The Why Of It

 

Was cleaning out my files a few days ago. Came across a couple of pieces of poetry I had written, never finished, and had completely forgotten. When I get stuck about something to write about, I often find myself writing about writing. That’s what those bits of poetry were. Decided to play with one of them, tweaking and snipping, and reshaping some of it. Left it for a few days and then went back and played with it a bit more. Although the subject matter is far from new, I like the sound of this one.

The Why of It

What are
all of these words?
Just a bid
for remembrance?
Knowing that presence
made some sort
of difference? Hope
that distilled essence
will have meaning
long after it’s gone?
As if I’ll care
when I’m no longer
here, nor there.

Silly woman,
sitting in morning’s chair
doodling on paper,
mumbled prayers,
supposedly poems
looking for permanent
homes in a world
unmoved, as caring
as stone.

Not for posterity’s sake.
Making of words
is not for children,
or for their
children’s children.
Words that leave
only fading mark, disappearing
as they appear in stark
contrast to empty space,
begging place, birth
on this earth
that just keeps spinning
in own mind-made darkness.

Words are for me,
swimming in careless sea
of images that call
to be sorted, courted
one at a time,
gluing themselves
in rhymes
that I might remember,
not get lost
on my way to whatever
I have still
to become.

Elizabeth Crawford  1/31/10

Playing With A Playlist

 

The title of this blog site is Soul’s Music. Music has been a core ingredient of my life, all of my life. I am one of those individuals who always has song lyrics dancing through her head, from the moment I awake, until the minute I fall asleep. It wasn’t a big surprise that I got into poetry which is simply another form of music.

In the past, I have suggested that keeping track of the music one listens to is a good way to explore ones own history, and have actually done some of that in off moments. And, as a Writing Instructor, I often used music and song lyrics to encourage my students to get on the page and stay there. This next poem is a direct result of one such exercise.

Online, I have been building a playlist of songs that have, for one reason or another, caught my attention and have meaning for me. Songs that express certain states of being, specific memories, and whole time periods during my existence. Being a word person, it was always the lyrics that captured my attention, although I also enjoyed the music. I now have several different playlists and hundreds of song titles to listen to and play with. Being a person of age, that means a whole lot of music.

The poem I will post today is a direct result of playing with one of my numerous playlists. Although I love poetry, it doesn’t always come easily. I have been writing a great deal of prose recently and switching back to the poetry was proving a bit difficult. So, I reverted back to a little exercise I used to use in just such situations.

I browsed through a playlist and simply jotted down the titles of about thirty of the songs. The ones that caught my eye or my emotions. Then used those titles to create the piece. I got the idea when I was driving in my car with the radio on and caught just a snippet of an old Jim Croce number. That became the title of the piece. It is essentially a List poem, as well as a Found one. I enjoyed doing the exercise and hope you enjoy the results.

Working At The Car Wash Blues

Sometimes want
to Drift Away,
Listen To The Music,
let Tiny Geometries
of ancient Kid Fears
become no more than particles,
Dust In The Wind.
If I Could, would
Sleepwalk til’ Sundown.

But, Breathe in,
am Gone Again,
realize I’m Not Ready
To Make Nice.
Small Wildfire of Change within
seeks certain Satisfaction
in telling everyone
to Get Off My Cloud.
Invite all these Rainy
Day People to a party,
serve them Little Green Apples,
set them to running,
Whistling In The Dark,
wishing they could find
Mercy Street.

Elizabeth Crawford  1/22/10

This is a list of the Artists whose songs I used, some more than once:

Jim Croce
The Doobie Brothers
Ray Lynch
Indigo Girls
Kansas
Paul Simon
The Ventures
Gordon Lightfoot
Anna Nalick
Dixie Chicks
Michael Martin Murphy
Tracy Chapman
The Rolling Stones
Roger Miller
They Might Be Giants
Peter Gabriel

Escape Artist

 

Digging a hole
deep enough to shelter,
relax in shadows,
no direct sunlight
to blind eyes
or cause leakage
that might muddy
softly blurred edges.

Keeping colors
safe, almost pastel
but not quite.
Time and space
slowed
to more agreeable
rhythms,
songs without hooks
that might pierce
thin skin
of knowing.

Might bring close,
then closer,
anything
that might cause
feeling.

Lyrics that whisper
into shouts
that refuse
to be shushed.
Tangled knots
tied as tight
as forever,
demanding red,
deep purple, or just
dirty dark brown,
ground as rough,
as solid, as concrete
that has never seen
spade or shovel,
has never been
cracked.

Elizabeth Crawford  1/11/10

A Mandala With Meditation

 

Okay, I promised that I would do this, so here it is. This is the Mandala and the Meditation I wrote as a gift for my sister. She chose the image from my files and had it framed a few months ago, then asked for the poem for Christmas. At first, I balked. I had titled the image Collective Unconscious. Wasn’t sure I could find the words to do what had gone through my head as I was coloring it. But she asked, so I had to at least try it.

Collective Unconscious

Ancient
Blood Memory,
reaching back
toward
all beginnings,

diverse connective links
build bridges
across awareness,
always moving toward
deep inner knowing.

Untouched
by time,
pushing past skin
of fragile
present moment,

unwinding secret path
to all that lies hidden
beneath swirling fog
of blue-green
Nowhere.

                                                               Elizabeth Crawford 12/09

 

Christmas Bells

 

My Christmas gift to each of you. Click on image to enlarge and read. May your Holidays be blessed.

An Invitation To View Mandala Gallery ll

 

Instead of a written piece, today I would like to invite you to view my second gallery of Mandala images. You will find the page posted above or in the side bar to your right. Comments are always welcome.

Note: Mandalas are geometric designs, patterns. Although they are often shown in circular form, they are not limited to that particular structure. All but one of the designs were created by Marc Bove and he has titled some of them Quadramandalas. For the record, they are far more difficult to color than I had first anticipated. Hats off to you Marc, they are none the less a pleasure to play and work with.

For The Poet

Her words
feel like a conspiracy.
Drag me, unwilling,
down dark path
wending into past,
tied up in knots
bound in shadowy corners
of only hoped for
forgetfulness.

Still, I seek
these carelessly dropped
crumbs:
firmly stomping on some,
pushing them deep
into soft receptive soil,
grasping others,
hording them in sack
slung across back,
knowing one day
they might bring
awareness,
and an end
to hunger.

Elizabeth Crawford  11/17/09

A Journey With Friends

Magic

is forever present,
waits each moment
that lies between
then and now.

Is never at fault
when poet
fails to see
because her
Me
has become
a Wall
far too tall
to look beyond,
much to wide
to slip around,
and far too deep
to crawl beneath.

Elizabeth Crawford  10/31/09

Fricassee of Heart

 

(SL, thanks for the deeply needed inspiration. I agree that every author has certain taboo words, one of mine is tears, and you won’t find it in this one.)

She cooked it herself.
Sliced away fragile
threads
that had always held it in place,
kept it safe,
secure in its cavity chamber.
Had to break a few stubborn bones
but managed, without too much damage,
to set it free, get it to stand alone.

Sautéed it with a bit of butter,
turning it frequently so it browned
evenly, then let it simmer in its own juices
with a few drops of vintage wine,
while she created succulent side dishes
out of nothing but hope-filled wishes
and fine-lined dreams.

Sprinkled in a bit of this,
a dash of that,
tossed it all with a vinaigrette
of fancy verbiage, a touch or two
of regret for fuller flavor.

Then sat alone
at the table she’d set,
waiting for a single guest
who would never know
he’d been
invited.

Elizabeth Crawford  9/30/09

Cloud Factories

 

Several days ago, my younger sister and I were talking about the delightful way our grandchildren see the world around them and then say what they see. She told me about her three year-old granddaughter and how she tattles on herself by telling her Mom that she is going to be ‘red’ today. I told her about my then four year old granddaughter and the cloud factories, and the poem I had written about it.

A few days later, while doodling yet another image, I wasn’t particularly pleased at what was happening on the paper, but continued because it was there to do. As I was finishing the image, I flipped the sketchbook sideways to see if that might alter my negative response. What I found was a cloud factory. I love it when that happens.

My granddaughter is now twelve, perhaps going on 35.

Cloud Factories
(for Katie at age 4)

Air was bitter cold,
intense with sunlight on snow,
as we drove up Hwy 43.
You told me how important
it was that everyone should
look to see something pretty,
like clouds that were bunny
rabbits, chasing clowns
with baggy pants and funny
flapping shoes. Little girls
running after soft baby chicks,
with their long hair streaming
out behind them.

I looked to see black and white
smoke stacks chugging, while
you saw little girls chasing hugs
blown on the wind, created
by “cloud factories.”

Later, driving into the city,
I saw a billboard that declared,
“Depression is the major cause of suicide.”

Not today. Today, I’m learning
how to hug a little girl
with long dark curls
streaming out behind her.

Elizabeth Crawford  12/2001

This is the image I found inside my sketchbook when I flipped it on its side.

Cloud Factory 8/27/09