Ramblings of a Friday Night

I woke up Saturday morning with the upper half of my arm covered in a bruise. My head was still spinning and one of two Daves was sleeping on my couch. I had to get up and continue being the hostess… make the coffee, fry the bacon, create conversation, and as usual think of all the things I did or didn’t do in my liquor induced state. Yes, Friday night was all about music, friends and vodka at the local non-licensed cafe which continued on at my house into the wee wee hours. Dave Lang and Dave Newberry were at the tail end of their tour with just one last show in Wells after this performance. It was great to be at the helm of it all; however, I poured it on way to quick and lost my sense of duty once my house was filled with friends and strangers alike – hoping that at least my greeting would have instilled that welcome-ness and what is mine is yours atmosphere. My head was a sea and I just wanted to dance – my body was a wave, I couldn’t stop. I examined my hardwood living room floor this morning, half expecting to see the center worn by dancers shaking it to music of all sorts. I think it may take a few more nights to peel the varnish – chances of such are good. My bruise, I figured out later, came from climbing through a basement window forgetting that I put the key out for friends to come in. I’m quite sure that as I slipped through I missed my footing and dangled there with my arms pinched in the window. I think if you were to have seen my swift maneuvers you would have been hugely impressed that I didn’t actually break my arm! See picture below…

I am now sitting back enjoying the sounds of my newly acquired CD’s…

Life is grand and there is more to the story, the night in full is with me, details in hand writing in leather bound book, not to be typed, for some things are sacred and in the minds of those that shared the events of the moment. Good times indeed.

About a Poem

I’ll sip another glass of wine and ramble in a direction, letting the poem guild me. The poem is not me, but perhaps I am the poem. Every reader will hear what they need to hear, read the words in their own placement, as if the words were re-arrangeable. My words describe part of me and part of something else as I let outside influences  in.  I try to stray from my thought and dance on the edge of  the delicate fine line. Should there not be that freedom? How a poem is internalized is not the fault of the writer, interpretation happens through personal familiarity with the subject or lack thereof. Then again, I really have no idea of what I am talking about, other then something about a poem.

Separated

I am/have become/was for some time

separated

from the source of

space

where my search took place.

I wondered through time and regions of my heart and mind

Traveling together in constant foreign landscapes

escaping

what my heart and mind ceased to find.

Ugliness that surrounded my youth lead me to hope,

to believe that journey would heal me

show me – guild me in my disillusionment

disillusionment  of what love

is

or isn’t.

Frailty.

It seeks and weeps between the cracks

slowing leaving.

Dripping down below the depths

of…

what is/was/is not/cannot be.

I am too belligerent

to take a personal war

out of context

and rearrange it so many times

placing regrets in graves

and burying bits of the past with darkness.

It is I the wife, the mother, the friend, the lov.r

who stepped out of the the wall

fear in hand tossing caution heart swelling

with deep breath – intake of freedom

consulting with the moon

dancing under it’s cloud spun light

I am still within my skin

truly a moth of sorts.

Separated from…

within…

together.

Lasting only as long as time permits

in search of what I yearn

profound placement of my heart.

Engulfed in flames swallowed by the night.

Separated into

fragments inside pockets of old coats

worn out, but still hang in closets

waiting to be handed down.