Poem Series: LOVE A WOMAN

~Love a Woman~ 

Liz Fink-Davenport

Darling, you want love? To know whom to love? It's a hard lesson learned. You have been so wrong before that your heart is raw. But here is what I know. Love a woman with eyes that burn with intellect and passion. She will hone you like iron on anvil. Someone that reaches for you in the conversations that should divide. She will be the bridge to connect. Love a woman with eyebrowsthat tell you the wrong path is ahead long before you know it. One furrowed brow can save legions from war. Love a woman with lips that purse when you do wrong, and soften when you do right. A woman's lips will tell you much. Love a woman with darkness and hidden truths and catacombs. She is secret treasures and long sunken truths. Dig. Dig deep. Beg to dig more. Then safeguard what you find, it is more valuable than rubies. Love a woman with a swing in her stride and hips that make music. Your life will be lyrical and her rolling jaunt will carry you on days you have no legs. Love a woman who can whistle. There is music there when you can't bring yourself to sing. Love a woman who's deep laugh washes warm over you. And you hear it often. Love a woman with bite and challenge and tenacity. Days get tough, she can hold on. Love a woman who can not cry. And love a woman who cries. This is the same woman...trying to be strong. Love a woman that challenges you and asks hard questions, she wants deep parts of you. Love a jealous woman. You are worthy of a flag. A banner. No halvies. No shares. You are someone's whole universe. Claimed. Love a woman who has been brought to her knees but has risen with her own strength. She can do it again. Love a woman, not because what she lets everyone see...but for her very nuances that the rest of the world will never know. The way she touches her mouth with the tips of her fingers when she wants to hide her words. The soft butterfly flutter of her lashes as she sleeps on your chest in trust. The curve of her throat. The pulse in her wrist. The arch in her back. The delicate round of her belly. The poem that she is. The song that she is. The thunder roll and lightening white that she is. The anchor that she is. The loosed kite that she is.

Love the woman that frightens you the most. And then leap into her like jumping off into the abyss. That's the One. Because only when it is scary, is it worthy. Love was never meant to be tepid or safe.

Poetry Series: RED BALLOON

Red Balloon

Liz Fink-Davenport

I am 5. I'm looking up to see faces. And down to see shoes. And my hands and my head can't hold all that is the World. Too much big. I remember a hand around mine that was warm and engulfing and tugging to places so fast and so large. Trusting that warm, dry grip. Feet shuffling to keep up.

I can never shake that. That pull. And when a new hand grabs mine and gruffs, "Come on". I come. My heart yanked like a child's balloon. I'm pulled here and there.

I have dug with my fingernails and palms out of more graves. Scratched my way to air, gasping and pulling my torso from sucking earth. More times. You are no different. This grave is no deeper. You pulled, I came. And when I saw no other balloons and no joy and the warm hand let me slip into the ground....I felt cold dirt rolling over me again. No different. All the same. It's always the same shovel. Same dark. Same hurt. Same. Same. Same.

But I dig. Hard. I pull and struggle and wriggle my nose above the dirt and breathe deep. Then I heave my body back to sea level. Panting. No, this is not my first time. Or my last. Because I have dirty nails and earth crusted hair.

But there is a hand. Reaching down. Again. "Come on." I take it. I'm up and shuffling again. My red ballon bouncing behind me. See? That's how I always find the sky again. And another hand. My balloon. It stays above the ground. But always tethered to me. My heart. It is always just above the dirt but never so high as drifting in to the clouds. And you yank. Come on.

"Breaking Out of the Box" #3 - Alan Robinson

The Power of "Power Chords": Part 3

Alan Robinson

Using “power chords” (5 chords) for extended harmonies (tensions)

There are basically 2 grips for a “power chord” (5 Chord). Grip 1 uses the first finger (index) and the fourth finger (pinky). Some may choose to use their third finger (ring) instead of the fourth but I find it easier with the fourth. Grip 2 uses a barre grip. This can be achieved with one finger barred or using two separate fingers. Either way both notes are on adjacent strings and the same fret. Below is a C5 power chord in both grips.

Cultural Icons 2: A Purple Hole in Our Hearts

The day after Michael Jackson and Farrah Fawcett died (we lost them June 25, 2009, and we lost Ed McMahon 2 days earlier) I wrote a piece called "Cultural Icons". It started "....I remember the day Elvis died..."

Its been 2 weeks since the world lost Prince.

2016 has not been kind. Lemmy's death in late December of 2015 seemed to kick off a storm of epic proportions, shattering our days. David Bowie and Glenn Frey and Paul Kantner and Keith Emerson and Merle Haggard the best known of them, but more still.

And then, most unexpectedly, Prince is gone.

Poem Series: Minor Chords

Minor Chords

Liz Fink-Davenport

Don't you apologize.

Don't dare think that you need to say you are sorry. Because when I bleed, I bleed freely. My blood. I crack open my ribs and like a song bird's cage, I reach in and hold out my finger. Tentatively my Heart trusts, and steps gingerly on. A small inch forward at a time. To come out in the light of day and be exposed to the elements and predators. Shaking and clinging to the hand it knows has betrayed it before, Heart is feeling the cold wind and light rain and missing it's warm darkness. (I'd rather beat alone unharmed.) But she always sings when I ask. Sings like its the first song. Sings the same song. Strong and calling. Clear and bright. But now I can hear the melancholy and minor chords. Just underneath. Barely. Not noticed by you. Never by you. Or you. Or you. Heart is offered as a gift. An unguided uncaged treasure thrust forward on a trembling finger. Take it. Here. It's yours. It sings for you. Aren't you pulled in like a siren's song and crashed against MY rock piercing coast? This time? Ah. No. Look. She was cupped in your palm for a moment, but her movements were too much. Her strength and beating and song didn't pull you. You lied to her. Whispered offerings of shelter and a home but you meant for a moment. Just to be entertained by her melody. She is thrust back. No. Not this song. Not this beat. There is a better song. A different rhythm. Later.

Heart comes home to rest. Closes the cage herself. Dreams of a bolt on the door. Prays for no outstretched finger..."Sing for me your love song, one more time, it is beautiful and you will win him. This time." No. Please leave me here. In the warm dark cave of a chest that walks the world. And tells you not to be sorry. Don't apologize. Don't you dare. You don't deserve the damn credit. It was my finger. It was my cage. It was my song bird I harmed. I am learning to find the beauty in her minor chords. And locks.

Poem Series: CHANGE

~Change~

Liz Fink-Davenport

I am allowed to change my mind. Mid thought. Mid life. You are too.

I am allowed to be not what I thought I would be. What I set out to be. What the world made of me. What heartache took from me.

I am allowed to roar in to the distance and receive the echo. Look in the mirror and accept the too harsh reflection. Push in to the dark and feel the cold fog densely defending. Touch a tender place and feel the wince. But...it's healed a bit.

I am allowed to redefine me. On a Wednesday at 2pm or on a Saturday at moon-past midnight. I can morph and change. I can adapt and mould. I am not a rigid thing. I am all the most wretched and base things done to my heart, all the promises unkept and the whispers not fulfilled. I am the hope of the words spilled in to me from that which I loved and then sliced from me. I am the timid approach of a child climbing too high in a tree. One branch more. And I could drop. A long drop. But I am also fire. And white hot lightening. And all things that set your hairs on end.

I am not going to keep seeing sunsets. I am going to look to sunrises. The peek of fire over the hill to tell me I have
Another chance
Another day
Another promise
Another warm fingertip over my lip
Another whispered word

I am allowed to change. Hell yes. But...my world....it doesn't have to. God. It can stay. Static. The world does not have to change its mind. Mid life. Mid thought. And, my loves, you can not do a damn thing about it.

"Breaking Out of the Box" #2 - Alan Robinson

The Power of "Power Chords": Part 2

Alan Robinson

Hey everyone! Back to yield the power of power chords. In the last segment we looked at power chords in the traditional fingering of root/fifth. In this segment we are going to invert the chord and place the fifth on the lower string (Example 1). We now have the interval of a fourth but the chord is still a G5 in tonality. By inverting the chord we can generate a whole new set of voicing's to expand our chord and fretboard knowledge.

Just as we did in the previous segment, let’s look at the G major scale played in power chords on string set 3&4. (Example 2) Not again that the seventh chord in the sequence is the only fingering change in comparison to the rest. Again, we will come back to this chord in a future segment.

Tonya Kay: "The Things that Make Us Human"

You can read our interview (in 2 parts) with Tonya Kay here.

And this is from her blog:

This ritual is dedicated to the things that make us human. Postcards, rocking chairs, rain storms, eye contact. Kissing.

This ritual is dedicated to staying in bed sick. Mending socks. Crows at sunset. Senior citizens.

My humanness is under attack daily. Devices, commercials, aspiration, plastic containers. Coffins.Tooth whitening, auto-tuning, retouching, CGI.....(read the rest HERE)

Ray Kurzweil receives 2015 Technical Grammy Award

Ray Kurzweil received the 2015 Technical Grammy Award on February 7, 2015 for his outstanding achievements in the field of music technology.

One of his primary inventions paved the way for re-creating acoustic instruments with electronic equivalents.

The Technical Grammy Award is a Special Merit Award presented by vote of the National Academy of Recording Arts & Sciences Trustees, for contributions of outstanding technical significance to the recording field.....

Read it all HERE.

Poem Series: Wildflowers and Splinters

Wildflowers and Splinters

Liz Fink-Davenport

Some things are too hard to write about. Some things stay trapped behind a heavy tongue and the dark of your eyes. Too heartbreakingly glass to risk outside the body soft. Some things are 2am thieves.

Tell me. When it's too hard. You can tell me. I want your words. Like moths gathered and pulled close by a glow in my ribs. I don't want to keep quiet. I want to cry to the cracks in the mountains. I want to whisper to the creek bed rocks. I want my words on the air that carries the leaves and geese.

Your lips will be the last I kiss. Your breath will be the last I share mouth to mouth. Your hands tangled in my hair and your fingers under my chin tilting my face towards yours...will be the last fingers. Last hand.

The boy who climbs fences to pick wild flowers will be the last boy. But it's too hard to say. Not my words. Yours. Coaxed out like a splinter. Flowers left on my pillow. Fingers tracing my jaw as they leave. 2am stealing my last kiss. My Wildflower Boy. Outside the body. Too soft.