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.

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?

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?

The Other

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.

Ode to a Fine Pen

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.

My Poetry

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.

Sunshine Award

Thank you to nanno1982

for nominating me for the “Sunshine Award”

http://nohaemile.wordpress.com/

My nominees:

1st is http://jingleyanqiu.wordpress.com/

Whose poems I enjoyed immensely, and through this event I would not have otherwise joined with so many other talented artists or enjoyed their brilliant work.

2nd: http://nohaemile.wordpress.com/

for her most kind words on a poem I was insecure about, and for the pleasure of reading her words.

And everyone else for taking the time to read my poems to hear mine!

http://dreamalittledesigns.wordpress.com thank you for inviting me to your grandmother’s dedication.

http://www.waystationone.com/  for all your poems including  Theme Thursday: Red because portraying character shows innate beauty.

to tony: no one haiku’s like you   http://tonydowning.wordpress.com/

http://kseverny.wordpress.com/    don’t ever stop dreaming, it will come to life.

http://seaofcurls.wordpress.com

Thank you for taking the time to read my words and turning me onto  Zahra Hindi. I love her voice! and also Loved your photo   Interplanetaire

http://bonjourpoetry.com/  I love andy bonjour’s poetry!

http://courtingdisaster.wordpress.com  for his great poem:  The Crescent City

http://jaymiethorne.wordpress.com  for the poem:  Angel Muse

http://asmalltowndad.wordpress.com great artwork!

http://drj3kyll.wordpress.com  I loved this site.

Winter’s Fast Approach

By Michele Spector

Winter fast approaches,

Intends to swath me in,

Soft, most appealing dreams,

But I ache for the warmth,

Dazzling sunbeam’s display,

Carried on sighing breeze,

Vowing fair tomorrows,

To alter darkest mood,

But I dare to linger,

Challenging the long freeze,

It draws me deeper still,

To forgetful places,

At the drawing of day.

I wrote this when the last of the fall leaves crunched beneath my feet on my little walks. I noticed thousands of acorns blanketing the ground and remembered that that predicts snowy weather. I mentally prepared myself for what was to come. Aside from the fact I can breathe better in winter, I don’t really care for it. I love the sun, but don’t worship it, and relish a garden to play in.  While it is blizzarding outside my door, its quiet. Millions of individual ice crystals are filling every nook and cranny, insulating all the exposed parts of my door and windows, and the house is less drafty. Everyone else is huddled comfortably inside, no doubt imbibing hot chocolate, enjoying cups of homemade soup, or involved in this or that. I watch it like an old movie, look forward to spring, and the brightly colored wash of things that grow.