Sometimes your life and art mesh. I’m in charge of the Treasure Island cast & crew after party this Sunday. My son was cast as Long John Silver. I have not had much time for other pursuits, but I realize that creating things for the party is art. Life & art can intersect in wonderful ways.
I’m pretty proud of the creation you see here.
The steady fall along my wall leads to the end of day.
Frigid flakes coagulated atop the fertile ground of Spring exhibit their intricate glory.
Inside, I make dinner. I’m safe. It’s warm.
Dusk brings warning of a night from which I must hide. Or must I?
The only light is the crisp white of the snow out my front door.
The steady hum of plows is a clockwork announcement of the burden of today.
Do I dream of the melt of it all?
Or do I let myself be numbed by the cold, hypnotic beauty of snow at dusk?
Instead I dream that I am a snow crystal floating in the air, landing with the other crystals on the blanket we make as we go.
Note: I decided to remain true to the Artist’s Way journey and handwrite my morning pages. I don’t know what pushed me to reconsider other than a desire to accept what I don’t know and immerse myself in it. I was inspired to write this after my morning pages today.
The Bird at My Window
A bird came to my frosted window this morning.
I looked at it through the broken glass of frozen crystals creeping along the pane.
Its pin beak was a needle meant for nectar not ice.
Its song was desperate.
Shall I let it in?
Its song was insistent.
Shall I respond to its plea?
Its song was just a song, meant for the sky, not me.
A bird came to my snow globe window this morning, and it wanted nothing but to sing.
I am the last piece of tinsel clinging to the fir that’s about to return to the earth
I am the first bud fighting activation by the sunshine I know is forgetting the last snow
I am the shade, the single cloud, the arch of a tree, providing respite from the dry heat
I am the first leave to turn on the branch and the last to fall, stretching on the way down towards peace on frosted ground
I am the first crystal to form in the sky, willingly joining other crystals, ready to find my place in a snow angel
I am a winter soul, an arctic fox, a counter of stars under the frigid night sky
The crunch of the grass under my feet
Crystal shards freezing each blade in time, if only for the morning
The chill on my cheeks, making me wish I had lingered over coffee longer
I pull my jacket together as if I am making it stronger
I walk down the road, my rhythm set by birds conferring
They are gathered for their annual convention to leave this place
They want a sun that warms each feather
I want crisply coated air delivered by this weather
My friends laugh that I am made for scarves and sweaters
As I wrap up, they lament the loss of sandy toes and margaritas
I have the gift of knowing Lake Michigan’s cold sand
As Fall falls, those once summer waves still crash upon the land
Sometimes we get snow in April.
It’s inevitable like skin burnt by sunshine,
broken hearts, and failed exams.
The day still carries the blooms of spring
And the hope of new growth after the
winter of our soul.
The frigid pane of a window gives it away.
Our winter has yet to end.
Sometimes we get snow in April.
It’s inevitable like blisters from shoes,
uncomfortable silences, and paths not taken.
The air still carries the pollen
And the flowers and joy to come after
the last stand of frost.
The emerged animals scurry in confusion.
Our spring has yet to begin.
Sometimes we get snow in April.
It’s inevitable, and then we move on.
I write the lines in my face
by the story that I place
in my mind
in my heart
I am art.
Remove a chapter
Add a scene
Put me on parchment
The plot line screams
I am dreams.
My arc goes high
the quill goes low
inky marks
scribbled line
I am fine.
The end is near
Typewriter beats
coffee runs dry
tea leaves tell
I end well.
A banjo is an excellent story writer. It’s a 5-string choose your own adventure. It’s a thriller. It’s the romance writer of stringed instruments. Go down the neck, and you get some science fiction and fantasy sounds…the bard of a space court. It’s African poetry. It’s a medical drama about a woman needing a musical cure for a rough week. The banjo is a story, and it is the cure.
| “When you come out of the storm, you won’t be the same person who walked in. That’s what this storm’s all about.” ― Haruki Murakami, Kafka on the Shore |
It starts with the rhythmic tapping of the first drops
On the roof from which you touched the stars
There is a grumble in the sky, a call to action on the horizon
And electricity traces the line of your quickening pulse
Today will be different. Today is the storm.
The dark clouds are now pushing up to your horizon,
Making you search for shelter in the eyes of the unaware
They are in their own storm, unable to bear witness to yours
You yell out while knowing you have to be your own shelter
You were made for this. Today is your day.
Now comes the torrent, the lightning, unforgiving noise
The deluge hydrates the landscape of your soul
While eroding the surface, a runoff of who you were
Your foundation shakes with each strike and boom
Today is terrifying. Today is your storm.
The minutes pass, or maybe the hours, or the years
The storm chooses how long it stays and batters what was
And your choice is to weather it, a stalwart sailor, or wash away
When you think it will stay forever, sunshine finds the crack in the clouds
The storm is done. You are the sunshine, begun anew.
Wrapper-less candy slapped into your hand from a distance after you asked politely
Discrete looks from shaded eyes overpowering your dignity
Trumpets announcing what you wish could be announced by a muffled flute or ignored entirely
Fair? Where did fair go?
You say I took your freedom when I just asked for understanding.
You can cast it, but you can’t put it back in your pocket.
It is a fireball that will burn a hole in your leg,
the same leg with which you hope to leave the scene.
Dark magic? Is it dark magic?
No, it’s just you pretending to cast doubt, which is actually just
my truth that you wrapped in spite.
Thank you. I feel worse.
I hope you still have a good night though, like the night of an owl
who can’t find its leafy perch after it has found prey.
Writer focused on fiction for middle-aged women with spunk
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Kelly Rogers 