance
and i toast to hoping i never get my fill
that this itch is never relenting
and that music be my will