Sage Creative Corner

Womb

2011-11-06T16:45:00.001-05:00

Routine swift kicks
sharp, long-awaited
he lives. I exhale.

Childhood Memories Resurrected

2011-10-22T09:04:00.002-04:00

Twin lives spawned six years ago, and
beneath the dappled shades of olive trees
lost in a sea of pine scented air
I dug my fingers into the soil

hands and fingernails
dark like the night
filthy like the childhood memories
I once buried, I now

feverishly tried to unearth
to understand
make sense of it all
opening the box – ambivalently

the images smacked me
in the face. Hard.
Leaving a permanent sting.
A bruise. A scar.

And as much as it hurt
every night
I found myself
back in those woods

on the unbeaten path
opening that box
reliving those childhood memories
over and over again…

Dear Benjamin

2011-10-15T09:10:00.002-04:00

Dear Benjamin,
I apologize

I apologize for denying you
finally accepting you
but not fully wanting you

all because I had
the “perfect life”
and the “perfect body”

couldn’t see past
my flat stomach
and tight ass

to realize that
you

you were the catalyst
for a change
in my life

a change that
shifted the focus from me
and back to
humming birds, daffodils,
blue skies, love….life

a force so strong
it knocked me off my feet
and when I fell
I became eye level
with two children

two children that
wanted mommy to stay home
skip the gym
play the video game

a force so strong
it knocked the wind out of me
standing back up
just to sit back down
with a man

a man that wanted wifey
to stay home
eff the “social life”
what about the “good life”
our life?

My Benjamin
Sweet Benjamin
adjusted the
weight on my scale

I am balanced
again.

He Exists

2011-10-08T09:48:00.003-04:00

Blood that once flowed
stopped
out of darkness
life
sheltered from the world
insulated
connected to me
indefinitely
steady hearts beat
synched
soft words
linger
he feels my peace
always.

Let it go

2011-09-07T15:16:00.001-04:00

“On no account brood over your wrong-doing. Rolling in the muck is not the best way of getting clean.” -- Aldous Huxley (1894–1963) English writer

Once Mine, Now Yours

2011-08-16T06:37:00.000-04:00

As generous as I am
I would have never
relinquished my heart
something so complex,
precious…forever mine.

And it happened
I don’t exactly remember when
the weather was warm
the leaves were still
I recall
the distinct smell of cinnamon
and a hint of lilac.

Piercing,
enigmatic eyes,
matched with
a luring anatomy
attracted me.
Tenderness,
an eagerness to gratify
overwhelmed me.
Sensitivity,
transparency
devoid of atrocities
kept me.

Penetrating
my chest cavity
gingerly touching my heart
today
eternity
my heart:
beats
plump vessels pump blood
mended wounds
eventually fade
full of life
yours.

Wasteful Thinking « Inspiration for your work & life

2011-08-11T16:02:00.003-04:00

Avoid some of the most common "drag you down, get in the way of success" thoughts:
(taken from GiveMore)

1. Defeatist (accepting, expecting, or being resigned to defeat)

2. Cynical (contemptuously distrustful of human nature and motives)

3. Vindictive (seeking revenge)

4. Blame/ Fault (who cares? what are we going to do now?)

5. Wishful (do what you can to influence the deal/ project/ situation and keep moving)

6. Self-pity (get over yourself… complain less… especially to yourself)

7. Worrisome (it won’t help, costs time, and can drag you down)

8. Jealous (want it? earn it)

9. Pre-argumentative (the imaginary argument you have to prepare yourself for the argument that may never happen)

10. Post-argumentative (the imaginary argument you have where you’re quicker than you were in the actual argument)

11. Procrastinatory (if you’re going to procrastinate, you might as well do something fun instead of thinking about how bad it is that you’re procrastinating… dummy)

Since high school, I have been the master procrastinator. Continuing to work at that! I will conquer it, just you wait.

Just Be Quiet!

2011-07-24T18:03:00.012-04:00

I'm always amazed (more annoyed though) by people that criticize folks. I'm even more dumbfounded (and irritated) when they directly offer negative feedback (I can't believe he/she just told me I look chubby!). And yeah, yeah, yeah, I know that people are often negative about others because they need to make themselves feel like they're in control or more powerful or to cover up insecurities. Doesn't matter. I still always find myself thinking, "I wish you would just be quiet; you're not perfect."

Perhaps my frustration comes from the fact that I've never been one of those that has been eager to share negative feedback about folks. My mother always told me, "If you don't have anything good to say, than just be quiet." (I'm all for constructive criticism -- providing it, when requested, and accepting it).

If someone tells me that my friend looks like she put on weight, I would never go back and tell her. Why not? Chances are, she already knows. Me telling her would only throw salt on the wound.

On the other hand, if someone tells me something positive about a friend like, "Your girlfriend is so pretty," I would relay that information to her. Why? Because most people like to hear affirming words.

I try to live by my mother's words, and wish others would as well. Here's four simple rules I also follow concerning speech (thanks, Matthew Hagee, for the transcript, click here):

1. Is what you're about to say the whole truth and nothing but the truth?

2. What's your motive behind what you're going to say? Are you going to say it in love or for self-gratification?

3. Will it be something that others can use in their life and grow or is it going to just make me look better?

4. What will my audience do with the information? If what they'll do with what you share with them is something destructive to themselves, you're held accountable for their actions.

And because I know I can't change folks, when I run into negative people, I just make sure I am communicating positively by doing the following:

1. Change the subject, with savvy (e.g., speaking of being fat, on Jillian Michael's Biggest Loser, she shared some great tips on how to avoid overeating).

2. Re-frame negative statements into positive ones (e.g., OMG, she is always talking about her kids and what they do on the weekends. Re-frame: She really loves her children; that's awesome.)

3. Remove yourself (e.g., Well let me go; I have a ton of things to do.)

And remember, a happy, self-confident person does not put others down. Happy Communicating!

My Mantra...

2011-06-26T21:58:00.001-04:00

"Dare to be yourself."
André Gide (1869–1951)
French writer, Nobel Prize winner

Father of Mine

2011-06-19T16:40:00.000-04:00

I once read that being a father, father involvement, is defined as a man's positive, wide-ranging, and active participation in his child's life (Marsiglio et al., 2000, p. 276). And I couldn't agree more.

Everclear really brings this notion to the forefront in their song, "Father of Mine."

Being a father is more than just naming your child...

As a Mother, I Know...

2011-05-08T21:29:00.000-04:00

I know the sweet smell of newborns
who smiled at the recognition of my voice and touch.
I know the true of meaning of selfless.
I know the value of my husband
who steps up and carries my weight when I can’t.
I know what it means to love another more than you love yourself.
I know unconditional love.
I know eternal love.
I know strength, devotion, and patience.
I know that dreams that do come true.
I know life
and thank God for allowing me to play a role in it.

Happy Mother's Day

2011-05-08T21:28:00.001-04:00

"Making the decision to have a child is momentous. It is to decide forever to have your heart go walking around outside your body."
--
Elizabeth Stone

We are influenced by the people with which we surround ourselves...

2011-04-29T11:48:00.003-04:00

“The next best thing to being wise oneself is to
live in a circle of those who are.”
--
C.S. Lewis (1898–1963)
Irish writer, scholar

Celebrate National Poetry Month with Poetry on the Porch

2011-04-19T10:01:00.006-04:00

National Poetry Month is a month-long, national celebration of poetry established by the Academy of American Poets. The concept is to widen the attention of individuals and the media—to the art of poetry, to living poets, to our complex poetic heritage, and to poetry books and journals of wide aesthetic range and concern. We hope to increase the visibility and availability of poetry in popular culture while acknowledging and celebrating poetry’s ability to sustain itself in the many places where it is practiced and appreciated.

Celebrate National Poetry Month with the Alice Paul Institute's Porch Series Event, Poetry on the Porch on Thursday, April 21. Register today!

The Alice Paul Institute is a not-for-profit 501(c)3 corporation based in Mount Laurel, New Jersey. It was founded in 1984 by a group of dedicated volunteers to commemorate the centennial of Alice Paul's 1885 birth and to further her legacy. The organization was operated by volunteers for more than a decade. Today, four staff members, as well as volunteers, oversee the daily business and special events at Paulsdale.

Ash Wednesday

2011-04-11T09:57:00.003-04:00

By Kevin Young
Kevin Young's Ardency: A Chronicle of the Amistad Rebels, is an epic retelling in verse of the mutiny by fifty-three Africans, illegally sold in Havana, on board the slave ship Amistad in 1839.

Ash Wednesday
Once I thought everything
has a soul
Then I learnt only
the fool fears the tree—
It is empty—
So too the wind
that sends it which
way & that—
Now I know God
is such a wind
from which we
are rent—
The heavens take
the tree
from the tree—
leaf by leaf—
Being gone, taken,
is what means Heaven—
It is full—of wings—
A music of what
is missing
since nothing
but men have souls
tho, it appears,
not many.

Heart's Afire

2011-02-18T23:36:00.003-05:00

Lost in the dark
night vision doesn’t exist
wishing for a flame
an ephemeral flame
a flicker of light
eyes opened or closed
I see nothing
empty like the hole
I once fell in
I feel nothing
I thirst of you
hydrate my heart
set me on fire
watch me
blaze.

Fitness Journey

2011-01-25T12:40:00.001-05:00

There are times
when I feel like giving up
but the desire to excel
overrides all feelings
of surrendering
to the cravings,
binging,
sloth of a life
I once knew
A life
covered with indulgences
spoon feeding myself
medicine called excuses
but really swallowing lies
after lie
I lied
but the mirror
revealed the truth
the catalyst for my
transformation
to take action
to win.

Happy New Year

2011-01-01T00:00:00.000-05:00

"With the new day comes new strength and new thoughts."
--Eleanor Roosevelt

Dear Santa

2010-12-25T18:48:00.006-05:00

My five-year-old boys write letters
letters that beg of video games,
legos, and rock star t-shirts
letters that I cherish
and post on the refrigerator
letters that remind me
of the rudimentary, uneven handwriting
letters I once used to write
letters that begged of dolls and a Barbie bike
color pencils and princess dresses
letters that I wrote, same time every year
until...
the day I discovered the truth
the real meaning of Christmas
the letters stopped
and the celebration began.

Simply Put...

2010-12-24T12:02:00.002-05:00

“I just like to smile. Smiling's my favorite.”
Buddy the Elf
from the film, Elf (2003)

Extroverted to a Fault

2010-12-17T22:49:00.002-05:00

She possesses
an insatiable want
to be surrounded
by a populace
drunk with life
doused with energy
besieged by auras
the thought of

isolation

cripples her
like a crow bar to both knees.

Run Away With Me

2010-11-22T15:46:00.003-05:00

My life
once a canvas
stained gray
now splashed with color
forever changed
when he uttered
four words:
run away with me.

Jamaican Idol

2010-09-07T20:49:00.001-04:00

by Terese Svoboda

Walking backward from the sea,
scales shedding, you seek the cave.

This is why the French door admits
only ocean. You stare into the louver

and forget how to get out. Lull
is the word, or loll. The sea returns,

completing your pulse, the waves live,
each breath of yours worship.

Crabs in a Barrel

2010-08-22T16:24:00.004-04:00

It’s dark.
The air is thick.
It reeks of musk and envy.
Every once in awhile,
the faint smell of rotten flesh
tells me another has given up.
Cynicism breeds rapidly
and it’s time to get out.
But each night is the same.
I muster up the strength,
prepare for the climb.
As I draw closer to the top
one latches on,
parasite-like, and then another
and another.
I’m a fighter.
I’m strong.
Pessimistic and defeatist thoughts
I dismiss.
But the sheer weight
defeats my vigor.
Some laugh,
consider me foolhardy
for trying.
“Foolish dreamer,” they say.
But, I can see the moon.
And when I try
really hard,
I can smell the salt water.
Elevation is in my reach.
So, I will never give up.
Even it means gnawing off
each limb.
I won’t be held back.

Taken

2010-08-20T21:00:00.002-04:00

By AJ Strong

Breathe in slowly deeply and now exhale …do you feel it?
Now do it again… but this time close your eyes and smirk, not a smile but a smirk.
A small sense of pride felt by a twisted choice.
I feel glad no sad no glad wait stop!
Ok well truth is I like it a lot.
Did you know that it would be like this?
I didn’t want to do it, I tried not to, really I did, but gosh when I did it felt so good so right.

One day I woke up and all the sudden it was gone, I searched and searched and searched some more but damn it was gone.
I looked in my heart, I looked in my soul and last I looked in my head.

Frantically I continued to search, panicked I reached for help, I got nothing.

And then it there it was, I erupted, short sudden breaths over and over again, breathing quickly, heavily, crazy uncontrollable tears began to flow, no wait gush like a fierce river, the kind of cry you can only cry when change is in your face.
I cried, I cried so hard my head hurt, its throbbing, so hard my eye were burning, so hard my body was shaking, my cheeks were flushed.
I had no control, its grip was so tight, I assume feeling similar to large, warm hands wrapped around ones neck without permission.
I could feel the wetness on the bed, I could hear the voice in my head.

None of it mattered.

It stopped and then I arose, strangely in a feather like state.
A lack of weight that was present and mine, mine to have, to feel, to own.

Breathe in slowly deeply and now exhale … do you feel it?

Freedom is present.

Bleed

2010-08-05T21:49:00.004-04:00

My new favorite song by Hot Chelle Rae; the lyrics really resonate me - I have bled my heart out on paper a many of times.

Why do you wear such dark glasses?

2010-07-20T08:51:00.003-04:00

A single strip, two-inch wide,
buttery-golden highlight
radiates from her blue black
curly tresses
curly tresses that behave
in the humidity
and bounce
when she laughs
I bet
when she’s not laughing
she’s smiling
her lips marmalade
red -- candy apple -- not blood red
tinted glasses
cover her ebony eyes
not the trendy kind
but, the concealing kind
I did see her eyes – once
ebony, not nefarious,
melancholy, after asking,
“Why do you wear such dark glasses?
To mask the pain?
Disguise your sadness?”
“Perhaps...if I wanted to keep eye readers at bay,”
she spoke softly
the voice of angel
she reached for her glasses
and then hesitated
as if she changed her mind
she tilted her head
and peered at me
over her glasses:
“I refuse to look death in the eye.
And when death comes a knocking,
I won’t answer.”

Blooming Daffodils

2010-07-10T10:54:00.003-04:00

"You can't do anything about the length of your life, but you can do something about its width and depth."
Henry Louis Mencken

Walking slowly
through wet grass
barefoot
touching the daffodils
hidden behind the deciduous trees
adoring its golden flowers
snuggling up to the sun
twirling carelessly
bouncing white, ruffled tulle dress
serenely reminiscent of a ballerina
eyes bright, full of life
indecipherable thoughts
but a coherent spirit
that speaks carpe diem-isms.

Our Responsibility to Contribute After Our Successess...

2010-06-30T07:39:00.003-04:00

This is a quote that really resonated with me. I can understand enjoying the success of the day, but also looking forward to the next difficulty that is to be conquered.

“The rung of a ladder was never meant to rest upon, but only to hold a man's foot long enough to enable him to put the other somewhat higher.”
-Thomas Henry Huxley

Phantom Noise

2010-06-26T07:59:00.001-04:00

I love the language used in this poem, which is by soldier-poet:
Brian Turner

There is this ringing hum this
bullet-borne language ringing
shell-fall and static this late-night
ringing of threadwork and carpet ringing
hiss and steam this wing-beat
of rotors and tanks broken
bodies ringing in steel humming these
voices of dust these years ringing
rifles in Babylon rifles in Sumer
ringing these children their gravestones
and candy their limbs gone missing their
static-borne television their ringing
this eardrum this rifled symphonic this
ringing of midnight in gunpowder and oil this
brake pad gone useless this muzzle-flash singing this
threading of bullets in muscle and bone this ringing
hum this ringing hum this
ringing

Mermaids are Real

2010-06-23T07:47:00.002-04:00

As a child I loved when it rained…
a fascination with water,
(albeit I can’t swim).
On nights that it rained,
I would race downstairs
and peer out the screen door.
I waited for her.
Mermaids can’t talk, but we
communicated telepathically.
She would tell me epic things,
like the sun sets at the same time,
at least three times during the year.
And when the rain stopped,
the puddles disappeared and so did she,
but her spirit walked the earth.
The word lonely,
a word that once plagued my being,
soon became nonexistent.
“There’s a mermaid in our backyard,”
I told my mother, smiling
while eating a strawberry ice pop.
Her back was to me.
I couldn’t tell if she was in a mood
to talk or in a mood to sulk.
“Mermaids are mystical creatures in the North Atlantic.
They lure ship captains to rocks,” she explained.
I crouched down, listening intently,
and allowed my rapidly melting ice pop
to drip into a puddle. The same puddle
that was once home to my mermaid friend last night.
“Why would they lure ship captains to rocks?” I asked.
“To crash their ships and kill the captains,
sometimes accidentally, sometimes on purpose.”
I asked no more questions for fear of what I…
what she would hear next.
The sun was radiant, the air not too humid.
I knew her spirit was walking the earth.
I favored the rain over the sun.

Prayers, Thanks, and Fatherhood

2010-06-20T08:03:00.000-04:00

I was nine
the last time
I saw him
almost three
decades ago
but it feels
like yesterday:
my stepfather
replaced my father
and even though
I prayed and prayed
for God to bring
him back, he never
returned
instead he lay
in the ground
covered in dirt
while another man
with a filthy mind and shifty eyes
lay in my mother’s bed
covered in dirt
and even though
I prayed and prayed
for God to take him way
he stayed
along with the longing
for my father
ironically enough,
on this day every year,
I gaze at my children
and thank God
for answering my prayers
he didn’t bring back my father
(and bury my stepfather instead)
but he sent me a husband
a reminder to me
of what fatherhood
really means.

Juneteenth, A Day of Remembrance

2010-06-19T07:07:00.000-04:00

Juneteenth is a multicultural celebration that is held across the nation to commemorate the abolition of slavery in the state of Texas on June 19, 1865. The Greater Woodbury Arts Council (GWAC) will be presenting a day of remembrance that celebrates the rich legacy of African-Americans.

GWAC will be featuring a rededication of the Wing-Dickerson Park. Come and enjoy the live music and poetry, food and craft venders and children’s activities. There will also be reenactments and presentations focusing on local history and more.

For more information, click here.

What are you listening to?

2010-06-16T13:01:00.005-04:00

My music tastes are quite eclectic. But lately, I’ve been drawn to guitar riffs and songs with lyrics that are compassionate and sincere. Bush’s "Glycerine" is one my favorites. I can also appreciate the simplicity of the video. Simple, but compelling in its storytelling and message.

Capturing Images

2010-06-13T18:37:00.005-04:00

I held it steady
to focus, for clarity
marked by precision
dancing with the light
watching it bounce
manipulating the shadows
later amazed by its beauty
soft simplicity
not cotton candy soft
but a muted palette
capturing images
fresh like spring rain
emotions forever detained
telling a story
words could never adequately
illustrate.

French Movie

2010-06-02T07:12:00.000-04:00

By David Lehman

I was in a French movie
and had only nine hours to live
and I knew it
not because I planned to take my life
or swallowed a lethal but slow-working
potion meant for a juror
in a mob-related murder trial,
nor did I expect to be assassinated
like a chemical engineer mistaken
for someone important in Milan
or a Jew journalist kidnapped in Pakistan;
no, none of that; no grounds for
suspicion, no murderous plots
centering on me with cryptic phone
messages and clues like a scarf or
lipstick left in the front seat of a car;
and yet I knew I would die
by the end of that day
and I knew it with a dreadful certainty,
and when I walked in the street
and looked in the eyes of the woman
walking toward me I knew that
she knew it, too,
and though I had never seen her before,
I knew she would spend the rest of that day
with me, those nine hours walking,
searching, going into a bookstore in Rome,
smoking a Gitane, and walking,
walking in London, taking the train
to Oxford from Paddington or Cambridge
from Liverpool Street and walking
along the river and across the bridges,
walking, talking, until my nine hours
were up and the black-and-white movie
ended with the single word FIN
in big white letters on a bare black screen.

In one more minute, it will be your birthday

2010-05-31T10:40:00.004-04:00

And so the story goes:
“I’m pregnant,” she says flatly.
“Kill it, ” her mother urges.
“I won’t,” she speaks most defiantly.
“Your life’s over,” her mother declares.
“It’s just begun,” she insists.
And here I am.
May 30. It’s almost midnight.
Long nights with the husband.
“In one more minute, it will be your birthday,”
he reminds me.
He’s smiling, holding my hands.
No, it’s not a narcissistic practice
where we stay up late, the eve of my birthday
watching the clock
searching for a way to slow down the time
as both hands rendezvous at the 12 slot
not thinking about where I’ve been
and where I’m going
but suppressing the I-should-leave-my-mark feeling
realizing that each year passes
more quickly than the last
thanking my mother
she didn’t abort
holding no grudges against my grandmother
for suggesting it
secretly loving the fuss that’s made over me.

Moving On

2010-05-19T14:52:00.006-04:00

Like a balloon
I want to float away,
fly freely. Escape.
But, you, the weight
at the end of my ribbon,
prevent me from drifting away,
keeping me grounded.
Your hand,
gently touches my face.
It’s ice cold,
probably from standing in the rain
waiting with me,
urging me to take a step,
because it’s time to move on.
Out of nervousness,
I bite my lip, so hard it bleeds.
“It’s okay.”
And the tears fall
fast.
Your soothing voice makes
those hard-to-hold-back tears trickle.
We walk, together,
through the rain.

Anybody Can Write A Poem

2010-05-16T22:18:00.001-04:00

By Bradley Paul

I am arguing with an idiot online.
He says anybody can write a poem.
I say some people are afraid to speak.
I say some people are ashamed to speak.
If they said the pronoun "I"
they would find themselves floating
in the black Atlantic
and a woman would swim by, completely
dry, in a rose chiffon shirt,
until the ashamed person says her name
and the woman becomes wet and drowns
and her face turns to flayed ragged pulp,
white in the black water.
He says that he'd still write
even if someone cut off both his hands.
As if it were the hands that make a poem,
I say. I say what if someone cut out
whatever brain or gut or loin or heart
that lets you say hey, over here, listen,
I have something to tell you all,
I'm different.
As an example I mention my mother
who loved that I write poems
and am such a wonderful genius.
And then I delete the comment
because my mother wanted no part of this or any
argument, because "Who am I
to say whatever?"
Once on a grade school form
I entered her job as hairwasher.
She saw the form and was embarrassed and mad.
"You should have put receptionist."
But she didn't change it.
The last word she ever said was No.
And now here she is in my poem,
so proud of her idiot son,
who presumes to speak for a woman
who wants to tell him to shut up, but can't.

It Never Stops

2010-05-11T11:13:00.004-04:00

my laughter
you catch
it lingers
resonates

my legs
I cross
uncross
re-cross

my hair
I flip
graceful fingers
twirl

my movements
fluid
my breaths
exaggerated

innocent
yet calculated
deliberate
impulsive

mutual
expected
anticipated
perfected

years later
I love it
you want it
consciously subliminal...

flirting.

Beautiful

2010-05-09T06:58:00.001-04:00

I .
Every day we drive to school
sitting on top of floor buffers
in the back of a big, blue van;
the painting is chipped.
I don't want to go school.
I'm the tallest in my class,
even taller than the boys.
I wish I had Nikes
instead of these no name shoes.
My clothes are so different.
I wish they weren't handmade.
My best friend got angry.
She called me pizza face.
A blonde-haired girl,
with a paisley shirt and matching shorts,
asked me, “Are you from Africa?
Your nose is really big.”
I think I'm ugly.

II.
“Wake up!
It's time to get ready for school!
No time for horse play.
We need to drive you to school
so you don't have to walk
in this blazing heat.
Get dressed. You know I love cats.
I sewed one on your shirt.
Don't you just love it?
Try the shoes with the wedges.
They'll accentuate your height.
You could be a model; you're so beautiful.
You know that?
Now, remember to drink
eight glasses of water.
Water keeps your skin clear.
Hmmmm...I have to smile every time I look at you.
You have your grandfather's nose.”

III.
98 degrees today.
I'm glad I don't have to walk to school.
This van is so dirty.
But at least it has air conditioning.
I'm wearing my shirt with the cat patch again.
And it doesn't even matter that I really hate cats.
Matched with the shoes with the wedges,
I'm probably as tall as my teacher now.
Watch my stride. I'm ready for the catwalk.
I feel bloated . My fifth glass of water. Three more to go.
Nicole laughed and pointed.
She said I have a Bantu nose,
to which I replied:
“Just like my grandfather.
My mother thinks it's beautiful.
I'm beautiful.”

Volcanic Thoughts

2010-05-05T09:44:00.002-04:00

The earth’s crust opens
the Roman God of fire
erupt and release.

The Hand

2010-05-04T14:55:00.002-04:00

By Mary Ruefle

The teacher asks a question.
You know the answer, you suspect
you are the only one in the classroom
who knows the answer, because the person
in question is yourself, and on that
you are the greatest living authority,
but you don’t raise your hand.
You raise the top of your desk
and take out an apple.
You look out the window.
You don’t raise your hand and there is
some essential beauty in your fingers,
which aren’t even drumming, but lie
flat and peaceful.
The teacher repeats the question.
Outside the window, on an overhanging branch,
a robin is ruffling its feathers
and spring is in the air.

I thought this would be a suitable poem to post for National Teacher Day. I celebrate and salute my husband and other teachers today and every day of the year.

Sage Creative Corner: Favorite Blog Nomination

2010-05-02T22:01:00.005-04:00

BlogInterviewer.com is a website devoted to discovering the most interesting bloggers on the Internet and their reasons for sharing their thoughts with the world. Every month they give away prizes to the top rated blogs.

I am pleased to learn that my blog was recommended to Blog Interviewer as an interviewee's favorite blog! I did an interview with Blog Interviewer, shedding some insight on the "person behind the blog." If you’d like to check it out, click here.

And if you think my blog is “favorite worthy,” please click the “vote now” image next to my interview and feel free to post comments.

As always, thanks for visiting Sage Creative Corner...

Cherry Hill Township Poetry Reading of Original Works

2010-04-30T06:37:00.000-04:00

April 30th is the last day of National Poetry Month. What better way to close out the month than with a poetry reading?

Join Erika "Sage" Kelley and other area poets as they read from their original works during this seasonal poetry reading hosted by Poetry Chair and Arts Board member, Herb Druker.

Date of Event: Friday, April 30
Time of Event: 7:00-8:30 PM
Where: Croft Farm Arts Center
100 Bortons Mill Rd., Cherry Hill, NJ

Open to the public. Admission is free.

Light refreshments will be served.
For directions, click here.

Art Blooms is sponsored by Verizon.

Poetry on the Porch: Friday, April 23, 2010

2010-04-23T06:45:00.001-04:00

The New Jersey Chapter of the Younger Women's Taskforce invites you to our "Poetry on the Porch" poetry reading and open mic event in celebration of National Poetry Month.

Sip lemonade and enjoy light refreshments on the wrap-around porch at historic Paulsdale while enjoying the work of four local poets:

Tracey Ferdinand
Kat Hurley
Erika “Sage” Kelley
Denise E. Stewart

This event is free (suggested donation: $5). For directions, visit: http://www.alicepaul.org/contactpage.htm.

National Poetry Month is a month-long, national celebration of poetry established by the Academy of American Poets. The concept is to widen the attention of individuals and the media—to the art of poetry, to living poets, to our complex poetic heritage, and to poetry books and journals of wide aesthetic range and concern.

The Younger Women's Task Force, a project of the National Council of Women's Organizations, is a nationwide, diverse and inclusive grassroots movement dedicated to organizing younger women and their allies to take action on issues that matter most to them. By and for younger women, YWTF works both within and beyond the women's movement, engaging all who are invested in advancing the rights of younger women. The New Jersey Chapter is headquartered at the Alice Paul Institute, 128 Hooton Road, Mount Laurel, NJ 08054. We can be reached at ywtf.nj@gmail.com or on our website at http://www.ywtf.org.

Read a poem...It's National Poetry Month

2010-04-15T22:21:00.000-04:00

Poetry in the Park: National Poetry Month

2010-04-12T07:18:00.000-04:00

Erika "Sage" Kelley reads some of her favorite poems, along with original work for National Poetry Month in the Historic Hopkins House of Cooper River Park. The poetry reading will be followed by an open mic.

Monday, April 12, 2010
7:00pm - 9:00pm
Camden County Cultural Heritage Commission 250 S. Park Drive, Haddon Twp, NJ

For directions, visit: http://arts.camden.lib.nj.us/directions.htm
This event is free.

The Camden County Cultural & Heritage Commission is an advocate of access to the arts for all. Poetry in the Park is made possible in part, by funds from the New Jersey State Council on the Arts and the Camden County Board of Chosen Freeholders.

National Poetry Month is a month-long, national celebration of poetry established by the Academy of American Poets. The concept is to widen the attention of individuals and the mediao the art of poetry, to living poets, to our complex poetic heritage, and to poetry books and journals of wide aesthetic range and concern.

Memorization: My Brain Won't Cooperate!

2010-04-09T09:35:00.006-04:00

For the past few decades, I have enjoyed poetry privately. I would write original poems in a journal as an outlet, a means to express my feelings. I often read the work of others at my leisure. Over the past few years, I have attended several poetry readings where I discovered that poetry is oratory art! I have had the distinct pleasure of witnessing words come to life, right before my very eyes.

During the month of April, National Poetry Month, I will be reading my work at three poetry-reading events. I’ve participated in poetry readings before, but I read my work. My goal, this year, was to recite a few of my poems from memory. The problem is, I can’t seem to memorize them, not even the shorter ones. I don’t have any trouble remembering the lyrics to my favorite songs. However, when it comes to memorizing my poems, my brain won’t cooperate. I’ve tried and tried and tried. I can remember the concept, but my words, verbatim? Nope. I’m wondering if I will be forever married to the paper?

I’ve tried a few memorization strategies, but the one method I haven’t tried yet, is making a recording. Joseph Dempsey, in his article, “Tips for Memorizing Poems,” suggests making a recording if you want to try to memorize a poem when driving or jogging. Here are some of his other tips for poetry memorization (abbreviated, check out the article for more in-depth descriptions):

1. Choose wisely: Pick a poem you like to read and re-read.

2. Print a copy: Type up the poem and carry it with you, reading it when you get a free moment.

3. Read the poem. Then read it again: Read the poem in its entirety and then read it again.

4. Read the poem aloud: Hear how the poem sounds.

5. Look closely: Think about every word, what it means, what it sounds like, etc.

6. Make a recording: Record the poem and play it back when you’re unable to read it.

7. Break it up into sections: Learn one section; move on the next.

8. Take a break: Give the poem a chance to sink deeper into your long-term memory.

9. Use training wheels: Carry the poem with you as a cheat sheet, and glance at it when needed until you no longer need it.

10. Enlist a stage hand: Practice reciting the poem in front of others.

11. Keep reciting the poem to yourself: Instead of counting sheep to fall asleep, recite the poem.

Even if I don’t succeed in memorizing my poems, I will still exercise my presentation skills by speaking clearly and slowly and being expressive!

Do you have any tips for memorizing poetry?

A Lady Who Thinks She Is Thirty

2010-04-03T11:36:00.001-04:00

By Ogden Nash

Unwillingly Miranda wakes,
Feels the sun with terror,
One unwilling step she takes,
Shuddering to the mirror.

Miranda in Miranda's sight
Is old and gray and dirty;
Twenty-nine she was last night;
This morning she is thirty.

Shining like the morning star,
Like the twilight shining,
Haunted by a calendar,
Miranda is a-pining.

Silly girl, silver girl,
Draw the mirror toward you;
Time who makes the years to whirl
Adorned as he adored you.

Time is timelessness for you;
Calendars for the human;
What's a year, or thirty, to
Loveliness made woman?

Oh, Night will not see thirty again,
Yet soft her wing, Miranda;
Pick up your glass and tell me, then--
How old is Spring, Miranda?

April is National Poetry Month

2010-04-01T07:03:00.000-04:00

Set Me Free

2010-03-28T01:44:00.001-04:00

My eyes
are liquid charcoal
burning with injury
crying no more
my tear ducts
are blocked
with fragments
called pain
empty feelings
stay afloat
fulfillment extracted
never drained
held tightly
between the creases
of clenched fists
like the
hummingbird’s wings
I hum
listen
to the lasting effects
of a rapidly beating heart
anxiously awaiting emancipation:
hmmm,
hmmm,
hmmm…
set me free.

White Stilettos

2010-03-13T21:01:00.003-05:00

Fishnet stockings
white stilettos
jet-black wig
through this ghetto
I strut
my gut
hangs low
head held high
what’s that?
hmph!
skin like rawhide
heart of steel
your words mean nothing
(green paper, everything…)
look into my eyes
you have no idea
judge me
check the mirror:
sin is sin.

Ekphrastic poetry is poetry inspired by visual art.

What the eff?

2010-03-09T07:07:00.003-05:00

What I love most about poetry, particularly free verse, is that I can essentially be free in my writing. Free from rules and endless possibilities for word choices. There are no pictures, but readers will see images (at least that’s my goal). I tend to gravitate towards poetry with vivid imagery. These poems are especially lovely when read aloud.

I have attended and participated in quite a few poetry readings. While I appreciate poets that write for “shock value” (wow, I didn’t expect that; now that’s a twist), I can’t say that I care for poems with profanity. When I say profanity, I’m talking about the use of the f-bomb and other colorful words that you won’t hear on daytime television. I’ve found that the use of these words can sometimes weaken the effect of the poem because it can draw too much attention to the word. I recall a poet that dropped the f-bomb, not once, but twice in the poem, and I lost focus. At the end of the reading, many people in the audience couldn’t remember what the poem was about. However, what they did remember was that it contained overflowing profanity.

I challenge poets to find other ways to say what they are feeling without the use of vulgarities. Metaphors, similes, alliterations, etc. are so much more effective than obscenities. Let’s exercise and stretch our creativity.

Forgiven

2010-03-06T23:02:00.001-05:00

A torrential downpour
of sobering thoughts
flood my mind
tear-filled eyelids
smiling ruefully
a bed of blue roses
cover my entire body
thorny memories
no longer prick
my once-pierced heart
the holes, I patched
in control, I am
and forgiven, you are.

At Odds

2010-02-20T13:35:00.003-05:00

I’m scared
scared that
the past three decades
will turn into an eternity
words never spoken
hearts left shattered, broken
too many hurdles
I’m tired of jumping
my legs are dead
my heart still beats
longing for
an antiquated, simple life
enveloped with sincerity
sealed with a kiss
absent of “he said,” “you lied”
written or recorded
at this point it’s pointless
why point fingers?
chipping at the paint
the canvas, never bare
you, me
on opposite sides
wishing
you’d meet me halfway.

After the Storm

2010-02-10T21:41:00.000-05:00

Rainbows
Brilliant colors distinctively adjoined
Illuminating the sky after the storm
Projecting feelings of felicity
Variegation

My heart bleeds words called poetry.

2010-02-05T20:36:00.004-05:00

Another 6-word memoir.

Life's a party; care to dance?

2010-02-02T18:05:00.003-05:00

Can you pare the story of your life into just six words? Check out a gallery of six-word memoirs by well-known writers.

Love and Poetry

2010-01-16T13:40:00.001-05:00

"At the touch of love, everyone becomes a poet."
~Plato

He Loves Me

2009-12-26T00:01:00.001-05:00

He’s seen me without makeup
and still considers me flawless
plus 50 after pregnancy
he still found me sexy
his caress, his touch
never changed or subsided
always gentle, arousing
deliberate and anticipated
seven years later
he still makes me blush
flirting never dies
groping on the rise
attracted, like magnets
thou shall not repel
he’s from Mars
I’m from Venus
but he understands:
my need for affection, today
my need for space, tomorrow
most days I’m sparkling
on occasion, innocently ferocious
sometimes I blow up
he tenderly deflates me
the man who loves to spoil me
but won’t tolerate my mess
the only man
to effortlessly penetrate
my chest cavity
and cherish my heart
no question, our love is pure.

Dream Interceptor

2009-12-05T15:55:00.002-05:00

There are times I find myself lost in reverie. My dreams are more than a neural process…but a connector to people, my emotions. It’s been said that dreams function like psychotherapy, “making connections in a safe place.” But there are times when dreams aren’t so safe…when dreams turn ugly. When I can’t wake up, I find myself praying for control, control over characters and the environment of the dream…the skill of a lucid dreamer. Perhaps, one day I will master this skill, but for now, I simply intercept…

“Claudia, you really have to stop showing up like this!” Kerry griped.

“I’m sorry. I know, I know. I really can’t control it,” I explained.

“It’s always at the most inopportune time!” Kerry continued as she unloosed her arm from Chris’ hold.

Kerry looked at Chris, closed her eyes, and said, “OK, just one more kiss.” Chris looked at her and then at me and then back at her, totally confused. Kerry opened her eyes and said exasperatedly, “OK, bye, Chris.”

And just like that, Chris vanished. Kerry scrunched her face at me and said, “Umm, you can go now, too. This one is a complete wash.”

When she scrunched her face up like that, she reminded me so much of our mother. Kerry and I are fraternal twins. She looks more like our mom, long, jet black hair with olive skin, short, petite stature. Whereas, I’m a clone of our father: long, dark brown hair, olive skin, and tall. Differing features but definitely sisters.

“You know it’s not that easy, Kerry,” I said.

“Fine,” Kerry said, crossing her arms. “We’ll just both sit here until…” Kerry’s thought was interrupted by a sudden ominous darkness. Water started seeping from under her closed door…and fast. I began to panic, as did Kerry. Her eyes widened and her thoughts were clear: We can’t swim!

“Kerry, what the hell?” I screamed.

“This is reminiscent of a scene from Titanic. I should know; I fell asleep watching it.” Kerry cried.

I ran for the door and of course, it was locked. We banged and banged, in the dark. The water continued to rise. Our clothes were soaked and I could hear Kerry begin to choke. The water had risen up to her nostrils.

Beep. Beep. Beep. Around 6:00 AM, the alarm clock started to wail. I glanced over at Kerry. She was still sound asleep. I silenced the alarm clock and tapped Kerry on the shoulder. She gave me a snotty look and then we started laughing nervously…uncontrollably.

“OK, it’s funny now, but it wasn’t a few minutes ago!” Kerry admitted.

“I had no idea you had the hots for Chris. Since when?” I asked.

“I can’t answer that question because I didn’t really know either. Funny, the feelings that emerge in my subconscious,” Kerry mused.

“The dream world can be like that sometimes. In the future, nix the tragedy romance movies before going to bed. At least until I master the art of lucid dreaming!”

My Eternal

2009-11-28T01:04:00.004-05:00

Looking for answers
that once seemed so far away
right in front of me
water falls from the sky
thirsty for something new
released from a prison
guarded by demons
taking your hand
that holds the key
to a wounded heart
that needs healing
the pain dissolves
slowly
you are perfect
my thoughts will one day
mirror yours
walking with you
hardly a sacrifice
forever yours
my soul.

Teenage Woes: Camaraderie

2009-11-20T14:02:00.005-05:00

We’ve travelled this path
once before, twice even…maybe three times
Who’s counting?
Never one for mind-numbing streams,
I preferred currents.
Riddled with optimism, dripping with bravery
We didn’t swim.
Across a floating log we crossed, barefoot.
Each time I lost my balance:
I stumbled. She laughed. Into the water I fell.
I stumbled. She pushed. Into the water I fell.
I stumbled. He watched. Into the water I fell.
Same scenario. Different person. Distinct outcome.
Never the one I wanted.
Here I am again,
on this floating log called life, faltering…
Only, this time I’m alone.
Into the water, I fell not.
Across this log, I knew I would cross.
But, I never wanted to do it alone.
Yearning for someone to hold my hand
instead of breaking my heart.

National Day on Writing

2009-10-20T00:01:00.000-04:00

Writing is a daily practice for millions of Americans, but few notice how integral writing has become to daily life in the 21st century. To draw attention to the remarkable variety of writing we engage in and help make writers from all walks of life aware of their craft, the National Council of Teachers of English (NCTE) established National Day on Writing. On Thursday, October 8, 2009, the U.S. Senate passed a resolution declaring October 20 as the National Day on Writing!

To find out what you can do to help put writing front and center, check out NCTE’s website.

And…consider publishing your writing to the National Gallery of Writing. Choose any piece you’ve ever written, spoken, drawn, texted, or videoed, and submit it to the NCTE.

Happy Writing!

Unwind

2009-10-11T23:24:00.001-04:00

57 degrees
still driving with
all the windows down
my tightly-pulled
bun comes undone
but I don’t mind
I welcome it actually
reminiscent of wild coitus
arriving home
rubbing my temples
climbing the stairs
like it’s the green mile
anticipating a hot shower
and washed hair
collapsing on
warm sheets
fresh out the dryer
leaving the windows open
the breeze
is refreshing
cool on my
naked skin
exhale…

100 Great Web Sites for Poetry Lovers

2009-10-10T17:49:00.001-04:00

Check it out

We don’t read and write poetry because it’s cute. We read and write poetry because we are members of the human race. And the human race is filled with passion. And medicine, law, business, engineering, these are noble pursuits and necessary to sustain life. But poetry, beauty, romance, love, these are what we stay alive for.
-Dead Poet’s Society

Scarlet Heart

2009-09-27T21:55:00.005-04:00

The tension is so thick
like a callus
protect me
from the constant pressure
I feel
when we’re within
five feet of each other.
Close enough to touch
but we won’t.
Avoiding eye contact
until the accidental
glance-turned-stare.
Once black pupils
now red flames
caused by a scarlet
heart inflamed
with pain.
Make it stop.
If only I could.
But, you’re pregnant
with anger
refusing to birth that rage,
denying the flow of blood
called
love.

Green Leaves

2009-09-26T14:08:00.008-04:00

I, unlock the latches
and open the window
sticking my head out
reaching for the sun.
The leaves,
once green,
turn brown and burnt.
Once infected, now distorted,
wilted, crumpled,
fallen, dead.
But, they still rustle,
dance, and stir
in the day and night,
with each wind that blows,
carrying them away,
emitting fresh air
that permeates
this stifled soul.
A whiff of cedar
wafts by me
almost cosmic.
I need the rush
while I wait
for a warm, wet spring
with green leaves.

Summer of 1995

2009-09-23T22:29:00.003-04:00

Who do you love?
Are you for sure?
Who do you love?
Are you for sure?
Who…do you love?
Are…you…for sure?

Hmmm…I love that song
And not just because LL Cool J is the artist
It takes me back
Summer of 1995
Portsmouth Virginia
Old enough to appreciate
the simple things in life
Too young to know that Portsmouth is not
Ports-mouth

17 and carefree
days consisted of sitting on the porch
with my best friend who
just so happened to be my younger sister
(swatting mosquitos
pass me the calamine lotion)
watching her fall in love
with the boy next door
now three’s a crowd
until I met her boyfriend’s friend

and when the novelty of young crushes
wore off
we formed a girl group with our cousin
practicing dance routines until the
wee hours in the morning
only to come in second place
at a community talent show
still convinced: we’re born-to-be-stars

splitting our $15 winnings three ways at the mall
spotting and eventually shadowing Allen Iverson
ducking behind the clothes racks
whenever he turned around
finally mustering up the nerve
to ask him for his autograph

and when night fell
I wanted nothing more than to win a game
of scrabble against my grandmother
reuniting with my her and my grandfather
after nine years
and meeting my eight-year-old brother
for the first time
wow, he looks just like me
momentous

falling asleep in my dead father’s room
finding comfort in the stillness
and the sound of crickets chirping
a summer full of felicity
summer of 1995
one I’ll never forget

Missed but not Forgotten

2009-07-29T07:23:00.002-04:00

Eating lunch by the river
we thought we heard your laugh
that infectious laugh that always forced
us to smile and partake in the laughter
But it wasn’t you because
sometime ago, you departed the ranks
to pursue your dreams and touch the lives of others
Despite your absence, you’ve left
your mark and will always be remembered
as the glue that binds us together
while watching the tiny leaf on drifting water
we ambivalently reflect and reminisce:

There comes a time in everyone’s life
when they meet that person
with a genuine heart in the midst
of a world that isn’t very secure
that person that creates a space
that nourishes and supports
imparting a sense of connection
and resonance
that person who is the big sister,
not in the hazing sense
but in the teacher, mentor, and therapist sense
one that we take pleasure in hanging out with
admiring up close and from a far
leading by example, not my mother
but my close friend, confidante,
and sometimes partner in crime (shhh)
that person who remembered
how much I adored her crystal necklace
surprising me with crystal earrings
for Christmas
that person who completely understood
the frustrations of complacency and
encouraged me to spread my wings and fly
that person who stood by my side
when I lost loved ones and fought for my health…

Eyes fixed on the tiny drifting leaf
Neither of us utters a word
Yet the sentiment is unanimous:
You will be missed, but not forgotten.

Last Night

2009-06-04T06:18:00.003-04:00

Last night I turned to you
like I do on most nights
drifting back and forth
between this world and my subconscious
I am unable to sleep
wanting a needed distraction
to drown the chaos down the hall
to calm my trembling hands
(I fear the shadows when the sun sets)
to kill the sensation to cry because
I miss my dead father and
despise the man in the room next door who
gleefully smacks my thighs and pinches my ass
while my mother watches
in angst, later cutting her eyes at me
Damn…what did I do?

Last night I turned to you
like I do on most nights
wanting a friend
needing an ear
I have so much to say
you’re the only one who will listen
when my soul cries out and
the pain is ready to detonate
you never say stop
so I keep going, almost obsessed
flooding your being with my dreams,
sacred secrets, desires, past hurts,
and present triumphs
while blasting Offspring’s “Self-Esteem”…
cathartic release.

23 years later and I never lost touch
How could I?
You were my first and only
guess that means there’s always a place
in my heart, mind, and soul…for you
that place I nurture and turn to when I’m ready
to peel back the layers,
wade through the memories,
heal the scars instead of picking them…
simply express.

Last night I turned to you
like I do on most nights
it was sweet…exciting
and after all these years
I am ready to introduce you to the world
my sun in the midst of darkness
my flower in a weeded desert
in a padded room with no windows,
I still have you…
my gift from God,
my love…
my poetry.

Angel Wings

2009-06-01T20:46:00.001-04:00

Fear not the departed
in a world full of mortals
who light flames
to those who are different
once pink with giddy
now gray with despondence
sunflowers once bloomed
stalks now bow with an unnatural bend
taking on a shape of its own
the nemesis has arrived
don’t open the door
depart and cling to her wings
be carried away into the heavens
existence is no longer perilous.

WordWise Series: Women's Voices

2009-05-29T07:26:00.003-04:00

Greater Woodbury Arts Council
presents
Wordwise Series: Women's Voices
A Poetry Event at
A Taste of Philly Pretzel Bakery
53 S. Broad Street, Woodbury, NJ
Friday, May 29, 7:45 PM, followed by an open mic

Featured Poets
Tracey Ferdinand
Erika "Sage" Kelley
Linda DiFeterici

Bleeding Fish

2009-05-28T06:23:00.000-04:00

It’s dark. I’m scared.
The blood drips from the knife.
The sweat beads roll
down the bridge of my nose.
It’s dead. But still moves.
The flesh on my hands
is cool and now defunct.
I hated it the first, second, and third time.
What would possess you to think
this time would be any different?
Exposure and new experiences…
Next month I turn 12;
so, this must be my rite of passage.
“Quit stalling,” he croaks.
My choices:
slit its throat, cut through the artery, or slice its organs.
“How about lethal injection?” I murmur,
and reluctantly carve through layers of cold tissue.
The blood rains lightly into the water,
mixes with the gray matter under my fingernails,
and spatters on my faded plaid shirt,
with the missing gold button and tiny moth hole
above the left sleeve.
Bloodless and lifeless, the thought of eating
repulses me. But what repulses me even more
are the words, “Now lets get ready to gut it.”

Panoramic View

2009-05-25T12:41:00.000-04:00

My lifeless body slouches
on the permanently dented couch
eyes fixed on the glassless windows
360 degree panoramic view
savoring the images
trapped beneath gravity
and sonic pollution
nestled atop cascading optical illusions
vision focused, crisp with clarity
a little girl spins around
all the while tugging
at her pink ruffled dress
stopping abruptly
dizzily collapsing
she begins to cry
a young boy pitches
to his father, maybe his uncle
hits the ball out of the park…home run
excitement met with admiration
a wino clutches his crinkled brown paper bag
sips and staggers…full of umami, concentrated
just what he needs
two twenty-something year-olds
swap saliva under a tree, fingers entwined
one hand under her shirt
the other in her back pocket
young love, all the makings of young lust
blue night emerges, involuntary intermittence
part two continues at daybreak.

Poetry in the Park

2009-05-10T22:34:00.002-04:00

Camden County Cultural and Heritage Commission presents "Poetry in the Park" in the Historic Hopkins House of Cooper River Park with Featured Poet Erika "Sage" Kelley, followed by an open mic poetry reading.

Monday, May 11, 2009
7-9 PM

Free Event
Directions: http://arts.camden.lib.nj.us/directions.htm

Happy Mother's Day

2009-05-10T00:26:00.001-04:00

I never imagined that motherhood would be this intense, trying, poignant, fulfilling…lovely.

WordWise

2009-04-30T19:40:00.002-04:00

WordWise, Spoken Word Event
Sketch Club Theatre
Glover Street, Woodbury on
Friday, May 1, 2009
7:00 to 9:00 PM

Sponosored by the Great Woodbury Arts Council.

Untitled Short Story

2009-04-28T00:36:00.004-04:00

Exotic and mysterious, gripped by an unfathomable serenity…surrounded by blue magic. From the moment I saw you, I knew it was true. It’s the depth of your being that captivates so many...me. While they’re out to anatomize your molecular properties, I’m desperately trying to reach your core and feel you. Trapped between paralysis and a yearning so strong it burns, I realize I must initiate that first point of contact…that precise moment in time when our worlds collide and that coveted love is unleashed…

Her long dark hair extends past her torso. She’s quite a lovely young woman: olive complexion, almond-shaped eyes, full lips, matched with the most darling persona. Like usual, it’s mid-day and under the cumulus clouds, she strolls freely… enjoying the sand between her toes. She closes her eyes, lifts her head, and accepts the sun’s heat. I know why she’s here. She knows why she’s here. She tries her best to avoid the locals, but to no avail.

“Sirena, why do you spend such long hours on this beach? You should be in the city. Go find yourself a soul mate,” prods a little elderly woman with basket-weaved flip flops and a straw hat.

“Aidia, it’s just so beautiful here,” Sirena explains, drawing circles in the sand with her feet.

Looking up at the sky, Aidia offered, “Suit yourself. Don’t stay here too late though. My hip is bothering me today.”

Raising an eyebrow, Sirena utters an exasperated, “Huh?”

“It’s going to rain before the day is out. Umm hmm…the weather is sure to drop,” and just like that, Aidia walks off, whistling to herself.

Nightfall began to fall upon us, almost methodically. Below the dark nimbus clouds, Sirena quickens her pace to avoid the fast-approaching storm. The cool night air makes her body tremble. The droplets of rain penetrate her skin and saturate her hair. No longer walking, she begins to sprint. Faced with decisions: run for cover or go for it?

Within moments, I am within arms length. Sirena squats down and allows her fingertips to touch me. Her heart palpitates.

“Okay. This is it: the moment I’ve been waiting for,” Sirena declares, almost matter-of-factly.

Instantaneously, she dives and admires her surroundings. She eagerly connects with me. Like a chemical reaction, her transformation takes place before my eyes. Her slender fingers wipe a few droplets from her face. Her legs are no more. She smiles…admiring her shimmering, azure and jade scales, and speckled tail. I hope she stays with me for awhile.

Poetry on the Porch: Thursday, April 23, 2009

2009-04-22T20:57:00.004-04:00

The New Jersey Chapter of the Younger Women's Taskforce invites you to our "Poetry on the Porch" poetry reading and open mic event in celebration of National Poetry Month.

Enjoy the work of four local poets:

Sandra Turner-Barnes
Erika “Sage” Kelley
Judith Lawrence
Abbie Gray

Sip lemonade and enjoying light refreshments on the wrap-around porch at historic Paulsdale.

6:00-8:00 PM at Historic Paulsdale, 128 Hooton Rd., Mt. Laurel, NJ
For directions, visit: http://www.alicepaul.org/contactpage.htm.

Dark...Light

2009-02-19T22:24:00.001-05:00

Surrounded by darkness
with a strange sense of comfort.

The woods,
the branches
enclose me with their limbs.

Lifeless as it may seem,
something...someone
is here with me.

As I depart,
I promise I will return
and your presence
will be revealed.

Now that I've returned--
is this the same place?

The sun now shines bright
the woods,
the branches
have opened themselves up
and a whole new world
awaits me.

I never knew
water...
this beautiful, blue ocean
surrounded this promontory.

Life...
it's amazing to see
the doves circle the ocean.

Oh, there you are
walking so slowly
on a deserted path.

How different--
in the dark
in the light...

Secret 6: Conquering Saboteurs

2009-02-13T22:12:00.003-05:00

“A critical skill for many creative women is discernment – knowing whose advice is from the heart and really meant to be helpful, and avoiding folks who pull you away from your intentions and may be trying to undermine your achievement.”

I can thank my mother for my self-confidence. Self-doubt and self-destruction, saboterus that Gail McMeekin discusses in her sixth chapter of the 12 Secrets of Highly Creative Women: A Portable Mentor, are saboteurs with which I do not grapple. I speak up for myself and have been dubbed aggressive in the workplace. I would, however, argue that I am assertive, as opposed to aggressive. Writer Rebecca West’s quote really resonated with me:

“People call me a feminist whenever I express sentiments that distinguish me from a doormat.”

My assertiveness hasn’t stopped from seeking the approval of others though. Through the years, I’ve learned that it’s important to hear other’s opinions, especially those who have expertise in your field of study. I’m confident but not arrogant enough to think that my work and ideas are perfect. So, I typically seek the advice of and input from others before making a major decision. Bouncing ideas off of others has been invaluable in my professional and personal life! What I’ve also learned through the years though, was that some people are quick to criticize and undermine your work/decision without explaining why or offering ways another/better suggestion... saboteurs as McMeekin calls them.

I remember being super-excited about a workshop I conducted. I received really favorable feedback from my attendees. I shared this with my Director and explained that I would like to talk to her about conducting future trainings, especially since I received requests from other agencies to train their staff. Her response: It’s such a small piece in the larger scheme of things, Erika. I guess it’s something we can talk about. However, she proceeded to change the subject. And before I knew it, I was dismissed from her office. Miss Confident Erika’s feelings were crushed. All I could think of was my child running into my room and saying, “Mommy, look what I did! Can I make another picture?” and me responding, “I guess. It’s not that big of a deal though.”

I sulked for a minute (ok, a day or two) and decided I would continue with the workshops with or without the support of my Director – outside of work though! In fact, I’m conducting the same workshop for another agency after hours in early March. Yes, I will continue to seek the advice of others, but like McMeekin points out, “we can listen to everything we hear, but then it’s important to sort it out realistically, learn what we need to do, and discard the rest. Not everyone is going to understand what we’re up to.” My thought is my Director failed to recognize the value of my work and creative expression through the workshop. I refused to allow that to stop me from doing what I love and what I deem as important in helping others in their work. Discernment meets determination!

Fear Not...

2009-02-11T22:06:00.000-05:00

"Some of us just go along...until that marvelous day people stop intimidating us--or should I say we refuse to let them intimidate us?"
--Peggy Lee, Singer

Cherished Poetry

2009-02-09T22:04:00.000-05:00

Poetry is love drifting through the sky
as birds do, when they glide up high.

Poetry floats on the pillowy clouds
not just quiet, sometimes loud.

Poetry opens like a flower on a bright, sunny day.
Feel the deep sadness as poetry fades away.

You can’t imagine that? Funny…neither can I.
Poetry’s hot cocoa when snow’s thrown in my eye.

Poetry’s a cushion when I’ve fallen down.
Poetry’s a presence I need when no one’s around.

Secret 5: Committing to Self-Focus

2009-02-06T21:50:00.003-05:00

“Many women fear appearing or actually being selfish if they commit to their creative work.”

I can understand why many women may feel this way. Females are often raised to serve others, as Gail McMeekin points out in the fifth chapter of the 12 Secrets of Highly Creative Women: A Portable Mentor. She also points out that a creative outlet while raising children protects her and her children from great unhappiness and stress. I would argue that the same holds true for one’s spouse.

When I was on a creative hiatus, I found myself looking to my husband for my overall happiness, entertainment, physical and mental stimulation. On days when he was tired or simply wanted to be alone, I found myself twiddling my thumbs and eventually harassing him, “Are you ready to talk? What do you want to do? Lets do something.” If he didn’t feel like talking or going out, I became bored and annoyed. Not only was I frustrated, but I was aggravating him as well. I learned a valuable lesson: never depend on someone for your overall happiness. Through my writing, especially poetry, I am mentally stimulated, entertained, and often able to release bottled up hurt feelings from my childhood. Who knew, something as simple as writing, could be such a wonderful and healthy outlet.

McMeekin mentions “putting yourself on top of the priority list.” This is the first time in my reading the book that I disagree with the author. As a wife and mother, I don’t deem myself as the “priority.” Instead, I hold each role (mother, wife, individual) with equal weight – each are equally number one priorities. Thus, I ensure that I maintain a healthy balance of mommy-child, husband-wife, and me time. And on occasions when there’s imbalance, my husband and children are sure to alert me, as well they should. Nothing like checks and balances!

Finally

2009-02-04T22:23:00.003-05:00

Around the globe,
three times and back,
to pursue my love
but I realize I lack

patience and faith
that God will provide
all I desire and need
in this world to survive.

On a planet that's filled
with mystery and revelation,
all I ever wanted was
a little love and dedication

from a man with a heart
that's pure and tender
alas, I have found him
all my love I now surrender.

I am a queen
who has found her king
I sit back and enjoy
all the love you bring
into my life...

Featured in the Poetry of Marriage anthology, a trademarked series of books.

The Idiot

2009-02-03T22:14:00.001-05:00

By Charles Reznikoff

With green stagnant eyes,
arms and legs
loose ends of string in a wind,

keep smiling at your father.

Circus Monkeys

2009-02-01T21:00:00.001-05:00

Not quite best friends.
We don’t share secrets,
play dress up, or bake cookies.
Instead, I am your sparring partner.
And we speak loudly without saying words,
competing for his love and attention
while he tosses us peanuts.

Secret 4: Surrendering to Creative Cycles

2009-01-30T20:19:00.002-05:00

“Burnout is the key enemy of innovation.”

The fourth chapter of Gail McMeekin's The 12 Secrets of Highly Creative Women: A Portable Mentor made so much sense I could barely contain myself! McMeekin covered a lot of ground in this chapter, but what resonated with me the most was the idea that when we have time off and peace of mind, ideas are often born.

I remember going to school full-time and working full-time. I didn’t have a free minute in the day to even think about being creative. On the weekends I was catching up on sleep and studying. And to top things off, I was also planning a wedding! After the wedding came the new job. Then the twin boys. As things slowed down at home, the pace picked up at work. In the midst of the chaos, I was lucky enough to indulge in professional development…in Miami, Florida! My oh-so-wonderful grandmother offered to take care of my twin boys for a week so that my husband could join me. I worked during the day and we played at night. Miami was just the breath of fresh air that I needed to relax my burnout brain.

McMeekin mentioned Entrepreneur Joline Godfrey and her former partner in this chapter and explained how they had a corporate policy of taking at least one week’s vacation each quarter for peace of mind so that ideas could be birthed. Sweet. I don’t have the luxury of taking a week’s vacation every quarter; however, my husband and I schedule at least one day off from work every month. Every once in awhile, one of us will take the children for a few hours on the weekend for alone time. Both scenarios have been tremendously helpful to our marriage, our children, and has positively contributed to our productivity at work! And for me, the creativity is stimulated when I have a clear head coupled with physical and mental rest. I’ve been able to maintain my prose and poetry blog and even initiate great ideas for projects at work.

As McMeekin stated, “We all need time between cycles to rest and fill ourselves up again with fresh dreams and energy.”

Smile and Let Go

2009-01-29T07:53:00.001-05:00

By Silfredo Rodriguez, a young poet from the city of Camden, NJ, also a member of Hopeworks, a non-profit organization in the city of Camden, NJ.

I walk this road alone because I chose to.
World shattered.
Heart ravaged by devastation.
My mind knows not the depths of peace nor the
tranquility that lies within.
I was told that once upon a time my transgressions
were paid in full,
that my sins were paid for in full,
that these same sins lay at the bottom of a sea of glass.
If this is so…then why?
Why do my memories still haunt me?
Are these things that I myself haven’t forgiven myself for?
Is it my fault that I am not able to forget?
Is it my fault that the things I have buried in the depths of that
sea have somehow made it to the surface?
Is it my fault that I can’t shake my past?
I look at those sins as vast and numerous as the stars in the sky.
Laying on the surface of that sea,
smile and let go, walking away from them knowing that
I am forgiven.

Silfredo shared this poem at a church last Sunday and there wasn't a dry eye in the place. Poetry can be like that sometimes. It's very cathartic...piercing. As a person that works in the education field, I was pleased at the clarity of the piece. It was poignant with great use of imagery and metaphors. I recently conducted a workshop, "Incorporating Poetry into After-school Programs," and was able to "see" the research that I presented to the group, in this poem.

Research shows that the arts help youth build both basic and advanced thinking skills, and instruct youth in diverse modes of thinking and learning. The knowledge and skills that students develop in learning to respond to, perform and create works of arts constitute a fundamental form of literacy students must have if they are to communicate successfully and function in today’s new media and information society.

I hope more of today's youth embrace the arts!

Alone With You

2009-01-27T07:46:00.001-05:00

Flying
high above the trees
dodging birds
short naps on the clouds
sun rays bronze
my slightly golden body
night falls
it’s almost time
wind carries me
in your direction
nameless destination
our secret domicile
cozy and quiet
like old times

Secret 3: Following Your Fascinations

2009-01-23T07:27:00.004-05:00

My passion meets my vocation…

In my eagerness to immerse myself in all that is creative and literary, I began my journey for a new career path. What I learned during this voyage was that I lacked the writing experience. Sure, folks have told me that I was an exceptional writer, but where was my portfolio? I had two choices:

(1) take an entry-level writing position, ultimately resulting in a severe pay cut, but gaining the experience and building my portfolio in the blissful world of writing, or

(2) write freelance in my spare time, slowly gaining experience and building my portfolio.

Option 1 was my preference, my creative impulse. But as Gail McMeekin’s points out in the third chapter of The 12 Secrets of Highly Creative Women: A Portable Mentor, choice 2 would ultimately negatively impact others…my family, thus a negative, impulsive risk.

“There are two kinds of risks: impulsive risks and calculated risks.”

With childcare expenses that are equivalent to a mortgage payment, it would be virtually impossible for me to take a severe pay cut, especially in this economy. Asking my husband to take a second job was also out of the question. When would he have time to spend with his children and me?

So…I opted for scenario 2. And for the past few years, I have been fortunate enough to obtain several writing gigs that have allowed me to gain diverse writing experiences, while supplementing my income! But for me, it still wasn’t enough. I desperately wanted my passion as my vocation…full-time. So, I decided to take a positive risk, one that McMeekin describes as challenging yourself, following creative hunches, testing your strengths, and initiating a plan of action.

I embarked on a plan of action that would allow me to infuse my creativity and passion for writing into my current position (Program Officer managing the state’s after-school initiative).

First, I thought of ways that I could utilize my writing more in my position (e.g., prepare and disseminate a quarterly newsletter) and shared my ideas with my supervisor. I was also vocal about my personal interests in poetry and the arts (with just about anyone and everyone that would listen). When the opportunity to attend a United States Department of Education sponsored-training on after-school and the arts arose, I jumped on it. As a part of the training, I would be responsible for turn-keying this information to the state’s after-school programs. Of course, I was more than happy to agree to conduct trainings with our after-school programs regarding the importance of arts in education, particularly in after-school programs.

Next thing I knew, my supervisor approached me about conducting a workshop on infusing poetry into after-school programs at a regional conference! I jumped on that, too. That has resulted in me connecting with other like-minded individuals, along with requests to conduct the same workshop for other agencies. My supervisor has been open to projects surrounding poetry and the arts, as related to after-school programs, especially since national research supports the need for the arts in after-school programs (which I was more than happy to supply to her). Research has shown the arts to have value to learning and academic achievement, as well as to self-confidence and reaching disengaged youth.

So long as I am able to maintain my current workload, I can continue to work on arts-related projects, as related to after-school programs. And that works for me, because it hardly seems like extra work.

New Beginnings

2009-01-20T19:48:00.003-05:00

The sun rises
illuminating the earth
nourishing the vegetation
warming my skin
rose-colored cheeks
my face is flushed
hot with anticipation
it’s a new day
filled with hope
a promise for change
the future is unwritten
endless…
I am optimistic.

Writing Endeavors

2009-01-19T17:55:00.000-05:00

I am pleased that my article, "Celebrating Twins," was featured in Far Running Fat Man, an online publication.

Secret 2: Honoring Your Inspirations

2009-01-16T20:57:00.004-05:00

“If you are out of touch with your inspired self, making a date to connect opens the window.”

So many women have lost touch with their creative voice. Why? In the second chapter of The 12 Secrets of Highly Creative Women: A Portable Mentor by Gail McMeekin, she points out that too many women are overwhelmed by the awesome responsibilities of home, work, and relationships…consequently, losing touch with their creative voice. I found myself among this group of women not too long ago and as a result, I was restless and stir-crazy. While I find comfort in life’s daily routines, without a creative outlet feelings of stagnation and boredom creep in.

So, what can women do to find their creative voice again? McMeekin advises women to reserve at least 15 minutes of quiet time every day to listen to our thoughts in a creative sanctuary. Select a method for capturing images (e.g., writing, taping, drawing, role-playing) and answer the question: What is your intuition urging you to explore or experience?

This “daily date with my creative voice” has definitely allowed me to soar creatively and express what’s on my mind and in my heart. Typically, on weekends, when my husband and twin boys are fast asleep, and I’m alone with my thoughts, the creative waves begin to rise. And I find myself writing about the same topic until I “feel better.”

Writing has truly helped my mind stay alert, aided in managing the stressors in my life, prevented boredom, and has allowed me to strengthen my connection with loved ones. I can tell my husband, “I love you,” but to express to him via poetry the ways in which he is my soul mate has spoken volumes! I can tell my best friend, “work will get better; continue to vent and express yourself.” But inviting her to my monthly open mic poetry group has allowed her to express herself on paper and verbally. In fact, I dubbed her the “secret poet.” She too, has discovered the power of creative expression.

Secret 1: Acknowledging Your Creative Self

2009-01-16T07:01:00.003-05:00

My insatiable passion for writing and poetry has been unleashed…

I hear so many women say, “I’m not the creative type.” In the first chapter of The 12 Secrets of Highly Creative Women: A Portable Mentor by Gail McMeekin, defies this statement by touching on two major points: “we have a creative self waiting to be awakened and amplified” and “the creative impulses of too many women are asleep—dormant, or unacknowledged.” So, the question is: how do we tap into this creativity?

Now before I delve into the first chapter, I want to start out by saying that the first thing that grabbed my attention was McMeekin’s use of quotes. Almost every page contains a quote by a writer, poet, artist, etc., related to evoking our creative spirits. The quotes were distracting, in a good way…I found myself peeking ahead to read the quotes! A few that truly resonated with me include:

“What you love is a sign from your higher self of what you are to do.” –-Sanaya Roman, Writer

“Making art is a rite of initiation. People change their souls.” –-Julia Cameron, Writer

“Creativity is like a great receptive womb.” –-Lynn V. Andrews, Writer

So, after I surmounted my fascination with the quotes, I was really able to digest McMeekin’s words, which were very uplifting and truly germane to my once dormant and now restored love of creative expression!

McMeekin explained how her battle with chronic fatigue syndrome actually sparked her interest in art, beauty, and creative expression. McMeekin says she was burned out from too much caretaking. But, I wonder if it’s something about tiredness that correlates with the yearning for creativity? I say this because I stirred up my affinity for creative expression shortly after the birth of my twins. I was consistently fatigued and truly experienced sleep deprivation (feeding twins every two hours…yikes!).

My new role as mother was intensely overwhelming. It was my husband who suggested that I “get out and do something.” He recognized my hunger for (creative) brain stimulation, which I responded to with writing and poetry, something I immersed myself in as a child and young adult. I soon realized that my love of poetry and writing were temporarily concealed as a result of a major transition in my life: motherhood. And interestingly enough, like McMeekin’s “Response to Creative Callings,” I was drawn to color. Most people know me as the woman with the “earth-toned wardrobe.” All of a sudden, I started wearing green, purple, and orange tops! (In fact, today I have on a cranberry shirt.)

As the chapter concluded, McMeekin shared how she reconnected with her artistic, intuitive self: painting, writing, decorating, and gardening. She even sought after mentors of advanced creativity and shares their secrets through this book.

I look forward to reading more about how I can “spread my creative wings and ascend to new heights.”

Book Blogging Group

2009-01-15T14:04:00.013-05:00

For the past few months, I have been posting my favorite music, videos, books, quotes, etc. on Fridays as "Friday Favorites..." blog posts. However, for the next 12 weeks, I will be blogging about The 12 Secrets of Highly Creative Women: A Portable Mentor, by Gail McMeekin.

The 12 Secrets of Highly Creative Women: A Portable Mentor (Conari Press, 2000) is an inspirational guidebook that offers 12 practices designed to increase one's creative success and help to achieve one's goals, complete with interviews of Sarah Ban Breathnach, Barbara Sher, Shakti Gawain, Chris Madden, Sigrid Olsen, and 40 other highly creative women.

I'll be reading this book and blogging about it as a part of an online blogging book club. An online blogging book club, huh? Yep. It's a community of bloggers that work their way through a book together, sharing their experiences by posting on their own blog and by reading what other participants are sharing. The blog, Next Chapter: 12 Secrets of Highly Creative Women, initiated by Jamie Ridler, certified professional co-active coach, is the homebase and will host the blog roll of participants.

I anticipate exploring this inspirational book with like-minded creative spirits! I hope you'll tune in every Friday as I journey through this 12-week exploration of creativity, sharing my experiences and reactions to The 12 Secrets of Highly Creative Women: A Portable Mentor!

Interested in joining or learning more about this book blogging group? Check out the Next Chapter: 12 Secrets of Highly Creative Women blog for the details or contact Jamie Ridler with any questions.

American Smooth

2009-01-14T16:31:00.000-05:00

By Rita Dove From American Smooth

We were dancing - it must have
been a foxtrot or a waltz,
something romantic but
requiring restraint,
rise and fall, precise
execution as we moved
into the next song without
stopping, two chests heaving
above a seven-league
stride - such perfect agony
one learns to smile through,
ecstatic mimicry
being the sine qua non
of American smooth.
And because I was distracted
by the effort of
keeping my frame
(the leftward lean, head turned
just enough to gaze out
past your ear and always
smiling, smiling),
I didn't notice
how still you'd become until
we had done it
(for two measures?
four?) - achieved flight,
that swift and serene
magnificence,
before the earth
remembered who we were
and brought us down.

I Remember You When…

2009-01-12T06:59:00.003-05:00

Two decades later,
you appear before me.
Seeing you
simply surreal.
No senseless strangeness
or stilted stumbling,
only secured serenity.
Self-evident stunners.

Secrets secreted
from the once-locked closets.
In the midst of our reminiscing
simultaneous sentiments
sadness, solace
seethed slowly within me:
childhood memories.

Succumb spiritedly
to friendship, old and new
versus a moment in my life
sinfully somber.
Strength supersedes
this previously-fragile child.