Tag: fenn

Poetry Podcasts from October 2013

Pieces of Loneliness 1

Pieces of Loneliness 2

burning solitude


alone again

born lacking

silence and stillness


Poetry Podcasts from September 2013


Words caress me

My hands itch

My parents

Poetry Podcasts from June 2013

asha throwing
asha throwing

More podcasts from June 2013:

throwing 32


throwing 31


throwing 3


taking wing




that wheel’s a killer.

poetry podcasts from May 2013

Here are some poems that were originally podcast around 2013.

the cat’s triumph


feline poetry




the dog practices zen




animal comforts


darwin the dog


morning animals




dance with me



Thank you

Everything in my life is changing and i don’t know quite where it will end up.

But, i am trying again. That, in so many ways, is all that matters.

Art is for sale. Baby steps. My roommates and i have been talking about the potentials for the studio.  The fact that this house is filled with creativity, laughter, hard work and music leaves me overjoyed.

Even so, pain remains.  i regularly get overwhelmed with what i need to do, the art i want to make, the words that flow from me.  Today, i have been struggling hard against the feeling of powerlessness – that i am howling into the void. As i sat thinking about it, i realized the perfect thing to share.  This poem is in my collection New Vocabularies of Love.

And the sentiment has never been more needed in my life than right now.

love and compassion


It is a sign of strength to survive hardship, without a doubt, and the last three years have thrown enough hardship in my way that I am proud to have moved through it all and found myself at this moment of promise and change.

However, I am exhausted. Every day, I struggle with pain and fatigue to the point that it has made following my passions – particularly as an artist and writer – feel beyond my reach.  While I make art, releasing it into the wild has demanded more than I had to give.  Add on to that the chaos that we all face, living in this time of change and turmoil, and it has been everything I could do to survive.

Lately, my roommates have been talking about how we all need to stop surviving and start thriving, which is a marvelous ideal and one I enthusiastically endorse. Only, I have quietly wondered how.  How can I be in the position I am financially, spiritually, physically, and yet shift my weight away from survival and into transcendence?

Finally, it occurred to me as I was driving home this evening how to accomplish such a thing for myself, even though I am still treading water, struggling to stay afloat.  

There have been a few times over the past few weeks, in the middle of massive change, heartache and new beginnings, that I could feel this inner core of steel – like a tempered sword – deep within my being. Each time it appeared, I was able to act with compassion and kindness because I knew that I could flex and bend but would not break. At first, I thought they were random miracles, but this is part of something deeply significant.  Today, after meeting another friend for dinner and running into another at the grocery store, I was awash in love, both mine for them and theirs for me.  As I drove, I felt taller, straighter, stronger and could sense that flexible, shining, unbreakable steel. 

That was the epiphany: love was the way to shift from feeling overwhelmed and unprepared to feeling like I am already thriving.  It might be as simple as throwing compassion out, whether or not it is returned.  Harder, but still vital, will be turning the same inward, especially if I am in a terrible place emotionally.

For years, my art has an act of love.  Love for creating, love for the poems and stories and images that flow out of me, a very real sensation of using them as vehicles for sending love into the world.  As my art and I have grown, I have also realized the role of kindness within the creation of anything.  All art goes through an ugly stage – maybe all personal development too? – and patience and kindness are required to get to the final point, whether it be a mess or a masterpiece. 

So, here I am, again.  All of the sputtering false starts from this time of struggle have left me with an opportunity for a new beginning.

For three years, arguably much more, I have been surviving.  Like a turtle, I hid under my shell, for protection from a world that can feel so terrifying and capricious.  The world has not changed, but I have reached my personal rubicon.  I have stood up, taller than I ever thought I could be.

I need to turn to love, to kindness and to compassion – both with myself and others.  I will keep offering up this art that I make, in open hands, because that is the first step in moving forward.  This is the unfolding of beginnings, the first step in a journey of change.


Halloween Fiction: the sculptor: 11 of 11

*** part: 1234567 8 9 10***

Thomas started driving to their old apartment out of habit on the way home, so it took him twice as long to get to the new house as it should have.  He stopped for dinner on the way, comforting himself by thinking about Violet’s unanticipated superstitions, by her willingness to believe Moira’s fiction.  It made him feel better about himself, at least he had not been trapped into actually believing it despite what happened. During the hallucination it felt real, but honestly, self torture althe had more rationality than that.  As long as he kept reminding himself of the logical explanations – like those terrible neighbors playing jokes on him – he was on solid ground.  He only got as far as feeling like he could understand Moira’s madness, before Violet’s incomprehensible credulity acted like cold water washing over his psyche.  He grounded himself in his sanity.

When he got home, he was exhausted.  He locked the door, threw his coat down on the couch and got a cup of water.  Then, he went to the bedroom barely looking at the door to Moira’s unused study.  It was still closed and locked, with the cupboard inside of it, all the sculptures trapped behind that set of closed and locked doors.  He was doubly safe. He had nothing to fear, no reason to be anxious. After locking the bedroom doors behind him, he told himself he was invulnerable.  The new bedroom was blissfully soothing, too, all grays and muted blues.  Once inside it, he started to relax.  Sipping his water, he decided that he should just let himself fall asleep.  There was no point in torturing himself by reading or watching tv.

Slowly he stripped and climbed into bed.  Every muscle was sore from the move and the nights of restless agitation.  Each atom of his body was begging for restoration.  He entered the darkness of sleep before he had finished pulling the covers over him.

Sometime during the night, a sharp pain in his right shoulder pulled him unwillingly out of his slumber.  The pain had spread to his right side before his eyes could focus in front of him.

Instantly, terror overcame him as he looked into the eyes of viciousness standing tall upon his chest, blade high above his head ready to bear down.  Just behind viciousness, struggling on the bed, he saw anger, being restrained by compassion, but still able to laugh and say, ‘I told you we’d kill you, you son-of-a-bitch.’

In the moment before viciousness could bring down his weapon, Thomas thought it was ironic that he was being murdered by a delusion.  How could her madness have been telling the truth? How could a fantasy cut with such merciless rage? Only, now it was too late for him to ask – his thoughts flowed out of him with his blood.  His logic could not help either Moira or himself.

Halloween Fiction: the sculptor: 10 of 11

*** part: 1234567 8 9***

Violet was waiting for him just outside the door.  She pulled him out of Moira’s earshot and pushed him into an office used by the doctors for private interviews, before she shook her head,  “Thomas, why didn’t you tell me about this sooner?”  She sounded deeply upset, “You have my home number, you should have called me immediately, or just come to my house.”

“I was tired,” he stared at the floor as he spoke,luz morgan monroe ashamed of himself.  Somehow, he felt weak for having been so afraid of very things he had been telling his wife were delusions for over a year, “I’ve been thinking so much about what Moira imagined, I guess I started to hallucinate the same thing.”

Her eyes narrowed and her voice grew colder as Violet responded, “That has always been your greatest fault, Thomas.” he looked at her startled, she had never sounded so judgmental before, “You have such a small view of what’s real.”

“What do you mean?” he could not understand what she was saying to him.

“Moira,” she thrust her hand down the hall, toward his sleeping wife, “was a strong, vital woman before all of this started to happen.  You taught me that with all the stories you shared.  I feel like I know that twenty year old woman you described, as well as I know Moira now.” Violet paced the floor of the small office violently, “I refuse to believe that she could fall into such a state for so long, being so afraid, of nothing.  Something happened to that woman, I believe it.”  She stopped when she was facing Thomas, thumping her hand over her heart for emphasis.

“You don’t believe that her sculptures really came to life?” Thomas sounded sarcastic, incredulous that this intelligent, professional woman could succumb to such unbelievable things.

“I can’t say that I don’t.”  Violet said strongly, staring into Thomas’ eyes defiantly, “I’ve heard Moira scream about them too many times, with too much conviction in her voice, in her fears, to doubt her.”  She poked Thomas’ chest so potently that he backed away from her, “Listen to what she said, there is something in that.  She spent all morning today telling me about what happened.  Hours and hours of terror poured out of that woman.  I don’t believe that she did it all to herself, because of some psychosis.”

“Violet,”  Thomas put his hands on her shoulders, “you know that I adore you. You have been like an angel in my life. But you can’t say this.” She rolled her eyes as he spoke, “Maybe you’ve become too emotionally attached to Moira,…”

“Maybe,”  she scolded Thomas, “you’ve been too detached.”

Thomas felt a wave of guilt wash over him.  Never before had Violet criticized his relationship with Moira, his lapses of attention.  It was too much for him to hear.  He turned away from her and grabbed the door.  “I should go home.”

“I’m sorry.” Violet sounded sincere, but Thomas could not make himself turn around to look into those eyes, “I know you love her.  But, maybe, you should trust her a little more.  That might be the key to helping her.”  Thomas started into the hallway, when he felt a hand on his arm.  Finally, he looked back at Violet to see her face grave with concern.  “Thomas, call me if anything happens.  Anything.  Even if you just feel uncomfortable.  I’ll be there in an few minutes, your new house is close to me.  If you want to stay at my place, you know you’re welcome to.”

“Thank you for caring about her so much,”  Thomas rumbled, “I should get going.”

He was walking toward the elevators when he heard Violet call out, “Take care of yourself, Thomas.”