Saturday, July 12, 2008

Dark Night of the Blogger's Soul

This is blog, so once again I'm procrastinating instead of doing a rewrite or plotting a new novel.

I've been searching for my soul--which took a detour from the highway of my life about three years ago. Before my divorce, I knew where I was going, but my GPS leads me round and round on these back roads.

The first year I spent lost in ancient Rome while I wrote a romantic suspense novel entitled, Vestal Virgin, preferring to imagine being tortured and buried alive than face my current life. The feedback: good writing, but too dark. Too dark for the Roman Empire and Nero? Does that give you some insight on my divorced state of mind?

Then short stories started popping out. Dark (imagine that) comedies about the breakdown of my marriage and my attempts at dating after being with one man for twenty years. Six months of provided me with plenty of material.

The back roads turned to dirt and mud, then disappeared. Dragging myself from the bog, I clung to words of poetry. I wrote this while I was there:

How many noes?

How many noes
will be required
to dismantle our friendship?

How many questions
must be left hanging
in the night?

I remember making pasta,
kneading dough
as smooth as skin.

Water coming to a boil,
steam beading
on our foreheads.

Rivulets running
down my chest, your back,
as the pasta cooked.

Even in that rising heat
you never let me
quench your thirst.

How many noes
before we say goodbye
and really mean it?

Standing here,
in this Zen emptiness
I search the dark for yes.

Friday, July 4, 2008

"City of Joy" a poem

My driver wears a turban
and white gloves.
I stare out of the window,
sipping bottled water.

Fumes from burning tires
sting my lungs.
Through smoke,
an elephant appears.

People walk barefoot
along the highway
avoiding mud-holes
and construction.

Others peer from hovels,
plastic bags for rooftops.
Family and ancient gods
shield them from the elements.

A cow wanders
along the overpass
past billboard gurus
and Bollywood smiles.

Motorcycles, rickshaws, bikes,
women wearing rainbow saris,
beggars, dogs and businessmen,
no one stopping for red lights.

Back home in Colorado,
cars zoom along an empty road,
people locked inside,
buckled-up in safety-belts.

I press my nose
against the glass
attempting to get
closer to this life.