Still Tweaking

I tweaked another poem tonight. Why am I still trying to fix things when they were supposedly "finished" fourteen years ago? Good question (on many levels). I think they can be better, I think I can make them better. It gives me some perspective. It gives me a new jumping off point. It's an exercise in editing. I'm stalling. Yeah, that's it. All of the above. Plus it's a rainy night, so it seems appropriate to post this one. Anyway, here it is.

Rescued from the Rain

Standing in my doorway
smelling like a wet dog
eyes pleading to be let in

And that stupid grin of yours
all those perfect little teeth
begging my forgiveness
you swore it was the
last time
“Scout's honor”

I believed you
gave you a towel
you sighed from underneath
endless apologies

Yet when I freed you
from my terrycloth grip
you were still grinning
no remorse
just those perfect little teeth
and the scent of a wet dog
rescued from the rain

Daisy C. Abreu 3.31.93
revised 10.24.2007

I don't know if I'll go through my entire catalog of poems, tweak and post them here. That seems daunting and I would rather get some of the newer stuff up (yes, there is some new stuff). I'm just not there yet. Also, I'm enjoying revisiting some of the newer older stuff. It reminds me of what my life was like back then, how far I've come with my work (and my life) and how far I've got to go (total cliche, but true).

I'm seeing some college friends this weekend as part of an artists retreat. I'm hopeful that good things will come out of that and be posted here. In the interim, please enjoy memory lane.

Tweaking The Old Stuff

I wrote this one wrote a long time ago, about that boy from long ago. The version below is slightly modified. I still like this one. It's quiet.

Star

I love you.
Is that too much to say?
Too soon to say it?
I do.
Every time I see you
I say it.
Softly,
under my breath,
so you barely know.
Mouthing it to myself.
A prayer.
Like the Hail Marys I whisper
while kneeling in an empty church
on any given afternoon.
Like when I'm walking home
and see that first star.
Star light,
Star bright.
Only you're that star.
That far off thing
I wish could bring me
what I want.
And I lie here,
knowing you're
lying with her,
praying to her,
wishing on her,
mouthing in her ear.
I wonder if she knows
she's your star
or that you're mine.


Daisy C. Abreu
3.31.1996
revised 10.22.07
for jpb

Enter Sandman... I Said Enter!

You know you have a crazy case of insomnia when you're sitting up listening to Delilah (You know...De-LY-La...Love someone tooooonight) and giving a crap about the people calling in with their stories about God sending them their one true love in the grocery store. Delilah can be hit or miss with the songs she picks sometimes, but tonight she seems to be dead on, bless her heart. She must know there's a skeptic listening. Why else would she play Michael W. Smith's Place in This World and Train's Calling All Angels?

Anyway, sleeping has been a challenge the last few days. I'm distracted, so I'm reading, watching TV or rocking out a crossword to try to calm my mind. It's not that I'm not tired. I'll be reading an article and my eyes will start to droop. The problems start when I turn out the light. My thoughts get all loud in my head, my anxieties take hold and I can't quiet things enough to get to the good stuff (sleep and a possible dream date with the Cloon...yes HIM again). That's when I pull out the alphabet game. Seems to work. I list authors in alphabetical order (Jane Austen, Charlotte Bronte, Albert Camus, Charles Dickens...you get the idea). If I'm lucky, I'm out cold by the time I hit the middle of the alphabet. I know, why not count sheep? Counting is easy, literature is hard. Also, I count this as credits against all that money I spent learning about these authors in college. That's me, always multi-tasking.

Fear Of A Blank Page (a rant of sorts)

OK, it's not even fear. It's, it's, I don't know what the hell it is. It's almost two weeks since I posted and as much as I think about writing every day, I don't really do it. So I decided to plop myself down and go for some stream of consciousness. No real filter, no one else around, no sound except for the Music to Leave NYC CD that Mr Doug made for me a while back. He's the reason I decided to open up a new page and go for it tonight, Mr. Doug that is. I was reading his blog entry about inspiration and U2's Joshua Tree and all the stuff he's doing with his music and thought, "well, damn, I better get off my ass and do something too." It was like he paid it forward without even knowing it, which is part of the reason any of us put ourselves out there in this way, isn't it? Maybe we inspire each other by trying to be brave and honest and out there. Or maybe not.

So, inspiration. I'm not going to pretend to know what it is or where it comes from, but it's out there, right? People get inspired all the time, don't they? Sure. But when I try to think about what inspires me lately, I come up short. Except for tonight when Mr. Doug's posting inspired me to be sitting here, talking to myself and to you and the world. I have this book, The Pocket Muse: Endless Inspiration. It's a series of writing prompts and exercises to get a person writing. I've looked at it once. OK, maybe more than once. It seems daunting. I know I should let go and try one and see how it feels, but I'm afraid. How stupid is that? I'm afraid to try an exercise in a writing book. An exercise that no one will ever see if I don't want them to see it.

I'm experiencing a lot of anxiety lately. I feel like I'm failing miserably in a lot of ways and it scares me. I'm in this holding pattern, this limbo, and try as I might I can't really shake it. I know everything will work itself out, but right now things are harder than I have been letting on to most people. Maybe all of this means I'm about to turn some corner, or maybe it means I have a long way to go. I do feel better writing all this down, so that's something.

Ripping off the Band-Aid

This one's newish, from earlier this spring. I wrote it off the cuff, to get the healing started. And then I sat on it for a while. I wasn't ready to share. In a way, I'm still not. But the only way to get better is to stop bottling it up. So, here it is.


The Beginning of the End

As it was in the beginning,
so it is in the end.
Two as one.
Alone together.
Wrapped in each other,
hanging on.
Knowing,
but not believing.
Understanding,
but still hoping
And then…
One lets go,
Turns away.
And there they are,
One as two.
Together.
Alone.

Daisy C. Abreu 5/3/07