Meri's Musings

From my poetry chapbook Calypso Red Lesson Learned Once my name was Made-Herself-Invisible. I conjured my disappearance not through incantations or potions concocted from essence of larkspur and eye of newt but by hiding my light in a man's shadow. Now my name is Never Again.

he sat in the what if chair his ass affixed with glue so strong he realized he might just die there. what if I hadn't laughed when I farted out loud? he wondered. what if I'd planted daffodils instead of corn? he mused. what if I'd listened oh so closely to what you didn't say? he queried to the heat shimmering like an aura before him. what if I hadn't believed your lies when you told me nothing was wrong? he muttered to himself but more importantly what if I'd asked you how you wanted to be loved before it was too late?

I've mentioned her before. . .  Brigid  Celtic goddess,  patron saint of poetry and healing, of midwifery and forging things from fire, predecessor of St. Brigit.   In honor of her feast day today, I'm offering this poem from my as-yet-unpublished volume of poetry called Calypso Red. Thanks, Reya, for reminding me to join this poetic tribute hosted by Anne Hill at Blog 'o' Gnosis. p.s. I'm sorry. . . no matter what I do, I can't get this poem to display correctly. Like me, it has a mind of its own. Being Called Names I've been called a lot of things. It's a girl, said the doctor. My daughter, my father announced to his friends. Sweetheart, cooed my mother. Teachers seemed to think my name was stop talking to your neighbors. My baby brother couldn't say his r's so all of a sudden I was Mimi. To some men, I've been sweetie, love, darling, my bride, my wife, the one who takes him back no matter what. To others, I've be...

You've seen this poem before in an earlier version, but it's been revised and polished. So here it is again. Bel Canto I suspect that love is an extraordinary guy dressed in everyday clothes, a wily clown that springs his tricks and slaps his knee, chortling in delight at coupled pratfalls. I'd love to greet him, "Ciao bello!" the moment he turns the corner, sticks out his foot and trips me, skinning my knee and making me feel like a kid again. He'd guffaw and offer his outstretched hand and I'd laugh too and shake it. I'd love to serenade him with a song or beggar Rumi's words recounting -- how fierce like a lion, tender like an evening star -- love dribbled warm and moist in the tender cracks of his soul. I know, I know, he was talking about God but love in all its forms is my god. Right now I'd rather read Rumi and rejoice, "I was dead, then alive. Weeping, then laughing," than recall how once my heart...

dear luna, you hang so close in the inky sky can I caress you?  (Sorry, the photo's a little grainy. I hadn't bought a tripod when I took this, so the ISO was set really high.)

her heavy head droops as she realizes she  is doomed to die cut off from the source she cannot worship the sun destiny foiled For  more Haiku My Heart participants, click HERE .

I've posted an earlier version of this piece before, but it's been reworked after a few astute comments in a manuscript group session in a writing workshop I attended a while ago.  So here it is again, posted in its new incarnation. Hope you don't mind. Love is a Bella Thing Sometimes I think that love is an extraordinary guy dressed in everyday clothes, a wily clown that springs tricks and slaps his knee in delight at lovers' silly pratfalls. I'd love to greet him, "Ciao bella!" the moment he turns the corner, sticks out his foot and trips me up, skinning my knee, the one that's puffed and swollen, the one that bumps and grinds just like a stripper. I'd love to serenade him with a song or beggar Rumi's words recounting - how fierce like a lion, tender like the evening star - love dribbled warm and moist in the tender cracks of his soul. I know, I know, he was ta...

I just can't figure it out. Sometimes there's a man drought and sometimes it just rains big fat man splashes like manna from heaven. Can't someone regulate the flow? Most of the ones raining down alas  aren't quick enough to keep up, can't answer questions like what do you do for fun and what movies make you laugh so hard you choke or are you a broccoli man? "Print by Unknown Artistin Poulsbo Shop Window" - photo © 2009 Meri Arnett-Kremian So I don't even bother to ask questions like how to solve the crisis in the middle east or how to extricate ourselves from Afghanistan without appearing weak, because God knows the good old U.S. of A. can't afford to look weak or pee a shorter distance than the other guy and if they can't even tell me that they laugh themselves into unconsciousness over Major League every time they see it, (but detest the sequels in a major way), well, I know they have a weak little stream. Most of the guys raining do...

Becoming a Hummingbird I am becoming a hummingbird, my iridescence coloring the words  that rise in my throat a glistening red. My wings support me as I dip and soar, spiral and hover. I travel at the speed of dreams, searching out the nectar of the gods to sip for succor. My breath shapes my thoughts, a gentle inhalation  shooting straight to my core and rustling the ribbons of my soul, exhalation giving me power to exchange depleted elements for new ones, brimming with life.  The purr of my wings stirs the air, bringing a catlike contentment to those around me. The chatter of my heart sends waves of sound vibrating  into a parallel universe, fresh pulses of delight  erasing the darkness and birthing blessings for all who feel the stirring of my wings. p.s.  This is one of the creative writing pieces done on the Egypt tour. As we speak, Normandi Ellis and Gloria Taylor Brown  are compiling and editing an anthology of works...

"Neon Minarets" copyright 2009 Meri Arnett-Kremian Neon minarets dance in the dark, spinning tight little Sufi spirals, leaving a vapor trail of energy to mark their path of devotion. "Sufi Spirals" copyright 2009 Meri Arnett-Kremian.

Looking back in a haze of nostalgia, I suspect that love is an extraordinary happening clothed in the every day, a wily thing that springs its tricks and slaps its knee in delight at coupled pratfalls. I'd love to greet it, "Ciao bella!" the moment it turns the corner, sticks out its foot and trips me up, making me exclaim with surprise over the skinning of my knee, the one that's puffed and swollen, and the capture of my heart, the heart so deeply buried that I didn't know it could be found. I'd love to serenade love with a song whose lyrics hum a pure note of truth as Rumi did when he gathered opposites in his hands and noted he became fierce like a lion and tender like the evening star when love dribbled warm and moist in the tender little cracks of his soul. I know he was talking about God, but love in its varied forms is my god. I'd sure as hell prefer to quote Rumi and say, "I was dead, then alive. Weeping, then laughing," rather than rec...

Yesterday, I read the Mary Oliver poem that Nina Bagley posted on her blog. It sparked something. It evoked one of those episodes in which the words pour out, making me feel as if my job is merely to convert the energy sizzling in my brain into word forms and then to edit carefully, lightly, with intention all while preserving the power and authenticity of the energetic signature that's both me and foreign. Yes, that's it. I felt as if I were translating. So I wrote and edited and the poem below came into being. Then I searched for the perfect image to convey the freight of the words, because blog readers love the pairing of words and images, but alas, no starfish could be found. This little gem had to substitute. A nautilus, I think. I'm "still looking for starfish of love." "Still Looking for Starfish of Love" - photo copyright 2009 Meri Arnett-Kremian Looking for Starfish of Love* My heart leans forward, into the gale of longing, its sails snapping,...

in that moment when I forgot to guard my heart, you flattened me against the earth, pinned me down with silver star points and sang me out to see the crescent moon, more luminous even than the faint pink glow seeping through the crack of dawn, while each hour puffed itself, fanned its peacock feathers in an array of strutting minutes and waited with bated breath for the world like a peach to split open in juicy, pulpy ripeness - Photograph and poem copyright 2009 Meri Arnett-Kremian