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.

Poem Series: Regrets

~REGRETS~
Liz Fink-Davenport


I have regrets. Yes. Of how I loved you. Of how I did all the things I promised myself I would not do immediately after the promise is said. I lied to me. I dismantled me and showed you the pieces like a child with pride; an offering of scribbles and a cracked clay thumb pot and a seed sprouting in a styrofoam cup.

I broke my ribs and then rebuilt my chest so that you had room to crawl in.
I stopped all time and halted the world on its axis and boxed up the winds and shushed down the universe so that only your siren song voice was heard.
I rearranged my mess so it was less messy for you to have to look at.
I created nonstop earthquake dreams of you. I swallowed the ocean and ate the desert and lied and said I wanted more.

I have regrets. Of how I loved you. My heart beats no blood now. Air. Only air. My fingertips just graze the world, never plunging wrist deep again. My skin stands up and walks around and says hello to the greeter at the grocery and makes life roll forward. "Thank you, my day is well." No. Makes time roll forward. Life stopped. My chest rises and falls. Like it should. I fulfill my requirements. With no light. None. You turned off the headlight in a mine. Miles deep. You are not a good person.

I have regrets. But I don't regret my enthusiasm. I don't regret my joy. I don't regret how I freaking cannon balled into it. I don't regret my anxious fear that turned in to warmed honey. I don't regret how fearless I was. I don't regret my lessons learned. My heart. In pieces. Swept up with a small broom and a dust pan. It will get glue sticked back together. Someday.

Until then. I have regrets. I do. I have my heart to find blood for. I have my skin to keep walking. I have you. Imprinted. Damn. You. Imprinted. I have regrets. I want you to regret someone else. Please. Regret them until you want to shake them out like crumbs. I want you to regret. Have regrets. Am I one?

Artist Spotlight: Ashley Elizabeth Imaging

  

 Ashley has been capturing memories and creating visual wonders for years, and hung her own shingle in 2011 with Ashley Elizabeth Imaging. Below is a brief sampling of her work. Enjoy!

Kristen Smith

Haley Holmes

Poem Series: Until I Do

UNTIL I DO
Liz Fink-Davenport

The thing about love is that I can never do it right. I do it too hard. I do it all awkward and gangly. Like two teens with braces kissing. I do it too brokenly. I don't do it. Then I do it to wrong places. I do it and it gets handed back to me. Or thrown at me. Or pressed down under someone's shoe and stuck a bit there like parking lot gum. I do it with fear and holding. I never do it. I do it all over the damn place. I'll not do it again. I promise. I messy do it. I do it and then it does me. I do it like a shotgun flare into the dark. I do it with quaking hands. I do it tearfully and close eyed and a bitten lip. I do it with my chest thrown open and a wolf cry to the moon. I do it in inside pockets. I do it with a swear that I'm not really doing it. I stop it. I stop it. I stop it. I screw it all up into the worst kind of ugly. I pick it apart like tangled necklaces. I find it. I hide it. I hold it overhead and dance naked around the fire with it. I put it in a box, in the dark, in a cupboard, in a house, that is sealed. I hold it. I rock it. I soothe it. I toss it like a baseball and never go search for it over the fence. I kill it. I hurt it. I strangle it until there is no breathe and no beating organ. I bury it. I mourn it. I birth it and I cry how beautiful it is. I tuck it into my breast when it is frightened. I say nasty words to it. Oh, how nasty. I tell it I would rather never have met it. Never have laid eyes on its face. I tell it I hate it. I don't mean it. And I do. I want it back. I beg for it. I try to make it drink the water I bring to it...but it's not thirsty. I pull it along like a mossy anchor and a rope. I misplace it. I make it be sorry it ever met me. Regret my face. I make it look me in the eye and then I'm the one that flinches. I start it. I start it. I start it again. I do love all wrong. I never get it right. I will not do it again. No. Never. Until. I do. Dammit. I do.

Artist Spotlight: You Can Only Imagine

You Can Only Imagine is the graphics (photos, video, design, and more) of Damien McLean. His photos include everything from capturing the energy of live rock shows and burlesque performances to wedding day and newborn bliss, and his photo of Miles Osland was recently featured in Downveat Magazine.

Below is a samplig of his surrealism. Enjoy!