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:

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

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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

Storm

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?

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,

metamorphical,

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 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.

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