1950 Something, Approximately

1950 Something, Approximately

expected

girl-next-door bloom

tight cinched waist-line

billowing skirt

pronounced bust-line

nylon mesh petticoat

plastic pop pearls

slender wristwatch

subdued wedding ring

colorful clip-on earrings

polka dots/florals/gingham

                galore

demure days    

                sprightly nights

a queen of domesticity

glorified servant trophy wife

a happy little homemaker

two point two kids

                one boy

                one girl

    one on

    the way

proud curator of a tidy house

a twin-tub washing machine      

a perfectly manicured lawn

                a white picket fence

sought

higher education

horn-rimmed academic status

card carrying member of the

                peace caravan

a nifty mischief maker

    pro-choice

celebrator of hard won

victories

for equal pay    

                birth control

books not bombs

                Rosie the Riveter

                Wendy the Welder

ender of blatant sexual

                discrimination

Ms. Herstory

    feminine for freedoms

titleholder of body geography

Great Mother Goddess

no cage

no limits

                no expectations

breaking barriers

                of sketched stereotypes

stand with your sisters 

                who do for themselves

**

I am a woman. A human being. A free-thinker. A creative. A humanist. A daughter. An aunt. A friend. A poet. Employed. Thoughtful. Generous. Emotional. Strong. I am a woman. I matter. Female lives matter. Mothers. Grandmothers. Sisters. Single. Married. Divorced. Widowed. All women matter. At all times. 

Stand up. Shout. For your freedoms. Stand up, men. For your females. Stand with them. Not against them. 

Sisters, believe in your. I do.

In propinquity,

Nic

When I Danced On Skates

When I Danced On Skates

it all started with a dramatic entrance

my self-deprecating hyper- aware BFF

in toe – both of us on roller skates

my crazy ass legs & fancy foot work

sent me colliding into a mirrored wall

                all for the promise of cute boys

the hardwood floors of the roller disco

                ravaged my virtue

a step up from losing rolls of quarters

in a dim-lit smoke-filled video arcade

I traded smelling like a filthy ashtray

for a life for girl sass – lacing up skates

in           

                crop tops

                fab leggings

                headbands

                leg-warmers

                rainbow socks

nearly cobalt blue smoky eyes

& too cool for school attitude

our style:  decidedly mature for sure

brightly coloured pom-poms on the

                toes of the skates led me

cruising around the rink skating backwards

weaving though the reflection of the disco

ball & bopping strobes

to all 14 thumping minutes of Rapper’s Delight

the rocky quiver & twist of Ballroom Blitz

ending up at the snack bar for cold soda pops

absorbing the hidden tensions that make

young love so hard

between the slight the plump the oo-la-las

                & the James Blondes

the night I had my first skate kiss the place

was crawling w drunk teen-agers roller boogying

                … ahh freak out …

me & my Cyndi Lauper BFF

snuck a bottle of beer she stole from her uncle’s

fridge into the bathroom to cool off like big shots

titter a little & change back into our black cotton

parachute pants & pastel shaker-knit sweaters

head back to the snack bar to ogle the fair

object of my lip smacker leaning cool

& watch pepperoni pizza dry out under a heat lamp

until Dad rolled up in the snot green station wagon

                those were the days

when I danced in skates with my screwball BFF

    kissing boys       

                in the heavy heat

                of that roller skating rink

                every Saturday night

oh … to be young is to be light

**

It is to be noted that I listened to Rapper’s Delight, in its entirely, on repeat, until I finished writing this.

It was fun.

In propinquity,

Nic

My Last Cup of Tea

My Last Cup of Tea

it was when I was pouring

hot steaming water over

a cup of cured tea leaves

I realized: I come from a

long line of women who

are difficult to love

I sat my divided self down

into the sumptuous brown

leather of my writing chair

to recall my last charitable

                intended

an introvert in a 3 piece suit

his head akin to a minefield

lives by making prose poetry

                reads sad books

I set inconvenient boundaries

kept in constant motion always

                one stride ahead

he told me, ‘Everything craves

                its opposite.’

he devoted fluent squawkings

to the blue hue of my eyes

                the curve of my hip

in the hopes I’d fall in step

behave like a woman in love

I made him fumble to fade

memories

you cannot send back

                affection lost

it was when I was pouring

hot steaming water over

a cup of cured tea leaves

I realized: my will is strong

yet I still long for his trundle

   on the staircase

appearing with a soft kiss

    a new verse

    a fetching beam

I sat my divided self down

to pen fables for my

                solitude

    to expel it

to continue to leave

    myself 

stalwart with a plunged                

                heart

my last cup of tea revealed

                the true narrative

    of Sorrow’s captive

**

We are closing in on the last few days of poetry month and it appears that I have had a decent amount of poetry in me for the duration. Pleased to have been able to write as much as I have in recent weeks. I still can’t get a grip on the short story I wanted to write. The words start then stop. The character is visible but the intent is failing me. I’m not sure whether this is one of those cases where I will be struck with the lightning bolt delivering that ‘ah-ha’ moment and go to town or perhaps it’s as Big Magic suggests, the idea isn’t mine. I really want it to be mine. We’ll see. For now though, I am more than content to churn out the verses. The one I am currently pecking at is proving to be a challenge but I will keep at it.

More tea, more words.

In propinquity,

Nic

The Artist

The Artist

it was a fever at dawn

a slow-motion vertigo

searching for my faith

craving your opposite

ripped from feathery

                daydreams

wading through vague

corrections about what

happened to you

where did you go

fortune’s darling

prophet

pimp

protester

high priest

witness

the artist formally known

with a downcast incertitude

your opulent life and times

softly passes back and forth

between the brokenhearted

trembling through every last

shade of purple

for illumination

for heartsease

where did you go

what does it symbolize

               

            relentless

rigorous

taskmaster

while we wait

while we weep                

the song remains

                                the same

               

this is

truly what it sounds like               

                when Doves cry

**

My phone exploded the day Prince died. I found it hard to believe much like the news of Bowie's passing. Prince was such a large and funky part of my life's soundtrack, I am certain so many others would agree. It took me a few days to process the news. It was unbelievable until I realized that CNN hadn't whispered a word about Donald Trump in almost two days. It was surreal, it still is. I cried watching Stevie Wonder being interviewed. It's a grave loss.  He was music, a level above and beyond genius, and someone who changed music in the most profound of ways. He was a genre unto himself and the world will never see the likes of such a thing again. 

We are losing our icons. 2016 has been a difficult year for the music community and those of us who live for and support it since we were knee-high to grasshoppers. It still pains me to know that this generation will never know how exciting it is to have experienced music before the internet, when it was a rite of passage to stay up late for the Grammy Awards and American Music Awards, music TV ... they were amazing days. The beauty though is that the music, in the case Prince's massive body of work, a timeless discography, will live on, play on and continue to inspire young minds and artists. 

Music does save. It is eternal, even when our icons leave us. That is the blessing and to have ever had them in the first place.

There are so many ways I could have written about Prince but it only seemed to write from an honest and emotional place, the same place where I feel music. 

In propinquity,

Nic

Lunching With Joe

Lunching With Joe

there is a

sweet disorder

to lunching with Joe

deep in the middle of

the worst month

cowered in a dim crook

among the Irish barflies

their scruffy clothes

brooding looks

& racking coughs

over pints of draft beer

empty soup cups

& lively ukulele music

we are

dedicated to poetry

he draws

the world closer

proximate to touch

shouting lines from        

haikus

                sonnets               

                                odes

words warp w/ a romantic

crookedness

he is a buoyant devotee

confronting impossibility

                & my decrees

are prized in his company

words wound tight

fitted w/ implication

so when I rise to leave

                sodden of poet sage

(how the end

always begins)

inexpressible anguish

                floods his fair face

& he murmurs low

a lonesome farewell

I was beginning to love you

                alas you leave

he is unaware

                of my grieving

**

The title of this poem came from book passage and I couldn't get it out of my head. I fell asleep last night dreaming about two souls converging in an old dark pub, among vagrants, over sustenance in bowls and cups, sharing their musings about poetry. A union fleeting yet rife with meaning. It was an image, a relationship I couldn't shake. 

And so, I tackled it. Played with it. Molded it and composed it. 

Another nugget for poetry month. 

In propinquity,

Nic

Fate/Fury

Fate/Fury

audaciously overlook

the intricate methods

of how love sanctifies

our erratic convictions

damaged gentlefolk

amid plea & perdition

contour the indefinite

leverage the medley

suffused in contrition

endowed by elegance

a crooked faith found

to pardon our evils

a fate & fury to suffer

a contrapuntal opus

plague transformed

oppressively fraught

to evocative grace

the heart

the fury

                                the fate

**

I was reading recently about the 'red string of fate': an East Asian belief derived from a Chinese legend. According to the myth, the Gods tie an invisible red cord around the ankles of those who are destined to meet, or who are meant to help one another. 

I love the concept, the idea of being bound to strangers who will soon be positives in your life. And so, in turn, in a small way, this wee poem was born.

In propinquity,

Nic

Buch

Buch

a strong book

quiet & subtle

disassembles

atop

a coffee table

this to him

is a piece of music

**

A small poem for a Sunday morning inspired by reading a little piece of arts news. 

It's a beautiful morning. Teapot (a literal one) is empty, errands are looming but afterward I am stepping outside for some fresh air and maybe a walk. Likely to the sea.

Spend your Sunday smiling.

In propinquity,

Nic