I learned to love to paint. My hands trembled the first time I picked up the brush. The lack of color left my thoughts white and afraid to be coated. Today, as always, I question what my paint palette should be. I wonder what color fancies my heart?
I once dreamed of names for my children in high school, thinking of a man I would marry. So why can I not decide today, what color suits my mind? Does not Calvin weave water into ice cubes and Raina forever lick salt from frothy cheeks? Then my heart should beat blue and spill red.
“Color directly influences the soul. Color is the keyboard, the eyes are the hammers, the soul is the piano with many strings. The artist is the hand that plays, touching one key or another purposely, to cause vibrations in the soul.”
― Concerning the Spiritual in Art
As I watch a day progress to the blackness of mourning,
I sit trembling
horsehair brush in hand
tickling my heart with story
and dreaming of my friend.
A piano came with the house. And I sat down with wonder. How does one play a song? Through arched fingers i pound, as elegantly as possible. Or as angrily as appropriate. The sound reverberates around. Or did it begin, start within, to flow through my veins? And perch a tune on fingertips?
Yes! piano lessons, teach me. Release me from this body. As a critic, shed my skin. Please, come bow with me in the end.
(Lessons are going well. Six lessons in and I can play simplified versions of Camptown Races, Yankee Doodle and Row, Row, Row Your Boat. I will spare you the torture. I am enjoying this experience though!)
you closer to
my heart strings tight
around your body, strum lightly
invisible through invisible
all the notes
our hearts understood
the vibration of strings
love blindly concedes
sacred baptizes sacred
The wind barely caressed my cheek
I reached for the piano keys
tinged from yellow-aged days.
Folly, what folly.
For my transgressions
I wandered 40 days and 40 nights
the caved-in chest drew my breath
and the sands enveloped my feet.
Darling, you stole my innocence.
He, yes he gladly gave me fingers
I tenderly trotted across miles
of lust and fresh meadows.
The air a fragrant green.
My only sorrow, our music’s absence,
the silence more than two hearts can bare.
Remember me when the waves
wash ashore the black keys of death.
There was no way to polish what was left.
Emily sings me a love letter. She brings a deep understanding when humanness, in all cruelty and ugliness, shines through in a life well lived writing poetry. Look for the door where a wall exists.
You are a fictional character
in my head.
You standing at the foot
of my bed.
I try to touch you.
You are gone.
I don’t respond.
Dig deeper still.
What do you see?
I think we could be friends.
Do you recognize me?
Talking out loud is scary.
My voice trembles when I listen.
Choice words echo in my heart.
My soul quakes when it is seen.
Emily is a fictional character after all.
I talk to her for days. Wait.
Is she speaking?
Did she answer me?
I do not consider myself a poet like Emily. No person’s words mimic another, our voices our own. I only enjoy her poems.
Oriole you flit
about the woods
morning dew awake!
Two tall hats
poking at your breakfast
swooping tree to tree!
Flowers unfurl your dress
the other birds are singing
“Sunshine has appeared”!
Time is passing by.
No one comes to call.
Don’t look back.
Life keeps spinning.