Taste of Peace

Taste of Peace

bracelets

coiled tightly

‘round her slim wrist

her hand trembles

a little

            speaking only

in verse

looking for names in

the crowd

to argue with about

the dead

            instead she

is challenged on the

impotence of

God

going cool in her skin

she recalls

            once having

friends who believed

in                     Heaven

those bound

            by the conceits of

instinct and agony

            she wades later

in a laurel patch

            cadenced somehow

by a theatrical night

                        spent

hunting

for a taste of peace

calls on her      yearnings

in the vast wild

of moon-flooded night

to                     stitch

the motif

she is plain

            and good-hearted

despite the rain

            on the other side

of her chest

***

Purposely, I left my book at home today, so I didn’t have to lug it around after work en-route to the Memorial Cup Street Fest. My iPod also needed charging, so I scribbled on my morning commute. This poem was the result. I was just glad to find scrap paper in the bottom of my bag so I could write. No matter what it is, it’s always good to put pen to paper. I know what imagery this conjured for me, I hope for those who read it, can see her similarly.

Heading to see Ria Mae this evening. Then home to my bed. I wish it would warm up. I think I’ll have to wear my hoodie and my jacket tonight. Where is the sun!? At least it isn’t raining (knock wood).

Happy Wednesday!

In propinquity,

Nic

                       

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