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
I started as a draft
By an unseen master of the craft
A firm pencil on my page
Broken twice in creative rage
Each word made me whole
On an endlessly tilting scroll
I’m novel and made of will
A mercurial queen of quill
I begin again at the end
A book lover’s friend
Each chapter carries my heart
Between life’s bookends, I am art.
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
I read to taste life twice.
I write to channel imagination’s vice.
The words they flow, and stories they sew, leaving me in the grips of night.
As the pages by wind turn
Off the paper, love creates a burn
The hero becomes a villain while the air, bone-chilling, sends a shiver to the edge of the spine
From beginning to end
The chapters maliciously mend
Any trace of a shred, of who I was before bed, and wake me new in the morn.
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.
A thousand black-winged dots above the horizon
Cut through the clouds
On an icicle blowing wind
Forming glass of water, nature’s sculpture
Shall they reach the sun above five more horizons?
Or shall they fall into the winter of the soul ?
Their dark wings collapsing in peace
For respite in the silence minus the whistle of that very same wind
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.
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