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Life As Poetry: A Lesson From L. Cohen

bubblesI woke up this morning and don’t you know it, that tiniest bit of fear about change had crept in while I was sleeping.

Change often is an uncomfortable process that yeilds beautiful results – if you let it.

So, as I padded around in my bare feet looking for my glasses, I paused to open an email from a couple whom I consider kindred spirits.  It inspired me, motivated me, and chased that little inkling of fear right out of my heart. It reminded me that my life ought to be more like my poetry; free flowing and without too much overthinking.

It’s time for change. It’s time to give my creativity, ‘land, lots of land under starry skies above,’. It’s been fenced in far too long.

I have work to do, and what better way to get motivated to clear physical and existential space than to listen to the wisdom of Leonard Cohen???

Wishing you a beautiful day…xo

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Poetry Month: A Lady Gets Over It & Into It

whiskey in a tea cupWe’re deep into poetry month (ok, ok, we’re a week in), and I haven’t poeted yet.

What’s up with that?!

Honestly, what’s up with that is that a dear friend and creative mentor to the western hemisphere died. Just disappeared from the local art scene, and left a huge void. I think of him every time I write, and I miss him. He died while editing my first novel (about death and dying – no, I’m not kidding), and I’ve been a little hesitant.

If he were here, he’d roll his eyes and say, “Get over it lady,” I loved the way he used to say ‘lady‘, “and get writing!”

He interviewed me a couple of times on his radio show, and just the other day, a friend of mine who had tuned in to listen remembered my friend, and that particular interview, “My god he was turned on. Hell, you had the whole city horny.”

whiskey in her bonesYes, this is the feedback we need from our creative friends when trying to write smut. Success.

So in honour of my friend, who was ruthless in his art and living an authentic life, today I will dedicate myself to writing what needs to be written.

In honour of my friends who, like me get too caught up in the grind to sate their creative, sensual, lovely inner wild beast, I will write what needs to be written; without fear, shame, shyness or reserve.

I will also need bourbon to do this.


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Friday Afternoon; Nevermind

There’s nothing like a little bit of L. Cohen to get a writer in the mood for the weekend…

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walking away

The forgotten hairs after towelling off

curl up in the corners

where wall meets floor

the clues of our lives lay piled thick

remind me that you were here

and now you are not

A coffee stain on the counter

A forgotten toothbrush

The scent left on your pillow in the cavern created by your absence

Hangers empty and drawers gaping like starving mouths

You were here

now you are not

Until it just becomes dust, something to be cleaned up, tossed in the trash

and stretched out upon, lingering and letting go

space waiting for a new dress, old clothes

once again reclaimed

not wanting

just there

Clues about the lives we live.

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Ode to 40

laughingwomenI never wanted to be that pulled-skin-forced-grin

cliché of a forty-year-old-mother trying to look 16 again.

No thank you. That’s not for me.

I’ve got some living under my skin, sad lines, and happy ones

and pounds put on around tables overflowing with friendship and laughter.

I never wanted age to harden me or my heart

I always wanted to be the kind of woman a friend could open her soul to

a child could sink into for comfort

and a man could grab on to for dear life.

No thank you, popular-girls who are over the hill now

I do not want your thighs or your men or your designer sunglasses.

No, instead I indulge in my own deep contentment;

not bitter, not wanting, not comparing

My spirit and my heart have known one another for a very, very long time.


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Lovesong for November

wildnovemberHello November,

I see you’ve brought the snow and tempted the trees to  undress

in a flutter of wind and colour,

caressing each leaf and branch

with the cool nip in your breath,

hinting at snowdrifts and darkness.

Welcome, November.

We were expecting you;

the seduction of your grey skies

forcing us to touch the nakedness of our own thoughts

and holding us there despite our resistance.

You’re a lady and a hard critic,

preferring simplicity and subtle grace to June’s light, blossoming gaiety.

You are a silent and quick captain on stormy seas,

with an eye for what mortals do not yet know.

Come in November,

reclaim your ancient throne in the dank chambers of our subconscious.

Remind me of the whispered mutterings of my soul,

that they will  not be silenced in my 41st year.

Set your pet, the cold, damp wind

on a fox hunt through the slumbering, forgotten forest of my creative spirit

and accept nothing less than the prize.


Copyright Andshelaughs 2014

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Past the Expiration Date

Photo found on Pinterest
I do not own rights to this photo – found on Pinterest

This life I’m living is past the expiration date.

This life with my feet on the ground and my head tethered just below the clouds like a helium balloon tied to a fencepost.

It all just feels old, stale, and it’s really kinda stinky.

I’ve reinvented myself a thousand and one times, and each time the shedding of the old skin makes me feel vibrant, and energized. It’s time for a thousand and two.

As the Mumster says, “My body is here, but my spirit is out there waiting for it to catch up.” And so it is…

I’m craving the sea. Wide porches and roads that know slumber and speed limits. Trees whose branches whisper stories of grandmothers as the breeze meets the morning.

I’m craving wild hair and sleep to the rhythm of my own whims, in a bed with an endless landscape of white linens, clouds of duvets and pillows you can wrap your arms around.

I want to listen to blues music and sweet, sweet southern jazz with the windows wide open, with nothing on but a champagne flute balanced between my fingertips, filled to brimming.

I see an old desk and coffee-stained papers strewn across it; the encrypted sign of a life lived passionately, freely, and without regret.

There is a harvest table with the remnants of a rustic dinner, bones sucked clean,  wine stains deep in the wood and sputtering candle flames.

Quiet, quiet nights that beg for another kiss, and still one more; for the remembering and the forgetting.