Posts Tagged ‘poetry’

307128_2004597721976_903515904_nDiscordant notes plucked on steel strings

Falling in perfect syncopation to his

broken heart’s rhythm

He brushes and strokes

her wooden, stoic face –

Searching desperately for perfect pitch

And balanced harmonies

between hurt and healing

hope and helplessness

Listening carefully to the timbre

and tone of her raised voice

Hearing the resonance

hang thick in the air

Only to dissipate slowly

Fading long after the last

words he wanted to say

Became the words she

put into play.

*Photo used with the permission of Doug Romig. Doug is a friend and fellow writer. You can find his work here:


underwater_usa_01I can’t remember who said it

Where I heard it

Or how exactly it was phrased.

I just keep reminding myself

that I am “over it” – because to be

“over” something means I no longer

care deeply enough about whatever

I’ve crawled, leapt, walked, or shimmied


To give it one more second

of my precious time or energy.

But truthfully,

if I were really “over it”

I wouldn’t be writing about being

“over it” so much.

So  maybe, just maybe

I’m still

under it.

animal_buffalo cartoon bison wild west angry buffaloThere’s a bison in my basin
down the basement
of my house.
It jumped into the basin
When it glanced upon a mouse.

I cannot help but wonder,
while I sit around and pout,
If this bison leaves my basement
What will happen to my house?

To keep a bison in the basin
of the basement in my house
I must build a big encasement
or that bison will get out.

This encasement in the basement
must be strong enough to hold
a bison from his childhood
Up until he grows too old.

Still I cannot help but wonder,
Would he be better in a zoo?
Oh my goodness!
I’ve just noticed
that my bison count is TWO!

Now two bison in my basement
where before there was just one.
And to think I thought my bison
was going to bring me lots of fun.

But with two there’s added trouble
and I cannot help but think,
How do I wash two bison,
when they both begin to stink?

Alas, a bigger basin’s needed
to relieve my misery.
Oh no, I can’t believe it.
Now my bison count is THREE!

As I stare ‘round in amazement
at three bison in my basement
I have a feeling the encasement
will be in need of strong replacement.

My busy basement building
to increase my bison’s pen
has me sweating and regretting
that first bison that moved in.

Whoo! — I’ve finally contained them
back behind my basement door.
Oh no, don’t even tell me –
Has the head count grown to FOUR?

From one to four the bison number
in the basement of my home.
And the trouble they’ve created
makes me wish I were alone.

All the needings and the feedings
keep my bison all alive.
Oh yikes, I can’t control them!
As I count to number… FIVE???

Oh my goodness, someone help me!
I can’t hold them anymore.
I can see them quickly climbing
up the stairs and out the door.

Grab a broom and help me guide them.
Or use a great big stick.
I don’t care where we must hide them.
Just as long as…oh no, SIX!

It seems as quickly as I count them
there arrives another one.
Six and seven, eight and nine then
Final number? How ’bout TEN!!.

So as I struggle to contain them
in the basement of my house,
I won’t forget how all this started –
I can thank that one darn mouse!


Copyright 2009. Unauthorized copying of this material is strictly prohibited.

The Taste of Poetry

Posted: August 7, 2014 in Uncategorized
Tags: , , ,

sugar-addict_0Poetry is heart song put to paper.
It isn’t judged by the container it comes in,
or the label slapped onto the side of that container,
but by the contents awaiting inside.

What is sweet to others
may taste salty
or bitter
to you.

It is a present to unwrap,
crack open, and
consume to your heart’s desire.


Calliope’s Pen

Posted: August 3, 2014 in Uncategorized
Tags: , , ,

Waxed tablet

grasped tightly between delicate fingers.

Scroll empty.

Stylus poised to accept its destined commands.

Inspiration flows.

Creativity takes hold then quickly evolves.

Song forms.

Music imbues the brain with thunderous sound.

Words cascade.

Poetry captures the heart in unwitting emotion.

Calliope dissolves.

Fading photographs bloom behind closed eyelids.

Leaving me.

Unburdening myself of her gift to me

Now scribed to empty pages.

She feeds my soul.

I love music. But unlike many people, I am very particular about the type of music I will listen to on a regular basis. Many people don’t care for some of the lyrics of today’s music (I being one of those people), but my tastes and preferences in music go beyond just the quality of the lyrics.

I am a synesthete. For those unfamiliar with this word, let me explain. Synesthesia is a cross-wiring of the sensory pathways in the brain. During development and growth, regular neural pathways connect at an alarming rate – dendrite to neuron and so forth. It happens millions of times a day, all deep within the amazing, marvelous brain.

But for some of us,  the rapid connections can often get misdirected or misguided to other senses during this transmission. And, that’s when synesthesia occurs.

My synesthesia (or more accurately “chromasthesia”) was discovered when I started teaching. I was working with the kids on a poetry journal, and we were just about to start working on the covers of the journal — made out of various pieces of colored construction paper– when I said something that made the students question my intelligence and me question my sanity:

“Students, when you choose the color of your poetry journal, make sure you choose the color that best represents the mood or tones of your poetry. You know — green for fresh, blue for calm…” Twenty seven pairs of eyes just stared back at me with the blankest of expressions, as if to say “What in the WORLD is she talking about? Colors of poetry?”

After offering a few more suggestions, and getting nothing more than continual blank stares, I finally said “You have no idea what I’m talking about, do you?” Everyone relaxed. I, however, had a quick light bulb moment: they don’t see the colors like I do.

I knew I was onto something, but wasn’t sure what. After a few quick searches, I discovered the exact thing I was looking for, but this time it was assigned a name: synesthesia. Okay, that proves I’m not crazy.

My synesthesia is really “chromosthesia”. I associate colors with music. When I listen to music, it shows up in my head in various colors. Some see pictures, but I only “see” colors. I have a wide range of colors but if I had to choose a starting place by looking at the Middle C of a piano, I would see it as forest green. The colors move up the scale in the following manner:

forest green, dark red, red, burnt orange, orange, yellow-orange, dark yellow, lemon yellow, buttery yellow, silver, white (with varying degrees and shades between them)

Down the scale goes like this:

light blue, blue, navy blue, midnight blue, mauve, light purple, purple, deep purple, indigo, brown, dark brown, brown-black, black, pitch black

Now hang on tight, because this is were it starts to get weird (if it hasn’t already). I judge my musical tastes based on the range of colors the songs give me. If I don’t care for the color palette that shows up in my head, I will turn the song off instantly, because it has created an almost visceral and unpleasant experience for me.

Because of this affliction, I have particular tastes in music/artists. I love music that gives me colors from purple up through yellow, with varying shades between. But, I also can’t stand to listen to music that blends awful colors together. Example: any country music that is twangy and nasally comes to me as a greenish, yellow mustardy mess. It also tastes (yes, I get tastes too at times) bitter or metallic. The bands Rush, Yes and Steely Dan also evoke horrible colors and tend to taste like gun metal. My favorite songs are ones that  have been written in 3/4 time signature: they come to me as soft, plush, velvety pink or rose blush, and taste like cotton candy or pink bubblegum. I am instantly soothed and calmed by them, as if I were being rocked in a chair. Entangled, by Genesis, is one such example. Change Partners, by Crosby, Stills and Nash is another one.

A few months back, I went to see Brit Floyd, a Pink Floyd cover band. They do a great job mixing their Veri light colors with their music. But, just for grins and because I wanted to test out my synesthesia, I closed my eyes and let the colors come to me in my head. I saw a swirling kaleidoscope of colors dancing and moving before me. From time to time, I would say “Oooh dark purple now, with just a tinge of dark red in the upper right hand corner — Oooh, now it’s bright red and turning orange!” And that’s when something strange happened. I came to find out that, as I was “calling out the colors” of the music, the stage lights were changing to those exact same colors. The lead guitarist’s guitar was spotlighted with a bright red/orange hue, just as I was sharing what was going on in my head. It was so cool.

As I’ve stated, I love music. I love the artistry that goes into crafting quality notes and tones and putting them together. I love poetic lyrics filled with imagery, voice, tone, etc. I love the back stories of some of the songs I listen to (If you want to know what Genesis’ Cinema Show is REALLY about, let me know, I will gladly fill you in 🙂 )

But for me, music is more than just what the latest and greatest pop star threw together and auto tuned. It is a whole body experience of sight, sound, color and taste — that never ceases to bore me.

I just wish others could experience the unique gift that music brings me – a world of swirling, dancing colors before my very eyes. All without having to drop acid first.

This poem is my response to Charles R. Smith, Jr’s published poem entitled “The Oh Factor” — a poem from his CD “Portrait of a Poet” about the effects poets can have on their readers.


Just lettin’ you know,
Your fluid flow
Made my poets say “WHOA
And move and groove
To the sweet, smooth, slick
Sensual sound of wondrous words
First time heard
Flippin, slippin’ and drippin’
Off your CD’s knees
Blowin’ thru the easy breeze
Aimin’ to please
young minds like these
Landin’ and commandin’ in their ears
Chillin’ their fears
‘Bout hearin’
One. More. Pointless. Poem.
Taught by teacher
Preachin’ ’bout
Love for all poets
And funky, fresh, flowin’ poems
That roam
From the home
inside the
fine young mind’s
predefined eye
where they realize
and utilize
scraps of verbs and
unknown words
can make themselves shout out:
What do you know–
I guess
MY best
can make
others say ‘WHOA.’”