Earth’s Discontent

By Michele Spector

This, our precious planet,
Whose seasons I knew well,
Protects itself from us,
The mad human virus.

Outside the wind bellows,
And the rooftops quiver,
From weather now altered,
To voice a discontent,
The degree to which I,
Only begin to guess.

Who knows how human habitation and disregard for the many ecosystems of the world already affect the weather patterns as we know them today. I contemplated this as a storm system passed through the area where I live. I don’t remember winds so strong at that time of year. I observe many strange changes in the weather I can’t explain.

In light of all this, my poem is a memorial for the Gulf Oil Disaster. It’s a disaster that continues today because the same practices causing it are in place. Its affect on the people of Louisiana, its economy, and wildlife, are all but forgotten by the President who proclaims “significant progress” has happened. I don’t see that if you consider that according to a court clerk, 62,000 forms are now filed against BP by business owners, rigworkers, and family members of men killed in the Deepwater Horizon blast.

Even as dead marine animals and oil continues to wash up on shore, and residents suffer from serious health issues, a new permit for drilling was just issued. So much for a moratorium till a better procedure for cleanup is found. There is none to date and the blowout preventer just doesn’t work, period.

Underwater plumes of oil and the dispersant Corexit are worse beneath the surface. It hasn’t gone anywhere,  just settled on the gulf floor, and the toxins penetrated the food chain. The true number of dead marine mammals may never be accounted for. To BP it’s merely burying the evidence. Many believe the same fate awaits them as those who suffered in the wake of the Exxon Valdez spill, because the Government is unwilling to do what’s needed to prevent this from happening again.

Anyone wanting to learn more can go to The Center for Biological Diversity’s website for their April 2011 report:

http://www.biologicaldiversity.org/programs/public_lands/energy/dirty_energy_development/oil_and_gas/gulf_oil_spill/a_deadly_toll.html

My Brain Elastic

By Michele Spector

I cram too much knowledge,

This brain’s overcrowded,

With facts, figures and such.

I yearn for some relief,

From these left-brained notions,

Entertaining my muse,

With three dimensions of,

Line, color, even form.

When I mistakenly believe my creative world has dried up after too much study, or Life Interruptis, it calls to me from the very depths. As I burn out, and become incommunicado, I look for a route out of this overwhelmed state. Then I have the insatiable desire to eat color with my eyes and disappear into a non-linear place. It doesn’t let up till I grab some pastels and paper, and dive right in. To my relief I rediscover that this world where I reconnect, not only reforms me into a functional human being, but has actually waited quite patiently for my return .

The Gift

By Michele Spector

Nature bent to will,

The illusion that fuels

excess consumption,

At habitat’s expense,

And species’ extinction,

A hundred a day,

To extract amounts,

Devouring three earths,

From a single life.

I couldn’t have written a more difficult poem. My heart breaks over what has happened in the Gulf. It’s due to greedy oil companies making a fast buck. Irresponsibility has damaged a very fragile marine eco-system that may never recover. It’s still not over. I’m afraid the Gulf will become the new Le Brea tar pits and crude will move around the Florida coast to come up the eastern seaboard. I feel like I’m in a Mad Max movie!

When I first saw the oil slick, I envisioned it fueling the cause for renewable clean energy, and not just by activists. The main stream media is even talking about it now that it’s safe to of course. They definitely didn’t do their job to report how serious it was sooner.

I once read that it would take three earths to keep up with the current consumption rates, not even including the growth rate of India and China. I don’t think mother earth can take much more of this. This little blue planet of ours is unique in all the galaxy. It’s a dazzling display of life’s diversity. Capable of sustaining life, it has only a thin magnetic field protecting it from the ravages of space. There is no greater gift that we have, yet we take it for granted, and believe it will just keep on giving.

Week 20 Poetry Rally Awards

By Michele Spector

I am so honored to be the recipient of not just one, but three beautiful poetry awards! Thank you so much jingle

http://jingleyanqiu.files.wordpress.com

for all your hard work.

Congratulations to all the other very talented winners of these awards as well:

Brian Miller

Trisha

William

Viola

Fiveloaf

Suzicate

Celebrating a Year

JStar

Petemarshall1

Emmanuel Ibok

Adam

Katherine

THE BEATY

Alice Audrey

Alexvonfox

Rajlakshmi

Wordwand

Megzone

Heartspell

Laura Lawless

Luke Prater

Sparrowsong

Tim Keeton

Soulintention

Heather grace stewart

lou

laurenmichelleotheim

kyogakura

Sam Liu

Short Poems

Joanny

shakira

Doubtfulpoet

Doraz

I.S.

This is a great community of extremely talented and generous artists. I am so glad to be a part of it.

A Sketch

By Michele Spector

A sketch does emanate,

Through passionate gesture,

An impression of sight,

Flawless composition,

Theme, symmetry defined,

Blended light and texture,

Frozen moment captured.

A sketch is only the beginning, an open-ended jumping point to other interesting places. It’s a go-with-the-flow moment that entices the artist along, taking stock of the the world at the moment from the inside out point of view.

When I sit, my sketchpad in front of me, grasping lightly onto a pen or pencil, I try to see my object. Try this: with a piece of paper try to draw with your hand, don’t look at what you’re drawing, and don’t pick up your pen. Let it be one fluid movement. Then look down at what you have created.

I noticed that drawing is an art anyone can learn. It’s relaxing and don’t worry that you’ve never done it before. Don’t stress about being perfect or you can’t draw without a ruler–I don’t either. All you need is your eyes. No two eyes see the the same object in quite the same way.

An amazing thing happens the longer you draw. You will start to notice things around you differently and will wonder why you never did before. The world around you becomes a richer place.

Have you ever tried to draw anything? What do you experience?

Weekly Poet Who is Worth Reading Award

By Michele Spector

I gratefully accept this award from:
mitchelliscmeej.wordpress.com

Thanks for the award.

Everyone should definitely check out Mitchell’s blog!

Keep writing my friend!

Driven

By Michele Spector

Moving ahead, I trail far behind,

Failing to achieve a peaceful mind,

Tasks accomplished, main priority,

Realistic, absent the library,

Propelled in a direction to tread,

All outside diversions assaulting,

Are successfully sidestepped ere bed.

Quite often I enter “do” mode, constantly moving forward. At least I’d like to think I am. Once I commit to finish something, many things converge to divert me from my path–people and things. In the process my peace is forfeited. Like a mantra I repeat: it’s the journey, it’s the journey. With a little patience, if I remain open to new things, I find a more interesting way to operate. I try to keep going in the same direction, and know I’ll arrive at that prospective place, eventually.

What Else is Memory?

By Michele Spector

What else is memory?

A bittersweet place in the mind,

That has or should have been,

A place in the heart to find,

Where a love once lived.

A single moment faded,

Now bids fond adieu,

A brisk instant now assumes,

A once revered perfume,

Lured by sweeter fragrance.

Save what image in hand,

Strives to keep anew,

A wisp of sand through fingers,

Endeavors to erase,

Bold sound or smell resurrect.

Sorry for my absence of late, I’ve been slightly burnt out by recent events.

Memories are so ephemeral. When they come back in waves, they may feel captivating, but I wonder if they’re really as I recalled the moment I lived them. Maybe my feelings have checkered them slightly and they become as I would have liked them to be. They are like tiny threads some time, and I remember only pieces of the whole sketch.

How do you remember the past? Does something trigger it, a smell, music, a photograph, or perhaps the smell of dinner prepared? Is it a joyous memory, childhood, or a past love that resurfaces? Does it play out in your emotions, or is it visual as if you are watching a movie? Does it feel as strong as the day you lived it?

Storm

By Michele Spector

Inside my house,

Sweet silence breathes,

Rain pours outside,

Washing away,

Darkest mindset,

In Rivulets.

Thunder booming, clapping,

It feeds my primal need,

Nature cocooned in me,

I am remade completely.

I love rain storms. I’m even more jubilant if that includes thunder and lightning. The more animated it is the better. If the weather could rework us, and clean out all the debris, we could start over with better thoughts. The world would look fresh like the day we were born. We would feel connected to everything again instead of being cut off by our own negative thoughts.

How do you feel about storms?

Grandpa’s House

By Michele Spector

Motley shingles of grey adorned Grandpa’s house,

Out back old plum and peach trees were laden with ripe fruit,

A ’53 two-door Cadillac Coupe was a denizen of the front yard,

Testament to his major preference for huge cars.

The bannister was occupied by Salvatore, his favored silver tabby,

And a great lover by my Grandma’s basic accounting,

He sired two decades of litters born in the huge wooden shed,

Sally, as he was called, marched or walked,

Orchestrated by Grandpa’s index finger,

At the peak of too many stairs for my little legs to mount.

The cellar underneath possum and raccoon co-inhabit,

With two small rabbits, one black, the other white,

Late one night we were snuck in to peek.

The store attached to his house confronted the street corner,

It brimmed with trinkets from The Great Depression,

Which sat on shelves enclosed in the same musty boxes.

Grandpa emerged from this mysterious doorway,

And clutched a windup doll beating on a drum for me,

Cars and trucks for my younger brother.

After I outgrew his heartfelt gifts,

I was given brilliantly striped socks,

Pippy Longstocking was the probable first owner.

Rodin’s Lovers graced the living room mantle,

Where my uncle’s piano sat next to the kitchen entrance,

And a bathroom whose tub crouched on lion’s feet,

While male relatives by automobile forum bonded,

A conversation instigated by my Dad, a confirmed expert.

Precariously I sat on an immense rocking chair,

That threatened always backwards to go over,

Upstairs in my other uncle’s tiny room,

Surrounded by Chevy car plastic models.

Even as I write down this older poem it evokes such strong memories. I am there again, summertime. I can’t wait to climb that huge staircase, greet my grandparents, and endure their huge hugs and kisses. This poem was a couple of years in the works. I had only divorced a few months ago when a friend invited me to go to the movies on my birthday. It was early February afternoon which turned out to be the coldest, windiest day of the year. The movie was Nobody’s Fool starring Paul Newman. In one scene Paul Newman ran after his friend whose feelings he had hurt. He sat next to him behind this one house. It had the same shingles as my grandfather’s. I was hit with such a wave of nostalgia, that tears ran down my face even as the wind stung my cheeks. As we ran to the car, my friend asked me, “Why the hell are you crying?” I thought it was just getting over the whole divorce. It wasn’t. I was remembering my grandfather. That feeling lingered for a long time. A few years later I watched the same movie and again felt those feelings emerged. I wrote a poem just to purge my system. I showed it to my brother. He said he hadn’t thought about that place in a long time and this brought it all back.

I gave this poem to my father on Father’s Day a few years ago. It sits framed over the fireplace.

Do you remember your grandparent’s house? What treasure trove of memories does it hold for you?