Art is My Religion

April 20, 2011

Earth’s Discontent

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

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:

October 28, 2010

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 .

April 26, 2010

What Else is Memory?

Filed under: blogging,poetry,writing — Michele Spector @ 2:16 pm
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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?

March 30, 2010


Filed under: blogging,poetry,writing — Michele Spector @ 3:30 pm
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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?

March 25, 2010

Grandpa’s House

Filed under: blogging,poetry,short stories — Michele Spector @ 3:09 pm
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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?

March 19, 2010

Stolen Years

Filed under: philosophy,poetry,short stories — Michele Spector @ 4:01 am
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By Michele Spector

Droplets spiral earthbound,

Mourning all fallen heroes,

Umbrellas blossoming,

Veiling hearts wounded.

Draping red, white and blue,

Embracing cold onyx box,

Small measure of precious lives,

Bright lights extinguished eternally.

Another dead end war,

Comrades immortalized upon,

Engraved slabs of stone,

This grimly reminds us that,

The dead cannot change their minds.

Strangely enough this poem was spawned from the graveyard scene in the movie “The Watchmen”. I was so profoundly moved by it, that as soon as I walked through the door, I ran to the computer to write it down. It took a few weeks to finish.

I wish I could march on Washington to protest all the wars we are still fighting. They’re all senseless, people don’t want to fight them. We’ve been dragged into the ones we are in by pretexts later found out to be untrue. Now, they’re barely making headlines while drones, bought with our tax dollars, are killing families in droves in Pakistan, and Aghanistan. And hardly a word now about Iraq, as if it fell off the map. This country cares more about fighting wars then about helping its own citizens.

The wars won’t stop unless we all march on Washington and say enough. But because we are a volunteer military, and at least half of the fighting force is Blackwater, it won’t stop. As long as corporations run the world, it won’t stop. Perhaps if we’re reminded what’s going on by watching coffins being unloaded off military planes on the nightly news, or see young children being slaughtered and maimed in other countries with our own bullets,  will it stop.

March 6, 2010

Creative Courage

Filed under: blogging,poetry,short stories — Michele Spector @ 3:36 pm
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By Michele Spector

Chaos dares courage,

Through intense struggle,

Passionately tames,

Receives its oracle,

Risks madness itself,

Honor bound it seems,

For love of the gift,

To carry these dreams.

It takes courage to dare to be creative. We, who have the gift, will live with anxiety, not knowing, just to have it. But I always remember what my mentor told me, “There’s no such thing as genius, only hard work!” Sometimes it comes easily, willingly, sometimes only after struggle. I have to put my feet on the road to coax it other times.

How do you coax your muse?


March 5, 2010

Promising Poet Award!

Filed under: blogging,blogging awards,poetry — Michele Spector @ 6:12 pm
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By Michele Spector

Promising Poet Award


Jingle’s Thursday Poets’ Rally.

Thank you so much Noah for nominating me for this award!

Be sure to visit her site, it will definitely make your day!!!

The Book of Noah

This won’t be easy. There are too many talented artists but you must place these on your list to visit:

Make sure you check out: Art is (just) a way of living shipwrecked… mmm hmm. yeah. guess so…

grey-eyed blonds from London  55 – dust to dust Lost and found “I Am Not…” by L. K. Thayer So We Lived to Tell the Tale Something lost…  the standard orchids  WHEN I WAS LITTLE Beneath the Willow~Poem For Jingles Thursday Poetry

March 4, 2010

Not Alone

By Michele Spector

In separateness,

We cannot fathom,

Subatomic particles,

Earth’s signature resonance,

Stand upon it’s magnetics,

Know we are not here alone,

But with all our relations.

Recently I pulled a book from my shelf that’s been there for years. I can’t remember where I got it, and never bothered to venture into it, till recently that is.

In it the author explains to the reader that certain words have no equivalent in Native American language. Words such as: waste, guilt, should, it, we, them, us, forget, could, free. But, rather, it is rich in terms of relationships and individualism.

I wonder if we didn’t believe we were separate as we are brought up to believe, but were connected to everything: the earth, every human, animal, plant, etc., would there still be as much senseless war, oppression, and destruction of the environment?

What do you think?

February 26, 2010

Ideas Come

By Michele Spector

When ideas come,

My hands are on the wheel,

I must look ahead and behind,

My brain is on fire,

I have no recourse,

But try to unburden my mind.

I have other things to do,

No time,

I jot thoughts at lights,

Between shut-eye,

I need to sleep,

It’s plain useless.

Why can’t they visit

when I’m alone?

Not now,

A friend’s on the phone,

I can’t assign time,

To write them all,

They come like a flood,

I welcome them all.

My best ideas come before I am about to fall asleep, or when I’m driving–which is the most annoying. I have to keep paper and pen handy if that happens, and hope for a long red light.

Where and when do you get your ideas?

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