Woodnotes

Last night I fell asleep

before you came home.

I dragged the dog out for a walk

but he hates the cold as much as I do.

He pissed all over the kitchen floor,

he despises being alone.

He ate snacks before bedtime

wallowing in loneliness.

You wanted to have sex

while I had creative writing on my mind.

My blue journal sprawled between

my thighs,

I want my head there, you said.

My pens took precedence

Patience was playing from my phone

I ignored you. I fought your lights.

You take it personal, but I’m a writer

and you know that I can’t interrupt

my flow. Sex came and went,

making love is for another lifetime.

I took the kids out for dinner

ate avocado rolls

veggie burgers

St.Louisbourg burger

with onion rings.

I said, it’s hard to be an artist

to be in a relationship,

I am preparing them

for the heartache, but it’s

Too late.

If the one you’re with

does not understand what a woodnote is

or what defines you.

It’s a natural musical tone

or the song of

some bird

no one cares about trees

nature is becoming extinct.

The young and old have their heads

filled with useless information

school shootings

young wolves writing poems

academia taking the back seat

poets knocking on your door

I am locked in;

dead children

another statistic.

Here we are sleeping together

never at the same time

chaos in our fear.

Writing prompt: word: Woodnotes

#februaryfalls18

Advertisements

The Blogger Interview tag

Hello everyone,

I don’t usually do this kind of thing but today Mr. P& G

http://thelighteningandthefire.wordpress.com/

is asking me to, so here I go…I  can’t say no.

The Rules:

-Mention the person who tagged you

Answer the questions in full

Tag up to ten other bloggers

How did you get into blogging?

I started to compile my poems together from notebook to computer years ago, on a poetry site (poetrypoem,.com), but then it felt outdated so I joined blogger.com. I started my first blog “My Tug of War” and posted all kinds of random stuff. Outings with my mom, (anecdotes) spa outings with my friends ( hilarious) and poems. I got a good following there but then I became a victim of identity theft and some fucker literally took my identity, changed my address, used my gmail….you heard the drill before I’m sure. Anyhoot, I got so angry I deleted everything, my blog my emails…lost all my data. Felt good though. Erased. Deleted parts of me and started fresh.

then I found wordpress. Gave it a try and loved it. Half the time I don’t really know what I’m doing. I have to go on those youtube guides to add a category I’m so bad. Blogging gets my words out instead of being stuck in a tiny notebook in my red chest. I feel better and breathe easier when I blog.

What advice would you give to a blogger just starting out?

Talk to an expert! The only thing I tell my writer friends is “write even when you have nothing to say” for blogging though you should basically have plenty to say. The best thing to do is follow your gut and be unique. I tend to not listen to advice anyway. And take long breaks. Log off. Read Rumi.

What would be your dream campaign?

My dream campaign would be to stop working, and devote my life to promote the Arts, Music and Literature. When I teach my pre-k class art about Fine Arts or read Neruda to my kids it’s the best feeling in the world because I feel as if I am actually passing down this knowledge and love I have. It’s not easy to get through to kids these days, and promote the arts let alone literature. This question has me baffled a bit.

Do you have a plan for your blog?

No plans. I just write. Not sure how to even know how to navigate. Changing my picture is quite the event for me. I wish I knew more of how to promote myself like some other professionals, but I’m an amateur and I tend to not think in long term projections. I’d probably need some professional help to come in and revamp my look to get more subscribers but there never seems to be enough time to even write lately. My plan for my blog would be to eventually organize it better. In my eyes, it sucks. I’m my own worst critic.

What do you think about ranking?

I think it’s overrated.

I need whiskey now.

Blogs I adore:

https://t.co/pgrUGZaACN i love Suza and all her crazy personalities (she knows what I mean)

http://t.co/Dkzrc688S5 Cate makes me feel young and beautiful like a Lana Del Ray song

http://www.souldiergirl.com/ my DG and infinite passionate soul sister

http://myredabyss.wordpress.com/ his words are astounding

http://edgeofhumanitydotcom.wordpress.com/ because if I wasn’t writing I would be taking pictures (kinda like my protagonist in my book Crush)

http://myswordandshield.wordpress.com/ Eric you are such an amazing support of my writing – so grateful

http://megdekorne.wordpress.com/ omg Meg you are brilliant and sparkly with your words

http://hyperionsturm.wordpress.com/  incredible writer and weaver of stories

http://ccchanel41.wordpress.com/  my latest discovery and loving it

and last but not least the one and only who nominated me the power and the glory gentleman who astounds me with his words

http://thelighteningandthefire.wordpress.com/

hallucinations

Once he saw my eyes

and left me blinded

by his look.

I told him jokingly I would be

his Brooklyn Baby from Montreal,

but he never listened to Lana

as closely as I always do

and

my boyfriend was singing on stage.

I’m too old to love him; I’m to cold to hold him;

I’m too sweet to know his bad-ass;

but he holds my feathers

and sees right through me.

transparent, he whistles, as I walk past him

then he holds the door open for me.

follows me to the sortie

and is gone

but he

watches me smoke

i thought he was gone,

as i stare at the stars

ignoring the chatter

of who wanted to know

how i shared my mind with the world.

i have no choice

i say, i’ll die if i don’t.

he waves from across the street

and i wondered if it was

my mind

hallucinations again

playing tricks on me.

pass the bourbon, i said,

once the dark became light,

serious, intent on getting so drunk

that i wouldn’t reflect

on the exact blue of his eyes

and why the specks

even mattered at all.

Piling mistakes like old poems

you should not have let

me in. i will eat you

alive. and

you will

want more.

while i run

in the opposite direction.

dive into all the

oceans. list of highways.

skip crossroads. until

i stop in front

of the moon. and

close all the roads

that lead to you.

you should have known

it would come to this.

i can’t wake up at

three a.m in the rain,

wind and confusion. it

could be insatiable. lust

and greed. forget the money.

it doesn’t exist between the

metaphors. jewelry and crosses

under the mats with the keys,

sex is the drive, desire

and A+ awards

on poetic shit means

nothing here. touch

and unwritten poems

can burn. find the words

i need to hear and

fuck the rest.

Gung Hay Fat Choy

I know he wants me to send him love

but all I got are fortune cookie sayings

on this snowy Montreal morning.

Last night I drove from grocery to grocery store

when others were watching prime time

cursing about this or that

until that tiny box of fortune

was pointed out to me

like a winning lottery.

Then  I landed in bed

edited in the nude

locked the windows and doors

played Bobcaygeon

for light inspiration

and I thought how no matter

how many times

I would see his face

it could never be enough,

but others await my class,

alarm had flutes,

tangerine dreams of green tea

oranges, firecrackers, incense

zen music, tai chi exercises,

tea party in my world

but at seven tonight and seven tomorrow

my Osheaga friends meet again

to go back in time

while this afternoon

at half past three

ultrasounds  mark

lies or truths

like the check-marks

I give every day.

I had being stuck in checkmate

I hate to skate

but he knows all the right moves

and all the right tunes

to start over

day

after

day.

hip and cool

In the darkness of the day I can feel his arms around me

as far as he is

he can duck and press the gas medal

quickly, urgently, not even a riot

could stop him from ringing my bell;

he can come up close to me

and kiss me with his fluent tongue,

charming words,

hot love escaping his pores

as he races to see what the fuck

I am up to today

with my theory of the day mood swings

poetry readings in crumpled sheets

playlists of old tracks of my heart

that still make me pounce

on the front line of his soul.

Every city sinks at one time or another

every colour turns blue

shades of grey

are just a fantasy

memories float on the river

of my small city

(who the hell collects postcards besides me

who the hell cares for seashells

in the middle of winter).

One hundred pages left in my galley

but I have to check on my sanity

from time to time

escape the characters in my head

that live and breathe

without my knowledge

never wanting their story to end.

It is never enough to love for eternity

not even  possible

to have one love

all a mere rock on the bottom of the ocean

no one can see.

Ready for him

when he is

determination

should be written on his sleeve.

The only lovers left are the poets

creating a secret world

among the appearances

of the living

who often

seem dead. I am so alive.

Come from your frustration

and enter my highway

park

drive

and stay a while.

Write another poem.

Friday the 13th

A couple of hours of sleep

coffee, adrenaline, words

reading before my first sip and weep

trying to capture the dawn

staring at paintings of Santorini

anything but this white lawn.

Go to Target fill up the carts

don’t forget the 30% off in stationery

oh, my pens, joy, more broken hearts,

fill it up with all the empty journals

waiting for my adoring love

to inspire me, rip off pages,

crumble words.

Date with the girls

the younger girls

celebrating birthdays

more than silly made up days

and let the men

do what they do best.

Haunted by sleeplessness

moon cycles;

setting of the moods

your stories

my confessions

I can scare off so many people

with nothing but words

that have more power

than you think.

All we have between us are words

and see how many connect

disconnect

follow

unfollow

read

skip

bleed

tattoo words on skin

on chambers

on walls

they lay dormant for a while

sleep on this or that

about how words trick us

into believing

we could be sweet

manipulative

cruel.

Just tell me how poetry spills your soul

directly into mine

so fluidly.

I could love you with my eyes

now, feel you with my soul,

fuck the words,

only don’t mistake me

for someone else.

The trick to unlocking your secrets

is listening to your breath

in deep silence

all the while

I ponder how I wish I could make up my bloody mind

because I know

we were bound to meet

one way or another

and as for 50 shades and chocolates

I have to see it and taste the flavour

to make up my mind

because all these critiques

of love

and movies

are just that.

I actually love Friday the 13th

tonight it’s byob

and no men at our table

only in our hearts.

My Assignment

Is the day over yet? How

I want it to be so over,

this damp cold day

how your words are on

constant replay.

My theory is:

I’ll meet you in the bedroom

in the backseat, deep in the night

on the hood of a car

in broad daylight

on the pool table

after we locked up the bar

meet you at 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6

any time we need a fix.

The paragraphs are:

kilometers become steps

on a street

a drive becomes a walk

in the forest

a pre-dinner meet.

Catching up, I need catching up.

Breaking up, I need breaking up.

Your hands in mine (or theirs)

or his or hers.

Take me off of that list.

Take me off of that pile.

I might want to live in constant denial.

I might want to wait to find my own dial.

I have my own classroom to teach

I have my own lessons to learn

children to preach

but then you throw me a fish hook

in the middle of my day

and I bite.

I like your stars

your flowing river traps

you like

my late afternoon naps.

Conclusion:

Don’t analyze a poet

I believe nothing

until it comes from your lips

the next is just a story

unfolding.

I know how a poet thinks

blinks

drinks

I know how we confuse

reality with dreams

dreams with reality

stories with broken seams.

I know how artists

stare at the sky like pornography

erotica, read it like literature,

I know how I go out of my way

to step on crunched leaves.

Do you?

I know how music

is my muse that weaves.

I’m not that young and naive

not that blind to love

but I’m tired of all the pretense

the shaded color of my fence-

I can come to you

you can come to me

we can come to each other

right above the sea.

Did you grade me yet?

Am I a good pet?

I am too old for games

just write me something

that will blow me up

into flames

until I’m a ghost

and you bend at my grave

remember the walk

the talk

the skin

the breath

the scent

the way we fit so well.

I’m a poet

dramatic/visual/erotic.

How did I do?

Here you go

Open road
Don’t Stop playing
Go Your Own Way
the pedal on the gas
faster and faster
hear me?
It is always the
ones you know
are coming
that hurt the most
the needle on the album
from beginning to end
without any interruption
or masturbation
upcoming drama
wind in the hair
arms bare
music in the veins
thinking only of you
and how you can reign
over my thoughts
say all the right
passages
and now there are
only memories
I take time and play
with them like a guitar
make them only mine
flip open the pages
and read the moments
I will travel
through countries
and space
only to see you smile
from above
in another
dimension
where we sit across
from each other
and debate
discuss
argue
make up
trivial needs
desires
and never see eye to eye.