Poem Series: My Best

MY BEST

Liz Fink-Davenport

My heart will write what my mouth cannot speak. My mind will ache and hold tight when my fingers can't grasp. My soul will stretch to the edges of the world you created and then spill the rim like an over confident pour. You say that's the worst of me. You think the drumming in the dark can and should be muffled. That light is not going to leak out of your tight clenched fist; between fingers and glow behind a palm. You want to walk my depths and tread delicate gardens with a headlamp and torch and clumsy boots and a machete. You are picking locks and breaking glass and putting your shoulder into it and thieving. The best of me is kept from you.

I am not a rusting bolted latch.
I am not a hidden path.
Or hidden treasure.

I am not uncontained fire.
I am not a half sunken ship.
I am not a puzzle piece long lost.
I am not a dark cave.

I am not a car with bad breaks.
I am not a fearful rabid beast.
I am not tea in the saucer.
I am finger tips.
And knuckles.
And veins.

And salt. And the crease of my neck and the warmth of my belly and the arch of my foot. I am riddles and constellations. I am the roll of a road and the horizon unseen. Open hallways and calm pools. A secret and a labyrinth. I am thunder and the heart pounding wait for lightening. I am phenomenal woman. And feral. I need no leash. My stride is sparks from bare heels that light the world in fireworks. I am both the dust and dirt in the cracks in your skin and the light of sunrise that warms the frost from the leaves and starts the day. I am a start. And I am a finish. And that is worst and the best of me.


So don't think that my drumming needs your hand to stay it. And stop your robbery. It's useless. Unclench your fist around the fear of light escaping your possession. I scare the hell out of you. That is the worst of me. So come here and take off your fear. I'll help you undress. You have possibly never seen a creature like me so I will speak softly. Put down your trembling and let me slip you gently into me. Come. Quiet now. Let me show you that some wildfire is not meant to be contained. This fire is mine. And it will burn the edges of the universe. And your whole world. And you will think that is the best of me.

RIP David Bowie

I woke to the news. I'm going to stop reading all texts from Paul Felice. First Lemmy and now Bowie.

I won't even start to say what a profound impact he had on me or what a profound impact he had on modern music. I'll say all that later. For now, just watch...and listen....

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CMThz7eQ6K0

Lemmy RIP

A more fitting trinute will be written at a later date. Or perhaps we'll just leave it alone, as tributes are popping up all over. Or perhaps we'll just link to the best of them.

But, from an educational standpoint, it is worth, at some later date, noting the incredible impact that Lemmy Kilmister had on the world of music. So we will at least do that.

For now, let's just play some Motorhead. Loud.

Poem Series: A Chair

A Chair

Liz Fink-Davenport

I'm sitting. In a chair. In a room. That's crowded. I hate crowded rooms. I'm making ridiculous small talk with the man across from me with lips that curl into eights. I'm sweating. Someone is smoking and the room is washed in waves of grey and yellow. My wine is warm. I am going to go. It's late. "I'm going to go. Pleasant talking with you." I start to stand. And then. You. Stop the world. Damn. You. Across a room. Eyes that meet. It's you. And I'm up. Walking towards you and my hand slides easy to your jaw. Fingertips trace. I look up and my gaze is caught in you. In depths. My mouth tips high and receives yours. An electric jolt to start a heart. My fingers and toes aflame. Twenty points to light the night. And your hand is in my hair. The room rolls away. It's just your heart beating directly on mine. How is that possible? Anatomically? You in me. My heart strikes it's own new rhythm and it's a musical.

What makes this happen? Our hearts to start beating? And what makes them stop. Because they do. Stop. They fucking stop. They screech to a halt. They dump you from the buggy. They tip over into the sea.

But we are in a kiss. That is a start to a heart. It's a beginning. That sparks life. And my fingers are entwined in hair and my body is pressed to his and I am lost. Lost at sea. Tipped over in a different way. But then the room pulls back. And it's not real. He is still across the room and I am...I am...still in my chair. With my warm wine and a sweat laced across my chest. And it never happened. You never happened. You were bones long not broken. You were unforgotten paths. You were heartache before you began.

And I'm in a chair. In a room. And I just loved and lost in the half tick of a heart. I'm going to go. It's late.

Poem Series: TEPID

TEPID

Liz Fink-Davenport



You thought you could. Do a love that is soft edged and safe. This is what I need, you said. Like reheated coffee. Like hour old toast. It's still coffee. It's still toast. You wanted it to happen and jump start your heart. Even a bit. You wanted to lay in a bed next to someone and you think; Sure, this fits. It's ok. It's almost good.

And then me. And then. Me. I'm not polite. I'm not simple. I'm not timid. I lick my lips and ask for more. I create and bathe in chaos. I am sleeping until afternoon washed the bedcovers golden and staying out until stars fade. I'm uncomfortable. I'm a love that smears it's lipstick down your neck like warpaint. I break hearts and headboards. I stop the traffic to redirect it. I demand riots and roars. I will not be told. I tell. I walk this world like it is a turn and a fight. I bring a heart flaming and fierce and lit like a damn bonfire to the sky. I shoot rockets from my hips and move nations with my sway. I am hard. I am barrier reefs. Great Walls of China. A fortress set ablaze. And you look at me like a frightening wild thing. Caged, I'm beautiful. Loose in your head and heart, am I too much?

Bloody Mary: The Perfect Musician Drink

Here it is....you're a starving artist and you're playing clubs and such, and 9 times out of 10 you get a free bar tab (at least up to a certain limit). So...you drink beer, because that's what guys drink. Or shots of whatever.

Or you're female and you drink beer, or shots of whatever, or some awesome tasty fruity drink that guys like but never drink in public.

And, nutritionally speaking, it's all "empty" calories: booze and simple sugars. And so you gain a little fat and lose a little muscle mass and who ever really notices for a while, but you sure don't look like a rock god or goddess just descended from Olympus after a while of that, do you?

Enter the Drink Of The Gods: The Bloody Mary.

Poem Series: CAGED

CAGED

Liz Fink-Davenport

My heart did something stupid. Disobeyed. I kind of always knew it would. I said "stay" and...no, it ran. Head long into the wet fields. In the dark early morning weight. It broke its leash that I had thought was tied so tightly. Rubbed thin and snapped. Here is what happens when you leash up a dangerous, feral thing...it pulls and strains and repetitively reaches for something out there. To be let go. You can feed it. Oh yes. And you might pet it. And think "this is tame". And occasionally it does as its told. But then it disobeys. And breaks.

It ran. Without a look in either direction as it bolted across the highway. Hind shanks pumping towards anything. Everything. Anything else. Scents confused because...there is the hint of You. Oh, You. The lie of a You. And then the World. Earth. Moss. Sky. Your breath. Your heat. Your neck. And the pull of stars and moon and the depth of Your eyes. It raced ever deeper and I ran after it. The hope and pull of You. Stop. Stop, dammit. Please. Stop. I'm running and tripping over fallen branches and being cut by limbs and crying out to come back. Come. Back. Don't do this thing.

I hate my heart for the searching. I hate it for the reigning back in I have to do. The hunt. The heeling. Dragging. I am so tired. The kenneling. The fight. The whimpers. A metal gunshot lock and the pacing behind bars. I built a better cage while you were out running, Heart. A higher, stronger, thicker one. Heart, you did this. Made me. Because, what if I lost you? If you ran and when I finally found you, you were damaged. Beaten. Bitten. Less. And you rolled hurt eyes to me and I had not protected you. And you would not forgive me that. Why had I not tied you tighter? I will. Lash you down. Never to run again. Because, look at you. I see blood. And wounds already. I'm glad I found you. I'm glad you are safe. Don't run again. There is no You. That is a lie of a scent of something that is not real. Home is here. This cage. Quiet down now. I hate the sound of your longing. The cries.

Your Brain on Music

 Great VIDEO piece at Scientific America!

By Benjamin Meyers, Diana Kwon on December 10, 2015

(excerpt).....While listening to music you might find yourself tapping your foot or bobbing your head to the beat. What you might not have expected is that as you listen to your favorite tune, the rhythms in your brain also follow along.

Brain rhythms arise when large groups of neurons fire together. Previous studies have shown that listening to someone talk can elicit such activity. Now research reveals that brain rhythms also synchronize with musical sequences. And musical training can enhance this ability. The study is in the Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences [Keith B. Doelling and David Poeppel, Cortical entrainment to music and its modulation by expertise]......

RUSH's Neil Peart Retiring from Music

"Canadian rock icon cites age, health issues for ending music career spanning 40 years." reads the headline.

Discussing his lengthy career with Drumhead Magazine, the Hamilton-born Peart mentioned that his young daughter Olivia, born in 2009, "has been introducing me to new friends at school as 'My dad — he's a retired drummer.' True to say — funny to hear. And it does not pain me to realize that, like all athletes, there comes a time to ... take yourself out of the game."

Read the whole story at CBC News.

Poem Series: My Person

My Person
Liz Fink-Davenport

In this life, she's mine;
No one moves me like she does.
My heart's call is her.