Freelance poem (mine).

I work from home now

and I’m jamming to this song today

because Margot recommended it

and Margot knows what to pay

attention to. No, I don’t know Margot

but I know other women

who create television and funny mugs

plus my cousin-in-law

is the dude in the vest.

I’ve written a lot about vests;

haikus mostly, and desperate texts.

A vest is like a hug

for your chest, I’ve been known

to sigh, my core warm, my style fly.

 

Springtime poem (mine).

It’s springtime,

fling yourself
into the green
time, in the
meantime,
while there’s still
time, it’s clean
time, out with
what we don’t need
time, you know
what I mean:
let’s deem ourselves
better than fine,
let’s drink the last
sip of winter’s
wine.

gossamer dandelion

photo by Misha M. Johnson

Solstice Morning Poem (mine).

Monday morning. Lipstick, dirty hair. Reading articles about books
I already love and want to return to disguised as another woman.

Glowy gray winter sky glinting off the car parked outside, giant
spools of electric cord hidden behind. Christmas songs on the radio,

the rape-y ones (“I really can’t stay” “But baby it’s cold outside”)
interspersed with the others. Yellow coffee cup with one cold sip

remaining and the impending refill. Holiday cards taped to the wall
in a collage of those who love us for our purchasing patterns. Ten AM

on the winter solstice and the postal service workers are hustling
to make it in time for Christmas. I’ve been wearing this blue shirtdress

for three days and it’s time for a wash. All astrological signs pointed
to career success this month but where’s the proof. Holiday treats

thrust at me from everywhere; I accept. Flip my greasy hair
to the other side of my head; I let it lie where it lands.

“Wish for a Thursday” (poem) (mine).

Wish for a Thursday

In a soulmate we find not company, but a completed solitude. -Robert Brault

What I would’ve give to be settling in to eat breakfast
at Eaton’s Sugarhouse with you. The sky would offer
no commentary as we stripped off our scarves, unlatched
our jackets. We’d slouch a little in the chairs designed
for hunters on opening day of rifle season, for families
who’ve fed their cows hay from their own fields
for generations. We’re not those people; we’d only be
ourselves on a Thursday, a little sleepy still from summer’s
hot swipe of mayhem which we survived with long porch
lunches, sweaty bandanas, tulsi-scented winds. The windows
which appear cloudy from the road would be adorned
with hand-sewn curtains as if the diner were a living room
where anyone’s languor was welcome. Plates full of food
would arrive and greet our noses with their names.
We’d eat eggs and hot sauce over toast and split an order
of buckwheat waffles. It wouldn’t be the best meal
we’d ever eaten, not even the second best, but we’d be
unhurried and together: buttering toast, passing ketchup.

Hip-Hop & Ladystuff

1. In high school (middle school?) I was sure the chorus to this song said “Yo lie come way.” I actually have a mix where it says: Mark Morrison-Yo Lie Come Way. What would that even mean? Is it a request? No idea why I didn’t think about this absurdity a the time. Probably because I was used to not knowing what the eff r&b artists were saying. (The song is ACTUALLY called “Return of the Mack,” and he’s saying “You lied to me.”)

 

2. I like making words with “lady” in them. The verb “ladyweird” (to be your fucking awesome self in the presence of your ladies, which may or may not include talking in a distinctive voice/saying stuff you wouldn’t say around other people), the noun “ladyfairy” (the women in my life who drop their friendship gifts upon me & vice versa), ladyfriend, ladystuff, ladygravy (just made that one up–I’ll define it as “the delicious sauce of a  lady,” interpret as you will), ladywild, ladychats, ladyscapes (a landscape populated by ladies doing sweet stuff)….etc.

3. Speaking of ladystuff: THINX. Just thinking (thinkxing?) about how these underwear would have changed my life as an early menstruater makes me tear up a little. Future girlchildren of the world: get excited. (For the uninitiated, THINX are underwear for those days of the month when you are shedding your uterine lining like the badass female you are.)

thinx

4. LadyYelp now exists and it’s called Fairy GodBoss. It’s a website where women can rate how sexist our workplaces are. This strikes me as deeply important and exciting. Because, somehow, there is still no federal law requiring paid family leave, and women are getting discrimiated against for growing humans in their bodies, and we’re also making less money overall. Sexism is technically illegal…but so is jaywalking!

5. “You will never need another lover/Cuz you a MILF and I’m a motherfucker,” -Jay-Z, to Beyonce, in the “Drunk in Love” REMIX. These are the type of lyrics that made me want to write rap lyrics in high school, I’m not kidding. But then I realized who I was (short, white, Westchester) and switched to poetry. But still. Rappers. You make me LAUGH. And that laughter is infused with a little disgust (cuz misogyny) and a little reverence (cuz wordplay).

jay and bey

These paintings make me feel calm (Nigel Van Wieck).

I’m loving Nigel Van Wieck right now. He feels like a modern Edward Hopper (who incidentally had a summer home very close to where I live, who painted the farms along the road I drive to work on ). I like the shapes of people’s bodies that he portrays, the positions they’re in. And he’s alive right now, living and painting in New York, which means we can purchase prints for eighty bucks, follow him on Instagram, wild but true.

*Please note that I technically know nothing about painting except that I love paintings.

To the PointTo the Point

The Wind Can See

The Wind Can See oil on canvas 24x36 inches a

Escape

Escape oil on panel 20x24

Holding the Heavens

HOLDING THE HEAVENS oil on panel 16x20

Q Train

nigel2

New Model

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA
OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA

Autumn poem (Edward Hirsch).

Fall

by Edward Hirsch

Fall, falling, fallen. That’s the way the season
Changes its tense in the long-haired maples
That dot the road; the veiny hand-shaped leaves
Redden on their branches (in a fiery competition
With the final remaining cardinals) and then
Begin to sidle and float through the air, at last
Settling into colorful layers carpeting the ground.
At twilight the light, too, is layered in the trees
In a season of odd, dusky congruences—a scarlet tanager
And the odor of burning leaves, a golden retriever
Loping down the center of a wide street and the sun
Setting behind smoke-filled trees in the distance,
A gap opening up in the treetops and a bruised cloud
Blamelessly filling the space with purples. Everything
Changes and moves in the split second between summer’s
Sprawling past and winter’s hard revision, one moment
Pulling out of the station according to schedule,
Another moment arriving on the next platform. It
Happens almost like clockwork: the leaves drift away
From their branches and gather slowly at our feet,
Sliding over our ankles, and the season begins moving
Around us even as its colorful weather moves us,
Even as it pulls us into its dusty, twilit pockets.
And every year there is a brief, startling moment
When we pause in the middle of a long walk home and
Suddenly feel something invisible and weightless
Touching our shoulders, sweeping down from the air:
It is the autumn wind pressing against our bodies;
It is the changing light of fall falling on us.