Poetry
Feed Your Soul
Read some of my poems below.
Weird Art & Women
Weird women are like weird art.
You need at least one in your home.
But you are not sure that you want to make the commitment.
Shocking guests with their peculiar manner,
they never behave appropriately.
Seeking to achieve an effect with shapes, colors and textures,
they don’t represent an external reality.
They aren’t a picture that you will recognize.
They are only an invitation to dream.
Society wonders if they are truly legitimate.
Because they refuse to follow an established path.
They’re not satisfied with a familiar reality.
They don’t want the same life as their mother.
Weird art is a challenge.
It teaches us to look at the world in a new way,
and inspires us to overcome obstacles.
Being an artist is our chance to
dig deep within ourselves,
pull out our jewels
and share them with others.
This is no easy task for a weird woman.
But it’s our only chance to hold on to our sisterhood of weirdness.
The First Walk of Winter
Lights glisten on bright white snow,
as trees bend with the howling wind.
Cold fingers press against a hot coco cup,
while frozen lips, slowly crack.
Salt eats at the concrete of slippery sidewalks,
while a single wet drop falls on her unsuspecting head.
Heavy shopping bags wrap around her arms.
Spare change is released for a ringing bell.
A city dweller departs from her favorite store.
Her brown snow boots are laced to the knee, with cold toes curled inside.
A puffy jacket hides a retractable chord.
She strolls to the park with her best friend.
Pointing his damp nose in the air,
the large Saint Bernard snubs a poodle’s tiny red sweater.
She distracts him with her fury black mitten.
His tail is wagged for the shortest day and longest night.
As she brushes the snow off his fur,
two Bostonian friends rejoice in the Winter Solstice.
Ego & Soul
My Ego is retreating silently,
with his tail between his legs.
Back to his home,
unfulfilled like rotten eggs.
Hydrogen and oxygen molecules
combine to form water.
You will not react to my Ego.
If you let him in he would mingle with your Ego.
Chemists call a spark a catalyst,
and you are one of the wisest.
My Ego is angry and distracted,
he feels betrayed
for you have not reacted
to his fear and self-doubt parade.
The Ego is only delusion.
True self is the source.
Love is Real.
Once you strip down all the fear,
there is a little magnet left over.
It is my soul,
and it’s highly attracted to you.
Our Egos need the watchfulness,
of the true self.
Sweet emotion in your eyes.
The windows to your soul don’t lie.
Thus, I took my Ego,
and simply let him go.
Barbie
Heavily chested body,
A tan woman named Barbie.
Wholesaled to the masses.
Families bought millions for their children
The angles looked down from heaven,
wondering, why don’t they know,
they worship chunks of plastic?
In the Barbie dream house,
manufactured lights never go dim.
But where are the keys,
to their own soul within?
Marine animals strangled in plastic bags.
The Earth’s natural beauty is lost.
While Ms. Barbie brings the party,
with an extra sparkly hair toss.
This princess isn't biodegradable.
Yes, the plastic oligarchy,
is a young lady, named Barbie.
Depression
Ruminating about chances not taken.
Energy is flat as a pancake.
Stuck on a thought that won't leave,
with a shaky gut and weak knees.
Lying in bed,
anger destroys my head.
I’m tired of this ugly sickness.
Bed sheets crinkled like old age.
My mind created its own cage.
Skin becomes yellowish,
as a dinner dish sits on the floor.
Searched too hard for an answer,
when there's nothing to figure out.
Need to move again,
but where should I go?
Fighting and doubting myself,
with too much self-help.
Circling back to the stuck thought.
Sigh...
Repeat.
Men & Mashed Potatoes
Lusciously smooth and creamy,
Eat 'em when they're steamy.
Leveled with gravy,
To keep your hips heavy.
Some men are like,
Mashed Potatoes.
You always want more,
Although you know you should stay away.
Rebellious men mash up the monotony of life.
Like butter runs down a side of mashed potatoes,
it's a slippery slope, to stay away from these bad boys.
Because they're tender and firm.
And fully blended.
The Woman's Prayer
Our Heavenly Mother,
Who created her own name.
Your Queendom come.
Your will be done.
Give us our Daily Word.
Forgive the patriarchs that lead us into sin.
Bring us the peace of knowing we are God’s reflection.
For we were made in her imagination.
In the name of the Mother, her ovaries
And the Holy Energy, that never dies.
A-Women.
Daddy's Son
Afraid to make a fall of his own,
he was a man with no sense of self.
Too terrified to look within.
The rims of his Dad’s sports car,
made him feel like a star.
Always walking on eggshells,
his own red blood cells couldn't carry oxygen to his lungs.
His father was a vampire,
who stole his youthful energy.
As the son grew old his body went cold,
from playing the family fool,
instead of breaking the mold.
The apple didn't fall far from the tree.
Branches ripened with dysfunction,
and kept him looking at the mirror of his life’s contradictions.
Trading his true self for his father's irritability, gained him many riches.
But he lost his soul,
to the captivity of his Daddy.
Fantasies of Loyalty
Many took advantage of her.
Selfish men, who always lost their glory in the end of her stories.
Some wanted her to wear fancy clothes.
Others drove the most expensive cars.
They were looking to have her as a trophy on top of an already eaten cake.
She comprised for them.
Twisted and confined her own mind.
Bitter, angry and resentful.
Her pen dripped the ink of words contaminated by broken trust.
Her fantasies of loyalty, disappeared,
as her make-up smeared through her tears.
They never realized see was true royalty,
until she was already gone.
American Pie
Listen sweetie, she whispered.
The American pie is poisoned,
Eat it and you will surely die.
It’s baked with bullets, inequality and fear.
A Date With Prozac
He entered silently, a small fellow with a shiny blue coat.
Like the sea transgresses along the coast, her sickness would not lift quickly.
Her blood stream moved to
implant him among the weeds.
He was a revolutionary.
Many had heard his call,
and changed their tune.
Others feared him, just the same.
Sorting through her memories, he untangled her obsessions to
leave an impression of peace.
She observed him there,
while the neurons drank him down like their favorite beer.
Her energy raised,
as he summarized her thoughts,
with a clarity she lost long ago.
When he took off his hat,
he said he was glad to be of service,
to make her a little less sad.
She looked forward to seeing him.
It was the most committed she had ever been.
Tiny People
The selfish have narrow minds.
A tiny peep hole to look out onto the world.
They laugh at your for worrying about the collective.
Their view doesn't expand that far.
They are cowards,
who run from a connection with others,
because they are absent from themselves.
Only minds that open with knowledge can clench,
a full heart beating from its core.
A Love Letter
From: A Paint Brush
To: Paint
Watching you glisten and sparkle under the light is magical.
It is heaven to be drenched in your sweetness.
Only you can create lines, curves and definition with succulent color!
I’m long and I’m hard
and Baby, I love being your applicator!
Taking you to new places, really tickles my bristles!
Your warm color sets the mood, for my strokes to harmonize with your thick texture.
We are a hot item!
Some see us as a commodity to be sold.
But Hunny, there is no price for how you make me feel, when I dip into you.
Together, we create more than just vision, but rather new philosophies.
As we lay sprawled out naked upon a canvas, we reveal changes in human politics and morality.
Moving people inward toward their own wholeness, we polish and refine their lost feelings,
by communicating concepts that are too difficult to speak.
On the walls of the world, we hang together humbly yet ever so available and present.
Like a bride entering her wedding, you take center stage.
Shocking us awake with beauty.
Our admirers marvel at the combination of us for we bring so much to the table of life.
We provoke …
Wonder and hope.
But we also elicit cynicism and despair.
In the end, though, our audience usually leaves with nothing but adoration.
Yes, we attract and charm, without anyone ever fully knowing the real us!
Our work is complex yet subtle, obscure yet bold. All at once!
Of course, the art critics try to define us.
But they can’t fully crack the case.
We have been together longer than any human couple.
Yet, they still ponder over our signature marks in the same manner that their ancestors did.
Writing and painting can’t make the chaos of this world stop,
but they do document the mayhem, with grace and beauty.
Please Baby, be my color once again tonight!
So, we can dance together and leave our imprint on this crazy world!
Then when I am juicy and moist, silently return me home, back to the depths, of your tin can.
On Being An Artist
Being an artist is like being a cat.
We have a great sense of balance,
and we endlessly scratch at things to communicate our feelings.
In ancient times we were worshiped as gods.
Now, there are just too many of us!
Being an artist is like being a politician.
We enjoy exaggerating and distorting reality.
Capturing attention is our main goal.
Those who endorse us,
have the slight feeling that we know something they do not.
Being an artist is like being a kid,
We’re not afraid to dream big,
we love to play.
and we will copy you the best we can.
Being an artist is like being a woman.
We have to pretend to have it all together.
But really, we are missing at least one screw from our display.
“If you pick up an activity like basketball, golf or running,
people will applaud your efforts for getting in shape, having fun and building community.
No one will expect you to “Go Pro.”
When you pick up an activity like drawing or painting,
people will expect nothing short of complete mastery,
by the end of your first week.
If you do make it past the first week,
you will realize that being an artist is like being a Wall Street Banker.
No one will know “how” nor “where” you made your products.
Some days, being an artist feels like being Bob Ross.
You know there is nothing wrong with a tree being your best friend!
If you think the job of an artist is more “hip” than being a mom - think again.
It has similar disadvantages.
You are constantly cleaning up a mess.
You can’t go anywhere without multiple bags of stuff.
Your clothes have mysterious stains on them.
And everyone asks you where the free food is!
Being an artist is also like being a TV personality.
You always need something bigger, bolder and more shocking…
to say about Trump.
Nonetheless,
Making a painting feels like making love.
You don't stop doing it,
just because you're bad at it.
You remain hopeful that one day,
your signature strokes will charm someone special.
Being an artist is like being a diamond.
The pressure of always having to reflect on yourself and then sparkle brightly is hard.
But it does make you unbreakable.
Being an artist is a series of steps.
The steps teach us how to best depict the world around us.
It’s a lengthy process.
And it’s made better by the people who support it.
Thus, I THANK YOU for your support!
Demos
There’s something special among us.
You may have noticed it.
I’m eager to discuss it with you.
It’s in our drinking cups,
It’s hoppy, crisp and complex in a bar that never goes dry.
It’s in every stroke of paint brushed onto the canvases around us.
It’s in the sweat of the workers who own and operate this brewery themselves.
It’s in the pride of ownership they have.
It’s in the decision you made today to come here.
It’s in your active participation in listening to this poem.
It’s in the free-flowing conversations you’ve had today with each other.
It’s in the ink I used to write this poem and the vibration of my voice.
It’s rising in my nerves and excitement, as my mind focuses in on each word,
I have chosen to present to you.
It’s dancing in the streets that surround this pub.
Samuel Adams once spoke about it, rather elegantly, at Faneuil Hall right up the street.
Faneuil Hall, a building donated to the city of Boston by a slave owner – Peter Faneuil.
Slaves whose ancestors would use this very special something to fight for freedom.
Do you know what it is?
Can you feel it?
It’s Democracy.
The word “Democracy” come from the Greek word, Demos, which means people.
It’s a system of government run by the people, where every citizen has a say.
Don’t forget, Democracy is here today.
No one here is a dictator with all the power to control our thoughts and words.
Don’t forget how hard people fought for it.
Don’t forget how easily it can be lost.
Don’t be afraid to tell your uncle Joe he’s lazy for not fighting to protect it.
And most of all…
For today, make sure to Enjoy it!
*Presented at Democracy Brewing, Boston