body is changing
to form yours
blood-laced gloves
back pockets torn
MacBeth fooled once
me twice more
submissive love
chains around this heart
your knife slices
kinky through my life
Tag: writers are readers
No Answers
Either be
the calming trickle
slowly wear him out
or watch-out storm.
Being neither,
perched upon,
i caroused between
the spectrum.
Do not ask me questions because i have no answers. My head is full of doubts. I do not seek fame. I require answers. Need someone to figure me out? My eyes cursed and my heart failing to comprehend where i am heading, unleashed from the chains that bound.
seeking a writing partner(s)
Do you like writing with others? Need a sounding board? Want to polish your works “before” you release them to the eyes who read your blog? (i am guilty of publishing everything and anything and need discipline.) Then I encourage you to contact me promisegardens@att.net because i am searching for such a person or persons.
First, i should warn you i am highly introverted, never finish a project (but really, really want to publish a book of poems) and get off on long tangents which eventually never resemble what i started. I am currently in-between homes, not organized, have none of my writing or painting tools (the longing for them is burning through the layer of clothes) as they are stored away.
There are positives. I am still passionate about creating with words and color. I am a great listener, so if you need to get something off your chest…. I am married so i wont be needing anything from you except time and a love for poetry, abstract art, photography and listening to the sound of hope.
So what are you waiting for… i am here!
A snippet of what i am currently writing…
I am riddled with holes
as parts of me
begin
to leak out
upon the hard wood floor
a wide-planked pine
circa 1874.
I have been told, countless times, i am archaic. So if that doesn’t scare you, i am game. 😍😘🎶🎶🎶🕊
Interior Designer
And automatically, the words became sentences, with stems and petals. Forced from the fertile soil, stories grew arms and legs. They not only held her dreams but they carried her to lands far away.
People have no idea what’s going on in my head. Most days i wish i didn’t either.
944+ miles ahead (day one-three)
The first stop on our trek across the eastern half of the United States was Columbus Ohio (181 miles). We arrived Friday evening and spent Saturday visiting a wonderful bookshop, The Book Loft, eating lunch at The Thurman Cafe, and consuming the blossoming trees in Schiller Park and the surrounding gardens of German Village homes. What a wonderful Spring day. And the weather was cooperative!
At The Book Loft, an incredible 32 rooms full of books, with Room 13 housing a poetry collection, i found Dorothy Parker’s Complete Poems. Interior is my favorite of her poems so far. I find her to be witty and dry. Perhaps sarcastic. I imagine if i were to have had the pleasure of meeting her, i would have mentally retreated. Perhaps some people are better left to their words and our imaginations.
Today, i embark on a three hour drive to Morgantown, West Virginia (209 miles). A visit to family friends and a shared dinner awaits us in Morgantown.
As i write, the sun has lifted the evening’s hello. I have yet to determine who i will be today. 🤔🌏💙🕊🎶🎶🎶🎶
Good Sunday to you. Hope to catch up with a few blogs! 😍
My Feathered Heart
Jeanne’s GoodReads Review Please feel free to add me to your Goodreads’s friend’s list. 😁🕊🎶
My Feathered Heart (original poem)
My review of The Feathered Heart by Mark Turcotte.
I once found a teeny-tiny downy woodpecker feather. At most, the feather measured one inch (2.54 cm) in length. My guess as to the year found would be 2010. I had since lost the treasure to find it again while packing up our house to move. Today’s date 3/11/2018.
The feather, seen above in the bookmark constructed, is grey/black with five incomplete white spots. The spots are not complete circles as the white color lies on the fringe. As such, it mimics my teetering heart, lying on the edge of an invisible border erected by thoughts. It is my feathered heart that led me to find Mark Turcotte and his book of poems, The Feathered Heart.His book will be returned to as often as needed. To remedy my soul with feeling words erected as fences. (I found a used copy, to be delivered just in time for my birthday, through Amazon 😁.)
My wayward feet travel searching for answers. The silences weave protection. The war i battle is not within but from outside the curtained window. I learn to dress in velvet’s hope.
Shed Appearances
Church is poetry.
Poetry is life.
A life well lived.
Nothing remains
at the end
of every truth
a handful of stars shine -die.
The same person -born
changes appearance
new thoughts and old
intermingle within our DNA.
There is always something worth fighting for. Some times those things are greater than ourselves. Other times, it is ourselves we fight for. When we are able to simultaneously fight for all these things, we triumph.
Personally. Collectively. Battles.
Currently I am reading a very short book Sacred Geometry and set out to notice shapes and patterns in my photographs. Actively identify the photo’s composition, that was not purposely planned out, retracing my whimsical approach to life, intentionally finding what was pleasing to the eye.
This flower sums up life. Do you recognize the flower able to bloom wherever it finds footing? Often called grounding, it is connecting with ourselves, whereby one is able to calm the soul. Learning to thrive in a foreign land set against you, name the battles.
Notice the petals, some tattered, are not symmetrical. The space is full and empty. The rocks worn smooth from salty waters, leave stained memories. Immersed into the green, jagged leaves, symmetry unfolds. Layered upon each other, they peek from behind, nourishing each other with their varied position in time.
Odd. Count the petals. Twenty-three. One petal missing, to make it an even 24, or is this space purposely left open, as a fill-in-the-blank? This question remains unanswered, teaching us to be grounded while going along, while the tears flow.
Waking Up
I believe inside each of us resides a broken heart that never received the love needed. Our job is to heal those wounds, as revealed, and to search for those yet uncovered.
It came to me -a dream
And so my friend,
he has a name -Goy Peppo.
My constant companion on this writing adventure, Goy “Penguin” Peppo. He hardly believes I have shoved out all these words, nonstop, since 2008. Its akin to puking… i slowly loose the burden, strung around my neck, threatening to hang me.
Certainly there are people who would loved to have seen me dead. Growing up, there were kids in school who harbored ill desires toward me. At home, my sisters regulated me to a corner of the room, size of a cardboard box, and threw my clothes on top. I was invisible to my parents who walked right past and never noticed the tears.
Nights. I remember being in the dark, listening to the laughter coming from the living room. My parents and sisters would make pizza and popcorn and watch tv. It didn’t matter. I held my breath, covered my face with a pillow, in hopes the world would disappear. I would wake to silence, thinking I was dead. Imagine the disappointment when my wishes had not come true.
So, Goy searches for Words of Wisdom, in hopes, with time, I can be as loved as him.
Wharton “It was easy enough to despise the world, but decidedly difficult to find any other habitable region.”
Woolf “I thought how unpleasant it is to be locked out; and I thought how it is worse, perhaps, to be locked in.”
Emily
“I’m Nobody! Who are you?
Are you – Nobody – too?
Then there’s a pair of us!
Don’t tell! they’d advertise – you know!”
Alcott “I keep turning over new leaves, and spoiling them, as I used to spoil my copybooks; and I make so many beginnings there never will be an end.” (Jo March)
Frost “Poetry is what gets lost in translation.”
Plath “Yes, I was infatuated with you: I am still. No one has ever heightened such a keen capacity of physical sensation in me. I cut you out because I couldn’t stand being a passing fancy. Before I give my body, I must give my thoughts, my mind, my dreams. And you weren’t having any of those.
If you expect nothing from anybody, you’re never disappointed.“
I feel my words are changing as I am healing. Becoming one heart. Whole. I hope I am growing as a writer, expressing the deep caverns, still not lit well enough to explore.
Writing is a discipline as any other creative endeavor. What we give of ourselves, to both the process and the outcome, is what eventually is criticized. What remains unsaid, at the end of the day, will wait for tomorrow.
Cozy
With winter here, my mind turns to cozy. The Cozy Book by Mary Ann Hoberman is a delightful children’s picture book by the US Children’s Poet Laureate (2008-2011). Did you know there was such a title and honor?
I discovered this gem of a book, as a parent, who loved to read to her kids. This is a great book to snuggle up with in the deep winter, and discover all the elements that leave you feeling cozy. Think conversation starter!
Today, The Cozy Book serves as inspiration to finish writing my own vision of delight. My storyboard is all laid out as Lois Ehlert instructs, i have an illustrator, my friend’s son (see below), but the words choke.
If you desire to follow Christian on instagram. ccollins_art
See, the problem for me is the story is a vine, tangled and rooted in my soul, and perfection is difficult when the mirror reveals all your insecurities. Deep flaws.
Nothing i imagine satisfies. The words don’t leap off the pages as they should. The magic of the place doesn’t sing.
This dream of putting together a children’s book, has been in my heart since my grandfather’s suicide. This 32 year old project desires to finish strong. I really need to get this done.
So do you need some advice to finish a project your working on as well? I believe we need to fly off the page and write! Or listen to these successful authors…they have actually accomplished much!
Choice Lines and Whole Poems
This is my first reading of any e.e. cummings poems. I had known of his work, his famous small-capped letters, daunting space and rhythmical ribboned lines, as if his typewriter chittered and chattered like a coal-engine on break. I am fascinated by how his words freshly play, so dazzlingly display on paper, obedient to his hand.
All selections contained in this post are extracted from my current reading of erotic poems, e.e. cummings.
poem xi. And in particular “reckless oral darkness”
poem ix. And in particular “flower of madness on gritted lips”
poem xvi. And in particular “pink propaganda of annihilation”
poem xxi. Is an incomplete Picasso in words… a poem to introduce capital letters. Although i see several of his poems incorporate such steeds; the brave few letters to stand tall.
My favorite poem today is xiv. Photo follows.
This book of poems is a must on the poetry bookshelf. A sin to read and not to have read sooner.
j🧡🕊
