Where the wind blows.

“I just go where the wind blows.” I've heard it said before by someone who happens to fall under the sign of Aquarius.

The wind goes where it blows, of course. But true Aquarians follow their visions that not even the wind can direct them. Neither anything nor anyone can derail these visionaries from their goals, if they can help it. They would ride the wind, if they have to, even against it for a different perspective, and when there is no sign of wind at all, they stir the air themselves. Sure, Aquarians listen to which way the wind blows, but never to give it total reign over them. They call on the wind, if needed, to use as tools for life’s work, with the other elements on earth.

Falling under a certain sign does not a character make. I don’t think one is necessarily bestowed inherent strengths by her stars, moon, planets, or other cosmic things. Rather, true aquarians are sustained by passionate spirits that enrich their souls before they even come to know their names, and, in time, they make their sign known. This is the mark of those who bear the sign and realize their true nature. It isn’t their style nor inclination to merely wait. Not even for the wind.

Some Breathe Through Songs (poeTry)

by: a.paige

Some see with their ears.

With eyes closed, they strum their strings

or run their fingers along some keys...

Others feel with their eyes

and glide over their canvas to hear...

Then there are those who tread the page...
for life.

How do you quench your soul?

Some breathe through songs.

The rest tirelessly seek the water from which to drink.

This Life. (poeTry)

by: a.paige

it isn’t black

or white.

or yellow.

or brown.

it is all of that.

it is gray.

it is pink.

and red.

and the sadness of a blue sky

on a cold winter day.

it is rich.

it is poor.

it is the comforting shade

in the scorching sun,

or the warmth of fire.

it is joy.

it is chaos.

it is the sparkle in a child’s eyes,

or the grief

behind your smile.

it is magic.

it is tragic.

creation and decay,

a cleansing rain,

or scorn.

it is birth pangs

it wakes,

and grows. and teaches.

or refuses

and walks asleep.

or plays dead.

or lies down dead.

or drops dead,

while consuming in between,

its appetite, keen.

it waxes and wanes.

it rises and falls.

a blessing and a curse.

an ebb and flow.

like the tide, this life.

A little bit of sunshine {poeTry}

by: a.paige

a little bit of sunshine–

is it all we need

to coax a flower down a muddy field?

does it make a difference

that a gem is hidden in a rotting heap,

or that a bowl of rice appear

in tiny hands that multiply, then drop, like flies–

has our world really become a better place for it? 

still, we try...

the kind words tossed 'tween me and you

like icing, are they enticing?–

that we'd treat each other nice this way around...

the genuine smiles and joys devoid of sound,

do they really resound

much louder than all the rounds

of applause and rubbing faces, or kissing asses?

or are we just beguiled and disoriented, as we switch our ups and downs...

but we rebound...

when we're soaked in piss, knee-deep in shit

does a bit of sunshine really lift

all the gook off our slimy pits?

a warm hello, a hug goodbye...

do these make up for what makes us cry?

a gentle kiss for all our griefs

to lighten up our load–

does it convince our leaden souls again to bleed,

despite our sins? and, yet, we breathe...

Forgive they say, at least, to dispel despair

i raise a toast, instead, and say, "inhale

the air and swish a wand... invisible...

magic is invincible... a quip, a cup

of wits... words intrigue, you know.

amuse a funny bone, create a song

cajole the mind, bewitch with poems

to right the wrongs... to tame the beast, 

this terrible and beautiful thing we live...

so what if a rose has thorns?

or if sticks and stones

should break our bones,

as we stagger without the swagger, all broken and bewildered–

must the spirit succumb?

lest it lingers and ingest the seas and drown...

but to span the time and survive its scorn! –no need to be reborn...

the tides, the full moon brings–

might wash ashore the filth, the lies, we'll see...

should we shine a bit of light then

to disarm our fears?

we can only try, we can only try

to convince our souls...

alight.

Nothing More To Say... (poeTry)

by: a.paige

What to write today,
there's nothing much to say.
"Eyes on the prize," violet's mum berates...
as her daughter masticates.

What to do today,

there's nothing much at bay...

Don't ask me if he prays,

but to Neverland he escapes.

Wonka finds his first gray...

his life's work has no heir...

until he spots a Bucket,

who kept out of his hair.

An old lady without a mane

who has fully paid her way...

now waits there, not to pray;

she has nothing more to say.

A newborn without a name,

his future lies ahead...

Will he face it (take it)—will he pray?

or to Neverland, would he stay?

What to write today,

there's nothing more to say.

Not sure if you'll just pray... (sit there...)

but best be on my way...

Much to write today,

there's nothing more to say.

Not sure which way to take,

but best be on my way.

Much to do today,

there's nothing more to say.

Not sure which way you'll take,

you'll know as you go your way.

Rose Garden.

by: a.paige

Go on. It's okay. You are well now, though you are the sixth child. You have been healed. For whatever reason, life didn't deliver the child before you.

Your mother is reborn; you meant every word you said. The weeding was tough, as though you gutted yourself..., yanking at your heart, which you held even tighter. Oh, the thorns! Still you trusted your mind and did not let it close..., letting it be guided by which you tried so hard to protect..., strengthening their bond, even as you began to release them... The mind and the heart in perfect union now, yet still allowed full independence. To think..., to act..., to feel..., to shed tears... To live again. You watered the barren ground and created a garden. And in offering your heart, your mother has revived hers. You gave her a garden, and a rose has grown there since.

Go on. It is all right now. Grow a rose garden. Write. Paint. Create. There is no one way. But act on it, as with anything else. Go ahead. Plant your seeds. Dig... Water... Prune... Then watch your garden grow.

***For her name is Rose, dedicated to my mother.

The Muse At The Seams. [poeTry]

by: amica paige


Perpetual disarray.
Discombobulated
and knotted hair.
A feet of floss
for an inch of green...
Broccoli...parsley,
all else in between.
You peered in the mirror,
so as not to be seen.
A fleet of Albatross!—
your flitting mind screamed.
You knelt down right
before you jumped in.
The morning shower
you now lingered in...
thoughts discomfiting
and late lunch sans cream.

A peek at thy thoughts show
the muse at the seams...

To IG or not to IG - that is the question...

..and the dilemma. We should have seen it coming. Of course, the usual course of things once they’ve grown from their humble beginnings is to protect their interests and keep a firm hold of their properties, even others’, in some cases, unfortunately, or not.

To illustrate, let’s say a toaster suddenly decides to merely warm a slice of bread without the bread owner’s permission. (For simplicity’s sake, let’s not ask if the owner is actually the baker, or we’d complicate the picture and mess up any allusion herein.) Or let’s say the same toaster suddenly starts burning all the bread that enters its slots without the owner’s permission, and the owner happens to be the same person who put the toaster to good use in the first place, which is really a sort of employment; and if that toaster could speak, I would highly suggest that it thank its person. Now the person finds himself/herself in a jam that should have never occurred in the first place, since it could actually have been helped, if only the toaster hadn’t entertained any wild ideas. Plus the person doesn’t even like jam in his/her sandwich.

So should the owner stick with its toaster and their shaky relationship due to the latter’s questionable reliability, and perhaps suffer even more severe burns in the future? Remember, anything is possible. Or should the person dump the toaster, which has become too big for its own good, and sever the bond they once shared. Now the toaster claims to have ownership of the owner’s bread, and God forbid it goes for the person’s head next. If it were your bread, what would your person do? Keep your head in mind as you figure this out.

One way to deal with this knotty situation is to take a different slant. Let’s take a look at creativity, for example. While thieves, impostors, and copycats continue their acts of thievery, forgery, and all manners of trickery, all the real creatives—the true owners of original artistic expressions, executed through various mediums and under the guidance of their creative visions—will have only been consumed by their own new projects. They’re always onto their next novel thing, innovating while trying to keep up with and stay true to their visions. True creatives are carried ever forward by this creative flow. There is no stopping this natural creative process. It is an endless overflow that only goes towards the direction of its own unadulterated, creative spirit; and that, my friends, can never be manufactured nor fabricated. ‘It is what it is’; creativity is, though you have to forgive me for the tired, old cliché.

Then again, reality hits and gravity holds our feet to keep us from our lofty ideas and ideals. Maybe I should sleep on this one after I create a few more images over milk and cookies, and a pot of Joe. Then I can decide if I should stay, or I should go. What do you plan to do with your Instagram account, knowing that it is now Facebook's property?

Timeless Fashion Sense (poeTry)

by: amica paige



***My entry for 2011 Writer's Digest November Pad Chapbook Challenge - Day 4

I just found out this morning
that my striped, green scarf goes well with
my black and red old flower dress
of three years and still counting.

With striped, long socks and calf high boots
for the colder air—I'm good to go!
Black cardigan, green handmade bag,
and drops of sparkly earrings—these ones I made
Red Fendi glasses—they're so well made!
Cell phone, car keys—I'm out the door.
Please crank up, my Hershey brown,
my sweet, ol' friend, my Sidekick pal.
We chug along every single day—
smooth or rough—doesn't matter much
when we go through it
with a wondrous spirit.

So to Oscar Wilde who said, or says instead,
for his spirit lives on indeed,
that “fashion is an ugliness so intolerable” in need
of endless alteration,
I say, “Humbug!—you good, ol' bag.
You failed to scratch the surface.
If you only looked beyond the trend
and its tiresome, fleeting artifice,
you would have found much wonder there,
stunning, classic beauties.
And your everyday would cease to be
a life of gray mundanity
and transform instead into a life
of timeless quality.

Though a plain white Tee, a good, ol' Tee—
a classic Tee—occasionally,
with jeans and sneaks,
do work, you know, in a creative life, you see.

Rain, rain—come what may! (poeTry)

by amica paige



Rain, rain come what may
My dry spell—do moisten away
Let it pour—thy waterfall
And spring forth—thy cleansing rain
That, on them, the sun will glisten
Morning dew for my well.

I won't submerge, but immerse instead
in thy deep, dark, cold waters
I'll not drown, but swim up instead
upward bound onto the surface
The water sparkles at the surface
Precious jewels for my well.

On writing (poeTry)

by amica paige



sometimes it comes
enraptured in love, I
bear it--a child
so rich and free flowing

too often it pains
all efforts attempted
a monster to bore
ideas so meager

Your only other option (poeTry)

by amica paige



life. why?
Why life?
Why, life?
be. Cause death is. your only other option.
So here. I am. Life.
Take my hand and thrive.

Cliche. (poeTry)

by amica paige



I know it's such a cliche,
but if you knew tonight would be your last
just what would you do today?

Paint that picture.
Write that story.
Sing that song now.
You may just see the world singing along.

Dance!--to your heart's delight.
Love. Even if you think it insane.
Love anyway.
If not, it will all be over just the same.
You and I know it.
It'll all be over before we know it.
Yet we all know it,
though we choose to forget it.

So tell your story.
You may just see that the world has been listening all along.

Carpe Diem!

Click. Clack. QUERTY.

This was my entry for Writer's Digest Prose Poetry contest.



Click, click, click. Clickety click. Fingers fast slipping across the keys. Click, clack. Clack, click. Back and forth, forward and backward. Up, down, and all around. This is actually fun--Ding! Onomatopoeia, she whispers, smiling. Left to right, and right to left. Fingers pushing and pulling. QUERTY, her mind utters. Why that now? whispers she again. Like you should still be sighing. This happens all the time--Ding! Fact is, she and her mind are forever talking. Talk about being engaged! Click, clack. Deep in her subconscious too, no doubt. Even when heavily submerged in her REM. Click, clack. Call it constant communication on auto-pilot, while still getting some zzz's--Ding! This endless conversation, this often mindless, mental stream, she's used to it by now. She should be. Clack, clack. Unlike those days when she'd pound herself for what she thought was a self-imposed ADD. Self-diagnosed it was really and entirely not her fault. Click, clack. You wouldn't blame a mind that simply goes on overdrive, would you? Clack, clack. Actually, she deserves a pat on the shoulder. And coffee. Starbucks would be nice. Or chocolate, or both. Sweet caffeine for a hyperactive mind. Or a new book. Even a finely bound classic. Would a tap do?--I'm kidding, her mind teases, more often now, it seems. How in the world did she manage college? I helped you, her mind...clacks, for lack of a better word. But even then, she knew better. She started over--Ding! An AA this time. Click. It was a tough decision, but she took it anyway and did not back out. Even with a BBA--heck, after a BBA!--for crying out loud. Back and forth, forward and backward. Clack. How scary was that, to feel so left behind, as spates of new grads flood the gates, all hoping to till the ground, year after year after year. Clack, clack. To have gone back is to have seriously lagged behind those who stayed, those who were now way ahead. But to have continued in a new direction presented great uncertainties and intimidation. Could one expect anything less than fierce competition? In a creative arena, you've got to be kidding. I warned you, chides her mind. I told you to stay in the path, keep your emotions in check, and watch that passion. Your heart would get you in trouble. Clack. I'm just saying...clack, clack.

But she has long since passed that crossroad and traveled a new road. Click. Her consciousness switches. Click, click. Where did you store that information anyway? Her mind shifts. Typical mental random access mode. Speaking of RAM, as in computer-speak, it's such a common term nowadays. Kind of like Jobs. No, not the workplace stuff. Steve's surname. The apple guy. Besides, workplace jobs are fast becoming extinct these days. But poor Steve... He isn't poor, what are you on? Clack. He's recently rested in peace--honestly, don't you read? Oh...sorry. RIP Steve. Still, such a shame, with all the apple stuff now orphaned...QUERTY. What now? Clack. Wait, she's remembering--Ding!--the convention salesmen used to efficiently type the word, "typewriter", of course! The keys were all conveniently located on the same line. Click. Hence, the potential buyers were impressed--Ding! Thank goodness for Google and Wikipedia for their ever-growing presence to ensure that our source materials are just clicks away. Clack. And to Steve. But I helped too--her mind chimes in--Ding! In fact, I've always helped you. Clack, clack. See, you've written this much already. Wow, sure glad that Writer's Digest has posted this challenge. Or was it Robert Lee Brewer? Remind me to give him a shout-out later on Twitter. Oh, now you need my help?--her mind chatters, as she shifts in her chair. She doesn't mean to ignore it, this integral part of her life. Click, clack. Yet, every now and then, she yearns to call the shots. It must learn to live with her. Her art. Her passion. Her heart. She'd do the same. She's been. I'm really liking this, she says with a grin. Click, click. Same here, if it is indeed prose poetry, her mind yaks. Clack, clack. But there isn't any typewriter in sight. Tap, tap. What's that tapping noise now? What happened to the clicks and the clacks? The ding's gone too. Onomatopoeia. Must have all just been inside her head, and none of it real, she reckons. Of course it is happening inside your head...but why on earth should that mean it is not real?--recalls her mind. Apparently, it's what the greatest wizard who ever lived told the boy who lived at King's Crossing, according to J.K. Rowling. By the way, Rowling initially wrote her stories by hand. With a pen. Burning your eyebrows writing stories with ink on your hands makes you a real deal. Just saying, while tapping on the iPAD.

Write (poeTry)

by amica page



Write, write
What to write?
Think, think
What to think?
Go beyond
What is already there

Open your mind
When your eyes don’t see
Hear with your heart
What your ears don't heed
Then your hand will write
What is already there

Why do you strain
For something not there
When here all along
Is your train of thought?
So hear with your heart
That your mind will see

Summer Music at the Park

With all the madness going on in the world, it's good to sit back once in a while and hang with real musicians, such as these folks who entertained onlookers at Washington Square Park in the summer of 2007; where was I in the subsequent summers of 2008 and 2009?—I wonder. Too bad I didn't come up to find out the group's name then. Hopefully, they'll be out there again this summer. The prospect of great music at the park for free is too good to miss, even if later you should feel like dropping a bill or two in their container. It's still a breath of fresh air from all the mess around us.

So what of Art?

I don’t do art. I breathe art. It’s my fuel, my coffee, my life. It’s evident in everything I do and everything I am. It’s in the way I dress and in the way I wrap gifts. It’s all over my home, in the basket of candles and the cart of books—of Poe, Hawthorne, Willems, and Seuss; and Emily, Rowling, Carlin, and Clarke; of Beatrix, Burton, Southworth, and Charles ; and Steve, Kevin, Moliere, and Anne among others. It's in my ice bucket, occupied not by cubes of ice but paint brushes, and in my red kettle plant pot. It just can’t be contained by canvases bound by frames, when it starts to simmer in and seep out of my head, as I see the colors around me take shape to form words and pictures, poems and stories, rhymes and reason, and seasons. And, the images get so vivid that they flow onto everything I touch. Am I an artist? For as long as the sky is blue in the morning’s light until the last leaf of the last tree fall on the ground.

The Artist's Way

I’ve been a blocked artist for a long time now. It’s taken a great deal of courage to admit this. Somewhere between being a wife and a mom, and stifled by past discouragements and disappointments, and ongoing frustrations swirling inside my head, I got lost and ended up in a little corner, silent, while the voice and images yearning to come out through stories and artworks flitted endlessly in and out of my consciousness. Nevertheless, I managed to take care of my daily routine with enough sanity for my son’s sake as the artist in me slowly shriveled. In due time, unexpectedly, and quite casually, a book landed in my hands. It was nonchalantly passed on to me as another interesting read by a friend who was the former director at H.I.G.H.W.A.Y.S, where I volunteered. Or maybe, the friend could sense the pent-up artist right under my nose, whom I couldn't see as I went through the motion of willful but rather intense decorating and rearranging the store while talking about art and paintings and shirt designs and gift baskets and coffee shops and book publishing...And I had no clue the whole time that I was gasping for breath...for creative air...as I inhaled my frustrated artist's fierce struggle in a paradox of artistic passion and inhibition.

The Artist’s Way, which had traveled through several states and passed through different hands to finally land in mine just in the nick of time when I unknowingly but mostly needed it in my life, sat in my red, tin wagon for about two years, along with other books I didn’t take seriously enough to read but were merely there for skimming and for guests. Then, one day last winter, I noticed it. I would have finished reading it overnight had I not followed the book’s advice. So, I spent a whole week soaking up each chapter. Despite my couple week lapse during the holidays due to, well, holiday shopping, I managed to complete the twelve week program in about four months. It’s been about two months since I put the book down which I plan to re-read with my husband then pass on to another unsuspecting artistic soul. I must say that my experience with the book has certainly been a wild ride, but one that is liberating, exhilarating, and empowering as much as it has been emotionally difficult as I've had to revisit, acknowledge, and grieve past hurts and also face present fears head-on. But it's better now. I’ve discovered new strengths and gained new hopes to keep me afloat. I'm persisting in my creative endeavors as I experiment with the words and images that surround and fascinate me. They are starting to emerge and be written or painted, or voiced out or drawn, to be seen or heard.

I refuse to label something so specific and that affects someone so particular, with some big, vague name like coincidence, as if I just had some big, fat chance or probability happen to me. Neither was it accidental. It wasn’t luck either, not on this occasion anyway. I’d probably have more luck winning the mega million and I’ve surely had more luck stepping on dog poop on the sidewalk. I want to be as honest as I can possibly be and simply say that God intervened. This is not to shove God or religion down anyone’s throat, since I’m not a religious zealot. In fact I’ve been a skeptic and that’s about the most genuine thing I could ever be, especially on incomprehensible matters. And I currently don’t go to church. My husband, my son, and I commune with nature at the park when we’re not at Target trying to beat the mass going there from mass at noon. Providence? Well, I’ll certainly consider the book arriving in my hands as the creator’s providence in my most desperate need.

Thank God Julia Cameron trusted her inner voice and let it flow through her hand, which recorded the words that are read by many--the many who are creatively barren and are unsuspecting of it. I now realize that there’s always room for one more artist in this creative world. I just have to trust that I am indeed guided by the greatest creator. I recognize this universal creative flow and accept it that I commit to the process...the creative journey...the creative life. I'm living life more fully...with wonder.

Speaking of wonder, I finally gathered up enough courage and took a copy of my painting titled "Wonder" to Unique Bookstore this April in an attempt to put it up for sale. The owner gladly accepted for a minor fee. I actually painted it in 2006 as my first entry in a local art exhibit sponsored by the Hudson Artist Association. My only other major painting is hanging in a church reception hall, if it is still hanging there, since I don't attend anymore, and the last exhibit I participated in was years ago in college. I also hadn't read The Artist's Way at the time even though I might have had it already. Hence, I really struggled with this painting, because even though I had a strong urge to paint, I didn't quite believe in my talent.

"Wonder" was inspired by my son, of course, and the magic of a child's wonder. It symbolizes a child's awe, when it is still almost entirely innocent, unfettered, and impervious to fear, and when it could still take him to unfamiliar but possibly incredible places. Initially, I was going to paint an adult sitting on the bench for contrast. A grown-up would probably cease following the path at the fork, or crossroad, to wherever it leads and prefer to sit on the bench by the lamppost, perhaps out of fear, apathy, or mere comfort...Then I remembered the theme, so I refocused on the child and his "wonderment", that even with the slightest fear of the unknown, his great sense of awe and curiosity would continually nudge him to journey on...