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Composed Aesthetically

B By Sara Kay

B By Sara Kay 

If I should have a daughter, instead of "Mom," she's gonna call me "Point B," because that way she knows that no matter what happens, at least she can always find her way to me. And I'm going to paint solar systems on the backs of her hands so she has to learn the entire universe before she can say, "Oh, I know that like the back of my hand." And she's going to learn that this life will hit you hard in the face, wait for you to get back up just so it can kick you in the stomach. But getting the wind knocked out of you is the only way to remind your lungs how much they like the taste of air. There is hurt, here, that cannot be fixed by Band-Aids or poetry. So the first time she realizes that Wonder Woman isn't coming, I'll make sure she knows she doesn't have to wear the cape all by herself because no matter how wide you stretch your fingers, your hands will always be too small to catch all the pain you want to heal. Believe me, I've tried. "And, baby," I'll tell her, don't keep your nose up in the air like that. I know that trick; I've done it a million times. You're just smelling for smoke so you can follow the trail back to a burning house, so you can find the boy who lost everything in the fire to see if you can save him. Or else find the boy who lit the fire in the first place, to see if you can change him." But I know she will anyway, so instead I'll always keep an extra supply of chocolate and rain boots nearby, because there is no heartbreak that chocolate can't fix. Okay, there's a few heartbreaks that chocolate can't fix.But that's what the rain boots are for, because rain will wash away everything, if you let it. I want her to look at the world through the underside of a glass-bottom boat, to look through a microscope at the galaxies that exist on the pinpoint of a human mind, because that's the way my mom taught me. That there'll be days like this. ♫ There'll be days like this, my momma said. ♫ When you open your hands to catch and wind up with only blisters and bruises; when you step out of the phone booth and try to fly and the very people you want to save are the ones standing on your cape; when your boots will fill with rain, and you'll be up to your knees in disappointment. And those are the very days you have all the more reason to say thank you. Because there's nothing more beautiful than the way the ocean refuses to stop kissing the shoreline, no matter how many times it's sent away. You will put the wind in winsome, lose some. You will put the star in starting over, and over. And no matter how many land mines erupt in a minute, be sure your mind lands on the beauty of this funny place called life. And yes, on a scale from one to over-trusting, I am pretty damn naive. But I want her to know that this world is made out of sugar. It can crumble so easily, but don't be afraid to stick your tongue out and taste it. “Baby,” I’ll  tell her, “remember, your momma is a worrier, and your poppa is a warrior, and you are the girl with small hands and big eyes who never stops asking for more." Remember that good things come in threes and so do bad things. And always apologize when you've done something wrong, but don't you ever apologize for the way your eyes refuse to stop shining. Your voice is small, but don't ever stop singing. And when they finally hand you heartache, when they slip war and hatred under your door and offer you handouts on street-corners of cynicism and defeat, you tell them that they really ought to meet your mother.

About --Sarah Kay

At a young age, Sarah started to write poetry; at 14, she started to visit the famous Bowery Poetry Club in Manhattan’s East Village. She performed and held her own against performers at least a decade her senior; now in her 20’s Kay is a successful spoken word poet and co-directs V.O.I.C.E ( Vocal Outreach Creative Expression) since 2004- this program encourages people, especially teenagers to use spoken word to implement their expression.

Her poem "B" has been turned into a hardcover book >> 

I found this poem or performance on TED Talk a segment called; Spoken-word fireworks (8 talks)

You can see Sarah's video here the other 7 talks can be watched on here . I love Ted Talk this venue is inspiring, thought-provoking and entertaining, I like to share it with you all; enjoy!

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Poem in Your Pocket Day

Today is Poem in Your Pocket Day



http://www.poets.org/page.php/prmID/409?utm_source=Poem+in+Your+Pocket+2013+Newsletter&utm_campaign=pocketday_blast&utm_medium=email


from The Holy Sonnets

Batter my heart, three-person'd God, for you
As yet but knock, breathe, shine, and seek to mend;
That I may rise and stand, o'erthrow me, and bend
Your force to break, blow, burn, and make me new.
I, like an usurp'd town to another due,
Labor to admit you, but oh, to no end;
Reason, your viceroy in me, me should defend,
But is captiv'd, and proves weak or untrue.
Yet dearly I love you, and would be lov'd fain,
But am betroth'd unto your enemy;
Divorce me, untie or break that knot again,
Take me to you, imprison me, for I,
Except you enthrall me, never shall be free,
Nor ever chaste, except you ravish me.
John Donne


Peace on Earth

The Archer is wake!
The Swan is flying!
Gold against blue
An Arrow is lying.
There is hunting in heaven—
Sleep safe till tomorrow.
The Bears are abroad!
The Eagle is screaming!
Gold against blue
Their eyes are gleaming!
Sleep!
Sleep safe till tomorrow.
The Sisters lie
With their arms intertwining;
Gold against blue
Their hair is shining!
The Serpent writhes!
Orion is listening!
Gold against blue
His sword is glistening!
Sleep!
There is hunting in heaven—
Sleep safe till tomorrow.
William Carlos Williams


Where the Sidewalk Ends

There is a place where the sidewalk ends
And before the street begins,
And there the grass grows soft and white,
And there the sun burns crimson bright,
And there the moon-bird rests from his flight
To cool in the peppermint wind.
Let us leave this place where the smoke blows black
And the dark street winds and bends.
Past the pits where the asphalt flowers grow
We shall walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And watch where the chalk-white arrows go
To the place where the sidewalk ends.
Yes we'll walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And we'll go where the chalk-white arrows go,
For the children, they mark, and the children, they know
The place where the sidewalk ends.
Shel Silverstein

Eletelephony

  by Laura Elizabeth Richards

Once there was an elephant,
Who tried to use the telephant—
No! No! I mean an elephone
Who tried to use the telephone—
(Dear me! I am not certain quite
That even now I've got it right.)
Howe'er it was, he got his trunk
Entangled in the telephunk;
The more he tried to get it free,
The louder buzzed the telephee—
(I fear I'd better drop the song
Of elephop and telephong!)

- See more at: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/22275#sthash.dZUkOWzZ.dpuf

Resolved Devotions

Resolved Devotions

By Marisa Bernhard

I punched the air and kicked the wind, demanding my wants.  Everything happens for a reason I am told. With clenched fists I face the world, is this how you see me? I am sorry that is wrong. I am humbled and ashamed the verity existed my prayer was answered. Gratitude I did proclaim, but acceptance was strictly denied.

I am in awe of your gift; an answered prayer devoted to me?

I understand how it works now, a gift received must be honored, graciously I said “Thank you …oh how kind.” Just like a Victorian princess serving tea!

At this time I stand here with open hands, and a full heart. I want you to see my joy. My happiness is hidden; protected not to be disturbed it hides behind fear.  My heart was broken into a million pieces, selfishly I must admit if not for one reason but for many things.

Your present I realize was meant to be – so often I ask do I deserve this. How can that be?

My heart screams out above all of Fears rants, “YES….believe, trust, it is so right!”

That is the truth; I cannot question it any longer, I will not! 

Fear will run amuck and create havoc to my emotions and yet I know my heart has a voice now since love settled in.

I survive by denying…. It is a battle of wills that I am learning to let go.

A prayer answered deserved its moment of respect – I hid it in a box with happiness, trust and love, these things should not be confined!   Yet, protected they need to be accepted and truly felt.

Thank you!

Pushing the Moon

Pushing the Moon

By Marisa Bernhard

I stood at the edge, my feet barely touching the ground. 

The moon rose in front of me huge and bright.

I saw it all for the first time…it was hard getting here no doubt.

A sad and crooked road led me to the moon.

If I touch it can I push it back to a happier time….how hard do I need to push?

I stood at the edge in front of the moon-

Everything became illuminated…I took it all in.

I knew in my heart, that we were all misplaced.

I and he traveled from the west, they traveled from the east.

Bright, round and full lit the way ….on common ground we met.

We all knew….

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Their Secret Language

Their Secret Language

 By Marisa Bernhard

 They speak with smiles and laughter

 It resonates ubiquitously near me

 A trifecta unbroken committed to speak their words, beam their honesty, and utter their thoughts

 They clamor about with no disregard, rendering their expressions to one another but no other

 They are here; near always close by, my love for them will never die

 My demands are many I am aware; a labor of love in hopes that transcends….yes I am the outsider that is okay I listen and sigh….and happy some days

 My home filled with noise….a language of secrets that needs no rendition; it is understood they express what’s been hidden

 For so many years their words were unspoken, their smiles were unseen, their laughter forgotten, their souls were deflated, their wishes demanded.

 They remember the past they know what it’s like to speak of a language that cannot be converted with words, although understood with amusement and mirth.

 I stand on the sidelines and guard the three….

 

I listen and do understand because they are my family!!!!

Blessed Laments

Blessed Laments

By Marisa Bernhard

One day, I am actually going to wake up and see what I have missed. I once had a glimpse of me, I was smart like Einstein, Marie Curie and whoever invented penicillin! I was cool like Janice Joplin, Stevie Nicks and all the hippy girls on my block when I was five.

You see I wear holey jeans with black clogs, clogs that are splattered with paint from my sister’s basement!  But I comb my hair, wear chocolate lip gloss with eye shadow, spray on Chanel No. 5, and I love pearls! That’s me too! SO WHAT!

I cry often it blurs my vision; I worry and agonize habitually – does it numb me? I think so! I wonder if everyone sees what I feel and often claim to no one don’t you see why I am this way!

In the morning I painstakingly sew up all my open wounds tucking inside them like batting my fears and worries----will this ever end!  I want to say SO WHAT but that frightens me too! I am put together a train wreck of sorts I face the outside.

I sit in boxes; boxes that move, boxes that don’t – all day long ….finally I come back and need to listen to something other than the my voice shouting all my mistakes that I created since the beginning of time……some days its Van – “Glad Tidings” plays loud and I can open my ears and hear laughter and see smiles all around me!

I am truly blessed!!!!!!! For they are not far and they do not judge….we rescued one another – they love, I love, they look, I smile, they laugh, I listen - They heal; I am healed!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Minstrel's Song: Being Quiet .....

Minstrel's Song: Being Quiet .....: Silence By Marisa Bernhard When she spoke, she didn’t speak with grace or with smooth flow of words. Her speech was always choppy and...

Minstrel's Song: Being Quiet .....

Minstrel's Song: Being Quiet .....: Silence By Marisa Bernhard When she spoke, she didn’t speak with grace or with smooth flow of words. Her speech was always choppy and...

Being Quiet .....

Silence      By Marisa Bernhard

When she spoke, she didn’t speak with grace or with smooth flow of words. Her speech was always choppy and broken up.

She struggled with words, not because of an impediment of any kind but because it was so much easier for her to be silent.

Ah! Silence a pause a rest.   Keeping her lips resting on top of one another, her tongue resting behind her lower teeth, was one her favorite things to do. She didn’t need to struggle trying to get her point across, or explain herself to anyone, and lastly, she didn’t have to respond to anyone speaking to her.

All she had to do was breathe. Inhale air through her nose, not wanting to disturb her tongue, teeth, or lips. 

She would fill up her chest with air, and when she exhaled her eyes closed; her upper body, torso, neck, and head gestured as if she would collapse into nothingness. 

Again she continued breathing in oxygen through her nostrils and filling up her lungs.  As she sucked in her belly, and expelling all the air out of her body, trying so desperately to shrink into another form. 

The Dragon And The Dragonfly

The Dragon & the Dragonfly

By Marisa Bernhard

The opposite of me is you.

You are a gentle giant.

I am a creature, fragile at first glance.

Look again and you will see my vitality.

We balance each other’s spirit!

I fly through time…

You trample over the land.

My song quick, I flutter, I take to the air,

I soar, not much to say.

Your fiery voice scorches all.

It soothes my soul.

The opposite of you is I.

I glistened by… you caught me and proclaimed an angel!

My wings wrapped around your heart.

Your eyes calmed my spirit.

Friends we became,

As one, we explored the land …

Your thoughts are my thoughts.

My fears are your fears.

Our needs are ours’.

My purpose is to take care of you.

My friend be at peace.

I hover around you, handling you with care!

I watch over you and color your dreams…

My wings flutter at your sight.

I soar all around proclaiming my love, or announcing my discontent - your gentle silence quiets my mind.

You are the dragon who found a friend and I am the dragonfly that flew into your heart!

Sigh!

Sigh!

By Marisa Bernhard

Hallelujah, hallelujah, hallelujah!

Hallelujah, hallelujah, hallelujah!

I prayed to you … I prayed to her some time ago!  I asked for your blessing.

I asked her for a miracle. My prayers forgo!  I cried for years … the tears filled my soul.

I am empty inside; I grieve for the love my heartaches!  How could you say no?

I am angry and enraged!  My worth trodden. Can it get any worse?

I think I could be losing everything! Please end this curse!

I cannot ask again.  It befalls insane.

You, She, He & Devine, have heard my pleas.

My words harsh, at times my tongue incensed.

Do I ask for your pardon?  I do not know…  I am hurt and troubled.

My heart broken, my spirit absent, all my beliefs lost.

My petition silent … it fills the vacant space in my heart.

It is there for you to find.

I say nothing, I sigh my prayer without a sound.

Amen…So Be It!

Going Forward

Minstrel’s Song is a poem I wrote many years ago; it came about after a dream I had. My first intent for this blog was to acquaint myself or gain knowledge with poetry by displaying poetry or quotes that mean something to me. Learn from poets and display their work. For some time I have been receiving a poem of the day to my email; I read it yet I don't have the drive to dissect it and figure out what was the poets purpose. Another plan was to expose the world of poetry and hopefully in the process gain some literacy knowledge to share. I thought by doing this I would feed my soul- a soul who is desperately asking for help. Recently I received some messages from a variety of sources - magazines, TV, and daily reflections. And the truth is that I need to share my own poems as well as write and create. If I don't create I destroy. Sounds quite dramatic but I hear her pleads, whispers that fill my mind with worries, regrets, anger and mainly fear. Because of this I decided that Minstrel’s Song will be the home of my poetry I will share with you what I create.  I hope you enjoy!

The Very Nervous Family by Sabrina Orah Mark

Some how I enjoy this poem , I mean I really like it..... please comment how you feel about this poem.
The Very Nervous Family

by Sabrina Orah Mark

Mr. Horowitz clutches a bag of dried apricots to his chest. Although the sun is shining, there will probably be a storm. Electricity will be lost. Possibly forever. When this happens the very nervous family will be the last to starve. Because of the apricots. "Unless," says Mrs. Horowitz, "the authorities confiscate the apricots." Mr. Horowitz clutches the bag of dried apricots tighter. He should've bought two bags. One for the authorities and one for his very nervous family. Mrs. Horowitz would dead bolt the front door to keep the authorities out, but it is already bolted. Already dead. She doesn't like that phrase. Dead bolt. It reminds her of getting shot before you even have a chance to run. "Everyone should have at least a chance to run," says Mrs. Horowitz. "Don't you agree, Mr. Horowitz?" Mrs. Horowitz always refers to her husband as Mr. Horowitz should they ever one day become strangers to each other. Mr. Horowitz agrees. When the authorities come they should give the Horowitzs a chance to run before they shoot them for the apricots. Eli Horowitz, their very nervous son, rushes in with his knitting. "Do not rush," says Mr. Horowitz, "you will fall and you will die." Eli wanted ice skates for his birthday. "We are not a family who ice skates!" shouts Mrs. Horowitz. She is not angry. She is a mother who simply does not wish to outlive her only son. Mrs. Horowitz gathers her very nervous son up in her arms, and gently explains that families who ice skate become the ice they slip on. The cracks they fall through. The frost that bites them. "We have survived this long to become our own demise?" asks Mrs. Horowitz. "No," whispers Eli, "we have not." Mr. Horowitz removes one dried apricot from the bag and nervously begins to pet it when Mrs. Horowitz suddenly gasps. She thinks she may have forgotten to buy milk. Without milk they will choke on the apricots. Eli rushes to the freezer with his knitting. There is milk. The whole freezer is stuffed with milk. Eli removes a frozen half pint and glides it across the kitchen table. It is like the milk is skating. He wishes he were milk. Brave milk. He throws the half pint on the floor and stomps on it. Now the milk is crushed. Now the milk is dead. Now the Horowitzs are that much closer to choking. Mr. and Mrs. Horowitz are dumbfounded. Their very nervous son might be a maniac. He is eight. God is punishing them for being survivors. God has given them a maniac for a son. All they ask is that they not starve, and now their only son is killing milk. Who will marry their maniac? No one. Who will mother their grandchildren? There will be no grandchildren. All they ask is that there is something left of them when they are shot for the apricots, but now their only son is a maniac who will give them no grandchildren. Mr. Horowitz considers leaving Eli behind when he and Mrs. Horowitz run for their lives.

POET Sabrina Orah Mark (1975 - )

BIOGRAPHY

Sabrina Orah Mark grew up in Brooklyn, New York. She earned a BA from Barnard College, an MFA from the Iowa Writers’ Workshop, and a PhD from the University of Georgia. She is the author of the book-length poetry collections The Babies (2004), winner of the Saturnalia Book Prize chosen by Jane Miller, and Tsim Tsum (2009), as well as the chapbook Walter B.’s Extraordinary Cousin Arrives for a Visit & Other Tales from Woodland Editions. The poems in The Babies are haunted by invented characters and fabulous details; mysterious fates, wars, and historical events are hinted at, and characters navigate relationships and terrors in a series of surreally twisted prose poems. Commenting on her unique style, Mark, in an interview for Apostrophe Cast, explained that her maternal family speaks Yiddish and that her syntax has been influenced by their speech patterns.

 Mark’s awards include a National Endowment for the Arts Fellowship and a fellowship from the Fine Arts Work Center in Provincetown, Massachusetts. Her poems have been included in Best American Poetry 2007 and the anthology Legitimate Dangers: American Poets of the New Century (2006).

Minstrel's Song

I wasn't going to do it....but for my first post I am posting my poem titled Minstrel's Song ....please be kind.

I wrote it trying to connect the spaces. The spaces between my poems...there was a time when words poured on the page effortlessly..why?  Was it being young and not afraid of honesty? Was it an actual Muse that I allowed to listen to....maybe a combinition of both.

My intention of this blog is to shed some light in the world of poetry, verse, prose, and song.  Poets are all around us. Words and poems are everywhere too; this blog will be a mixture of all of this. I will write about poets their poems. I will look for inspiration in words and songs. I want to write again and hopefully  I will allow my soul to sing her song!!!!! 
Ladies and Gentlemen:  Minstel's Song



Minstrels Song

My poet, etched words in my heart, sedated my soul.  One day the verses were lost and she was gone.  My silent heart cries for my empty soul.

A long time ago, in a dream a gift was revealed to me.  He came to me and announced my talent.  I did not listen.  Years have past and everything is hidden. I try to go forward but the past beckons me to confront it.

Muse was there and heard the hatred.  Poet knew of my confusion.  With words my soul was caressed.  With rhyme my heart had forgiven.  My gift healed and expressions fulfilled.

Today I write and it is not the same. Phrases are not given to me so easily, for when I turned my back on poet. My essence was taken from me.

I want poet

 back in my empty heart. I know it’s where she belongs. I know I can’t go forward  with out my muse. It’s my purpose to sing the minstrels song.

By Marisa Bernhard