Sue Baiman's Blog, page 10

In Pieces

He is strong

Yet vulnerable

He opened his soul

Reached into his chest

Took out his heart

And gently handed it

To me

He is smart

Yet sensitive

Opening his mind

Letting me in

To his thoughts

His dreams

Making me a part

Of his future

He is ravenous

Yet gentle

As he shares every part

Of his body

His soul

His mind

With me

And when I wrap him

In my arms

In my love

He comes in pieces

Giving me all

Of himself

Each piece

A part of me

Each piece of me

Stronger paired

With each piece

Of him

We are more together

Than either of us

Can be alone

A Pale Blue Sky

A pale blue sky

Giant Robin’s egg

Gently cradling us all

Before the wind

Whips us from the tree

And silently we fall

Melting into

Oblivion’s dark

My feelings fade away

A new realm of

Fantasy’s embrace

Begins a bright new day

To love, to laugh

No finer joys found

Freely given to you

The birds singing

As the air turns warm

And the world becomes new

This newness can’t

Change what came before

Layers outward building

Pain and pleasure

Striations of time

And still the birds will sing

I think this blue

Needs a certain name

It’s meaning to explain

It brings newness

The new season and

The day after the rain

Almost spring time

Yet winter’s still here

Cold finger’s slipping

Loosening its hold

On our hearts and minds

Melting snow slow dripping

Down the downspouts

And out to the sea

Water falls cycling new

To become clouds

And obscure the sky

Chasing away the blue

This blue teases

Spring will come indeed

Only after winter

Claws us again

Icicle fingers

Our emotions splinter

Blue promises

Of a brighter day

If we can just hold on

Through the coldness

Of winter’s last gasp

As another Spring dawns

Little blue lies

Insinuations

And infidelities

Blue promises

Of a warmth not felt

My insecurities

I’m still so cold

Shivering alone

I’m waiting for my sun

His name unknown

To brighten my days

When my longing is done

Seasons will pass

In love and in life

This pale blue is a sign

Patience needed

Warmth and happiness

Will once again be mine

In the meantime

This pale blue surrounds

Promising tomorrow

I’ll accept it

Knowing my future

Will be joy, not sorrow.

What I Want to Write

I want to take pieces of hearts

And write them whole

I want to reach into your soul

Find the places

Where you are bleeding

And find the words

To staunch the flow

I want to reach back

Through time

And in rhythm and rhyme

Trace history

Yours and mine

I want to see

Into the future

To the day we meet

Then write us back to now

So I can see the path

That leads me to you

If only my words

Could give me that clue

I want to write the stars

Stealing stardust as I do

So that when we finally meet

I can offer it to you

I will write words

Around my heart

A fortress for my pain

But I will also write

The key to my own lock

And let you use

My own words

Against me

Then maybe you will be

The one to set me free

I want to write peace

And prosperity

If only I could find the words

That spread love and equality.

If the pen is mightier

Than the sword;

Can poems vanquish guns?

And if the words are sung

Can we show

Every child

That they are loved?

Does it take music or dance

In addition to the words

For peace to stand a chance?

Is there some missing thing

That the words lack

Needed to make

Black and white

Just the ends

Of a grey scale

And not differing experiences

Of the human condition?

What words

Will banish animosity

So that the luminosity

Of a complexion

And the vibrancy

Of a personality

Are all that we see

When we look at

The faces of the world?

Those are the words

I need to find

So that people can know

That we are all the divine.

That me and mine

Are no better than you or yours,

That the different shores

That we call home

Are on the same planet.

Some day

We will look back

Knowing what those words were

But for now I will keep searching

Putting word after word

Until I find the ones

That do all these things

And you

No Dreaming About…The Three Things

I’ve explained this on twitter before. A series of tweets by way of an explanation for the occasional bizarre tweet that goes something like, “Tonight, no dreaming about clowns, rice krispy treats, or poodles”. (That was tonight’s by the way). But I wasn’t sure if I had ever offered up the full explanation in one place so here we are.

The list of three things is one of my favorite rituals and something unique to my relationship with my youngest son. So many little things that start with a first child sort of roll down hill and continue with each successive child so that by the time you got to the youngest they all knew the little routines. Those things that are unique about each parent and their relationship with their kids. Maybe a silly expression. Or a mannerism. Or in this case, a bedtime routine.

I was always the queen of the bedtime routine. Much to my ex-husband’s dismay. It started from before the oldest was born. I confess to reading and singing to him when he was still on the inside planning his escape. And I’ve sung to them almost every day since. By the time my ex tried to get in on the deal, the boys wouldn’t hear of it. Toddlers cut to the chase with an innocent honesty that can inflict more pain than a knife. Especially when they say “No Daddy, you can’t sing. Only Mommy can sing.” I still feel bad about that.

But that was my thing. That bedtime routine. Where we snuggled and read and talked. And when we were done with that daily cupcake of life, the icing was singing them to sleep.

And then Jake came along. And somewhere around the age of two or three, he had a bad dream and had a hard time getting to sleep. I don’t remember the exact circumstances, I just know I was in my own sleep deprived fog and I remembered something I had heard somewhere (no idea where) about reverse psychology and kids and the power of suggestion. About how if someone tells you, “Whatever you do, don’t think about a zebra,” you can’t help but picture a zebra. The word ‘don’t is an after-effect of sorts. Our brain first processes the thing and only afterwards the negative about the thing. Which is why we always told our kids what we wanted them to do (walking feet, quiet or inside voice, touch gently, etc) instead of what we didn’t want them to do because “Don’t run!”, translates into “Run!!”, to a little brain that has a hard time processing the secondary negative.

So in a moment of desperation I told him, “Whatever you do…NO dreaming about pink kitties or purple elephants!” Or something to that effect. I said it a few times and made sure he knew they were completely off limits. And it worked. And it’s become a part of of our nighttime routine ever since.

Somewhere along the way it went from two things to three. I tend to like groupings of odd numbered things. And I’ve tried to keep one food item, one animal, and one completely random thing in there. I also like to do the same thing as a writing prompt. It’s particularly helpful when the writer tends to enjoy writing bizarro.

So every night after reading and after either me singing (or as he’s started to develop a love for music)I now play a few calming/uplifting songs for him on my iPhone, I say this…

“Goodnight. Sleep tight. Don’t let the bed bugs bite. I love you and I’ll see you in the morning. No dreaming about…”

So may all your dreams be happy ones. And tonight, no dreaming about a mouse, a bologna sandwich, or a green umbrella.

Sue

Selfish Motivations

This site is all me. I use it to post rough drafts of my poems, provide information on my products and services I have for sale or offer, and as a place for blog posts. While this site is where I put all things me, I have another site that is very much not me in terms of content creation. This other site is ChocolateScotch.com. It’s primary goal is as home to the Creativity Blog Project. So far, the project has 88 entries (the most recent one was just posted this evening).

The stated purpose of the Creativity Blog Project is to collect submissions on the topics of Creativity, Art, and Inspiration for the purpose of further inspiring creativity in others. But, I feel the need to confess tonight….I think my motivations, while somewhat altruistic, are a bit on the selfish side. I look forward to getting and posting these essays (and poems, audio files, and stories) at least as much for the inspiration they give me as for any benefit they may be to others.

When my muse is being a wench, I take a field trip to my other site and pull up the Contributors pages. It’s both a walk down memory lane (which in and of itself can spark my imagination) and the words of wisdom offer so many opportunities for me to be inspired. So, while I hope it serves its intended purpose and helps inspire others, I’m just thrilled to be able to use it myself.

Funny thing about the posts there is that my favorites are by people who didn’t (or maybe still don’t) think of themselves as “creative”. They remind me that we ALL are creative and maybe we need to remind each other of that more often.

Embrace your creativity. Take time to use it in some small way every day. Slow down on your journey through life and look around you. Be gentle with yourself. Color outside the lines.

 

Inertia

I have so many days

Where I’m fighting

Inertia

It would be so easy

Just to give in

And some days I do

I allow myself

To be quiet and still

Feel myself sink down

Into the murky pool

Hoping the acts

Of being quiet and still

Will silence the voices

In my mind

The voices that taunt

And tease and jeer

Voices from my past

And my own inner demons

The ones I some days

Want to answer with

You were right

I’m still that fat little girl

I’m a talentless loser

Or hey, guess what

No one wants me

I’m alone

Are you happy now?

But I don’t let myself

Sink down into this

To give those demons

Those asshole kids

From the playground

What they want

I do it for me

Because when I quiet myself

I muzzle them too

I know they are there

Lurking in my shadows

But also there

In the darkness

Of my mind

I tethered a lifeboat

It is elegant and regal

And everything I’m not

It is every shade of pink

Satin and bows

It is every girly detail

I’ve never been

And it keeps me from sinking

Any farther than I choose

And when I sink

Quietly to this place

I become all that I am not

Recharging my energy

To fight another day

It’s taken me so very long

To understand myself

The rhythm of these moods

And most importantly

To understand that

It’s okay

To regroup

Recharge

To just be

The difference

Between inertia

And recharging

Between despair

And desire

Desire to do more

To be more

To persist in a world

That seems determined

To see me fail

Is my attitude

My understanding

That I am stronger

Than those voices

Stronger than the doubters

Stronger than they

Or I will ever know

I gather myself

In that quiet special place

The quiet of my inner strength

To push forward

Doing whatever needs done

To persist

Because I insist

On surviving

Thriving as an artist

As a woman

And as a mom

Fish Out of Water

***Warning: Mixed metaphors ahead. And while I know about them, I don’t care enough to change them. So do with that what you will. This is a post about how I’m feeling right now and finding these words meant struggling to climb up a slippery, muddy wall. The occasional piece of gnarled root was exposed and I grabbed hold. Turns out they were off the metaphor tree so there you go. Deal with it. ***

There’s this feeling I have. Of being off balance. That I’ve had my whole life. It’s like the hum of a high voltage line so strong you can feel it cause the hairs on your arms, or the back of your neck, to stand on end. It’s always there. Well, almost. The few times it’s been off everything became too quiet. And the lack of tension to my subconscious was as eerie to me as my inner power line would be to anyone else.

It’s a feeling of not belonging. Of walking into a new place where everyone who’s there already has a history together. Relationships. It’s always feeling like the new kid on the first day of 2nd grade. Or 6th grade. Or 8th grade. Or Junior year. Or midway through Junior year.

This goes beyond those childhood memories of the times we moved and that new kid feeling was my truth.  This is also about living in one place for twenty years and never calling it home. And, actually, I’ve lived in the same area for over 30 years now and I’ve always felt like I’m somewhere I don’t want to be. Like I’ve been exiled to a foreign land and I’m just waiting for something. Some kind of permission. To be freed so I can finally go home.

But I don’t know where or what circumstances that is. It’s like having sea legs and being uncomfortable on dry land. Now I’m not saying I prefer the unease. I just don’t know what to do with myself during those rare instances when the tension disappears.

Since this has always been a part of me, why talk about it now? Good question. A character suddenly showed herself to me a few days ago. I can see her clearly. I can see her as if I’m there. Something has happened and she is a mixture of frustration with a flash of anger. So to find out what’s going on I quietly walked over to her and slipped inside her skin. I wanted to start with the basics of her life. I wanted to just say, “Hi,” and ask her her name. But before I could get even that far I got that same feeling of not belonging from her.

For the first instance I thought that was her reaction to her surroundings. This feeling of being a fish out of water was so palpable that my throat turned dry. But after a moment I realized it wasn’t her. It was me. It was about her, certainly. But it was because she was there and I now need to get to know her. It’s about the process of figuring out not just who she is; but also about getting past a character to a story. An entire story. Not just a vignette or scene.

Some of my poems tell stories. Sort of. But even those are really more like scenes. They lack those key points where new things enter the story. They lack the escalation. I need monkey wrenches, dammit.

I read somewhere that being a fiction writer means you put your characters up a tree, you throw things at them, then eventually you let them back down. Granted, it’s overly simplistic; but it’s a visual that has stuck with me for some reason.

I need to find that tree. And things to throw. Preferably those monkey wrenches. If getting beaned with one of those doesn’t kill you it will certainly leave a mark.

Eventually, each time I’ve moved (or started something new), I got my bearings. And then it was some other aspect of my life that provided the electric current of newness that keeps me off balance.

For the past few years it’s been so many things that I’m surprised all my hair didn’t turn white and stick up like a wild caricature of Einstein if he’d stuck a fork in an outlet.

Between the divorce, and the move, and the new job, and my parents moving away, and new friends, and pushing myself to write and edit and so many ands…it astounds me that I didn’t spontaneously combust.

But now I’m suddenly on dry land. And aware that this should feel better, if not good. I still don’t feel like I’m home but there is a greater sense of belonging. I think my gills might have changed when I wasn’t paying attention because I’m starting to feel like I can breathe.

Now, I just need to figure out where a good tree is so I can chase this woman up it…

Silver Screen

Sun beating down

Nothing to be found

But dirt, dust, and more heat

Get up off the street

In out of the sun

Escape for some fun

Found two nickels

Only takes one dime

To escape from the ordinary

Have a good time

Alone in the balcony

Sitting in the dark

Going to another place

A different time

Where people seem happy

If a bit theatrical

But this is all the rage

Stars up on the stage

The big screen

Images flickering

In black and white

Into the night

Waiting for the dust to clear

For time to pass

The sun to go down

So I can look for a home

Safe from curious eyes

Laughing at the little tramp

His vagabond act

Remembering what it feels like

To laugh

To pass the time

Without a care in the world

Without the worry

Of where will I sleep?

What will I eat?

Living the life of the tramp

Without all the laughs

Or Hollywood wives

Sure, I could have spent

Those last ten cents

On a room for the night

Or a meal to eat

But this seat

I’m the dark

Takes me to another place

Entirely

And as it’s up to me

I’d rather experience

The sense of adventure

Then quiet the grumbling

In my belly tonight

They are such a sight

Up there bathed in light

Slapstick comedy

Seems silly to me

But I’d rather laugh

Then cry

If only I

Can get another dime

Before next week

I’ll be able to see the next show

Maybe I’ll find someone else

To go with me

Maybe see a double feature

Maybe a creature flick

Or a Hitchcock mystery

But life is scary enough

Out there alone

That I think I’d rather laugh

Before the lights come up

And my time is up

And I have to breathe in

All that dust again

Ceiling Fan

The heat builds up

Gradually on that first weekend in May

But by Memorial Day

It’s a sauna before the morning

Ebbs into noon

Far too soon

To last the day

Without changing your shirt

At least once

But my favorite part of a hot

Pre-summer day

I suppose

Comes as the light

Begins to fade

And I take my repose

On the chaise

As peaches and pinks

Paint the sky

And you begin to remove

All my clothes

The warm sultry air

Gently stirred

By the slow turning blades above

Whispers across my skin

As we slide down to the floor

Oblivious to everything

Except our need to make love

The evening’s breath

While scented with florals

And softly caressing my face

Can not dare to compare

To the heady musk of our sex

Or the feelings created

By your fingers and face

As you trace lines

Up and down my skin

Spiking pleasure akin

To dying

Each revolution

Of the slow turning fan

Pushing a wave of warm air

Over bodies so hot

That it feels cool

Sweat glistening

On goose pimpled flesh

As we make our way to the bed

The cold sheets

Offer quick relief

Briefly returning my temperature

To normal

Until you join me

Skin touching skin

I welcome you in

To my embrace

Once again pulses race

And we heat up the place

As if Summer needs help

Pushing Spring out the door

No matter how many

Times before

We’ve fallen to the floor

Or the bed or the tub

Or wherever

There’s nothing that reminds me of you

Quite like seeing

A fan slowly turning

Leaving me yearning

For the press of your heat

Against mine

While I love when the air

Turns cold again

Giving me reason

To snuggle closer to you

My favorite season

Is when it’s just warm enough

For the ceiling fan

To be on

Broomhilda

She is tall and lean

Simple yet clean lined

Casually aloof

As she stands in the corner

Inspecting the cobwebs

Connecting the planes above

She is loved

For her practical nature

Her attention to detail

And while she’s thankful

To be so appreciated

How wonderful would it be

To swirl across the floor

Dancing carefree?

To be swept up

In the arms of a lover

And twirled around the floor

To be relegated to just work

No more

She is firm and strong

With a song in her heart

As she bustles about at work

Old fashioned to some

She gets the job done

Without complaint

Or idle chatter

Nothing’s the matter

With her

Why do you ask?

She is completely content

Standing there on her own

Oh she supposes

The song that she hears

I’m her heart

Is frivolous and silly

She doesn’t dare hope

That anyone else hears it too

For she is a simple servant

Not destined for romance or song

She gets along fine

Minding her own

But the song that she hears

Is simple and clear

Like bells ringing

In a cool breeze

Celebrating the morning

And when without warning

She is startled from her quiet repose

As her dreams

Of music and dance

Come to life

In the hands of a girl

They twirl and spin

Round the floor

Sweeping turns

In place

It’s a marvelous race

To tidy the house

Before the mister

Who belongs to the lass

Gets home

She has a secret to divulge

With a theatrical wink

And a nudge

And she wants to set the scene

So everything

Must be tidy and clean

Before her man arrives home

When she’s finally sure

That everything is perfect

She bows to Broomhilda

And thanks her for the dance

Now is her chance

To wait for romance

He’ll be home

In just a few moments

Then she’ll spring her surprise

Waiting to see the delight

In his eyes

When she tells him

He’ll soon be a dad.

She’ll stand watch

From her corner

A quiet witness to the moment

Thrilled about the upcoming birth

Knowing her mistress

Divulged her secret to her first

While they danced round that room

A girl and her broom

Dreams coming true

For them both.

Sue