Is it time to take out the trash?

This is the time of night when I’m at capacity

And in order to sleep I have to write.

Almost 3 a.m.  Sometimes I’m up til 4, 5 or 6.

Which can be annoying.. because then the birds start chirping.

And what’s with that?! 

Is it time to feed the walls that surround me or knock them down

before they start tumbling?

This is the time of night when I peel back the paint

And peer into the words I choose, the thoughts that make my heart beat.

Almost tired.  Sometimes I’m unable to crack the codes.

Which can be altogether disappointing.. because then I don’t advance to the next level.

And what’s with that?!!

That is where I’m at.

Tossing and turning, sleep is the most difficult part of my day.

Getting this brain and heart to unwind, to close my eyes and rest.

Trying to ignore the empty space taking up most of the bed!

Designating a pillow to be something of what I had.

I find myself avoiding sleep, avoiding the bed.

“As You Like It” in the park tonight was splendid.

Such words rushed into my head. 

Too many to conjure, but here are the lasting impressions..

Love is the playground, the battlefield, the balancing act.

Love is the ground beneath, the yearning just above arm’s reach.

Love is the reason, the answer, the cause and effect.

Its in the dance, the song inside, each breathe.

Love is right behind you and where you stand,

Its in striving, the relentless attempts, and where you land.

Love is never one thing, nor all things at once.

Its autonomic as the beat of your heart and chosen with action

From the devotion of one’s thoughts.

Posted: July 19th, 2008 under NY Chronicles, Soliloque on Gabriel (poetic journey), my poetry, my thoughts.
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Disparate and Being

They say that as humans we are set up to need, to want, to crave – emotional states. Thats part of how we’ve survived.. how love is derived..  How we stay so intertwined.

We are addicted to emotional states of being.  How much do you create your own emotional state?  How much does someone else bring that to you?  How do you know which one from the other?

Where does the dream begin? Do you share the same dream with him?

Or are you appearing in other people’s sense of reality that you will never feel, nor taste, nor make.  Never real for you?

I reel in this predicament.  I feel resentful of this disparate play.  To play out roles in other people’s heads that I am not in.  They create me.  My entrance and exit, my soliloquy, my rise and my lasting regrets.  And then I feel the consequence. They feed the character I play – with their own script, sound clips and visual angles.  The tensions and subtext, of which I never felt, persists within them - within their head, within their heart.

And who am I to say that it is not real? – for them?  Am I not real for them?

Okay I was on the scene.  I showed up that day. I had lines and feelings to offer.  I walked beside you and we spoke, but you heard other words, mostly your own.  I looked in your eyes and you saw someone else, thought you caught something.. of yourself, but I had sent nothing your way as I flew, landed and left feeling funny and running away.

And all this could happen – to you reading this now, to me looking at you – imagining the one that’s lifting these words off this page in a familiar voice inside your head, my words now yours,  

So I ask…                                                                                                                                 “Are we in the same dream?”  “The same movie, the same script?”

Just checking..

Don’t need an answer.  But thanks. Good to know,  for now.

(NYC Chronicles #7)

Posted: April 15th, 2008 under NY Chronicles, my poetry, my thoughts.
Comments: 1

The walls come closing in. One hand reaches upward.                                                           One hand reaches upward as the walls come closing in.

I keep waking.  I keep walking.                                                                                              Turn the corner, pick up speed – dash under ground.                                                    Holding balance on the moving train.                                                                                    Taking in and pushing out.

Waking up and awaiting sleep again, relief again.

Beautiful city.  Life in pursuit.                                                                                       Lightening dashes in, thunder approaches fast                                                                       and the days keep pouring down.                                                                                         Drains fill and empty.

Noise and sleepless people,                                                                                                         a thousand bricks and windows.                                                                                               A million hearts to mend,                                                                                                     lives to fathom.

With so many,                                                                                                                            how could one feel alone?                                                                                                      With so many doors, how could one feel the walls pressing in?

(NYC Chronicles #6)

Posted: April 13th, 2008 under NY Chronicles, my poetry.
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Here I go – dive in to the cool, wet depths of passions and distraction.  Art and creation – all the exquisite ‘ah hahs’  propelling us forward as we carry on. The boulders that we choose to hold, firmly pressing up the walls that weigh against us .  All captivating my attention.  Like the mighty wave coming up from underneath, rising on each side to disguise the lonely path, to keep me on track and not wander into thoughts that cast a shadow over seeing.   Occasional hooks cast into my gills and the past loves to play fishing with baited looks and infatuation.  I-chatting visitation’s a strange recollection into the surging whims of nostalgia and late night cravings.

How do you define your happiness?

How do you define your idea of love?

How do you define the essence of what your soul desires?

Is it a thousand words?

Or one..  unspoken whisper..  of something..  for which..   there are no words?

Posted: March 30th, 2008 under NY Chronicles, my poetry.
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March 11, 2008

Hello family & friends!

I hope you are all doing well, taking care of yourselves and each other and enjoying winter!

When last I wrote I was on the train to Rochester, N.Y.

I landed in the lovely, charming picturesque city of Rochester.  It was a snowy dreamland like one of those miniature winter scenes – but big!  Lots of character, big old houses perfectly spaced apart.  It reminded me of “It’s a Wonderful Life” – which apparently is a popular theme there as they have a yearly event inspired by the movie where folks dress up like some character or part of the movie.  This city is highly educated – dressed with universities, art, technology and culture, the home of the founder of Kodak.

I visited with a friend from old Peace Child days, someone I knew from conferences – who’s independent film short and trailer was premiering.  He was very nervous, but the premiere was well attended (300) and his production company got some media coverage as well as some interested investors in their proposed feature film (from the ‘trailer’ tease). 

I heard a wonderful singer, Laura Higgins, who has a myspace page, check her music out! And she’s a lovely person also.

My computer suffered an injury due to my instability and I paid a pretty price to get it rehabilitated, such is life!

I trained back to NY, worked on my screenplay more.

Then flew to Charlotte, North Carolina where I visited briefly with my aunts and a very resolute dog that goes by the name Bailey.  He’s not Irish.

My aunts took me around to see where my Dad and they were born, went to school, the movie theater my grandpa worked in, parks and key buildings in downtown Charlotte.  Charlotte is a charming city.  A big city surrounded by residential boroughs that come right up to the downtown. 

The occasional whistle of passing trains seep into my dreams,

The Mockingbird wakes me in the morning.

Cardinals, chickadees, crows and jays sing a lively set of tunes all through the day.

Bailey, the shaggy dog, dreams of his next opportunity to yelp like a seal and run to pretend to lose the ever important, key to his happy heart, bright yellow ball.

Bacon, again, oh my – I’m not in California.

Lima beans, grits, cornbread and meatloaf – mmm… Carolina.

Staying in these two houses, one built in the 50s and the other in the 20s, with photos from the turn of the century, an organ with candlestick holders that rotate, singing songs & playing them on my Grandmother’s piano, a manual coffee grinder on the wall, history and ancestors – generations and memories abound.

And the ever present mystery of a time before, before you were alive to peek into and wonder.

Posted: March 24th, 2008 under NY Chronicles.
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