To the artist in us all

In our writing class, our instructor has asked us to write about being a writer, and what is means to us. 

I found this old song lyric I wrote.  It's at least 15 years old.  And while it's still pertinent, I'm not sure it's how I feel today about being a writer, and a creative person in general. 

But here it is:

The Fertile Garden
(an artist's prayer)

May you learn to grow
inside your fertile garden;
May your colors intertwine
To make you free.
May you savor in your splendor
And have courage
to remember
The light inside your heart
will make you see.
May you know the fragrance
of your fertile garden;
May your sense move like dancers in the wind
May the stars above you guide you
May your soul's essence provide you,
with the knowledge that the world's
at your command.

Take your hand,
and pull the sun around you,
Feel the sand,
like silk against your skin,
realize
God's gifts are more precious
than anything that man
can understand.

So that was then.  I think being a creative person is different for me now.  The imagery here, while good, I think is a bit cliched.  One of the things I think a good writer does it take something simple, and make it different, make it like nothing else in the universe. 

The Resonance

Dig deep,
King said,
excavate,
till the heart aches,
till the blood spills,
till your ears fill
with endless, vibrating cacophonies
you've never heard before.

Brave and crazy,
ugly and beautiful,
compelled to reach
the surface,
the pounding
undeniable.
If you cage it,
it will gnaw at you,
If  you free it,
it could kill you.
No matter;
It's still your epiphany
and your circumference
Nothing can negate it,
Not even you.

A little edgier?  Hope so!!!!

Minnesota's Between Season

The weather lately here in Minnesota cannot decide whether it wants to be spring or winter.  One day hot, the next day cold.  I think there should be a "between" season here. Truly does seem to effect one's mood.  Here's my take:

Minnesota Between Seasons

Between seasons
The snow falls
just enough
to make the grass visible
through spots of white.

Between seasons
trees display their buds
But the cold keeps
appearing and going
like a fickle lover
unable to decide.

And the heart dances
In moments of warmth,
and hope,
only to once again
be shrouded in chilly rains,
and a timeless sense of woe.

Between seasons
we wait for the sun,
Waiting for things,
for once,
to be as we expect,
to be
as we yearn.

Old Ghosts

Some things you just need to leave alone.....but of course, you don't.


Old Ghosts

We should have kept things
wrapped and shrouded,
safely dead,
not rattle the chains
of our empty hearts,
freeing apparitions
that drift
to unrequited places,
filled with ancient,
faded longings.

and while clearing the dust
from this
murky phantom passion
ethereally transparent,
still,
our view is tenuous,
the journey blind,
satiating
everything and nothing

"I'll be damned,"
those ghosts keep coming
yet enraptured we remain ,
and unceasing
to follow.