Men in kilts
18 Mar 2012 9 Comments
in blogging, city life, food and drink, holidays, leisure time, poetry, writing Tags: clothing, kilts, st. patricks day
With yesterday’s St. Patrick’s Day celebrations, I was reminded of all that comes with those celebrations while reading a fellow blogger’s post; one of those components being men in kilts. I remember when I first saw a man wearing a kilt here in Portland, as if it were the most natural thing in the world – and here in Portland, it is! So of course the writer in me found a poem in that, and I share that with you, as well as the wonderful post that inspired me at: http://travelspirit333.wordpress.com/2012/03/18/st-paddys-day-party-bus/ Be sure to visit Sherry’s blog, it is full of other wonderful posts, and I thank her for the inspiration!
His Feminine Ways
Give me a man
Who is not afraid
To wear a kilt
Unabashedly
Showing off a calf
Or daring a peek at a knee
In the ways that women do
The pleated folds of the skirt
Draping around his form
The breeze blows under the fabric
What is to be revealed?
If I am so lucky
The site of manhood
Will be apparent
Underneath a plaid pattern
True masculinity
Is on display
In the boldness
Of a man wearing a kilt
Reluctant sharing
17 Mar 2012 4 Comments
in art, emotions, famous people, musings, poetry, writing Tags: artists, creativity, plays, publishing
I went to a very moving play this afternoon called Red, and it really got me thinking about art in any form and how the creator feels about sharing their work. It is an account about the artist Mark Rothko, and how he struggled with his art during the creating of a commissioned piece for the Four Seasons restaurant in New York City. In one breath he would talk of how he longed for his art to be received and perceived regardless of the reaction, but then in the next breath he would express doubts about letting it be viewed at all; fears came forth that it would be criticized or not understood. It is something that I believe most artists struggle with, the doubts about how their precious work that has heart and soul poured into it will be received. I have felt that ambiguity; so anxious to share my words with a sense of bravado, but secretly hoping that they will be met with gentle thoughts. But even after receiving the familiar rejection letters that we all have to experience as writers, I still want to share my words, taking the chance and accepting all the varied reactions that they engender.
The Pretty Words
All my pretty words
Birthed into verse
Now what?
Some of my babies
Have left the nest
Flying off
Safely, I hope
I do worry
A bit
Will the outsiders
Handle them with care
Or judge them harshly
The words that still
Live at home
I encourage them to stay
For now
I see them
And I smile
My precious babies
All my pretty words
An art crawl of bridges
15 Mar 2012 2 Comments
in art, city life, musings, photographs, places, transportation Tags: bridges, rivers, sculptures, walking
One of the things I love most about Portland is the Willamette River that runs through the city, and the bounty of beautiful bridges that span the river, reaching across like arms made of steel. There is a uniqueness to each bridge, which creates an art gallery of massive metal sculptures. They vary in color; ranging from the gun-metal black of the Steel Bridge, to the brick red of the Broadway Bridge, or the celery green of the Fremont Bridge. They vary in shape; the Fremont Bridge arches in a back-bend, the Broadway Bridge rolls in waves like the ocean, and the St. Johns Bridge pays tribute to her sisters the Brooklyn Bridge and Golden Gate Bridge. Each is lovely in its own way, and I try not to play favorites. But the Steel Bridge, with trains above and trains below, as well as a walkway that is far below the bridge traffic, is my bridge of choice when crossing the Willamette on foot. If you ever visit the lovely city of Portland, be sure to walk across the Steel Bridge from west to east, and take a walk along the Eastbank Esplanade. I promise you will not be disappointed as you gaze up and down the river, able to view the art crawl of bridges.
Steel Bridge
Broadway Bridge
Burnside Bridge
Hawthorne Bridge
Eastbank Esplanade
Gifts on a rainy day
29 Feb 2012 12 Comments
in books, city life, food and drink, leisure time, music, musings, poetry, reading, seasons, spirituality, weather, writing Tags: bookstore, coffeehouse, flowers, rain
Today was going to be an “inside day”, as I watched the rain pouring down on my skylight, and heard the wind whipping all around. But then my soul had other plans, bringing to me the delicious thought of walking in the rain with my charming red umbrella, my sights focused on having a nice cup of coffee somewhere. And I found a delightful coffeehouse I had not been to before, where I became inspired to write a new poem. I had failed to bring any paper or pen with me, but the nice young man at the counter found me a pen as well as some paper, so I didn’t have to use a napkin as I had originally planned. After I left the coffeehouse, I was led to a bookstore nearby, where I was led to a wonderful book about angels that just happened to be on sale. And as I walked home, the bottoms of my jeans soaked and dragging on the sidewalk, I was given a final gift. I spied the row of bright red tulips, shyly poking their heads out in the cold rain, as if to tell me, “Don’t worry, spring will be here soon!”
Joy’s Disguises
I found joy
In the gray blanket of sky
In the cold, wet raindrops that tickled me
In the wind that blew my umbrella inside out
I found joy
At the little round table of wood
That held my plain white coffee cup
That contained the warm, brown elixir
That chased away the chill in my bones
As I gazed out the rain splattered window
I found joy
As I listened to Patsy Cline singing “I Fall to Pieces”
As we all sat at our separate tables, sipping our coffee
As I watched the rain walkers strolling outside
I found joy
In the disguises
Of blindly perceived separation from one another
Of the dreary delusions of a cold, rainy day
Of all I had previously thought of
As joyless
Another love poem to my precious Portland
24 Feb 2012 6 Comments
in city life, food and drink, leisure time, love, musings, places, poetry, weather Tags: bakery, city streets, coffee
I’ll admit it – I am head over heels in love with Portland! Every time I step out my door and onto her streets, the love affair is renewed. This morning was a tease of blue skies, just a whisper of a breeze, along with coffee and an oh so delicious pastry at a nearby boulangerie (just a fancy word for a bakery that delights the wordsmith in me). And on the way home, a poem jumps up and down inside of me until I find pen and paper.
The Capricious City
She calls to me
A siren song
The temptress
“Come to me”
Is there a place for me to stay?
“There is room for all in my heart”
What will I find?
“I give you a feast of freedom to be yourself
A song of unbridled passion
A dance of misplaced steps”
Then her wry sense of humor is exposed
As I walk her streets
I spy
A tiny pink car on three wheels
Men in tights on bikes
Doll parts in the window
Interesting and disturbing
All in the same breath
Still, I accept her invitation
And nestle in her sweet bosom
As she sings me
Lullabies
From her rose-shaped heart
Messages from nature
19 Feb 2012 7 Comments
in musings, nature, photographs, poetry, relaxation, spirituality Tags: beautiful blooms, birds, existence, flowers, messages, physical senses
So much of our existence here is spent interacting and sharing with other people, that we oftentimes fail to catch a glimpse of the messages of nature. Nature is wise, and calls to us. Once we can slow down enough to connect in that realm, and bask in the quiet required to go beyond our physical senses, there is much we can learn as we find ourselves able to translate nature’s language.
Living For the Moment
My flowers live in each moment
They don’t reminisce
About time spent as a seed
Or worry about the past
Did I grow enough?
Did I take too much water for myself?
Did I not bathe in the sunlight long enough?
They learn to grow and move on
To blossom and show their beauty
Not steeping themselves in what has passed
Otherwise, we could never delight
In the beautiful blooms that they become
Love is all you need – the last music story
14 Feb 2012 Leave a Comment
in emotions, love, music, nature, photographs, places, poetry, quotes, relationships, romance, short stories Tags: holidays, record store, roses, Valentine's Day
I saw those words written in the sidewalk – Love is all you need – preserved for posterity, for all to see. What a great message to leave in the wet cement, words of wisdom we should all live by. Yes, it is Valentine’s Day – my very favorite holiday! But here’s a thought – what if we could celebrate love every day? Not just relegating it to one day out of the year. Wouldn’t that be something…. My gift to you on this day of lovely celebration of all things love is a love story, a love poem, and tokens of love in the form of some photos from the International Rose Test Garden here in Portland, Oregon featuring the flower of love, the rose. And I leave you with a favorite quote from William Shakespeare, in regard to something that fills me with absolute joy, the lovely strains of music - If music be the food of love, play on.
Love at the Listening Station
He saw her there, her long brown hair swaying all around her, covered by the black plastic earmuffs of the headphones. Jason came here often, to the place appropriately named An Earful of Music. It was a hold out in the dying breed of independent record stores who tried to stay afloat in a sea of digital downloads. But there were still enough music lovers who wanted the whole package; an album with all the songs, not just the popular ones, with the cover art and liner notes, be it in cd or vinyl format, the latter format making a comeback in recent years. The listening station at the store was like a tree in the forest of cd and record bins. But it was a haven for those who wanted to check out all the new music and even the old music at times. There were four branches of the listening station tree, each holding a cd, a small cd player, and a pair of headphones. Jason walked over and pretended to study the cds available for listening, yet he couldn’t help but stare at her, the woman with the long brown hair. She took no notice of him, she was deep into the music – eyes closed, hands cupped over the headphones, her body moving back and forth in time to the music that only she could hear. And that gorgeous hair, it moved to and fro like a soft and sweet metronome. It was all Jason could do to not reach out and touch a strand; he just wanted to feel a brush of that delicate hair against his skin.
Who would have thought he would find a goddess at the record store? Jason couldn’t help but beat himself up over his poor choice of clothing that day – the threadbare black t-shirt that said “Rock!” on it in large white letters, complete with a hole worn through in the letter o. This was paired with the jeans he had found on the floor of his bedroom; destined for the laundry basket but good for one more wearing, or so he had thought at the time. Jason had meant to shower before leaving his house, but he really needed that cup of coffee he had gotten on his way to Earful, so he had made a last minute grab of a white baseball cap with a bright rainbow colored peace sign on it – it worked just fine to cover his somewhat greasy hair that really needed to be washed. But the goddess, who was standing so close to him, she was dressed as a goddess should be. She wore a bright yellow sundress, light and gauzy, and it twirled around her as she danced to the music. And her feet, with toenails painted in pretty pastel pink, were graced by a pair of sequin covered flip-flops. Jason swore that he could see a glow of pale white light all around her. He was mesmerized! He could feel Cupid’s arrow as it pierced his heart.
He reached to one side of the listening station for a cd that caught his eye, but his eyes weren’t on the cd, they were on the dancing woman. Jason watched in what seemed like slow motion as the cd fell to the floor, glancing off the toes of the goddess.“Ouch!” she exclaimed as she was snapped out of her musical reverie and bent down to massage her injured toes, glancing up at Jason with a goddess of war look in her eyes.
“Oh my god, I am so sorry!” Jason profusely apologized. “It just got away from me – I must have butterfingers – sorry I’m so clumsy. Are you okay?”
“Oh yes, I’ll be fine; it just startled me more than anything, that’s all; no damage done.”
“My name’s Jason by the way – and you are?”
“I’m Isabella but my friends call me Belle.” So now the goddess had a name, also befitting her. Jason would have rather called her Isabella; it moved like a beautiful waltz as he said her name in his head.
“Do you come here often?” Jason asked, and then wanted to smack himself in the head after saying what sounded like the most clichéd pick-up line ever.
“When I decide it’s time to buy some music I like coming here more than anywhere else – I love the listening station – it helps me decide what I really want to buy and sometimes I find new music I haven’t heard that I end up buying.” Belle seemed oblivious to Jason’s botched attempt at conversation.
Jason breathed a silent sigh of relief – at least so far she didn’t find him to be a total loser. He still had a chance to try to speak like a normal person and redeem himself, after looking like both a clumsy oaf and a smooth talking player.
“Yeah, I love this place, especially with all the vinyl they carry now; I’m kind of into that when I can find it. And the listening station is great, you’re right about finding new music; the radio stations don’t always play what I want to hear so I can come here and find new stuff,” Jason said. “And I think it’s really important to support the independent record stores instead of just going to Target or Wal-Mart for music – those places just don’t have the right vibe for buying music, you know?”
“I agree,” said Belle, “We really need to shop local and support the little guy who’s trying to make it.”
Jason reached down and picked up the cd that had fallen and put it back on the holder.
“Can I get you a cup of coffee, to make up for injuring your foot? Maybe we can compare notes on who we like, or you can tell me what you thought of the album you were listening to before my rude interruption,” Jason inquired.
“Thanks, that sounds great. I know a really cool coffeehouse a couple blocks down if that’s okay. They make an awesome cup of coffee with a shot of caramel in it, if you like that. And they also have macaroons that are amazing!”
“Yeah, that sounds like a great place. Are you ready to go?” Jason asked her.
“I’m ready when you are. Don’t you want to listen to the cd you found though?”
Jason just smiled at her; the reason he came to Earful in the first place, to find some music, was so far from his mind now. He was ready to run out of there – quick! – before Isabella, Belle as she wanted to be called changed her mind.
“No, I’ll come back later; it’s not a big deal. I’d rather talk music with you right now than listen to any – and I’d really enjoy a cup of coffee with such a lovely fellow lover of music.” Now that was more like it, sincere words meant to show her that he really was a nice guy and not a dork who fumbled like a schoolboy. And judging by the sweet smile Belle gave him, she seemed interested. She hung up her set of headphones and followed Jason out the door, grabbing his hand as she led him in the direction of the coffeehouse.
Behind the counter, Sean just smiled and shook his head. He had worked at An Earful of Music for 10 years now, and in that time he wondered what it was about the listening station that brought so many couples together. It had to be some sort of love energy that radiated in that spot; why, they had actually had two couples come back and ask to be married there, in the place where they first met. And being such a sucker for a love story, Sean took out the small notebook he kept behind the counter and tallied another mark on the page, entitled Love at the Listening Station.
Needing
I am
To his love
Like a flower
Needing rain
To quench my thirst
For him
For his touch
I am
To his love
Like the moon
Needing the sun’s light
So that I may glow
In his presence
When he comes to me
I am
To his love
Like all things
That need each other
In order to flourish
He is my every need
Yes
I need him
HAPPY VALENTINE’S DAY!
Pain as a muse
12 Feb 2012 2 Comments
in art, emotions, musings, poetry, relationships, spirituality, writing Tags: art exhibit, artists, insecurity, muse, pain
I recently viewed a wonderful exhibition of encaustic art, which is the art of using wax as a medium, much in the way oil paints or watercolors are used as a medium. There were several local artists featured, and included with their work was a short biography of themselves as an artist, and where the inspiration came from to create the work they chose to exhibit. And many of them talked of painful times in their lives as the motivation to create, to purge themselves of the depleting emotions they felt. When I first starting writing, I found myself doing that very thing; writing the words in poems to express the hurt and the anger I was working through. It was a very powerful way to help me heal. After I came home from the art exhibit, I realized I hadn’t read some of those first words for a time, and that those emotions need to be shared as well as the joyous ones. Sometimes it helps to look back at where we were, to see how truly far we have come – and I have come a long way from pain to find a place of peace.
Onion Flower
Onion – like
Layers peeling away
Petals
Plucked off
One by one
“I feel love, I feel fear”
Hoping for the last petal
To be love
The absolute rawness
Of breaking
Splintering
Into a million tiny pieces
Of emotion
There it is
For all to see
I am naked, exposed
I like the exposure
Feeling the anger
I loosen its grip
Releasing emotion
Speaking
Shouting if I must
Silent and hidden no more
Poison
Insecurity
Is just fear
Masked in a different name
It paralyzes
Like venom from a snake
Unable to move
A helpless prey
So they use you
Sometimes they abuse you
Until the antivenin
Of strength courses through
To counteract
The poison of insecurity
In the Eye
I sit with the others
Listening to their stories
Adding tiny words of my own
Then their voices chime in again
The conversation swirls all around me
I am in the eye of this hurricane
Of shared thoughts
Invisible, unnoticed
It is calm where I am
They pay no attention to me
Asking no questions
No concerns
I stay quiet
Letting their windy voices blow on and on
