Something to make the heart sing

Lately, I've taken to retooling how I see my life.  I'm very much used to living off of the cortisol of my anxiety and frustrations.  It is an effective means, certainly, to feel like I'm being productive by worrying about what I'm not doing or what i should be doing or what will happen tomorrow or next year or three years from now, as if it will make the present and the future that much clearer.  But I've been thinking about and practicing the act of living my life for myself, not my future self or the self I think I'm supposed to be.  I think trying to do things creatively has gone a long way with my feeling more like myself than I have...maybe ever.  Harking back to the days when I made art out of construction paper with middle school kids.  Those were the days.

Granted, I still catch myself freaking out about my creative projects.  Like will this turn into anything?  Should I try to market this?  But I think I need a critical mass of things to do anything with, and really a critical mass of time growing into my creative pursuits.  And really more time just being me.

But art must shared, I think.  Art is an act of communication.  So let me know your thoughts!  I'm including two poems and two new pipe cleaner animals.  Enjoy!

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Badger.  He has been named Earl

My mantis!

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Curry Puff

  

My aunt made curry puffs

For church sales every week;

And when she had enough,

She gave the spare to me.

Short, she was, and body round.

She stood wide-legged with toes splayed.

With bread roll arms she’d pound

The pastry dough fillets.

“Your mommy’s puffs don’t taste

As good as mine.  You know

She works too much to waste

Her time on that, although

It’s not her fault your daddy

Works her like a dog.”

Though what she was true –

They worked most days,

Vacations overdue –

I tell you there’s no way

I’d let her say such slander;

Yet shyness sapped my spunk,

To piety I pandered.

But aunty is a punk!

And justice must be served,

So finger in my nose,

I found what she deserved:

A morsel that I chose

To spice the yellow curry,

Then break for home –

I got out in a hurry.

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  Secret

  

i feign my sadness to mask my joy

when i see him packing

i fold his socks and count his underwear

for each day that takes him away

because i can’t admit out loud

the selfish relish in which

i will miss him

when he is gone

the empty space cries out his absence

through which he is called into being

all over again

when he returns