My Foray into Poetry

Please do not judge this cheesy poem too harshly - it came to me while I was walking to the Metro and thinking of a particularly good looking man.  It is PURE cheese... but heartfelt and sincere... but CHEESE !!


We are crazy, complicated and complex creatures.
We spin our webs of interpretations with every simple syllable uttered,
Making both ourselves and the hapless flies we desire to ensnare
Dizzy and nauseous with our efforts.
What did he mean by that "Hello", in that particular tone?
What do his smiles symbolize?
What did he mean to signify by telling me that I looked good?
We are all about the subject, object, subtext, and context,
While our knowing victims skim and skate across the waters of meaning like Daddy Long Legs.

Attempting to draw them ever closer, ever nearer,
We risk their escaping while traipsing every so slowly towards them on the thin and pendulous threads of hope.
Daydreaming about a cheeky grin or a
A set of eyes the color of moist soil after a brief shower,
Expectation, the dasher of dreams, smasher of hopes, murderer of reality,
Rears its obnoxious head to whisper in our ears.
Falsely soothing our fears and boosting our self-fashioned confidence,
Struggling with our hearts, minds and egos,
Befuddling, meddling and riddling itself into the fray.

Lines blurred and crossed,
Borders, walls and fences peeked over but not torn asunder,
Dances danced, words spoken,
Wishing our love might make them feel like
Butterflies escaping the dreary confines of their self-imposed cocoons,
Longing to make them feel as joyful and powerful
As bumblebees tasting the sweet nectar of flowers
On that first glorious spring day.

Home: Part Two

Sitting on the scratchy surface of my front balcony, my back against the even rougher beige brick of my apartment's exterior wall, I am taking great pleasure in my two drugs of choice.  Rather surprised that I am not sleepier than I should be, considering the past two nights of awesome benders, the first having spent the remainder of the evening in great company and the second having gotten too wasted for my own good with my two crazy girls while celebrating the end of an era for one of them;  the accumulated lack of snooze-worthy hours should have, by now, hit me and made me fatigued beyond repair, but surprisingly I have been up since 7am and do not feel the tug of sleep at all. 

I am seated with my legs bent, my feet drawn in close towards me, letting both innocent and more painful thoughts flit through my head like the black birds in flight I am observing.  The two of them are involved in an intricate aerial ballet, shrieking as they dive and swerve towards and away from each other.  The soothing sound of the dried out pods in the trees lulls me into a pleasant and calm state of mind and I close my eyes for a brief moment.  Snippets of songs blaring from my office reach my ears and I softly mumble the lyrics sung by various artists like Bon Jovi, Florence and the Machine, Amanda Marshall, Fiest, Sia and my new favorite singer, Adele, while the traffic on the main street creates its very own symphony by interjecting with each speeding car.

Today has been a beautiful one, not only because of the Spring weather, but also because I have been doing nothing more strenuous than reading while basking in the glorious sun, doing laundry and eating a tasty ham sandwich while in the company of my mother.  Listening to Adele's wonderfully crafted song "Someone Like You" for the first time brought with it some tears of regret and feelings of failure, but I masochistically listened to it repeatedly at least ten times, in awe of both the words and the powerful voice singing them.  Belting out the lyrics through,or because of, the salty liquid streaming down my still slightly chubby cheeks, creating a streaky and smeared mess of yesterday's mascara, my voice building in assurance and growing with confidence with each uttered syllable.  The result of my audience-less, unless you count my cat as an audience of one, and solo performance has been an even raspier and sexier voice.  Despite the bludgeoning of emotions I have experienced, each guilty thought acting like a stone being cast by an associated memory, I am feeling strangely calm and sated now, the tears having dried up and the runny mascara having been wiped away.

Another evening planned out with the girls at our usual and preferred haunt has turned into a prolonged me day, so I decide to rent movies and stay in.  I take a shower to wipe away last night's debauchery and sense a cleanliness within myself that transcends the mere soap, water and shampoo I used.  I tuck my legs under me on the couch and snuggle deeper into the green fabric's welcoming folds, having grabbed my cozy blanket for the occasion.  Velvet decides to join me by curling herself up into a tight little furry ball in the crux of my left arm.  I watch the two movies, absentmindedly petting my purring beauty, getting lost within the stories unfolding in front of my eyes and enjoying my own and my cat's company for the rest of the evening.

Home

Sitting at my desk, letting the warmth of my little corner of the world slowly seep into my cold and tired body, I have the whole, empty apartment to myself.  The piece of cheesecake I thought had been left in the fridge for me is gone and I am so very sad about that;  I can picture my face having crestfallen upon opening the fridge and discovering a bare shelf instead of a promising box of happiness.  I must therefore content myself with a can of sun-dried tomato flavoured tuna and crackers - a far cry from the potential slice of cheese heaven I had imagined making love to upon arriving home.  To my small octangular white plate, I add a few sliced pickled beets, a hard-boiled egg and two pieces of Feta, creating a smorgasbord of culinary weirdness.  Can you tell I have not done my groceries in a little while?  Under the horrible circumstances of not being able to inhale a promised morsel of sweet cheesecake goodness, I have been forced to add some form of cheese to my plate in order to compensate.

Surrounded by my bright turquoise office walls and bookshelves filled beyond capacity with my beloved books, I am listening to Linkin Park's "Waiting for the End".  The poignant lyrics flow from my mouth without my conscious knowledge of their doing so and I am typing away while visual snippets of my great day flash in my mind's eye.  The music is a little louder than usual at this hour given that my roomie is MIA and I am happily chatting with one of my adored female friends about our respective days as I reread a few of my blogs.  I nibble at my strange combination of food while Velvet periodically maneuvers herself between my legging-clad calves, the sound of her nails hitting the hardwood floor as she again and again walks away make it seem as though she is wearing a feline version of stilettos.  The softly jangling bell on her red plaid collar gently announces her presence once again near my left foot even before I see her sitting there calmly.  She places her two front paws on the edge of the chair's cushion, looks up at me and meows, signifying her confusion as to why she is still sitting on the floor rather than in my lap.  I gently scoop her up in my arms, her persistent initial resistance undercut by her almost instantaneous purring, and hold her close against me, feeling her tiny body relax.  I place her on my lap and continue to type, letting her settle more comfortably in the hollowed space created by my having my right leg curled under my left;  she stays and purrs for awhile as I pet her sleek warmth. 

Disturbing my baby from her short rest, I decide to take a brief break from the blogging, chatting and checking of emails by going outside on my front balcony, becoming disconnected from everything and everyone for that small moment.  The air outside as it caresses my face is very crisp and the usual sound of traffic coming from Langelier is non-existent at this hour.  A few cars pass every once in a while, but the streets are otherwise deserted.  I lean again the unyielding, cold brick wall and close my eyes for a few seconds, listening to the bizarre elongated pods rustling and swaying in the bare branches of the tree in my landlord's yard.  Looking up at the mere two stars peeking out from their cloudy blanket and then glancing at the darkened window next door, I think about my sleeping mother, hoping that she is feeling better and knowing that she won't tell me if she isn't.  The windows in the other apartments across my street are blackened save for a few;  I wonder what those people are doing and if they are wishing for sleep as I am.  I am hoping for the sweet release of slumber to take its hold, but I know that will not happen for another few hours, so I stand on my balcony, my ratty pink Concordia sweatshirt that has seen better days providing me with a limited coverage from the nippy breeze.  I watch the smoke from my cigarette circling up into the night sky and thank those two stars that I have such fantastic friends in my life.    

More Mustard, Less Ketchup

Us humans, the amazing creatures that we are, are multi-talented in so many ridiculous ways;  for example, take yours truly: I can walk to the Metro, letting the blissful Spring sun warm up my still chilly from Winter face, smoke, drink my French Vanilla and answer my "Black and Yellow" blaring cellphone, albeit a little clumsily and with cigarette ash flying in my face, all at the same bloody time.  AND, I might have been listening to my Ipod too, but I had not plugged myself in yet... that came AFTER I answered my phone.  We, as the advanced species that we are, can send our scientists into outer space, create atomic bombs that have the capacity to wipe out our whole existence and we also have the ability to mass produce magical little pills that give impotent sixty and plus year old men back their virile youths.  Hell, we can even have sex, pretending to be enjoying ourselves while we mentally go over the day's events, create To Do lists and wonder why we did not do that load of laundry.  We are evolved, intelligent and productive beings that can accomplish so many great and mundane feats and yet, when it comes to doing something as simple as telling another person exactly how we feel and what we are really thinking, most of us, if not all of us, are fumbling around in the dark, unable to make that most basic of human connections.

How is it that after a whole early and late morning of seemingly incredible and flowing conversation and an admittedly difficult to coordinate date, if I can attach that label to our outing, he was unable to tell me that he had lost interest?  Because, as far as I could tell, and as much as he had said himself, there had been something there... unless he was lying to begin with to save my feelings?  In our day and age where there are so many various forms of communication, from emailing, chatting to text messaging, all he had to do was pick one and  explain himself.  Funny how there are numerous different ways of speaking to people, but it seems as though we are talking less and less to one another and leaving so much more space for unnecessary interpretation.

After some bullshit speech, which I am unhappy to report I bought into hook, line and sinker, about how individuals nowadays are not treating each other with kindness and respect anymore, how is it that he didn't even have the decency of responding to text messages?  How is it that he could say that he would let me know later on if he was available for a potential encounter at Hurley's and then not have the heart or guts to let me know that he could not or did not want to?  Was it any better to leave me hanging any time I attempted a friendly hello or suggested the possibility of a coffee?  What's the deal?  Was he not capable of saying something like, "Look, we had a great time the other night/day, but I am no longer interested in getting to know you."  Simple, no?  Instead, he took the easy way out, preferring to excuse his selfish and disrespectful behavior with the too often used "I'm too busy" card.  Right.  I have six part-time jobs that do take up quite a lot of my time and energy, but I still managed to make an effort.

Why can't two people, well more specifically a man and a woman, just be honest with each other?  Why does there always seem to be an element of game playing involved?  I mean, don't get me wrong, I love me a game of Monopoly or Cranium, but for Christ's sake, why can't we just call a spade a spade when it comes to matters between members of the opposite sex?  A man who is genuinely interested in you, and perhaps the operative word here is genuinely, should show you that and not make you feel silly or out of line when you are attempting to do the same - if not, fuck off.

Mustard... and a Little Ketchup

Sitting on the back rest of a pockmarked wooden bench at the corner of Maisonneuve and Mackay, the intoxicating taste of cigarette smoke and my already lukewarm Franglais Timmy's pleasantly mingling and lingering on my taste buds, I people-watch while the wind ruffles and plays with my short, spiky hair.  A forgotten and abandoned newspaper flutters underneath my feet, rolling and undulating in its own sort of solitary dance even though it has been deserted by its disrespectful reader.  The sound of a passing security guard's jangling keys reaches my ears, competing with the underlying and low-droning noise of nearby construction work and the intermittent honks made by jaded and impatient drivers.  Students scurry by, some tightly clutching their books to their chests as though the bound pieces of transformed dead trees are life buoys amidst the sea of knowledge in which these poor souls are threading water, others confidently stroll along, a mixed perfume of arrogance and contempt trailing behind them as they make their righteous way to class.  A bearded and turbaned man accompanied by his friends walks closely by me;  he unabashedly looks towards the opening of my shirt, his eyes remain fixated at my barely visible cleavage for a while as I glare at his face, willing him to look me in the eyes rather than at the apparently more interesting area below my chin and neck.  I glance back towards the lonely and discarded newspaper, ignoring the man fascinated with my breasts, and let the flood of questions and queries invade my mind.

In today's individualistic and narcissistic modern world, is it so difficult to find someone with whom you can truly be yourself, without any second-guessing or doubts?  A person who thinks about you with a dreamy smile plastered upon his face as he pictures you while at school, work or elsewhere.  Someone who recognizes your quirkiness and yet loves you for it anyways.  An individual who sees your worth and value as though you are a treasure he would risk everything to safeguard and protect.  A man with whom you can share your insecurities and fears and who can do the same with you.  A man who is not afraid to invest in you and what the two of you are creating and building together, much like a savvy businessman stakes his fortune on an unknown shareholding company despite the fact that the stock market is an unreliable beast.  A man who respects, admires and worships you despite, or even because of, all your supposed faults and is unafraid to address these with you.  A man who believes in the follies of initial love and trusts the slow and steady development of even deeper feelings.

How is it that I can give myself 100% to anyone who gives me 50% or less, giving him my heart and trust almost at the initial hello?  The subconscious monologue within my head sounding something like this: "Well, hello there sir, here is my heart," as I rip it out of my chest, still beating, and hand it to him unceremoniously while it drips blood onto the floor, "Do what you'd like with it, but please do return it bruised, broken and cracked once you are done so that I may give it, damaged, to someone else."  Is this a deficiency on my part?  To trust and expect that people will treat me the way I treat them?  To want to make the recipient of my attention feel like a million bucks when he is making me feel like the equivalent of a Toonie or less?

And when I am alone, sitting on the first step of my gallery while pondering the great meaning of life, where is this contempt for myself stemming from like a weed in full bloom, beautiful in its ugliness within a garden of lilies?  From which place within my psyche is this anger, frustration, bitterness, hostility and anxiety brimming and bubbling over the edges like a Black Velvet stirred too quickly, spewing and spilling over the rim of its tall, thick glass onto the sticky wooden table that has felt way too much disgorged liquids upon its lacquered surface?  When I look in the mirror, who is this fuzzy peach-headed, funkily accessorized and pierced nosed woman staring back with mascaraed and slightly blood-shot eyes?  Why am I able to transform my exterior shell so easily, letting go of the good, cutesy girl look for a more edgy and rocker chick image, shedding my old physical self like a snake discards its skin and slithers away stealthily?  How is it that I can barely scratch and skim the surface of what is going on within my heart and head?  Am I toughening my look in the hopes that my heart will follow suit and become less prone to fragility and vulnerability?

Why am I always reaching out rather than in?  Letting my tentacled emotions latch onto others, squid-like, suffocating them and dragging them down into the unknown and as yet undiscovered depths of my ocean self? Why do I keep trying, again and again and again... when will it be enough?  Even when I confidently say that I am not trying, looking or seeking, I end up making the first move, smiling the first smile, texting the first message, typing the first words in a chat session, making a suggestion for drinks or downright inviting... and then I end up feeling defeated when my appeals are rebuffed, ignored or taken lightly.

I just want to find my star...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qQxPWT-ifyI