Posts
All Comments
Add this to your site |
"The privilege of a lifetime is being who you are." ~Joseph Campbell
"Life is pure adventure, and the sooner we realize that, the sooner we will be able to treat life as art." ~Maya Angelou
"Nothing feeds the center of being so much as creative work." ~Anne Morrow Lindbergh
Days pass in scurrying,
hurrying moments,
consolidating time
into packets composed
of frantic nothingness –
get to work on time,
do the job, pay the bills,
keep on keeping up.
Just hanging on –
gouging out minutes
to refresh the mind
with artful words, visiting
worlds in images rent
from artists’ dreams and nightmares,
accompanied by lyrical notes birthed
from musicians’ hands,
played in counterpoint
to my own ink bled onto a page.
Should life cease, will I be ready to pass
into that other place, through dark doors
landing in glorious light? Or, shall I ponder
on an unfinished life?
Comprised of words unspoken
silenced by correctness,
of dreams unimagined, nebulous, amorphous,
seeds yet unbirthed,
of love horded miserly, never expressed,
retained until there’s no one left,
still gazing across one-day vistas waiting
for a time that never occurs,
will echoes of unheard, undiscovered family
haunt me always?
No, I think I shall be contrary and decline
the passage into unknown horizons;
after all, I’m still a work under construction
struggling to release self-imposed exiles, create
a new world within the boundaries,
the confines, of my incomplete soul.
Sixteen, sweet sixteen
by then she’d learned more than she ever wanted to know
more than any child-woman should
of words hard as fists leaving blotches
where only the heart can see
of eyes blinded by compromise, overlooking
bruises polka-dotting flesh
of male bonding rituals, fathers and sons ogling
budding breasts
of painted appearance being more important
that substance and knowledge
of gropes and grabs, hands slid under skirts,
of lost dreams and broken hearts,
of self-worth residing
in peer acceptance that never came
and little red pills that ease the pain
and fog the mind,
the knowledge that she can never escape
her own eyes looking back
from the mirror hanging on the wall
while she still exists,
and the realization that self-respect
predicates all respect
and nothing, and no one
is more important than that;
and while she breathes, life goes on
another day, another year - -
now sixteen is just a lingering nightmare.
Alarm clock blared, didn’t hear it,
running late,
rushing, rushing,
shower and dress,
running, rushing
no time, no time –
I’m late, I’m late -
white rabbit has nothing on me.
To work I go
traffic caging inside
near-death duel,
vehicle sputters, nearly stalling,
idiot drivers texting as they go,
hit the parking lot sprinting,
at the time clock
punching in – barely made it.
Scowling, growling,
traipsing toward the coffee pot.
oh. my. god.
THERE’S NO COFFEE.
Place the paper,
dump the grind,
tapping feet, dancing
in place until brew
is complete,
pour the cup,
mouth watering,
brain awakening,
ahhhh, saturating cells,
widening eyes, calming temper,
almost human - got my morning caffeine fix.
Remnants
of some forgotten thing
shards tumbled by turbulence
colored
in shades of sea and sky
washed upon the shore.
Reborn
in oceanic waters
sharp edges smoothed through struggle
fragility
strengthened to stone
patterned by lapse of time.
Plucked
from the sands and rolled
like dice within my hands
prickly
remembrance of who I once was
before finding myself a round peg.
When my life counts down
to that final time – that final hour,
what will I wonder; what will I wish
I had not left yet undone?
I would wonder why
my “someday” never came,
why I left so late (was it too late),
the dreams of my heart -
to visit the birthplaces of my ancestors,
to create beauty wherever I could;
I will wonder for what
I shall be remembered -
a good friend,
a beloved child
a loving heart?
I will wish
for someone special
to hold my hand and guide
my journey homeward;
and, I shall hope
the passing of my life has meant
at least as much
as the flutter
of a butterfly’s wings.
Each attempt
to write
is an effort
to understand
the multiplicity that resides
inside the mind
where images, phrases,
snatches of conversation
leap-frog
one over the other,
tumbling around
within a mental vortex
that can be likened,
sometimes,
to a summer squall,
and sometimes
to a tornadic storm.
Parsing the vestiges,
seeking translations
from vision to word
and back once more,
interpretations
of truth,
of each moment,
drawn from kissing frogs
or a murder of crows,
ink-blots and fingernail moons.
Alliterations of life
contained inside the jumble,
reaching out
to touch the world –
as words scratched
upon a page.
Waiting for the light to change
from red to green, my eye was caught
by a covey of pigeons perching
on the telephone line overhead.
Thirty-five birds snuggled together
in a line watching all of us trapped
in our vehicles by the vagaries of traffic.
What murmured secrets do they share?
Or perhaps, they’re just
preparing to take aim?
Suddenly, I remember childhood telephone
calls when neighbor-women chattered
endlessly on party lines telling tales,
skewering those not present.
Does it slip ‘like sand through an hourglass’?
Or, merely get lost along the way, bogged
down with the day-to-day living, forgotten
amongst the rubbish of necessary?
One day, a child with nothing to worry
about except imaginary friends, then time
for school, must be on time, making the grade,
being in the right place, doing the right thing.
Finding yourself on the outside looking in,
lost, never belonging, missing something
you can’t even name. Rushing, chasing after
some dream someone told you that you should
want. Then out in the world you go – time
for work, punching a time clock, get your forty
hours in, make it count. Climb the ladder, always
seeking the dream, success. More money, more
bills, no time for the kids, no time for friends.
Until you wake up old, gray, all alone, wondering
how you lost forty years. Facing a reflection
you don’t recognize. Always wondering how
time got away from you. Wishing
for something you threw away
a long time ago.
Thank you for the moments,
the life lived within a minute;
little snippets of time, holding
reflections, a world within each
stroke of time, within a grain
of sand upon the shore,
a life lived within the beat
of a bird’s wing, or a heart.
Holding each moment
close to the heart, warming,
sunlight illuminating water,
water whispering over stones,
telling secrets of eons past;
the secrets within each family;
A drop of rain refracting
the world, a world of dreams.
Emotional outpouring, a single
blade of grass heralds the spring;
a sea of green rippling in the breeze,
washing the shore, sandstone
outcroppings reaching for sky,
a blue-fire sky searing the eyes,
eyes that seek the light, finding
the sacred in each moment.
A house is just four walls, a roof, some windows
and doors erected to shelter inhabitants. Just masonry
and mortar, wood, - rude materials these.
But, if these four walls could speak, what saga would
they tell? They would spin a tale of the hopes
and dreams of those who had walked between;
of the man who constructed each wall by hand anticipating
his bride’s arrival; of the young wife who gazed from
the kitchen window while her hand caressed the life within;
of the eagerly awaited additions that increased two
to three then four, and the love that expanded
with each new arrival. Of toddling steps, scraped knees,
bruises and bloody noises, ballerina and astronaut wishes,
puppy kisses; of first loves and broken hearts, and of graduations;
of a father’s pride and a mother’s tears
as their fledglings left the nest, and of the joy that bloomed
again and again when the next generation danced
across the threshold; of the quiet love that sustained
both man and woman through all the years and joined
them one to the other in life, and then in death. Now these
four walls are all alone with only memories to roam within.
Dazzling reflections of the perfect family hand-crafted
by dentist and surgeon, set like a fine jewel within a façade
planned to the nth degree, clothed in the latest, greatest
designer favored of the gossip-trade set, residing within
an Architectural Digest McMansion complete
with backyard pool for lounging, manicured
grounds well-groomed by the hard work of those
who later depart for their smaller, mean pie-piece;
helpers paid to scale as determined by those who never
knew, or don’t remember dining on ketchup soup
so that the electric remains on. A collection of plasticized
ornaments interacting via electronics, never connecting
face-to-face, striving to uphold the perfection; binging
and purging, nip and tuck, inject and buff, all to maintain
the body, highlight and weave, perfecting a flowing mane,
five-fingered discounting just because; lubricating, medicating
to make it through the day; money in, money gushing out,
got to have the best, the finest everything, keep on keeping up,
never realize, don’t comprehend, don't care that many people,
most people survive very well on their clothing budget alone.
Those outside peering in find only the façade, the charade, crafted
so carefully to impress, missing, overlooking the wormy interior,
the failing in the heart and soul that keeps them seeking, pursuing
sensation, excitement, anything to prove they’re still here, amongst
the living. Proof of life showing in the magazine covers and the news
headlines, extending the fascination of the not-so-rich with the fantasy
world of the ‘perfect family’. Enabled and enabler. And then, the cycle
begins again – News at Six.
I was asked an interesting question today. The situation and question are as follows:
Situation: There is an F6 Tornado heading your way. You have 20 minutes to prepare or get somewhere. What do you do, stay or go? If you go, what would you take with you? What would you save since everything else would be gone forever?
For those of you who don't have tornadoes, an F6 tornado has been termed 'the hand of God' - it literally scrapes /destroys / wipes everything in its path from the face of the Earth leaving nothing behind. Its winds are worse than the worst hurricane. With tornadoes you may only have 15 - 20 minutes advance warning.
So there's the situation, what would you do? Thought-provoking, isn't it? If you had to decide what was most important in your life, knowing you would lose everything else?
Think about it; I'll give you my answer in another post.
Do you ever wonder why there is no stoplight
directing the heart’s traffic?
In and out, expanding and contracting
as people arrive and depart
from the shores of our hearts.
Sometimes I wish there were conductors to inquire
‘where’s your ticket?’; to vanquish the
unexpected train-hoppers.
But, what would we become with tollgates barring
heart and soul, but a barren wasteland
empty and cold.
Never Say Never
Never let life get you down,
don’t get caught up in endless
rounds of could-I should-I,
block your ears from hearing
that it’s not realistic, don’t believe
that dreams won’t come true,
Forget living in the so-called real world,
ignore those who state it will never
happen for you. Instead, remember
to dream large, fly high, design life
the way you want it to be. Just remember
to build a solid foundation to support
your dreams, and never say never.
Work
Why oh why, can’t I be rich,
Or find a long lost treasure; it
Really sucks being broke, and
Knowing that I have to work.
Shades & hues
pale to deep,
tender, tawdry,
like blushing cheeks,
vermilion-clad
firelight glittering,
scarlet embers
against the night,
warming, arousing
velvet petals
fluttering alight
richly rose
precious fluid
drops of life
vibrant crimson
carmine skies of morn,
days forsaking,
titian gloaming
roseate sands, rusty clay,
nature’s palette rouge.
© 2009 Lisa G. Beaudoin
Autumn leaves fly
in the wind, blow
across the land, crumble
under foot, and color
soil in shades alive.
Pages flutter,
as books are read,
folio all, tapestry
of words, sprinkle
silently across sight.
People wisp away
from our life, littering
memory with faint
remnants, crumbling heart,
and stalling soul.
© 2009 Lisa G. Beaudoin
© Blogger templates Romantico by Ourblogtemplates.com 2008
Back to TOP
