Art is My Religion

February 23, 2010

The Creative Zone

Filed under: art,blogging,poetry,short stories — Michele Spector @ 7:54 pm
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By Michele Spector

Venture you now,

Where words dare not,

And feelings vanish completely,

Walk quiet lanes with egoless thoughts,

Where creative sparks of life are spawned.

Before the words, there’s an inkling of something. As yet it can’t be defined, and we walk around with it for a while. Then it happens like a shockwave, and we are taken along for the ride.

February 19, 2010

Another Sunshine Award!

Filed under: art,blogging,poetry,short stories — Michele Spector @ 8:12 pm
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By Michele

I greatly appreciate being nominated for the sunshine award yet again!  Thank you to:

and nominating me for the Sunshine Award! I’m really honored you enjoyed my poetry that much!

And thank you to jingle at:

For hosting this poetry slam!

Rules to Accept the Award:

  • Put the logo on your blog in the post
  • Pass the award onto 12 bloggers
  • Link the nominees within your post
  • Let the nominees know they have received this award by commenting on their blogs.
  • Share the love and link to the person from whom you received this award.

My nominees are: always brilliant poetry! what can I say. I really like your poems too!

February 16, 2010

The Other

Filed under: blogging,poetry,short stories,writing — Michele Spector @ 5:48 pm
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By Michele Spector

A jigsaw puzzle we are,

Peaced together, but whole,

Not alien beings,

Unrelated, apart,

Demonized by schemes.

We mirror each other’s,

Desires and dreams,

A sum equal to its parts,

Unjudged by others’ reasons,

Utterly torn from our seams.

We are part of the same whole. Peaced is actually not mispelled. There are peaceful alliances but under that cloak  exists great oppression. Many have been killed for being viewed as less than everyone else, and for not fitting in with the popular concept of who the favored were. Some benefit, but most do not. Every society in the world has their other. Even in the U.S. we still have our others. Who decides that I wonder? I have to hope humans will eventually outgrow this. If we keep fighting amongst ourselves for scraps nothing will change.

February 13, 2010

Ode to a Fine Pen

Filed under: blogging,poetry,short stories,writing — Michele Spector @ 3:17 pm
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By Michele Spector

I love kinetics,

of pen to paper,

and transmutated,


magical letters.

I love what happens as I start writing. The pen moves across the page, and if I believe in magic,  something magical happens. It turns into something besides the experience, turns me inside out, changes me.

February 11, 2010

My Poetry

Filed under: blogging,philosophy,poetry — Michele Spector @ 2:33 pm
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By Michele Spector

Poetry, my valued companion,

Searching life for richer essence,

Not content to dally long,

Concealed amidst the shallows,

Preferably burrowing instead,

Deeply inside its marrow.

February 8, 2010

Like Dorothy

Filed under: art,blogging,poetry — Michele Spector @ 4:14 pm
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By Michele Spector

Like Dorothy in fabled Oz,

Strange guides appear on my highway,

They alert me to lampposts lit till day.

Can I muster the courage that’s needed,

Provided by my own Ruby Red’s,

Click my heels and head for home?

Did I pay attention to their glimmer,

Hinting of a direction to go?

Was I so completely mired,

That I just never noticed?

Sometimes a better direction is clear, but we’re too preoccupied with plans. We’re not open to surprises from the universe, and it ends up taking a 2×4 to get our attention. Is it supposed to be this difficult?

February 3, 2010

I Need to Worry?

Filed under: art,blogging,poetry,writing — Michele Spector @ 3:47 pm
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I worry beyond reason,

Past remembrance of why,

I believe I control what browbeats me,

Look for explanations where none exist.

Disclaiming this illusion

allowances appear,

No course is plotted,

Novel surprise,

Next torment arrives.

Worrying is a learned behavior. But once it is acquired it’s a difficult habit to break. Even if you believe you’re not concerned about something, it’s still waiting to pounce from the sidelines.

Looking back on my life, and the needless concern I placed upon different things, it was wasted inertia. Instead of being sick I could have been enjoying myself. I am trying to retrain my mind to discard it. But it’s been a useful friend, making me feel I had some control over the chaos of the moment. So, I’ll give this old pal a cup of coffee if it shows, a pat on the head, and send it away when I can.

It would be wonderful to own a crystal ball and know the end result of everything. But that would be boring. Even if I’m scared, I don’t have to know what’s next. It could be a wonderful surprise, exciting.  But then I’m too addicted to results.

There is a story I remember about a man being chased by a tiger. He knew he couldn’t outrun it for long, and found a strawberry patch growing on his way. He decided that since he was inevitably going to be caught, he might as well enjoy the taste of one.

February 2, 2010

The Flyswatter Takes A Vacation

Filed under: blogging,comedy,short stories,writing — Michele Spector @ 10:50 pm
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By Michele Spector

In a time after Elvis was king,  but before the internet, reigned the infamous yellow fly swatter. It originated from the species rearendus stingmata from the pre-DYFAS era.

It was a sad and lonely creature, and longed to be used for the reason it was created: to vanquish flies. But alas, it was not to be. It was utilized instead, as an implement of character building, upon the little butts as they exercised colorful first amendment rights whenever they pleased.

The swatter’s overuse was the topic of many an angry discussion among them. In a democratic process that resulted in a 3-0 vote, the little B’s brainstormed ideas to send it away forever.

Their uncle was on another unexpected visit at their house, and had already overextended his stay. He was leaving that day. It was a perfect time to execute their plan.

Anonymously, or so they thought, one of the little B’s broke the swatter in half. Then, while the uncle was preoccupied in the backyard, it was carefully hidden between shirts on the bottom of his suitcase. It got a personal escort to the heart of Brooklyn.

Rumor has it it has a found a better permanent home. It now enjoys the company of other broken bits and pieces on a pile under the open sky in seagull land.

January 31, 2010

Artist’s Soup

Filed under: art,blogging,editing,philosophy,poetry,self-help,writing — Michele Spector @ 6:26 pm
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By Michele Spector

I never allow myself the luxury,

Of simply breathing in or exhaling,

I hurry here and I hurry there,

Intent on being where I haven’t,

To quell the silence within,

I run around in the without.

I must endeavor to be creative,

It reaffirms my existence,

Otherwise it might suggest,

I was content to never be.

Mixed in my own confusion,

And merging with the void,

Dispenses with boundaries,

To share this artistic soup.

Everyday I try to write something. Perhaps it makes no sense, or has any direction, but I write. Because most of what I do recently is by happenstance, I started this blog.

The poetry on this page is a result of attending an open mic on a friend’s insistence. In front of strangers I read six poems from my collection. The hosts fussed over the mic’s which let out some feedback, just in case I didn’t have everyone’s rapt attention. I made a joke about how I wasn’t performing any Led Zeppelin, and pleaded with them to hold onto their loose fruit because I wore light-colored clothing, and wanted to keep it that way.  I was so nervous, but when the audience laughed, I was off to a roaring start. They hooted when I read a few lines from one, and there was thunderous applause when I finished. But they did that for everyone.

I’d never read in front of a crowd of humans before. Although I dumped my poems frequently, back in the day, on my unwitting friends. I have caches of these hiding out in a box somewhere in that black hole I call my basement. To unearth them I’d have to go through every single box.  To date it still hasn’t been found. It’s a collection of my high school poetry, or rants of a thirteen-year old as I like to call them. But perhaps they are better off missing.

The only reason I started writing poetry again was because a poet rejoined an author’s group I belonged to. I was inspired by her extremely intelligent work. It really made me think. I thank her, but also another friend for posting a poetry slam on the board at work. Only the day before, someone else told me to go where there were other artists. I think accidents are the universe’s way of pushing us in the right direction.

The last open mic I went to a few different times. I read too fast, and too softly. But with some patient couching by another poet, I improved. Now, everyone can hear me and digest what I’m saying. Although there’s always room for improvement, it was food for the soul to be among others with the same inclination for artistic expression. It wasn’t a salad, it wasn’t a souffle, it was an artistic soup I loved simmering in.

January 30, 2010

What Did Socrates Know?

Filed under: art,blogging,poetry,politics,self-help,short stories — Michele Spector @ 7:39 pm
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By Michele Spector

Change is like a democracy,

Whose questions beg their answers,

And honesty propels chaos,

Though doubt will always follow,

Its shadows cannot be eluded,

They are just fearful distractions,

And once completely discarded,

Are better understood as history,

In the new midday light.

How is it to be alive in a world always on the edge of enlightenment or destruction? Living in the thick of it, surviving from day to day, it means to look for more. We internalize the outside world, then try to demystify it and discover some inherent meaning. That’s how an artist is hardwired.

Honing our craft, the world vanishes for a while; we go into a world of our choice. After reaching our deepest selves, we emerge healed and whole on the other side. Then it all seems to make a strange kind of sense. We’ve actually salvaged our humanity from the wrecking block.

If we deviate from the truth of who we are, we are absolutely lost and miserable. Once we’ve gotten past the excuses and procrastinating,  it’s still there waiting as if we never left.

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