Artists

The road winds in a manner

that seems as if I keep walking in circles

but there are very subtle differences

differences only a curious person would notice

like the flowers are a different shade of blue

or the bugs are crawling on their backs rather than their bellies

Makers of art wander on and off this road

collecting things

while others trudge trudge doing the same thing

over and over

Artists do at times get caught in the monotony of it all

because we are one of the others

however our path is different

it is of more depth

less conformity

(which might I add is much harder than it sounds)

Our satchels fill with old cocoons left behind by butterflies,

odd shaped rocks,

and twigs wrapped in twine

left as symbols of where we’ve been

or left to warn of places we dare not tread again

So it may seem as if we are constantly stuck

in the same ole rigamaroe but trust me

We are not.

-Saschia

 

(Yes, I wrote rigamaroe)

 

the unwritten character

Little purple person

Who are you when you’re

not looking,

when that sweat is dripping

from your brow

When your feet are up

on the couch.

Can you define yourself?

Not your hobbies

or your top responsibilities,

but who you are,

those spaces,

 between your out-right 

maddening choices?

“I’m a little purple person,” it whispered in my ear. “I run and frolick and think of the many ways I can return to you. It’s just a matter of getting to you.” It takes ten huge steps away from me, but since it’s so small it doesn’t get more then 3 inches from my face. It sits, crosses it’s legs, and faces me. “In between the spaces is space, my dear poet, it’s space to be filled with memories and love and if you even feel the need, hate.” The little purple person then lays down staring at my popcorn ceiling, and places two arms behind his head. “And if you must know, my dear poet, the space between my maddening choices is balance. Where the imagination runs wild because the madness isn’t present, but it was and it will be. Some call it peace, but I believe, my dear poet,” he faces me now, “it’s best left temporary. Because to grow we must change.” He goes silent and slowly closes his eyes. I study this tiny person. He must be no bigger than my thumb. I roll over and look at my popcorn ceiling. My eyes slowly close. That could be true, it could be true. 

 

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Propped upright

Upright because I can breath

no other way
Propped like a doll in a pillow shop
placed snug between designer pillows
Except I’m no designer item
Just a prop
A comfort
a symbol of home
I am home between the pillows
not because of the pillows
I’m home because the stuff inside me
the stuff that fills me to the brim
it’s all I need
whether in a shop

in the arms of a loved one

or left to collect dust
doesn’t matter
I am home

Stitched Together

From time to time I think of you

From minute to minute you cross my mind

From hour to hour I’m lost in our fantasies

If I stopped I might lose you

So I leave myself little reminders

Moons and doors

and stars as big as your eyes

The truth is I don’t need reminders

But they bring me closer to you

-Sasch

We Go On–We All Do

Funny how things work out

How people show up

And make you proud of who you are

Or make you feel less than who you are

both people come and go

They make impacts

They go on with their lives

With their red Rose’s or their brass scales

And think briefly of you now and then

or maybe more

who knows…

-Saschia

Two Baby Girls

She dances while I sleep

And hiccups while I binge watch Netflix

She’s a part of me

One with me

Her sister is my closest friend and family.

She lights up my life with her smile

and makes me feel at home with her presence

Two baby girls to hug and love

to sing and dance with on the kitchen floor

I’m so proud

I’m so proud

-Saschia

A Distant Symphony

There’s this tiny space inside me. It has a tiny door with a button handle. A button you’d sew on a shirt. It was a fancy gold one. Round and shiny. I could hear music playing from the other side so I got on all fours and placed my ear right up against it. The music didn’t grow louder it stayed as distant but I could see flickers of light dancing just below the door. Then the smell of cookies and gasoline and cupcakes and charcoal intertwined in my nostrils. It was conflicting but curious. There was only one way to solve this. I had to turn the gold button knob and open the door to that tiny place inside me.