like the song says

WHIMSY 

I want to love like the song says

 

I will follow along with the song, with that little flutter and swirl in my stomach I remember as moments of smiles and torment, sweat and sighs, pounding hearts and fists all set to a rhythm.

Closed eyes remember trying to listen closely,

 sitting closely and trying desperately not to move too closely

 too quickly. Feeling always like falling into you. Wave upon Wave of emotion. Little black dots on a white sheet of paper laid against narrow lines,

like figures snuggling within black and white sheets,

trace out the steps of the days I tried to love. And make it sound so much sweeter.

Can I dance in complete dedication to the idea of you? I want to walk out into the coming storm as the winds rise up and beat

the white linen waiting to be beaten

 and creased and soaked with the force that trips us naturally onto each other.

No effort here. If only forever could be spent here. Called up to action by currents of seamless sensations that sway with the emotion the motion

of the tones and tenor, and notes create.

Heavy beats

dropping flesh and moisture in violent rhythm’s

 one on the other, slowing to recover then thrown back to each other. Movements increasing, with the pitch, in energy and effort. Muffled sighs fall unheard in the chaos of sound that the music brings. Bruising and marking the air and each other with distinct sound. A love affair is being played and the world waits listening intently to the song it’s creating and that is creating it.

I want to love like the song says for a little while. To raise my arms up to the dark sky heavy with the tears of inevitability and smile anxiously in welcoming.

The leaves, whispering in their restless writhing,

 watch the cool air pull forth shivers from my skin as I wait for you.

Just a thought for a minute or three

to wrap my mind around as the notes carry me into the night riddled with tiny bright eyes watching my tears flow and my throat ache as I sing to it with stifled passion. Lit up with longing

vibrating with pain and alive in the noise that filters thoughts into the night. Coming alive for a moment in expectation of a memory.

What experience let fall short the song lets imagination fulfill

and I can Love You Like That for a moment. Yes, that sounds right. Yes that feels right. Yes, that’s my song too.

I want to love like the song for a measure in the heat of day filled with nothing but memories of possibilities. Heat burning away the thoughts drenched with sadness from my arms and washing away the care. It feels good to hurt, listening as she tells me how she stayed. How the world dimmed and her spirit choked with every step he took to the door. And she ran after him falling at his feet, pleading, loving. Now I want to stay with you for a moment and feel that love.

Happy to be a Fool in Chains.

I’ll let go myself and follow the melody bouncing from reason to whim, content to be kissed and held in wafts of superficial love. But for how long because… I know me.

I want to love for a while, for a different while with eternal hope and resolution that just YOU are the finite desire my desire requests.

I want to stop for a while and lay down on soft green melodies of warmth and feeling.

To let my head swim with every aspiration to see myself in your future a cool convincing voice can intone. And let the song induce me into believing that it’s forever, if only for a little while.

I want to settle my restlessness in a soft cushion of love and kisses that buffet my anxiety and coax the boredom to still and dissipate, if only for today.

Let me make you every reason I have for being happy.

Place the sunlight in your hands and the breeze on your lips so that you can be my reason to wake every morning. If only for this morning.

And so I keep waiting like the song.

And I try to Hurry Love though they tell me I Can’t in spite of not being sure what I’m hurrying it for.

Still-

I want to jump on this train of thought and ride it to the next station forgetting that the end is coming and enjoy the view through the windows of your eyes,

while the music plays.

Bewitch me. Bother me with your glances. And Bewilder me

 with the ways you occupy your time. Then take your glance from me and wrench my heart awake.

Let the song remind me of the first times, the prelude to the At Last.

I want to say Good morning to the Heartache,

if only for today, and if only to say I was filled with something.

 So I’ll Follow You, if you Follow Me

through doorways to bedrooms and to a doorway again.

So I can sit on the steps and watch you drive away as the song fades to an end.

 Walking in the sand the words failed me. The constant rhythm of life beat new memories into my head. I lost hold of YOUR hand. Maybe I let go. And tried to love like he said he did when he sang to her about not wanting to let go.  And I didn’t want to for a brief interlude. But I left.I said goodbye to YOU promising we’d meet again, empty promises floating among the notes in my head.I put YOU away when your smile lost its freshness and your words lost their gleam. Because it wasn’t the right beat, it didn’t fit.Goodbye and goodbye and goodbye. I can’t say I miss you and so the songs are that much more beautiful. Strange and interesting songs talk of things I’ve touched only in passing and entertained briefly before the music stopped. Not quite long enough.Then you, and you, and you came back. But for me, the song was over.

Silence is deafening.

Reality is a bland serving of lost time and premature expectations that misfired. Like shooting blanks. No substance no solace. No point when the music’s turned off.

I wish the song could last longer.

WHY DOES MOM BURN THE EGGS?

 

 

I’ll tell you why mom burns the eggs

Why the pancakes are a little too brown,

Why muffins are toasty

and the toast tastes like charcoal

and the meat like it’s been on the ground.

 

WELL-

I’ll crack the eggs when the pan’s just right

I’ll drop them in and watch

They’ll sizzle a little slightly turn white

And then I’ll here  “MOM!”

 

Hang on I say

-          “MOM!”

-          just a minute,

-          “MOM!”

Then another slightly smaller, more shrill

- “MOMMY”
to which “coming”, I say,

As I take out the dvd,

-clean it,

-wipe up the floor

Leave it dry,

catch your sister and

take the scissors away…

 

The eggs are burning!

 

Just in time to stir out the brown

and hope that you don’t see

I lay down the bacon pop in the toast

and try to find something for me.

 

Moms have to eat too you know.

And I peel the fruit and get a bowl and turn the bacon round

Then I hear a scream, then a crash and plop dropping everything on the ground

 

“so much for eating…”

 

Running to the bedroom

your lying on the floor

Cause you stubbed your toe

and you just don’t know

If you can walk anymore.

 

Are you kidding?

 

The bacon!

 

Just in time to put out the fire I salvage a piece or two

As smoke fills the room I have the pleasure of hearing this comment from you…

 

“MOM, What’s burning?”

 

“Nothing”, I say flatly

as I hear the toast pop up,

And I notice someone’s cleverly

managed to slide the level up

 

“Black toast….

Hmm…, Maybe a little jelly… some butter…

…I’ll eat it.”

 

Another round later I smile to myself

as I set the fresh toast down

then the napkins and bacon all the while I’m shaking

Happy the bread is a light golden brown

 

I wipe sis’s face free of marker

Get play-do out of her hair

scrape all the glue from off of my shoe

and find you a pair of clean underwear.

 

Now the table’s set

All I have to get

is some milk

And silverware too

Find your sister

change her diaper

And get your back pack too.

 

“Dig in.” I say.

 

“I wanted pancakes”!

“Where is the butter?”

“I need a knife and a napkin too!”

“Knife your left,

It already has butter

and the napkins are  in front of you”

 

“now EAT!”

 

“MOM…”

 

“Yes?”

 

“Why are the eggs burnt?”

 

“Are you kidding?”

 

By the way-

I don’t like my eggs burnt either

Charcoal tasting toast make me ill

And if the muffins stick to the pan

It’s cause I’m probably off cleaning a spill.

 

When the meat is dry or the pancakes runny it’s not ‘cause I like waste

Or because your mean old mommy wants to force your delicate tastes.

 

See your homework’s checked and slips are signed

And your teeth are healthy and white

And you’re very smart and you’ll also find

You’ve a cozy bed to sleep in tonight.

 

‘Cause I’m thinking of work and your ball games

And even your wedding bells too

Your tuition and dances and all of the chances

that I want to give to you,

When I’m burning the eggs and the toast is too toasty

and the bacons a little too brown.

 

Here’s a thought-

 

If you keep your self busy without breaking your neck

And your nice to your sister too

And you manage to not burn the house down

There are other things I can do too.

 

I can time the toast and watch the eggs

Fold the clothes and make my bed

Dress myself and fix my face

Fix myself a meal I like instead.

 

Of not….

  

and your bacon your toast

the muffins the pancakes, the meat and the biscuits too

the eggs and all of a moms other jobs

might be perfect

-just like you.

  

“IF”

If I take you to dinner will you take me to bed?

If I take you to church will you forgive me?

If I let you sleep in will you cook me breakfast?

If I answer the phone will you call back?

Again?

Take this dance and make it as awkward and unnecessary as the future
called “the morning after.”

Take my hopes
and scream them aloud
in the wake of every failure, of every destruction of dream my dream of
love has set forth;
to the world. To my horror.

Take the time to speak of your beautiful, treacherous, independence as
you douse the lights and turn down the covers.
And I agree with every word.

Because in these moments
when everything is possible
the end has already been written.

It breaks my heart to laugh with you
and it makes you uncomfortable
that you feel so at home with me.

If time wrote the past in strokes of compassion on the memory the soul
wouldn’t fear it.
And pride wouldn’t be forced to force “reality”
down our throats dissing illusion if only to ‘protect’ our hearts.

And as our senses dull to the brilliant shine of possibility
the possibility of something that might work
gets blurred by impatience and lack of faith,
in people,…
In ourselves.

And in those few awkward and unnecessary phone calls that follow I
will know why.
And you will know why we don’t work.

But for tonight-

Let’s speak of the need to be sober in love. And imbibe the reasons for
why
we’ve failed in a series of allusions to some common thought and
inference. Let’s share in the drowning of those shared emotions,
as we move further away from what we’ve always sought. Because as we
gladly watch our cynicism grow drunk and faithless, the sparks-
the similarities between us-
fade too in a feeling of familiarity that whispers ” a match…” before
it’s gone

Desire and need get “blurred” with objectivity and the many reasons why
you
And I
Deserve better.
I’ll trade you a “how could she?” for a “why would he?”

And as the wine turns time on it’s side and the reason that brought two
such
Splendidly, similar people together slips into the past we can speed a
lifetime of understanding into the vacuous hours of this night and live
a lifetime of possibility til dawn

AND,
If I find your arms familiar at daybreak,
If I kiss you’re forehead and slip back to sleep-

Will you let me?

If I don’t ask YOU for more-
Will YOU do it for me?

Please…

If I answer the phone will you call back? again?
If I call you first will you respect me?
What if I then make you wait?

How many days does it buy me?

Us?

“Bring Them to Me”

Bring them to me. Let me breathe their scent. Melt in their warmth and be important again.

Give me the sense of a simpleton to know what soft skin and questions are worth.

Make my dull mind a genius if it means I’ll change. Understand love and people.

            That the value of the equation is greater than the sum of the parts of transient things

NO- than the best result the catalysts the world offers may yield.

Bring them to me to wrap myself around them and feel every inch of them. As if wrapped in good and purity.

So that I can be for those moments washed pure and made good.

Give me their eyes, glistening, sun like with wisdom of kings and ages so that I can again understand life and suffering.

Hand me their hearts so their strength can be palpable and I can recognize the power in every beat of will and resilience. They’ve withstood my pain with the courage of warriors who come back again and again. And again.

Watch me run – the coward. Selfish and afraid. Confused by nothing. Filled with everything and feeling empty.

Study this fool, this idiot, and learn.

Learn what not to do.

“a sudden conversation”

Inadequate.

What?

I said INADEQUATE!

I think I’m inadequate.

Wipe that look of concern and disbelief off of your face.

How dare you compliment me!

How dare you dismiss my feelings!

How dare you comment on what you haven’t lived.

Stop looking for scars there are none. Not visible scars.

Only lost memories and a few I would rather not talk about to protect the guilty.

Don’t worry no crimes were committed only the slow constant degeneration of a once magnificent soul.

Yeah, magnificent.

The ability to regenerate optimism and hope was liquidated to conserve the energy to sustain some type of forward movement.

Even the angels get tired sometimes.

Simply inadequate.

Oh!………….And now my lack of any tangible success and lingering lack of belief in society in the people around me and myself has nothing to do with the people around me but with myself?

I knew that.

My motivation is mediocre.

My introspection gets bored.

My impetus to do and be is impeded.

There is only forward motion.

And THAT is inadequate.

“won’t explain”

I’m not going to explain it
I’ll leave it up to you
Even in the foreword
Some things aren’t true

If I call this elephant a guest
and ask it to sit down
And take it for a walk
Really parade it around

Will you ask?
Or will you say you understand?

When doubt impregnates cynicism
Issues are born with the frequency of words

These thoughts underneath your gaze
are like baby elephants in your favorite neighbors room

Does your courtesy lead your comments about them?
Does your conscience explain what you see?
Is it easier to turn the page, look away
And claim you understand me?

The more I explain
The more you know
The more you know
The less you’ll want to hear..

So I’ll put the elephants on parade for the world
And let them gaze in wonderment
at the splendor of ambiguity
Certain that they know the “real” truth

“Perceptions and Personifications”

Perceptions and Personifications

I think I have a crush on a city from my past.

I find that I think in its terms now.

I measure the effect of events in my life now by how they compare to what I felt with the hardships of those days.

Would sadness in paradise be any less? Yes.

Although far from paradise it was a nice imitation of a cheap vacation

And I can’t stop thinking about it

I view present moments of my life from eyes stuck in the distant environment I sauntered through in 2006

Strangely, new feelings have developed from that long and tumultuous encounter.

What was once a tedious recollection of events has evolved…

Now my perceptions are tinged with the accents particular to _________.

I can taste its morning sunshine on the hills sweet and clear when I awake here

The tanginess of its cool afternoons spinning through the valleys and into my days today tease me leaving a smile

Sharp bursts of heat and sweat coat my mind like the hot days there stuck in traffic with a slurpee and a the roof back, breaking the dull temperature of these stoic afternoons in a warm nostalgia

Once the busy nights there were so empty to me as I drove alongside crowds of cars alone in a familiar city

Now a canvas of mist lingering from an evening rain and lazing dreamily over the horizon of hills drenched with little stars hangs heavy over my dreams at night.

If only we could get a few “do overs” in life I’d fashion our introduction differently.

I insulted the city upon our first introduction and it holds quite a grudge I’ve learned.

It closed its doors,  locked its windows and spread the word like a bitter gossip about the new girl.

And round and round I went through loops and hills trying to get a chair before the music stopped.

Trying to find a place to rest for a moment and gather my courage for more.

Even the music pauses briefly in the game but not in ______.

How do you get out from under a bad sign?

The sad truth of a hundred days of failure is that for all of the regrets i don’t want to forget a moment under that city’s sky.

I search my mind now for more of its mornings and evenings and their smells and sounds, eccentricities of its environment.

Oh the fierce dominance of nature in all directions that was __________.

I miss it.

Like a misunderstood relationship I want to go back and try again…

What if it was all a misunderstanding on my part. And this time with humility and good will I approach that foreign world anew?

What if I live our new encounter like a friend not a competitor and I allow myself to think kindly about its inhabitants?

If I find virtue in its mountains and strength in its seas surely I can find the inspiration to engage its stormy society and calm a corner of its many chambers convincing it to submit its shelter to me and my family too.

If _________ personifies happiness perhaps someday I can perceive happiness, even live happiness, in its arms.

“Stories”

an old couple gets bored with each other…

 

“You know you could fill a library with your words about you.

Which would serve a purpose, then I could choose what story to hear each day.

I’ve been reading along about you with dutiful interest for years,

 

now suddenly I’ve lost my place.

 

I’d find the spot if I could remember what volume to look in.

I’m sure I heard something interesting about you once.

I know there was some vague similarity that brought me to you.

And I’m sure there are words to describe that day

And I’m sure I’m in the story somewhere.

I’d catalog your life if I could remember anything about it.

The more you speak the more I forget what you’ve said.

There more it all sounds the same.

What’s more there’s a book around here somewhere about me.

It’s a familiar tale of distant adventure with different characters,

One of heartache and injustice and a cruel, cruel world.

Have I told why my story is different. Have I shown you the appendages?

What about the abridged version. Oh wait that one wasn’t mine.

Anyway my story gets better in the middle.

Make sure you read with extra care.

I’ll be sure to speak slowly and with extra emotion.

I dare say my story is a little more tragic than yours.

 

What’s wrong you look like you’ve lost your place?”

Poetic melodies

If life had a soundtrack music would be the expressions of a poet. The words of a writer would tell the story in melodies that appealed to everyone. And all that we needed to understand one another would be ears. 

How simple it would be.

-ME

(c) 2007 Crystal Martinez

William Bougereau

When I was in college I first began to truly exercise my individuality. Probably more because I was increasingly alone than because I was a “late bloomer”. I began to take an interest in making the space that was mine my own and that meant decorating. Myself, my rooms, my car, everything. I realized that there were a number of opportunities to take to become my own individual. Working and going to school opened my mind to an ocean of tastes that I had for a long time left up to my parents.

In their absence I was able to redefine who I was not only in a spiritual but tangible all be it materialistic sense. Which led me to William Bougereau. being Catholic I had a strong sense of being cared for even when my parents or others weren’t around. So when I saw the paintings he’d made of angels and other ethereal creatures I was instantly a fan.

Some of the first paintings to cover the walls of my new apartments were L’inocence (the first picture which I still have today), The first Kiss( I used to have a copy of this don’t know where it ended up by still haven’t been able to find a replacement), and Le Cupidon (have a copy of this). Many people have taken the angel phenomena and made it gaudy and cheap, but something about Bougereau’s work maintains a quality and authenticity not found in other artists paintings. And as long as they aren’t framed in gold, spray-painted, plastic frames or printed on velour in flourescent, glow in the dark accents, I still love to look at the pieces. (lol)

I recently found a few I hadn’t seen before that I wanted to share. One, the one with a mother and child I posted along with a poem I wrote for my daughter.

Enjoy.