poetry, writer, writing

Morning Mourning

I mourn in the morning,

When no one can see.

The French press of my emotions,

Coursing through me.

My tears awake,

As the moon goes to sleep.

But when the sun says hello,

I cease to weep.

For the day returns in glory,

Calling me to live.

I tuck away day-sleeping sorrow,

For the joy I have yet to give.

I mourn in the morning,

When no one can see.

My now past yields to my present.

I am once again free.

poetry, writer, writing

Life & Art

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.

musician, poetry, writer, writing

Snow at Dusk

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.

fiction, writer, writing

Artist’s Date One: The Beauty in Ordinary Objects

Each week I must have an Artist’s Date with myself as part of the Artist’s Way journey. I wanted to go outside and find a story in pictures.

Fast forward. I’m in a hotel, and it is frigid outside. These are the photos that resulted. I find the ordinary to be extraordinary when seen through the right lens.

fiction, poetry, writer, writing

The Artist’s Way: Day Two Morning Pages

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.

fiction, story, writer, writing

The Artist’s Way: Day One Morning Pages

Note: I’m undertaking the Artist’s Way journey with friends. One piece of this journey is writing morning pages by hand. I’m adjusting this slightly to be a mix of typed and handwritten pages depending on how I feel on a given day. I may share some of my pages here.

Day One

She walked up to the typewriter full of dust and indifference like her. She could see two typed lines even perched from her stairway. As she neared the revelation, she heard a light clearing of the throat. He was not supposed to still be here. She had set clear expectations. As she made it to the bottom of the stairway, he caught the corner of her glance.

“I thought I made it clear that this wasn’t a sleepover.”

He chuckled, standing there in boxers, nearly bare, sculpted with defiance. “I thought I told you I’m not a one-night stand kind of guy. I like you. Let’s have some breakfast. You actually agreed to that last night.”

“In my sleep? Because I don’t remember agreeing to that, and I normally don’t eat breakfast.”

“Coffee and toast with peanut butter then?”

She shrugged. She could use a cup of coffee, and she wasn’t allergic to peanuts. He walked off with purpose, the line of his back straight and strong. He had a cap of ruffled black curls on top of his head that was more visible in the morning sun. They had laughed when her hands became tangled in them. The reality of passion was a far cry from the movie version where her hands would have made it through to his ends.

As soon as he cleared the doorway into the kitchen, causing her discomfort as he opened cabinets getting familiar with her mess, she ran to the typewriter. It had to be from him. She hadn’t touched it in so long. It caused her aches all the time, mentally and physically. She wished she had never been published, never received acclaim, never sold rights for a movie that was never made. She was empty now, and in the passion of last night, she had told him this. She was stupid for opening her book to him with its empty pages. He was making breakfast out of pity, not desire.

She reached for the paper, quality to the touch. If a writer was eschewing modern technology for a draft, they needed to invest in high-quality paper. This was her rule. She would hire somebody to transcribe it to the required format…if she ever managed to write again. The paper between her hands felt like Egyptian cotton sheets, the same sheets of last night. A book advance paid for those.

The paper stood strong before her and heralded a new future brought to her by a beautiful stranger in the night. “You can do this, Sophie. Today is the day you begin again after I make you breakfast.”

poetry, writer, writing

winter soul

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

musician

Tired

When you are the kind of tired sleep won’t fix

And your second hand is stuck but it still ticks

When you’ve lost your bookmark in a breeze

And you need a prayer after life has brought you to your knees

When you try to drive forward while in park

And you are in a story that has no discernible arc

Look up to the sky, you are kissed by the sun

Look down at your feet where two puppies run

You are here now, a gift, tired or not

Breathe it in, breathe it out, give it all you’ve got