Wednesday, March 6, 2019

Let Your Life Speak




Let Your Life Speak

even if
it is not what you want
to hear
let your life speak
mine for your greatest glories
do not be reluctant to gamble
do not be dispirited
            steward kindness
            take solace in beauty  
be the more loving one
radiate wisdom          
            castoff conformity
have
the courage to let yourself
            be
let your life speak
            open your big heart
you
are worthy of wonder,  joy
& deep aliveness
            let your life speak

***

I woke up this morning smiling. I can’t tell you the last time that happened. I slept well, my dreams were pleasant, and I was outside early enough to watch midnight’s stars fade into the cool blue daylight. To celebrate my teeny tiny emotional victory, I wrote a hopeful poem. That felt good too.

In propinquity,
Nic

Tuesday, February 12, 2019

Where You’ll Find Me


Where You’ll Find Me

if you should need me
I can always be found
in the lower-left hand
            corner
wrapped up in a warm
blanket
            watching the sun
rise in sequence with my
ideas about Heaven

***

I have writer’s block. I have it even though I am armed with an idea and the character. Perhaps if I get the opening line I may be able dive in. I did manage to press out a poem or a reasonably hand-drawn facsimile.

In propinquity,
Nic

Tuesday, February 5, 2019

Of Song



Of Song

on a
night of February
torrents and squalls
I sat vigil, ear to the
radio
            a songwriter
pooled his lyrics
stark admissions
of what estranges, in
stereo, it
felt like
thousand s of
fingers moving through
me      
            as he described
the advantages of what
plagued turning
into art
the fire
he brought was beautiful
with no mind of the cost
to his awareness
                        and then it
befell me how we
respond
rocking and rolling
up and down amid pulsing
crowds of warm beer cups
bellowing
            a songwriter’s
words back in fast-paced
glossed-over empathy
in unison
the kind of compliment that
            might drag a hero to
hell
            night after night after
night

***

It was something that struck me. Thinking of someone writing their inner-most thoughts down on a piece of paper, inside of a notebook, on a bar napkin or the flap of a cigarette package.  It hit me, an artist culling all of their demons in to put expel them in song.  
I have great respect for artists who do this, in any medium. But, those who climb up on a stage and bleed for us, with us, are extraordinary.

This poem is a direct reaction to the wonder of what it must be like to be laid bare for the world, your soul wide open to a room full of people. What’s it like when those looking up and singing back at you identify? What’s it like when they don’t? What’s it like when you hear a million hurts being sung back to you? What’s it like to have them fall on deaf ears? I wonder. I wonder. I wonder.

I love songwriters. I admire their candor. I hurt because they have, rejoice when they overcome, and appreciate that I can find myself in their works. Music is medicine, it saves – the songwriter, the listener. Its catharsis, therapy, healing.

A little Teapot update to tide me (maybe even you) over until I’m finished a new piece of short fiction.

In propinquity,
Nic



Thursday, January 17, 2019

Sorrow in Hobe Sound

Mary Oliver, Poet
1935 - 2019

Sorrow in Hobe Sound

I will miss you, Mary Oliver and
those nature-heavy rapturous odes
the frankness of your blank verse
presented in a way that it feels like
we are having a private conversation
and the only others privy are your
little muses – spotted owls, fluttering
butterflies, leaping frogs, a wedge of
plump geese, the sun and the stars
                        you will be missed by
so many who expect to see you there
stood in the weeds scribbling in your
notebook praising the splendor of the
outdoors while carping human crimes
gluttony, despoilment, intemperance
            I will miss you, Mary Oliver
I’ll sing your poetic messages across
a sun-filled harbour at the top of my
lungs so long as you promise to give
our Brother Poet, Walt Whitman my
very best
            I will miss you, Mary Oliver
and while I wander in mourning I’ll
go in search of skunk cabbage I’ll go
deep into the woods you loved until
I find what you told me to look for.
Goodbye, Mary Oliver           
            cloistered Oracle of Poesy
there is deep sorrow in Hobe Sound
today and it reverberates in my heart

***

My heart is heavy today. Mary Oliver died. She leaves behind an extraordinary body of work that will inspire me the rest of my days.

In propinquity,
Nic

Friday, December 28, 2018

Third-hand Glamour



Third-hand Glamour

            all
sinking epiphanies
of a postcard sleazy
city surpass an (un)
steady stream of
gamblers
slot machines
punters
titty-twisters
plungers
roulette wheels
dead celebrities
solemnizing
fleeting love
dancers
            shaking their
pathos into blank stares
(all
dizzying overindulgences,
encouraged soul surrender)
             desert
sand pancaked faces tipped
cacophonous neon sky-high
cowboys
distort already bleary eyes
            it’s vulgar
            bombastic
proudly tacky
            third-hand glamour
 I wanna go

***

It’s a good thing that my bud came through with a post-holiday prompt this morning. The newspaper bin was still full of yesterday’s edition so there was no crossword for me to do on the way to work.

Prompt was Las Vegas. It was fun.

In propinquity,
Nic




Tuesday, December 11, 2018

Venus, Decorated



Venus, Decorated

            a
Goddess
is ever so slightly
spun away from observers
reclining across a sultry bed
adorned w/ a silky overspread
gingery, upward sweeping strokes
define the curvy contours of her body
bowed out at the hip, in at the stomach
& out again at her soft willowy shoulder
her
body dictates
the gilded frame
the
masterpieces’ limits
commence at her slender foot
& conclude w/ her elegant elbow
            a
Goddess
            decorated
            for your pleasure

***

This little writing exercise from my bud was to create a work of art with words. Couldn't have come at a better time.

Did I succeed?

In propinquity,
Nic


Wednesday, November 28, 2018

I Still Hear Your Voice



I Still Hear Your Voice

            I still hear it
your voice in the halls
vibrating up through the
floorboards
            calling my name
singing ‘High Flying Bird
shooing the cat away from
your desk lamp or while you
sewed well-traveled patches
on your quilt
            I still hear it
your voice
your voluminous laughter
echoing in the rooms you’ve
left empty
living-rooms, dining-rooms
dance halls
            and I still hear it
the buzz
of machines in time
with your lungsful
drawing oxygen deep
exhaling in emergency
            it’s always there
the slow outbreath of your last
moment
            an Angel’s soft sigh
you bloomed in freedom
I wither in grief
I still hear it
the sounds of you
                                    especially
when I feel stranded in my joys
            and when I hear it
I look for the rendering
of your
human guise
for a soliloquy
any kind of refrain
I still hear it
            and it kills me

***

Another poem for my dearly departed sister. When I feel the hurt settle in, the reality, the only way I know how organize it is on the page.

I miss you, Big Sister.

In propinquity,
Nic