I was sick in bed yesterday - a nasty cold. Mike June, husband extraordinaire brought me hot green tea, cookies, bananas, elderberry syrup & a stack of books, including "Electric Light" by the poet Seamus Heaney.
I have no ambitions to be a poet myself - can't even imagine the focus it takes to craft words so they sit perfectly on a page. But in writing my piece "Chicken Soup" after my grandparents' Jewish cemetery was vandalized, and then performing it over the last few months, I feel more tuned into the power strictly of speaking words without melody.
I felt inspired yesterday to write this, maybe soon to be heard at a show of mine.
Breaking the Mold
He teases me
How bad I'd be
At traditional wife-life
He doesn't know
That freedom still feels
Like I'm getting away with something
And forward focus
A wire between tall buildings
Sometimes my pinky is all that's holding
Sometimes the vision of young women dancing
But if I fell
Would I find
The ground was soft the entire time?
The buildings weren't mine
And that was fine?
I will just be me
When this day turns to night
When the shades go dark
I'll just be light
And sail through the sky, a child's kite
So when he chides me
How I'd never fit in the days of old
Because of my need to break the mold
I hold him close
Nuzzle his neck
Stretch my lips sideways for a peck