I close my eyes
As music flows
Through my veins
Like a never-ending river
Twisting and swirling.
Suddenly a new world opens
Things I never imagined
Appearing before me
Eyes widening as I
Marvel at the magnificence.
7 notes with endless possibilities
Each melody beautiful
Delicate and unique
Mysterious like magic
It leads the way.
My worries and stress
The music takes over
My heart sings
And takes flight.
The world becomes complete
I see the beauty once more
The inspirations overwhelming
As I keep playing
Weaving a little song.
Time starts flying
Still, I stay
Playing on my harp
Relaxed yet focused.
Life is not perfect
During bad times
I express my sorrow
Which dampens the pain.
When I feel alone
I count down the time
Until I can run home
And immerse myself
Into the music.
Inspiration of Tides
Faint whispering breeze
upon your morning shadow
whispers your mystery.
I scrape up your roots
and follow your flashes.
Words sleep fitfully
in my mind until you,
my enchanting muse,
wrap me in your
with ethereal visions
and swirling auras.
Underneath my skin,
I feel nothing
until you throw me
a lifeline to entice me
to the light brushing
under my door,
arousing decadent flesh
teaching me to scribble
venturing to vistas
with no horizons.
Teaching me to tiptoe
in the light of the moon
and shoot my soul
with laser beams
of creative energy.
Vibrations in veiled heart
levitate as I hold
my cup for you to fill.
I quiver when you move
into my writings
to reside with me -
clone of my soul,
inspiration of tides.
What inspires me?
Eyes of the tiger
And Tiger Lily
When I ponder Rosa
Rows and rows of anacondas
Playing drums and playing congas
Fifty shades of southern chicken
Grey in the morning
And star-based fighters
Fighting writing then alighting
On a rig, a jig or biting
Bits of something
Lots of nothing
Not a thing does not inspire me
Inspiration always fires me
Flames engulf my writers mind
Mind my words
For they’re not mine
First born of something out of time.
But that’s fine.
Not on a wrist, the working watch at the back of a jewelry box taunts and teases, believing audaciously while lying there all alone in the dark, it should be worn, unaware it was rejected intentionally. Somewhere an old woman winds her cuckoo clock each morning and has done so for decades, first thing, as if there is some great meaning to the seconds, minutes and hours, and the sound of the cuckoo's caw, until she went deaf. Big Ben stands tall on the other side of the pond, as a narcissist would, boasting of his stature, reminding the masses that they cannot run from time, until he fell silent under construction. And right there on its face, power up a phone anywhere. The time presents itself greedily, first in line, do this, do that, hurry up, silently taking hostages, capturing slaves, intercepting the imagination by rule of thumb.
A busy woman desperately needs a break for inspiration, and sits down to relax in a quiet room holding in her weary hands the book Cat's Eye by Margaret Atwood. When she opens up the book and starts to read, the words begin a battle with the ticking emanating from an enamel silver clock hanging on the wall above her head. It possesses a second hand rhythm closely aligned and also very much at odds with her heartbeat as she tries to ignore the distraction. Minutes pass until in anger she cries out, "Make it stop," and she contemplates getting up and ripping the clock right off the wall. Thinking of either putting it in the drawer underneath the sweaters, or throwing it mightily against the opposing wall, she is titillated at the thought of the obliteration of time when the open book curiously demands her full attention and she reads,
"She takes stock of her hands, which are shrinking a little, warping a little, as mine are. Gnarling has set in, the withering of the mouth; the outlines of the dewlaps are beginning to be visible, down toward the chin, in the dark of the subway windows. Nobody else notices these things yet, unless they look closely; but Cordelia and I are in the habit of looking closely."
Asking no questions, the ticking abruptly stops, as if it was never there in the first place and the rest of the chapter she is reading makes its own silent perfect music, an engaging motionless dance. Closing the book, she breaths in and out, slowly, outside of the clock, picks up her pen ready to write her own chapter and it flows as easily as the silent blood pumping in her veins, 60 beats per minute.
My Mother sits awake at an unearthly hour. Sits there in silence and hopes for the pain to depart quickly.
I awaken later once the dawn peeks above the skyline and ask, “Momma, why are you awake?”
She takes a long time to gather the strength to answer.
“I just am.” she sighs.
It makes my heart heavy whenever I see her like this. The disease takes hold of her and squeezes with a violent and relentless fist. She has no energy to get up and walk. She wheezes heavily when she has to get dressed and put on her shoes. She tries to go to work and I long to tell her, “Please, stay home”. But I know she won’t. She refuses to let it change her. At least, for now.
When she has a flare, she’s so burnt out. Even doing the simplest things take so much out of this remarkable woman.
I always thought my mother was invincible. Maybe, in a way, every child does. I suppose though, that every super hero has a weakness. Or a flaw.
My mother has Sjogren’s Syndrome.
Being almost twenty-two and finishing up college, I sometimes believe in the heat of things that my life is “hard”. I have exams, term papers, homework, two jobs to support myself, and friends that believe I don’t spent enough time with them. I sometimes believe that I have it “rough”. I sometimes believe that maybe, this is all too much. And then, I look at my mother. And I realize that I really don’t have it that hard at all.
This Wonder Woman manages to go to work and complete her physically demanding tasks each day with a smile on her face. She manages to come home and tend house, cook dinner for everyone, and address our minor dilemmas. All while the symptoms of her Sjogren’s make her voice hoarse and her mouth and eyes miserably dry. While her dehydrated glands make it hard to swallow. While her muscles are fatigued and she’s always feeling on the verge of collapsing. While her blood vessels are alive and inflammed with pain.
She is my biggest inspiration. And while I hurt deep inside knowing that I can never fix her disease, I take a great amount of pride in calling her my mother.
She is the strongest person I know.
I know that if I grow up to be half the person that she is, I’ll have made a difference.
#inspiration #mom #sjogrenssyndrome #autoimmunedisease
The shelling started at 3:00am, and with it the dogs. A cacophony of howling and thunder. Yet, it wasn't so much the sky opening as it was the earth. Hungry, insistent, devouring . It's intestines overflowing with the indigestion of the city; belching tar, blood, and industrial waste. Tricycles fell from crumbling balconies as city parks erupted in ash. There was nothing to do but wait.
The dogs quieted as the earth closed in step with the rising of the sun. Men, mostly, emerged from the dust, some carrying rifles. The women soon followed and it began: the search for the living, the burial of the dead.
From the east a cow bell started to jingle, a happy tune. Children peered from doorways in their pyjamas before stepping into the street. They lined up in bare feet and waited, small smiles widening. His cart appeared in the midst of so much grey. Scarlet pomegranates glistening, waiting to leak their juices.
With a quick wave of his hand~ he leads his ensemble. Each section of the orchestra move in such an organized and magnificent harmony.
To take things up a notch- a female coloratura soprano sings the melody & song in a dazzling, and breathtaking way. The conductor and composer of the music smiles at how everything he has set is moving in a spectacular way.
Watching his dream come to life in such a colorful musical way, that the music seemed to set a tone- mood- and paint a picture like an artist’s masterpiece.
His passion, drive and hard~work made me realize that if he can get his dream completed, & stays focused to see through it, then I have no excuse to give as to why my own dream(s) and work is left collecting dust bunnies. It’s time for me to follow his determination, to chase and place my dreams into play/motion!
Inspiration is something that cuts through your heart. It changes your state of mind, sadness to happiness. You smile just thinking of it. It ignites a spark that:- takes tiredness away, enhances creativity ( Ideas dwell my mind and I write).
For something to inspire me, I need to believe in it. I believe in the innocence of plants and animals.
AN OLD TREE
We had an old tree in front of our house. They called it dead, but, I have had faith that it can grow green anytime soon.
The tree is artistically beautiful, the intricate cut of its branches. Its tiny, dark wooden fingers. It stood there with open arms, like a naked man, giving envy to Michelangelo's David.
Summer afternoons filled its branches with birds, even though there were no leaves on it. It hosts many plants growing at its feet.
People in the neighbourhood wanted it gone. They had many superstitions regarding the presence of a dead object close to them. Some even thought that the tree can fall at any time and damage their car or property.
For decades, it provided shade to birds, cars, people...
But, who cares, now that it seems dead. Ungrateful load on earth.
I fought with them on several occasions. I was reprimanded by my parents for not behaving appropriately. People even said that I had lost my mind.
Whenever I looked at the tree, I felt calm and serene.
What I could see in it, they couldn't see, pure inspiration.
Conceived in confusion,
Born with enlightenment,
Elevation ever increasing,
But yet, remaining-
The limits of my mind,
Wrought forth from nebulous thought,
Yet you fly above,
And finally through,
Reaching every alcove of my mind,
Drawing ideas and thoughts,
Even from the deepest crevices of my personality,
Until finally, you reach the clouds.
Cordial and yet taunting,
Flying beautifully close,
But ever so far away,
You twirl and you leap with grace,
Small wisps of your essence floating down to my perch,
My spirit escalates to attain you,
Rising and fluttering.
As fatigue rises and determination falls,
I look upwards,
Your sight a beacon,
A calling for my duty.
Flying beautifully close,
But yet, still, ever so far away,
Large wisps of your essence rushing down to my holding in the sky.
Rising up higher to meet thee,
Floating and fluttering,
Bounding off of air,
Finding a place to perch,
While resting on hope.
Inspired by your near presence.
Dancing beautifully close,
And getting closer yet.
My spirit settles upon your swirling cloud,
As you dance with sheer content,
Your image ever warping,
Shifting to become brighter and more substantial,
Until finally, my spirit joins with you.
You reach towards my hand,
Dancing beautifully close.
Finally within my grasp.
You twirl and you leap with grace,
Large flares of your essence amassing on my hands,
I leap once more,
Descending with you,
My feet landing lightly on the land below.
My eyes clearing from your beautiful world.
Torn away and placed on firm ground,
I awake from my mesmerized merriment,
My spirit growing from experience;
Brimming with uncontrolled pride.
Only to realize,
I’ve traveled but one stride.
And yet, the universe has changed.
open your eyes and see.
open your eyes.
it may be dark out
you can’t even see a difference
between the backs of your eyelids
and the whole wide world
but open your eyes.
the sun will come up
it’s just a matter of time
before light is spread
and darkness only lingers in shadows.
open your eyes
don’t waste time
living on autopilot
open your eyes
and look around
open your eyes
and share what you see
the beauty found
that comes from contrast
the sun may not stay up forever
but the sun will always
so open your eyes
and look for the sunrise.
open your eyes