Whispered In The Wind

Whispered In The Wind
Just a fairy blowing in the wind, singing tales to the west wind

Saturday, May 12, 2012

Eye Shadow

~Performed this at Tri-District Slam~

She told me poetry just wasn't “her thing.”
But the way she said it made poetry sound like a color of eyeshadow that was only flattering if you were born with the right eye color
Like I was born with a poet's eye and hence smeared poetry on my eyelids was a shade only I could pull off
That I could wake up in the morning and say “I think a little Shakespeare sparkle would look good.”
Or was she suggesting that I don't wear lipstick because I already have sonnets stained on my lips?
But when I look through my makeup bag of dried out chap stick and caked glimmer I've never used, I don't see any bottles or compacts labeled “Prose, apply daily, twice if teenage angst breaks out.”
There's this saying that inside of everyone is the soul of a poet who died young
and I don't know what saved mine but I know she's isn't my substitute for a bottle of foundation
rather, she is my foundation.
Because Poetry isn't a way to powder color into my cheeks or pretend
I have a fairer complexion than I do
Yes, it's a way I view the world
but it's also a lifestyle I choose
I'm not getting on stage because I have a physical addiction to complaining in poetic form or I have a broken heart that oozes out lyrical love sick words promising to soak our feet in salty poetic tears
That's not how I view poetry
I once sat in a room of short haired, warm skin, soft souled old woman in a closed library as they taught be Japanese haiku and haibon
that room was the poetry
At lunch I like to pick wild flowers and weave garlands during science
and my favorite food is my mother's matzo ball soup
Every morning I see fog roll over Mount Tam like an ancestral dragon in the mist
When I look around me, I see, feel, taste, become poetry
Because for me, Poetry is love
my personal chicken soup for the soul, my soul cooking for the world
Poetry is the way I love
love of the idea that humanity still has hope as long as yellow flowers peek their petaled heads from dew heavy dawns
Poetry is my mom's sunny hair and sneaking outside late at night to talk to my favorite stars
their twinkled replies
The way I make sense of bruises, tears and broken history
by finding the poem in shards of glass, deserted dreams and scraped knees
It isn't a magical formula, a tube of cosmetics I apply to make myself look intelligent
It's just the weight of worn textbooks on my back
the copy of Little Woman I dropped in the bathtub 3 times
I don't have an amazing story
Just a lot of love
Love of others, of myself, of beauty, of words
Even when I'm yelling, even when I'm slamming words into your face
Poetry is the idea that broken emotion soaked thoughts sewn together can create something beautiful
And that's why, for me, poetry is love
So when I say, “I wrote you a poem, may I read it please?”
all I'm really saying is
I love you.

"I want warm summer nights, to lie in a hammock, staring at the stars, telling you stories. "

"I want warm summer nights, to lie in a hammock, staring at the stars, telling you stories. "
"When asked not to make waves, I just smiled and said, don't worry this is just a ripple"