Art is My Religion

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 .


June 5, 2010

The Gift

Filed under: art — Michele Spector @ 5:27 pm
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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.

May 30, 2010

Week 20 Poetry Rally Awards

Filed under: art — Michele Spector @ 1:01 am
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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

for all your hard work.

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

Brian Miller






Celebrating a Year



Emmanuel Ibok




Alice Audrey






Laura Lawless

Luke Prater


Tim Keeton


Heather grace stewart




Sam Liu

Short Poems






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

May 27, 2010

A Sketch

Filed under: art — Michele Spector @ 7:12 pm
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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?

May 24, 2010

Weekly Poet Who is Worth Reading Award

Filed under: art — Michele Spector @ 8:21 pm
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By Michele Spector

I gratefully accept this award from:

Thanks for the award.

Everyone should definitely check out Mitchell’s blog!

Keep writing my friend!

May 20, 2010


Filed under: art — Michele Spector @ 10:04 pm
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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.

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 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?


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