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.

Desert Stars

When I was back in Southern California a few weeks ago, I went out into the backyard one very summer like evening; and looked up at the sky.

There's truly nothing like the night sky in the desert when it's filled with stars.  It was always one of my favorite things about living there. 



To Desert Stars

Constant beacons,
blazing through blackness
remembering
my benevolent companions
steadfast,
beckoning,
giving a pallor of clarity
in otherwise
unclear moments.
remaining
till it's time

for my return.

To A Minnesota Loon

I had forgotten about this poem until I was reading a poem by my friend and haiku artist Ryan Hennisey, that talks about loons he was seeing during his trip to Alaska.

Here in Minnesota, loons are our state bird, and the only place they are more common than here is where Ryan is, in Alaska. 

I was inspired to write this poem during one of my first visits to Minnesota, long before I lived here.  Not only are loons beautiful, but the sound they make is one of the most serene, soothing sounds in nature.  I was taken with it the first time I heard it. 

To A Minnesota Loon

Regal creature,
Majestic lady of the lakes,
your sleek refinement
glimmers
under moons of ominous brilliance.
You glide
In subtle ripples,
like tears
on placid planes of glass.

And in the night's
perfect blackness
You are but a slight reflection
the flawless pitch of
your melody
pirouettes through
weighty, humid breezes;
nature's soothing beacon
through dark and piercing
silence.

A Ghostly Ballad of a Bad-Ass Lady

A poetry form known as the ballad has a long history.  It is defined as "a type of narrative poem with roots in an oral tradition.  Originally intended to be sung, a ballad uses repeated words and phrases." Some of the most famous ballad poetry was written by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, whose famous ballad poem about Paul Revere's ride was taught to generations of school children.

My ballad poem here is based on a story about a woman  who, to escape an orphanage, dressed herself as a man and became a celebrated stagecoach driver during the Gold Rush. Born Charlotte Parkhurst, she called herself Charley.  Charley was one bad-ass driver, taking on tough coach runs filled with bandits and thieves, many of whom met bullets from her guns.  She eventually gained employment with Wells Fargo, and was entrusted to transport large sums of money.  After retiring, she ran a ranch and did other jobs, always as a man.  She died in 1879 at the age of 67 from mouth and throat cancer.

According to Dennis Hauck's book "The National Directory of Haunted Places" it was reported in the late 1980s that a ghostly vehicle was driving around on local roads of Santa Ynez, CA.  Most said the fast moving coach emerged from a dark cloud and rushed silently past them.  There was a report of lanterns on the side of the coach, illuminating a woman inside.

The Ballad of the Charley Parkhurst and the Ghostly Stagecoach

It flew with speed
from long ago
a phantom coach
down Solvang Road

Dressed as a man
from the orphanage
she'd go
apprenticed as a stableboy
a driver's life
she'd come to know

When gold came in '51
she drove the Mother Lode
a safe and rapid driver
Her reputation, it did grow

She drove those frightening
winding roads
from San Jose
to Santa Cruz,
she shot and killed
thieves and robbers
She never liked to lose

She retired to her cattle ranch
soon after the railroads came
Working till she passed away
Her secret did remain

And how she's found a new mode
An apparition from the clouds she goes
Her coach and four black horses
have returned to ride
down Solvang Rd.

Supermarket Roses

Another rework from a few years ago...


Supermarket Roses

Supermarket roses,
bright and beckoning
tease battered memories
of passions long replaced,

with diapers,
and bottles,
and overdrawn bank accounts.

Vibrant pink impostors
blush near
dreamy wedding whites,
and orange tipped peaches,
summons
the once new lover
rife with anticipation,

yet left to her
only
the bite of the thorns
from the stolen moments
before love becomes
something other
than its promise.