I'm waiting for a letter One my sister found, locked away in a cardboard box, with no legible postmark.
I'm waiting for a letter.
I imagine it, yellowed, and dog eared, with faded ink penned in a young mans hand. The handwriting, block print, neat and uniform, or, is it chaotic, a nearly illegible scrawl.
I'm waiting for a letter. One my sister found.
"It's something... I NEED to read", she says
Need....well... Need is... something.
nagging pleading
needing
left with... imagining.
Imagining, it says what I needed to hear.
Imagining who I'd be had he sent it, had he said it, at 2 or 10, or 12, or 16, 18, 24, 26, 32... ?
in perfect time
Current mood: reassured
Category: reassured Life
I needed this today and in perfect time I found it on a friends blog.
Many of us often are discouraged by those who would wish to "rule the world."
We feel betrayed and misunderstood by those who would seek to push us aside in the insane attempt to gain some ground. I'll never understand the spirit of competition that would lead someone to ignore a friends need over thier own, still the world seems wrought with it.
Still as in all things I hope that understanding, justice, and hope will come in its perfect time.
Everybody Wants to Rule The World
Those who would take over the earth And shape it to their will Never, I notice, succeed.
The earth is like a vessel so sacred That at the mere approach of the profane It is marred And when they reach out their fingers It is gone.
For a time in the world some Force themselves ahead And some are left behind, For a time in the world some make a great noise And some are held silent, For a time in the world some are puffed fat And some are kept hungry, For a time in the world some push aboard And some are tipped out; At no time in the world will a person who is sane Over-reach himself, Over-spend himself, Over-rate himself.
You wove me a carpet of zoizia green Blade upon blade, sewn on your hands and knees. I followed close behind, the hem of my skirt, held like a basket, full of tiny seeds. Inch by inch, one by one, perfectly spaced, you stitched them in the earth.
Years passed and I grew knee high, and the lawn with me, grasshopper green. You framed it with mango, banana, yellow, pink and green citrus blossom blooming, all in rows along the border path of the satin black canal.
I'd sit on the dock beneath the kumquats, quiet, my bamboo pole threaded through the waters still surface, wonder bread latched to my hook, no concern of the bobbers bobbing, feeding the fish without need of being fed, no mind of my line tangled in the mangrove roots, just "Tree fishing" you said, happy to be hypnotized by the stillness and the wonder of Florida summers.
The sky's canopy would turn with dusk, to shades of orange, red and purple. You'd come and stand beside me, set your cast net sailing through the thick damp air, and like a crisp cotton sheet billowing in the wind, it would pausing mid flight, before it would float down, settle on the surface, then sink slowly beneath the black. Then in one motion it seemed, you'd pluck all I'd fed from the water flickering like sequins in your net a shimmering supper to satisfy my growling sun drenched belly.
Nothing ever wasted, you'd make meal of my leftovers, scraps composted beside the gardenia. Remnants and trimmings tossed together to make useful food for your garden. Tomatoes, corn, and lettuces arranged in blocks of earth, Peppers of purple, orange, yellow, red, and green, swatches of vibrant color trimmed to perfect geometric patterns.
Inside, in the cool of the air, we made jelly from your bounty, cut tiny pieces of pepper confetti, red, yellow and hot green and suspend them in mason jars.
Woman's work. making jelly, cooking, sewing and keeping house.
I'd watch and try to learn, she try to teach. A child, impatient and daydreaming I'd tangle the threads, then spend hours ripping out my ill placed stitches. Her patience my ambition. I'd choose things beyond my reach and from the fabric of my mistakes she'd salvage what she could, and set the rest for the scraps bin. Nothing wasted, my time was best suited to cutting geometric shapes from the remnants of my mistakes, and leftover pieces of old dresses and shirts, arranging them in boxes labeled for quilting.
The year you passed, She gave me a queen sized quilt made from our scraps, each stitch sewn by her hand, 2 years of hand work, made from pieces of baby clothes, and fishing shirts, prom dresses and play clothes, a gift for my wedding bed.
She'd once shown me the old quilt that her mother had given her. It had grown thin and tattered, the fabric had faded from many washings, it had worn thin in places , and the stuffing was exposed. Not wanting my memories to suffer the same fate, I kept my quilt safe wrapped in a box in the linen closet.
You've been away for 10 years now, she's been growing ill and she's gone to live with your son in Orlando a couple of years ago, Chris and I moved home to Florida I tried to buy back your garden but sadly I failed. I drove by the house a couple of times last year the gardenia hedge has gone, the new owners let the grass die, and the last time I saw it, someone had pulled out the golden teardrop, and replaced you vegetable garden with a cement patio. I noticed the other day that the mango trees aren't there anymore, for days now I've felt tattered, and thin, and faded.
I took my quilt from its box the other night, the pieces of our memories still sewn tightly together, your shirts and my school clothes the fabrics still as bright as those summers it had't faded with age.
But she's fading now, and though her quilt may get torn or damaged I can't put it away. I slept last night wrapped in its warmth dreaming of our long lazy summers, swimming through the fabric of my memories. In its comfort I wandered the yard, and plucked berries from the golden teardrop, smashing their tears between my fingers until they were stained a happy yellow. I slept peaceful, my face buried in our fabrics folds breathing the sweet fragrance of remembering. I hid beneath the crisp cotton, cooled and comforted knowing that someday it will turn like your gardenias from white to yellow.
Sunday morning, when I woke, the shades were up and the sun shone bright through the curtains I covered my head, and sat beneath the quilt sun shining through the panes of fabric like stained glass I stayed for hours inside the church she'd made me, and in that stillness, you came to me stood at the bank of my river and cast your net you tugged gently and in one motion fed my soul with the wealth of your catch. Heart full, I made the bed, dressed in one of Chris's well worn shirts, and took a long slow walk around the yard.
I decided to plant a kwumkwat by the window, and a pink lemon in the side yard, so I can make pink lemonade. I took your cane pole down to the little lake by our house. The neighborhood kids swear there's no fish in there but I fed them anyway. I made plans for a vegetable garden and planted serrano peppers between my roses, somewhere I heard it keeps the aphids away. Chris is thinking about re-seeding the lawn next year I think I'll help him.
Last night we lost a very close friend who we loved dearly. Its been a very lonely morning, but a morning filled with miracles. We lit a candle last night before we went to sleep, and placed it in the ground where we'd buried her. It rained most of the evening yesterday, but quit raining within moments of her passing.
This morning when we woke there was a tiny flame flickering up from the indentation the candle had made. The candle burned through our morning coffee, it burned while Chris gathered flowers to put on her grave, it burned through Chris's morning prayer for her and then it slowly faded into the ground where she lies, in her favorite spot, under the banyan tree, by the rose garden where there is just enough sunshine and just enough shade.
There's a little church on McGregor Blvd, not far from our house. They always have the most clever and uplifting saying on the sign out front. Thursday, after we'd been told it was probably cancer and they didn't know how long she had, Chris called me on his way home from work that morning. The sign on the church said "Don't cry because it's over, smile because it happened." Its so very hard not to cry right now, we miss her so very much. We are deeply grateful she shared her life with us, and I know in my heart all the little things, the candle, the sign on the church, Chris finding this video still on his phone...they're all here to tell us that she felt the same.
The audio on this version of the video is faint, but that purr. That purr! It was so loud in life and the house is quiet now without it, as quiet as her silent meow. The silent meow? Its that adorable little thing that some cats do, something she often did, mouthing the words with no sound. Sitting here this morning, in this quiet room with the memory of her silent meow, I'm reminded that love speaks louder than sound. The words we say attempt to communicate but they can never truely hold the meaning. That intent, the desire, the essence of our feelings speaks far beyond our words. Last night and today the loss of my little cat showed me that. She reminded me that our true feelings live on long after we're gone, and should we wonder about them, should we wonder if we're loved... well if we're quiet and aware, if we watch and listen, those feelings speak, in the flicker of a candle, a sign on the roadside, a long forgotten video clip found on a cell phone.
Today a little Silver cat gave me gold in the form of a fresh awareness of how truely endless love is. I am grateful!
I'm sure if you asked her, she'd have said this was her favorite picture.
Say what you mean, mean what you say, for it will all end some day
Current mood: proud to know Joshua
In the end life is lived either way, and its poetry, gothic gloom or of glowing grace, leaves some mark of light or space, some shade, some hue, in it's poetry imbued, and measured by meaning not merely word or deed, for each flower though fleeting, surrenders some seed, And though draught may delay, and some on stone or sand may lay, earth turns, and tide, and wind, rain and sun, will find that seed some fertile spot, and grow for one, some beauty, that may have been not.
For Joshua, from Mamma T
Much love!
That poem was a response to this beautiful poem below:
This poem was written, by a wonderful young man whom I call "son" He may not be my child in life but he is in so many ways in spirit. Josh your beautiful, and I want everyone I know to read this. Thank you for posting it for us to share, and for being light!
XOXO
Poetry in Motion
black ink on yellow paper little blue lines, fat red ones each movement of the pen brings us ever so closer to the end of the great poem of life
some sheets of paper are long others are short we must do our very best with the space we have been given
every poem is not the same some are deep and sorrowfull others are filled with mirth but all of them eventually end
poems, when broken down are naught but words and when the poem is complete it matters not what words we used but the emotions brought forth
our words are written by the things we do and when the pens last stroke has come all that will be left are words memories of our former selves
so take great care, always when penning the poem of life for your paper might run out before you have said all you meant to.
Time for change. How 7 cents bought back my 6th.
Current mood: rich
Category: rich Goals, Plans, Hopes
My mother told me a story about myself as a child the other day thats made me contemplate memory, age, intuition, courage and fear, so I thought I'd share it.
Of course I don't remember any of this. I don't remember much of my childhood, really. My mother and sister however, can remember the name of practically every street we ever lived on, as well as most of the names of all of our little friends growing up.
I've often wondered about this gypsy spirit I have. Always the desire to be moving, I've learned to travel light. I guess for me, memory has been much like the boxes of books and clothes left in my grandmothers garage. I've learned to carry with me only what's necessary, all else stored in the mental attic's of my grandmother, mother and sister. It's always made for exciting visits, rummaging through their memory. Hearing the women in my life tell me wonderful stories about a young girl I once knew. Listening to them has been like discovering an old trunk, pulling out that dusty piece of costume jewelry I'd worn a million times as a kid and discovering is worth quite a bit more than I'd have ever imagined.
The story my mother told me yesterday turned out to be a gem!
When we were stationed in Parris Island, South Carolina, not long after my little sister was born. I used to walk the neighboorhood selling songs, for 7 cents. Mind you, I was barely 4 years old, but apparently I had decided this was a good summer job that made use of my talents. So, once the weather would turn warm, warm enough for me to not have to wear shoes. I didn't care for shoes. I'd grab a pot and a spoon and head off to work.
Sometimes, I'd get dressed first, sometimes I'd get out of bed and set out in my nightgown. It wasn't so important how I looked. I'd take my little drum and march up and down the street where we lived. I'd go door to door announcing to whomever opened "I'll sing you a song for 7 cents." If they agreed, I'd play my little drum and sing along. "Twinkle, Twinkle", "The Itsy Bitsy Spider" "ABC's."
I'm not quite sure how extensive my repertoire was at 4, but that obviously wasn't of any concerned either. I'm not sure whether I took requests. I'd like to think that if I did, I'd have charged a little extra for them. And why seven cents a song? Not sure about that either. My mother thinks that maybe someone gave me seven cents for singing for them once so I had decided that must be the going rate for a song.
Of course few people had a nickel and two dimes handy so most would gladly drop a quarter in the pot. My bold request and confident delivery worked well to my advantage. When I was finished with work, I'd come up the driveway rattling my well earned rewards, with a big old smile on my face.
So now, rattled a bit by this story, with my proverbial pot full, I want to share this revelation.
I don't know how many other artist can relate, but I'm certain I'm not the only one who struggles with this. But now as an adult, I have a hard time "selling" my art. I'm not saying that people won't buy it. I'm saying I don't even offer it up for sale. I've taken to whispering my songs in a corner somewhere hoping someone will throw a penny at me. I don't know if its that I've had a hard time deciding what its worth, or if its that I've had an even a harder time finding the courage to ask for something in return. I used to think it was humility, now I think I know its fear.
It puzzles me how the 4 year old me, who didn't bother with her stature or appearance knew in her heart what her songs were worth. Yet the 40 year old me, has no idea where to begin. She's all bogged down with concerns over packaging, and yes, how she looks (the photos on here are 5 years old) Rather than knocking on doors and offering, she worry about closed doors. She often worries that her knocking will disturb people.
I have friends who are on thier 2nd and 3rd independent CD's who ask me every day when I'm going to release mine. The one I've been working on for 2 years now... Well, I often wonder why I don't have my CD finished! Well there it is in black and white... I don't know what its worth. I've forgotten what I'm worth. I sit here in my house with my pot and spoon, banging away, waiting for someone to knock on my door and knock some cents (sense) into me. I've been so busy speculating over the perceived 2 cents others might have of me, that somewhere along the way, somewhere mixed up in all my lost memories, I lost touch with my 6th Sense.
But, thanks to my mom, this little story about 7 cents has brought change. It's challenged me, brought be back to my senses. They say 7's a lucky number, well for me today, it has been the luckiest of numbers. The bold little girl I was, spoke to me today, she's reminded me to trust that what I have to give has tangible worth, and that believing that is not arrogance, its faith coupled with the joy of giving. She's taught me that determining my worth is up to me. She's taught me that I'll never have what I want, if I'm afraid to ask for it. She's taught me that the things I want in life won't beat my door down. I have to go out and knock on doors until I find them.
So I have decided to quit sitting here in my safe little room with my CD, waiting until its dressed to the nines, in some ill percieved polished perfection. I'm going to learn to trust the insight of a 4 year old. I will trust my sixth sense, while accepting the 2 cents given by others as just that, their 2 cents. I will boldly set out in my nightgown and bare feet, trusting that 7 cents was only the beginning to innumerable treasure.
My cherub, dirt gray and white his paint pealing, revealing the concrete beneath. And the heather twigs bare at the base hanging on for dear life, like the rose, clinging to the chain link, too dry to bloom.
Above me, he glows vibrant, strands ashen gray, flies atmospheric, and lights embers, as he passes.
Through panes, I see bursting flecks of blazing, dark azure navy blue-black to lavender reflective the pallor, pinks and red cheek blushed of heat waves of bronze, bodies baked tan and the sandy bands of summers storms.
I'm draw outside to inhale visual to hold seconds sight, suck in colors bright while whispers flow from the firmament, and tickle my skin to whisker.
His breath, musky, moist, melts me in the glorious wash lustrous, before my eyes.
Seeking seconds, savored, I beg the sun to slow, as the shadows grow, and the slate of night settles upon my face, and he rages and the rain comes.
Terry Lynn Conrads 2006 Inspired by the beauty of the sky before the storm this poem is for lovers, like me, who out of love for all things wild, are willingly seduced into forgetting to board up thier windows -bring on the rain!!!
No poetry this time, I actually have an announcement!!
I met a wonderful woman Yohanna De La Torre, a former journalist and television reporter from Miami, turned publisher/writer. She was kind enough to write an article on little ol' me for her publication "Gulf Coast Times." The article only ran online through today, and I guess I waited to long to let y'all know about it, (sorry i've been busy with "Be Heard" Anyway, I have the publishers permission to reproduce the article on my website so you can still read it.
BTW when your done reading the article please click on thier logo and read the new article under the music section that will appear July 7-21 about my friend Mark Drew aka OriginILL
We Can Be..
Current mood: hopeful
Category: hopeful Music
...the change we need to see.
somewhere a baby cries from hunger and in the city ragged people pace the streets sometimes I fear the world will drag me under and I find it just to hard to believe.
and there's one in line and one in armor one for bread and the other one for war still we march on, and on and on and on they wander towards a future, thats both fearful and unsure.
and we say that faith can move our mountains just the faith of the tiniest seed, but, what good is faith when we stand idle? what good is faith when its only belief?
when hands start reaching out, the hands of you and me and rich men they start giving, keeping only what they need, when we stop waiting for a miracle and take responsibility faith becomes more than believing, and We can be the change we need to see.
So go on and live the life you're given but you have to make the choice to step out bold and strong And show the LOVE, the Love you've been given Is here to shine the light and set right every wrong.
When hands start reaching out, the hands of you and me and rich men they start giving, keeping only what they need, when we stop waiting for a miracle and take responsibility faith becomes more than believing, and We can be the change we need to see.
When hands start reaching out, the hands of you and me and rich men they start giving, keeping only what they need, when we stop waiting for a miracle and take responsibility faith becomes more than believing, and We can be the change we need to see.
copyright 2006 Terry Lynn Conrads
LISTEN HERE---->
there are many ways to help - do what you can, but do SOMETHING!
my boss (at my day job) has me painting all the store fixtures black this week, I suddenly felt like I was 20 years old and moving into my first apartment. :)
PAINTING IT BLACK
What is it about painting it ALL black?
It seems to me in my youth it was such an obsession.
A table found at the side of the road, paint it black, a chair from my mom, a little worn and old, paint it black,
an old plant rack, paint it black, a recycled bicycle, anytime I was in a pickle to make a decision to make sure it would match, what would I do? I'dm paint it black.
And what of my closet? and all those black dresses, black slacks and sunglasses shirts and skirts jeans and earrings and then to choose from boxes and boxes of black boots and shoes.
As a teen black was rebellious it was goth, and rock and roll.
In my 20's black was sophisticated modern, sleek and practical.
And then there's the fact that it goes with everything! and unlike white most stains can't be seen.
Still I wonder?
If white marks beginnings, christenings, weddings first communions and debutante balls surrender and coming out and all. why, in my past this propensity for black?
What was I mourning, some sense of lack, some loss of innocence? Or it is just this...
Life's so much messier, for young adult adolescent's.
These days it seems everywhere I look in the park, in magazines even in that funky coffee nook, I see old ladies in red and purple hats, old men in kaki or plaid pants, children in pink, yellow, green, and baby blue and I realize that as I've aged, my life too is becoming more colorful, because, Lately I find like the 9 year old I was, in my prime I have a fresh affinity for yellow pink, and pastel hues, the lighter, the better, seems to be what I choose.
And I'm not afraid to confess, I'm still a bit of a mess, and I often find a spot here and there, if I'm lucky enough to treat it the wash often beats it. If not, I've found it's very useful wear, for cleaning days, painting furniture, or getting myself even dirtier in the garden. or the grass at hot summer play I'll take a pink t-shirt over a black one, anyday!!
So what ever it was that obsession with black? I know there's one thing that I've found for a night out on the town that little black dress can still turns heads around and though these days i might add a colorful broach or a shawl I have to admit black still can't be beat. when I really want to turn up the heat.
Still Seeking You, As You Fly In My Minds Sky
Category: Writing and Poetry
A little info first to clarify for those who don't know, CQ is a call used by hamm radio operator's when they are looking for someone to talk to, you can hear them over the hamm radio calling "CQ CQ" and then giving thier call sign, they'll go on like this for hours until they hear the person they are listening for or that person hears them.
Its a sound I heard coming from the garage most of my life.
Anyway here's the poem:
SEEKING YOU AS YOU FLY
I CQ
Your home, attached to ours, by the doorway between the kitchen and your corner in the garage.
and after dinner, in the dark out there with the car parts. You'd stay parked with your Hamm radio and model airplane hearts
your only light the long arm of the desk lamp pulled low to show and shine on, only the work that you had your mind on.
And I, quiet as the still air, after an engines stall stood at the threshold,listening for some sign a slice of wind, the buzz of the radio or a tiny engine, coming around again and in the air, in my minds sky, I'd whisper a quiet goodnight, to the snap of balsa wood and the sweet smell of glue, once alive, like you a tree, a horse, though dead now, of course still of some use.
I'd whisper a goodnight, and from above through the crackle and hiss a voice would answer this, "C Q, C Q" louder than I, they, were calling you from somewhere out there in the sky and I, stood seeking and un-speaking in silence, still I sought some sense of knowing you, beyond harsh words and criticism, beyond discipline and fear.
and they'd call C Q, C Q and I in silence called, I seek you, seek you in hope that is something more than what is here.
something more than model boats, I mean and wooden airplanes with stream lined wings more than replicas of much bigger things more than the Hamm's and their crackling noises more than the silence of broken foreign voices, more than long distances and unmade choices.
still, I C Q, seek you in the the smell of sawdust, I C Q. seek you in the instincts that I lost I C Q, seek you in many foreign voices and all the long distances and unmade choices.
AS YOU FLY, IN MY MINDS SKY
"C Q, C Q" the call slips time and I find, myself lost again in the sky of my mind. And I find, that day that you took me, to the clearing past the pines. You took me there, so I could watch,
so I could watch you fly.
We drove in silence then, and that was fine, somehow that was OK, and the radio played, "Fly Like an Eagle", and "time kept on slipping, slipping, slipping" away and I believe I'm brought back there to where we were that day, for I'm somehow sure, that
for a moment, there I began to understand, or at least I began trying for a moment, I think I understood your obsession with models and flying.
For I can see her there tucked safe in the back on a baby blue blanket, secured by rubber bands a wooden winged angel, built by your two hands.
I think in that moment, that I finally knew my first real sense of knowing you I had some sense that in sharing you were seeking me, too.
So we rode in silence, a long quiet ride to a big open clearing, past the carolina pines where others like her, though real, and full sized, way up high, in the sky, flew ever so slowly by.
I stood at the edge of the grass and watched you place her on the ground lined her up just so, and tap her propeller to make her go
and she screamed, and wailed out an unbelievable sound, and my heart started to pound, and her fumes came around and I started to cough, she started to sputter, so you gave her more gas, then tested the rudder.
You, the pilot, control in your hands, and her antennas silver wand tied with a red ribbon banner
I, the watcher, in awe as she skipped quickly by I felt my heart lift light, as she stretched to reach for the sky
and you, smiled a smile, I swear, I'd never seen before that day and I, for the first time, felt that smile say, I see and I could see that you were just like me just, a child with a toy just a model of a grown-up just a great big little boy. and you, ran ahead to get a better view and I. followed galloping after, knowing I was just like you.
I watched as you made her do a loop in the air I asked you, to do it again, because I knew you weren't scared.
And you saw me there, for the first time, it seemed, and said, "here you should, give it a go." and tellingly, quickly, I shook my head, and more quietly, I said, "no" but you went ahead, and placed the box in my hands and gave me a sudden and stern command "Take control, or else, be the cause of her death," and I feared this would end in a tragic crash test.
and I stood there, staring, at the box in my hands, for a moment, for only a moment and then
I looked up to the sky and she was nowhere, nowhere nowhere to be found. I searched and I search but she was nowhere, around, so I surrendered at once and I started to cry. she was lost, you were lost somewhere there in the sky.
And the smile on your face, was as gone as your plane like her ribbon turned red and you stuttered my name, then said gggggettttttt innnnnnnn tttttttthhhe cccccccccccar! that was all that I heard and we left with me crying, and you, not a word
And right round the row of carolina pine, she was there in the distance right there on the line, at the side of the road without even a scratch. You pulled over the car and put her in back.
Still, you spoke not a whisper I stayed on my side, and I made my excuses, You clung to your pride.
never again did I care to go flying, never again would you bother trying. to seek some connect or show me your wings as I grew I watched you seek your life in many things
and I seek you in the slipping in the skies and I wonder if you've landed somewhere safe beyond the pines.
if you're out there with your C Q's in the silence, in the dark.
while I'm out here on the threshold seeking hope in model hearts.
blank
awake
amused
embarrassed