Each of my paintings is a time marked and stamped with a memory. There are so many canvases stacked in corners of my house and even the worst ones are difficult to part with. Throwing them away is like saying that moment didn’t count. But it did. The process filled me. Now, as I work on my manuscript, I visit them on occasion, blow a little dust off their corners.
“They settle into the seats around me
and make themselves comfortable.
They nudge, prod and poke
but I ignore them.
The memories want me
to pay them attention
to take me somewhere I’ve already been
and don’t care to go back to.
They speed me down the track
faster than this train is accustomed,
faster than I can put a stop to.”
The first memory is safe.
(Edited excerpt from No Hill for a Stepper)📕
The photo was taken a year ago during my visit to Italy.🇮🇹
I do hope, that in reality, this young woman’s memories were good ones.🙏🏽
You know how some poems you write and look back upon you just think, “oh yeah, I remember that one,” ? I wrote The Girl from Yonder several years ago but find it to be timeless and perhaps applicable to most people at one time or the other.
Now that I’m in limbo while waiting for my editor to return my manuscript, I’m writing more poetry and digging up some of the old ones. I have taken the leap into Instagram and find that, somehow, it has pushed me into a new and different form of creativity. Now, I get to do a bit of photoshop and plunk my poetry onto images! 🙂
Don’t worry, dear Word Document. I’ll be back soon enough. 🙂
I don’t know about you, but I think we could all use a few more soft cloud-cloths these days. The rough only tumbles the soul and turns the melodies into unharmonious discord. Agree?
Recently, I’ve been doing a lot of postings of encouragement to other writers on Instagram. I think one of the reasons is because part of me is really nervous about receiving my editor’s notes on my latest manuscript. I go from “Why isn’t she finished? Where is her email?!” to “Oh, good, I don’t have her comments yet and I don’t have to begin the tedious process of editing.”
I know that once I begin the process, I will be in another place in time. I will forget where I put things (more often), forget the wet towels in the dryer, not return phone calls, postpone going full-mask to the grocery store, etc.
But I will press on, do what needs to be done, then beg forgiveness to those I have ignored.
I didn’t really mean for the painting to come out so pristine-ish (note the perfectly rounded left tree). However, I’ve grown to love the fairytale quality – a place of perfection where nothing can go wrong.
Oh little child, your hunger grows
for things outside your world of woes
gangs and morsels you feed upon
to gather strength and carry on.
Sirens bellow, flashing lights
weaken so the appetite
windows now your only shield
from who you are and what you feel.
Watching how the colored clothes
come together in violent pose
feeling it’s your only chance
you turn away and start to dance.
Pelvis thrusting, rapid feet
arms are flailing to the beat
letting go of all you fear
you dance until you disappear.
I wrote this many years ago when I taught in a low income early childhood center. My eyes opened. My heart squeezed.
(For me, fireflies are such a wonderful reminder of childhood)
Frank Sanders is a character in my newest novel. Since he’s the blue’s harp player and songwriter, he wrote this for me. 😉