Oh dear.

Magic Carpet Ride. All rights reserved.

“I live in a shell, so I can’t blame people when they don’t want to crack me. But people like you are the reason I left the nest.”
Maria Elena, Eternal Youth

Mostly this blog is written in an insecure sense of self. There is plenty of advice out there that tells us to fake it until you make it. And I practice that on occasion, until I wear thin that rain-soaked cloak and find I can no longer carry the baggage. It is then I wish to don silken wings that have been packed too tightly in a box.

I have churned out several blogs over the course of 9 years. I have closed down those same blogs and in the process of shuttering the doors and windows of yet another, while simultaneously starting a new blog (Soul Signs) and keeping this blog moving into the future.

Borderline Crossing has turned into both a polished poetry site and a behind-the-scenes curtain call. (Definitely more of the latter.) I was born into a mess and I have only made the world a messier place to live. My inner imaginative world remains quite organized but when I step out the door and enter your mind with word and deed, I leave behind a less than stellar impression.

I am beginning to think I will never really publish a book. Forest Stories is my next brainchild. But then whatever happened to Leave No Stone Unturned or Evening Fog? Maybe just poems in this newest chapbook I propose. (Revision is never-ending!)

I have so many side burners turned on high heat that I am smoldering iron, too useless to make an impact at all. While I am at it, burning down the house seems apropos, with the cold water turned off.

So in fact, this is all my own doing. Right? If I were a plumber, I would certainly fix my current dilemma. Or if I knew a plumber, perhaps I could. Or maybe I enjoy the variety of a well jumbled day. Dishes stacked in the sink waiting for me to pause and enjoy the hot sudsy water. Rooms full of disheveled projects lining dining room table, coffee table, writing room desk layered with linen paper and napkins with jotted notes. Plastic bins stuffed with fabric and buttons lining closet shelves. Boxes of pastels, markers and paper, canvas and acrylics take up as much space.

But underneath an INFP is a deep oceanic peace. Yeah! ✌🏼 J

 

Courting My Heart

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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.”
Wassily Kandinsky, 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.

 

 

 

Piano lessons (first thoughts)

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!)

heart’s agony

The wind barely caressed my cheek
whispering torment
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.

Dickinson

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.
Whispering softy,
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.