Tabitha Vohn's Blog, page 7
May 20, 2016
Poem of the Week: Fave Song
"Come down off your throne and leave your body alone/Somebody must change. You are the reason I've been waiting all these years/Somebody holds the key. Well I'm near the end and I just ain't got the time/And I'm wasted and I can't find my way home." Blind Faith '69
I am daily waiting
for loved ones gone
daily preparing for goodbyes
daily lost in the melody of your eyes
every word from your mouth
is a heart song
Most days I get my spiritual
nutrition from nostalgia
their missing beats beat
lonesome in my eardrums
and I conjure lost places
like memory is a Ouija board
that skips over letters and
waves uncertain in the corners
of those absent lyrics with no
answers I sway in the deja vu
that the summer brings
a red picket fence
a cat black as sin in
the sun who'd drip affection
from his fangs with his ears
scratched right
those faraway faces materialize
like the bass line that vibrates
through the woods I can walk
blindfolded they are the constant
hum beneath the car horns and
harsh voices that sing out of tune
with you
the Conductor
I am waiting
for you to wave me in
to become a note
sweet and haunted
freed as my soul to mirror
the cry that yours makes
like music
when we remember home.
I am daily waiting
for loved ones gone
daily preparing for goodbyes
daily lost in the melody of your eyes
every word from your mouth
is a heart song
Most days I get my spiritual
nutrition from nostalgia
their missing beats beat
lonesome in my eardrums
and I conjure lost places
like memory is a Ouija board
that skips over letters and
waves uncertain in the corners
of those absent lyrics with no
answers I sway in the deja vu
that the summer brings
a red picket fence
a cat black as sin in
the sun who'd drip affection
from his fangs with his ears
scratched right
those faraway faces materialize
like the bass line that vibrates
through the woods I can walk
blindfolded they are the constant
hum beneath the car horns and
harsh voices that sing out of tune
with you
the Conductor
I am waiting
for you to wave me in
to become a note
sweet and haunted
freed as my soul to mirror
the cry that yours makes
like music
when we remember home.
May 13, 2016
Poem of the Week: Losing My Religion
I'm sorry I don't
talk about you more
that even in
closed circles your name
on my tongue sounds
cliche
that I can't put us into words
fighting old-as-mankind
stereotypes I've been taught
to let my actions illuminate
where words give no light but
I feel like my silence screams
volumes like I'm ashamed to
know you. But I'd like to set the
record straight once and for all.
cause people who think they
know me assume I'm Wiccan
that I need to be toke'n to be
this Zen this calm amidst the
apocalypse they don't see
it's your kind words in my mouth
your soft-spoken acceptance of
our human-ness Why? Am I that
poor or that good of an imitation
See, the "religious" clan
once assumed that you were a
demon and the people thought
your prophets spoke with alcoholic
ecstasy I suppose I'm not
that far off the mark but
I wish it was plainer for people
to see
You.Saved.Me. You. In Person.
Often I talk and you listen but
when I shut up long enough for
you to get a word in your voice
is like nourishment the more I
pay attention the more I've come
to know peace--Brokenness mended
is attainable--You've taught me
there is no empowerment in bitterness
or hate but to see my own mended parts
behind the tantrum-lashing pain in my
"enemy"'s eyes You remind me
that I am no better
On my own
and when I remember all that's
good in me comes from you and
all those threats, jabs, slaps, cries
in the night are merely the absence
of your light so how could I feel
anything but compassion? feel
anything but saved from that daily
death life's only guarantee all that
living and dying without you can
know is darkness. I'd like to tell
all of those so caught up in the idea
of hell that if darkness is the absence
of light then hell is merely the absence
of you it's a choice and anyone who knows
what it's like to burn--I'm talking about
feeling dead inside-- knows how broken hearts
don't sting they flame but you are the
antidote. I am sorry for how people
who claim to love you go so wrong.
how no amount of Bible-thumping
judgement-spewing, rule-obeying
ever swayed anyone to have a one-
-on-one with you. How we took "judge
not lest ye be judged" as us vs. us It's only
seeing through your eyes I've resisted
succumbing to that state that it doesn't
matter how many verses I quote where
my car's parked on Sundays or where
my political allegiances lie if how I
treat someone makes them curse your
name. The best I do with my incapable
hands is to say I fear nothing this world
can take away that death is overcome
and afterlife is only home. I would say that
to verify your existence is to shut the
hell up and listen I would say that I
lost my religion long ago that Jesus
loves me this I know b/c He, himself
tells me so that try as I may I'm still
human and for them to judge you
through me is to critique the refraction
not the source like the dawn through
stained glass our spirits are all
fighting to get back to you and
when I stop fighting and just
--be--
with you
the closer I am
to peace
the better I am
to myself to others to you
I pray someday to have
the words
to speak this truth
about you.
talk about you more
that even in
closed circles your name
on my tongue sounds
cliche
that I can't put us into words
fighting old-as-mankind
stereotypes I've been taught
to let my actions illuminate
where words give no light but
I feel like my silence screams
volumes like I'm ashamed to
know you. But I'd like to set the
record straight once and for all.
cause people who think they
know me assume I'm Wiccan
that I need to be toke'n to be
this Zen this calm amidst the
apocalypse they don't see
it's your kind words in my mouth
your soft-spoken acceptance of
our human-ness Why? Am I that
poor or that good of an imitation
See, the "religious" clan
once assumed that you were a
demon and the people thought
your prophets spoke with alcoholic
ecstasy I suppose I'm not
that far off the mark but
I wish it was plainer for people
to see
You.Saved.Me. You. In Person.
Often I talk and you listen but
when I shut up long enough for
you to get a word in your voice
is like nourishment the more I
pay attention the more I've come
to know peace--Brokenness mended
is attainable--You've taught me
there is no empowerment in bitterness
or hate but to see my own mended parts
behind the tantrum-lashing pain in my
"enemy"'s eyes You remind me
that I am no better
On my own
and when I remember all that's
good in me comes from you and
all those threats, jabs, slaps, cries
in the night are merely the absence
of your light so how could I feel
anything but compassion? feel
anything but saved from that daily
death life's only guarantee all that
living and dying without you can
know is darkness. I'd like to tell
all of those so caught up in the idea
of hell that if darkness is the absence
of light then hell is merely the absence
of you it's a choice and anyone who knows
what it's like to burn--I'm talking about
feeling dead inside-- knows how broken hearts
don't sting they flame but you are the
antidote. I am sorry for how people
who claim to love you go so wrong.
how no amount of Bible-thumping
judgement-spewing, rule-obeying
ever swayed anyone to have a one-
-on-one with you. How we took "judge
not lest ye be judged" as us vs. us It's only
seeing through your eyes I've resisted
succumbing to that state that it doesn't
matter how many verses I quote where
my car's parked on Sundays or where
my political allegiances lie if how I
treat someone makes them curse your
name. The best I do with my incapable
hands is to say I fear nothing this world
can take away that death is overcome
and afterlife is only home. I would say that
to verify your existence is to shut the
hell up and listen I would say that I
lost my religion long ago that Jesus
loves me this I know b/c He, himself
tells me so that try as I may I'm still
human and for them to judge you
through me is to critique the refraction
not the source like the dawn through
stained glass our spirits are all
fighting to get back to you and
when I stop fighting and just
--be--
with you
the closer I am
to peace
the better I am
to myself to others to you
I pray someday to have
the words
to speak this truth
about you.
May 7, 2016
Poem of the Week: Blue-Green
This poem is dedicated to “BB” and everyone whose holidays hurt because happy days often remind of of who we’ve lost.
Robin's eggs
and salt sea
it's the color I'm lost
in most days
I let it suffocate me
until the taste of your tears
feels like home
it's like Fiona said
"It's calm under the waves
in the blue of my oblivion"
when you've lived long
enough in unshed selkie skins
that tie-dyed horizon
after a storm becomes
a welcome atmosphere
let your clenched fingers
holding onto phantoms
sink
let it cloud those tomorrows
you can't seem to stop
sabotaging
when it's no longer easy
to breathe let those
fins fill your lungs with
emerald gills
when you see their spirits float
heavenward let that undulation
of ocean swell become you
no fears just floating
no grief just grace
from the bottomless black
I pray your body is too
wind-carried to reach
and the uncertain light wavers
from above
I send blessings in bottles to
breach its surface and float
to your rescue
where the color of
birthday cakes, afternoon rain
on the sidewalk, crickets
calling in the night, snowflake
fires glowing, sunrise stencils
across your bed awaits you
it hovers there
with outstretched hands
waiting for the day you'll
take them.
Robin's eggs
and salt sea
it's the color I'm lost
in most days
I let it suffocate me
until the taste of your tears
feels like home
it's like Fiona said
"It's calm under the waves
in the blue of my oblivion"
when you've lived long
enough in unshed selkie skins
that tie-dyed horizon
after a storm becomes
a welcome atmosphere
let your clenched fingers
holding onto phantoms
sink
let it cloud those tomorrows
you can't seem to stop
sabotaging
when it's no longer easy
to breathe let those
fins fill your lungs with
emerald gills
when you see their spirits float
heavenward let that undulation
of ocean swell become you
no fears just floating
no grief just grace
from the bottomless black
I pray your body is too
wind-carried to reach
and the uncertain light wavers
from above
I send blessings in bottles to
breach its surface and float
to your rescue
where the color of
birthday cakes, afternoon rain
on the sidewalk, crickets
calling in the night, snowflake
fires glowing, sunrise stencils
across your bed awaits you
it hovers there
with outstretched hands
waiting for the day you'll
take them.
April 28, 2016
Poem of the Week: Blood Brother
Objects in the path
of the sun
seem to radiate
from within
same as the glowing
pierce of your smile
I soak in
like those early spring
daffodil rays
when the wind turns warm
and green as your
young years
You've reminded me
what it's like to
have your heart break
in someone else's tears
I understand now those
flutters of the will
my virgin heart
once scoffed at
wanting to call bullshit
on the notion that pain
makes us real
when it comes to you
like an over-protective mother
I want to cotton-wrap
your skin
give you everlasting sunny days
clean sheets
a home devoid of broken people
and all their self-made messes
some sure thing
a fixed place to call safe
necessities as real as
the air we breathe
I took for granted
before I knew you
a gentler soul than mine
I imagine you
bending towards the light
like a blade of grass
scrapes through the sidewalk
bloodied but not beaten
those insults you bore
the ghost echoes that
keep you awake at night
fists that never stop swinging
your scar tissue soft
as the words you speak
I adore you
there's more man in your
silence than
little boys in armor bodies
who wear out their hard times
with violence
I've watched you force
your head up
when gravity was the least
of your worries
when loss that breaks
the oldest of souls
wore you down
Your spirit
is the sound of the morning
after a holocaust
the pastel sky
after a flood
I look at you
and think
God, how could you
make someone so beautiful
and let life try so hard
to break him?
For what is within
my constrained grasp
to give
I ask Him
to cut you a break
I pray
that your talents go viral
that your someone
will find you and
spoil you with so much love
it'll feel like every day
is Christmas morning
that peace will stop
alluding you
that your heart-wounds
will heal
that you'll always remember
I love you
in the truest, purest way I can
Blood Brother
you're in my veins
you are with me
always.
of the sun
seem to radiate
from within
same as the glowing
pierce of your smile
I soak in
like those early spring
daffodil rays
when the wind turns warm
and green as your
young years
You've reminded me
what it's like to
have your heart break
in someone else's tears
I understand now those
flutters of the will
my virgin heart
once scoffed at
wanting to call bullshit
on the notion that pain
makes us real
when it comes to you
like an over-protective mother
I want to cotton-wrap
your skin
give you everlasting sunny days
clean sheets
a home devoid of broken people
and all their self-made messes
some sure thing
a fixed place to call safe
necessities as real as
the air we breathe
I took for granted
before I knew you
a gentler soul than mine
I imagine you
bending towards the light
like a blade of grass
scrapes through the sidewalk
bloodied but not beaten
those insults you bore
the ghost echoes that
keep you awake at night
fists that never stop swinging
your scar tissue soft
as the words you speak
I adore you
there's more man in your
silence than
little boys in armor bodies
who wear out their hard times
with violence
I've watched you force
your head up
when gravity was the least
of your worries
when loss that breaks
the oldest of souls
wore you down
Your spirit
is the sound of the morning
after a holocaust
the pastel sky
after a flood
I look at you
and think
God, how could you
make someone so beautiful
and let life try so hard
to break him?
For what is within
my constrained grasp
to give
I ask Him
to cut you a break
I pray
that your talents go viral
that your someone
will find you and
spoil you with so much love
it'll feel like every day
is Christmas morning
that peace will stop
alluding you
that your heart-wounds
will heal
that you'll always remember
I love you
in the truest, purest way I can
Blood Brother
you're in my veins
you are with me
always.
April 22, 2016
Poem of the Week: Bad Joke
We joke about how often
your husband calls his mother
as if that umbilical cord stretched
along the sound waves
unrolled like a ring worm
it reaches into the western horizon
a summer sun that refuses to set
We wonder how no amount
of intrinsic force will snap it
the threats of abandonment
the emasculation that
pickles his balls in a jar
Stockholm hugs tell him
that he's the only she'll turn to
Her mantras rooted
so deep under his tender skin
he's forgotten the taste of compassion
can't differentiate
love from her artful abuse
he is the starved dog who
distrusts the heaping bowl
a thirst victim
eyeing water for poison
he'll accuse you of
tarnishing her illusion
because truth is
if he's forced to admit it
that a lifetime of playing puppet to her
shit
couldn't earn him
a mother's love
he may very well break
to the point beyond healing
on the death march
only those with imagination
survived
like he does
tethered to her
heart-shaped bayonet
and still sometimes
we wonder why no amount
of extrinsic force
can break
what the spirit's
too weak to mend.
your husband calls his mother
as if that umbilical cord stretched
along the sound waves
unrolled like a ring worm
it reaches into the western horizon
a summer sun that refuses to set
We wonder how no amount
of intrinsic force will snap it
the threats of abandonment
the emasculation that
pickles his balls in a jar
Stockholm hugs tell him
that he's the only she'll turn to
Her mantras rooted
so deep under his tender skin
he's forgotten the taste of compassion
can't differentiate
love from her artful abuse
he is the starved dog who
distrusts the heaping bowl
a thirst victim
eyeing water for poison
he'll accuse you of
tarnishing her illusion
because truth is
if he's forced to admit it
that a lifetime of playing puppet to her
shit
couldn't earn him
a mother's love
he may very well break
to the point beyond healing
on the death march
only those with imagination
survived
like he does
tethered to her
heart-shaped bayonet
and still sometimes
we wonder why no amount
of extrinsic force
can break
what the spirit's
too weak to mend.
April 15, 2016
Poem of the Week: Moments
I want to capture that moment
standing outside the bar at 6am
neon sign glow on my shoulders
the sky a peri-haze
just before the sunrise
the rain-stick sheen of tires
on the street and me
nowhere to go.
I'll save it for those mornings
I wanna skip my exit and keep
on driving
see where the wind takes me
I'll use it when your ears close
when my heart won't listen
when your absence drags my body
back to your bedside
when the cadence of your spirit
won't reach me
I'll summon it from beneath
what's too painful to remember
like the smell of your cigarette skin
When living day to day becomes
too much to ask
and I need that
lilac-kissed freedom that
snow-topped open space
I'll uncap that moment
the flicker
when everything is just
alright
I'll wear it out as joyously and as recklessly
as the moments with you
that keep me searching
writing, loving, breathing,
missing you
through another day.
standing outside the bar at 6am
neon sign glow on my shoulders
the sky a peri-haze
just before the sunrise
the rain-stick sheen of tires
on the street and me
nowhere to go.
I'll save it for those mornings
I wanna skip my exit and keep
on driving
see where the wind takes me
I'll use it when your ears close
when my heart won't listen
when your absence drags my body
back to your bedside
when the cadence of your spirit
won't reach me
I'll summon it from beneath
what's too painful to remember
like the smell of your cigarette skin
When living day to day becomes
too much to ask
and I need that
lilac-kissed freedom that
snow-topped open space
I'll uncap that moment
the flicker
when everything is just
alright
I'll wear it out as joyously and as recklessly
as the moments with you
that keep me searching
writing, loving, breathing,
missing you
through another day.
April 8, 2016
Poem of the Week: She Waits
She waits in a cocoon
of her own making.
lets the cobwebs grow
She says forgetting is easier
than living
with what you've lost
or having to admit your
part in the plot
So she shrouds herself
in the aroma of cat-piss
ammonia
unwashed hair and
disinterested repellent
the inconvenience of the answering
the door
left to others--
those content
to clean up her messes.
It was always easier for her
to go to
extremes
either an exhibit or
a demolition
as frenzied as her
highs and lows
she learned to control your
yes's and no's
with a
"You'll be sorry once I'm gone"
or
"I don't ask much of you but
I give you everything"
or
"Now I know you don't love me."
Love so contingent
on the moment
Love with
selective memory
like the ones she wraps herself in
like when she clutched your strings with
stone fingers
so proud
that this
was the someone
she could create in her
own image
the All She Never Was
the She she wants to re-live
buried deep on the
visceral level
she knows
that when they looked at you
they knew
those tear-stains were
her brushstrokes
on your
blank canvas
the colors
she couldn't claim she
whitewashed
Now
she'll content herself in
those cobwebs
the "what was"
unanswered phone calls
the empty chair at the wedding
the conversations restricted
to health
and pets
and
how the world has wronged her
She misses when
the illusion
still dazzled you
For her
it still does.
of her own making.
lets the cobwebs grow
She says forgetting is easier
than living
with what you've lost
or having to admit your
part in the plot
So she shrouds herself
in the aroma of cat-piss
ammonia
unwashed hair and
disinterested repellent
the inconvenience of the answering
the door
left to others--
those content
to clean up her messes.
It was always easier for her
to go to
extremes
either an exhibit or
a demolition
as frenzied as her
highs and lows
she learned to control your
yes's and no's
with a
"You'll be sorry once I'm gone"
or
"I don't ask much of you but
I give you everything"
or
"Now I know you don't love me."
Love so contingent
on the moment
Love with
selective memory
like the ones she wraps herself in
like when she clutched your strings with
stone fingers
so proud
that this
was the someone
she could create in her
own image
the All She Never Was
the She she wants to re-live
buried deep on the
visceral level
she knows
that when they looked at you
they knew
those tear-stains were
her brushstrokes
on your
blank canvas
the colors
she couldn't claim she
whitewashed
Now
she'll content herself in
those cobwebs
the "what was"
unanswered phone calls
the empty chair at the wedding
the conversations restricted
to health
and pets
and
how the world has wronged her
She misses when
the illusion
still dazzled you
For her
it still does.
March 30, 2016
March 29, 2016
It's Official! The Review of Tomorrow @ AI
http://awesomeindies.net/blog/
"Perchance to dream…
Childhood dreams come true in this intriguing time travel story with a difference.
Eileen has always had a crush on an actor from her childhood, Cal, who by now is in his eighties, while she is in her twenties.
By coincidence, they meet at one of her concerts as she’s a professional musician and later, a medical experiment gives Eileen the opportunity to go back in time and live in an alternative reality with a younger Cal in a dream world, but only for the duration of the experiment. Both will have to resume their real lives when they leave the dream life.
Vohn sets the scene well for this unusual and unconventional story, firstly telling us about Eileen’s infatuation with Cal and his films, but also bringing us into the here and now of a woman pursuing her musical career, and introducing her current life and her friends. We learn about her relationships with men, and through the point of view of her friends, we realise the extent of her obsession with Cal.
It’s a complex story, and, Vohn progresses it in different ways, not just by bringing Cal deeper into the story, but by using part of the scripts for one of his films as a medium for developing the narrative and deepening our understanding of the characters and the two conflicting eras that Eileen comes to inhabit.
Despite the quite different and drastic changes in scenes, time, and characters, the story keeps moving smoothly, and throughout, we follow Eileen’s troubled journey. Although the story is told in the first person, other characters, primarily Eileen’s friends and professional colleagues, are used to build up a bigger picture of her character and feelings, both through their dialogue and their actions. Vohn skilfully uses her secondary characters to add richness and detail.
Cal’s character is portrayed as always flawed, and Eileen always had an ideal in her mind. The big question posed by this novel was, what would happen in dreamland when she met the real Cal, not just the actor on the screen, the movie star of her childhood and teenage fantasies. And then, both Eileen and Cal have to face the even bigger question—how to resume their pre-dream life. For me, one of the strengths of the story was how Eileen tried to immerse herself back in her former life while struggling with wanting to still live with her dream life. Again, Vohn conveyed the raw feelings here with sensitivity and a certain sense of bleakness, as Eileen accepts the inevitable.
It’s a powerful and emotional story with no easily predictable ending, but there was perhaps only one realistic ending for a story like this. 4 stars."
"Perchance to dream…
Childhood dreams come true in this intriguing time travel story with a difference.
Eileen has always had a crush on an actor from her childhood, Cal, who by now is in his eighties, while she is in her twenties.
By coincidence, they meet at one of her concerts as she’s a professional musician and later, a medical experiment gives Eileen the opportunity to go back in time and live in an alternative reality with a younger Cal in a dream world, but only for the duration of the experiment. Both will have to resume their real lives when they leave the dream life.
Vohn sets the scene well for this unusual and unconventional story, firstly telling us about Eileen’s infatuation with Cal and his films, but also bringing us into the here and now of a woman pursuing her musical career, and introducing her current life and her friends. We learn about her relationships with men, and through the point of view of her friends, we realise the extent of her obsession with Cal.
It’s a complex story, and, Vohn progresses it in different ways, not just by bringing Cal deeper into the story, but by using part of the scripts for one of his films as a medium for developing the narrative and deepening our understanding of the characters and the two conflicting eras that Eileen comes to inhabit.
Despite the quite different and drastic changes in scenes, time, and characters, the story keeps moving smoothly, and throughout, we follow Eileen’s troubled journey. Although the story is told in the first person, other characters, primarily Eileen’s friends and professional colleagues, are used to build up a bigger picture of her character and feelings, both through their dialogue and their actions. Vohn skilfully uses her secondary characters to add richness and detail.
Cal’s character is portrayed as always flawed, and Eileen always had an ideal in her mind. The big question posed by this novel was, what would happen in dreamland when she met the real Cal, not just the actor on the screen, the movie star of her childhood and teenage fantasies. And then, both Eileen and Cal have to face the even bigger question—how to resume their pre-dream life. For me, one of the strengths of the story was how Eileen tried to immerse herself back in her former life while struggling with wanting to still live with her dream life. Again, Vohn conveyed the raw feelings here with sensitivity and a certain sense of bleakness, as Eileen accepts the inevitable.
It’s a powerful and emotional story with no easily predictable ending, but there was perhaps only one realistic ending for a story like this. 4 stars."
March 28, 2016
Awesome Indies Badge of Approval for Tomorrow Is A Long Time!!
What That Means: “Our editors award the Awesome Indies Badge of Approval to indie books that meet mainstream standards of quality. Readers buy our books safe in the knowledge that every one is a professional product. We are the unique voices of quality independent fiction.” Tahlia Newland, founder.
http://awesomeindies.net/bookstore/to...
I'm thrilled! And currently working on re-vamping my two previously-published novels so that they are of the same level of quality as TIALT. A big, heartfelt thanks to Tahlia and the reviewers at AI for providing such a wonderful opportunity to indie writers.
http://awesomeindies.net/bookstore/to...
I'm thrilled! And currently working on re-vamping my two previously-published novels so that they are of the same level of quality as TIALT. A big, heartfelt thanks to Tahlia and the reviewers at AI for providing such a wonderful opportunity to indie writers.
