Spoken words

The Vagabond Artists


There seems something almost comforting
about that afternoon of idle chat
With a stranger in passing
over a musty cup of tea
Hours too cold to drink with any enthusiasm

We sat in appreciation for each others' words, lives,
A chance to converse with no recourse
No judgement passed on previous accomplishments, mistakes
And no fear to live up to expectations
for another as enlightened a conversation

All I knew was what he wanted to tell me -
His name, Billy, I knew from the CD he held
of his music, his love,
His beat-worn fingers staccato drumming
his passion for his craft
on the laminate checkered table
Smudged with the breath of its last inhabitants

He thought me an artist, a vagabond with a sharp wit
and an etheral outlook on life
A fellow artistic soul to jive, to jam,
To bounce ideas off of, with renewed optimism
for the human race.

And as I drove away
in my melded steel and rubber chariot
I thought about how one, 20-minute conversation
could last a lifetime in memory
and cause me to slow enough
to decipher his rhythmic drum
in the ticking of every clock.

Poetry break: Substance surfacing

The easiest part of my day
is watching you smile
in technicolour dream mode,
transpacial interludes oblivious
to my recording eyes
tendrils a frame curling seductively
on your expanse, unfurled forehead
The easiest part of my day
is hearing you breathe
in tender, innocent, off guard moments
eyes locked explorative with mine,
looking for depth you think is there
and I know is not
The depth exists in you
mirrored pools you think are merely surface substance
Impassable paint and glitter on a barren canvas
but I just don my wide-eyed, in wonder goggles
and dive into your amber waves.

Procrasti-Bitch

I'm a procrastinator. I can take what may appear to be a 10-minute task and drag it out to an hour. There's no real reason for it. Sometimes it's me being anal - scrubbing a sink once, twice, even three times over to make sure it sparkles. And, when I do decide to do an overall kitchen clean it's an overhaul. Stove elements are cleaned. Cupboards are washed down. If I could scrub down into the drain I would. I keep an old toothbrush for such a purpose. Is it a bit over-the-top? Maybe. Is it keeping me from doing other things, like writing and working out? Perhaps. Okay, yes.

Interrupt me from my procrastination and tell me to shake a leg will get you nowhere but in a whole load of bitch. I become indignant and often insist I'm not wasting time. This shit has to be done and it has to be done right. It just may not have to take me two hours to do it. Water breaks punctuate the space of time and light. Music breaks too - don't tell anyone this but I often dance around the living room with Kao. He's a bit of a two-left feet dog but he makes up for his gawkiness with his energy level. Bella won't entertain the notion and would much rather run and hide in my closet. Hey, that's another thing I can do today! Okay, I digress. Again.

Procastinating is what I'm doing now. Don't take offence. It's not you - it's me. I think being on here and in the writing moment is important. Actually, right now, there is no place I'd rather be. Certainly not in the kitchen tackling the dishes left over from breakfast/lunch/brunch. It's also raining and that does not lend well to my energy level. It's almost non-existent - like the rain has washed it off, away and into the sewer system where it's left to rot.

Last October, my favourite author friend, Kathleen Molloy (she's written her first novel, Dining with Death, that's - excuse the pun - to die for) introduced me to a publisher in the hopes that I would get off my ass and get some of my poetry published. Enter procrastination. I was supposed to contact the company, based in Chelsea, Que., in March to start gathering all of the work and putting it together. I'm still in the editing process. I'm nervous, you see. It's one thing to write them, it's another to have them read by more than my friends and my family. I don't even let my parents read the poems outloud for fear of hearing that "sing-song" sound that accompanies many rhyming poems. I don't rhyme. I don't like rhyme and find it limits. And, it's annoying - like when someone breathes on me and all I want to do is slap their face away. It doesn't work well in relationships either.

So, my goal is to get these poems together and reader-ready for June. It gives me a month. A month to read and re-read, get nervous and then slough off the fears like a layer of dead skin. Wish me luck. Kick me in the ass. Take away my telephone privileges. Whatever it takes to get me up and writing, editing and in the moment. Now it's time to tackle that kitchen sink and bedroom closet, but not before I grab a cup of coffee and dance like there's no tomorrow. Or at least until there is no clutter in the kitchen.