Petite and Lost in Penn Station
One early friday morning, I trudged through the whirlwind, mad mass of humanity at Penn Ptation in New York city. The big crowd of considerably tall men and women in this big station within this big city made my petite frame quiver.
How can I , all 5'1" of my petite self survive this big world ?
So I walked on to the track of my destination and as I approached it- a woman came to me and said 'Your heels are fierce and I can hear the sound of your walk from a mile'. She winked at me.
I smiled and thought to myself - Yes, my size 4 ankle boots are fierce and so am i and yes, I can surely survive this world - with this 'distinct' sound of mine.
---
2.26.12
Colors of Spring, Through my Eyes
Red
the horizon, fortune and bravery
Orange
my flame my passion, my anima
Yellow
the golden path before me - my unshackled mind
Green
the grass i kiss beneath concrete where
Blue
breasted
Indigo
Indigo
suited
Purple
regal denizens pass me by....unmindful of my
spring dreams.
---
3.11.12
Your Shoes, My Shoes
Central Park, New York City
Our feet they deigned to finally meet
One sanguine winter day
Ah, said mine to yours I see-
The footwear that we share-
In make, in color, yea in size
they are the same, oh so alive--
So tell me, where have yours been?
Said yours:
Hands picked them up at Macy’s shop and clothed me in them fine
I’ve taken walks and coffee talks
and run with hounds
and dined with hawks
At day’s end, these hands, my friend
lay my raiment down to sleep--
on a cushioned floor in a hallowed hall
‘side Manolo’s keep--
And You--?
Said mine:
They were born in a crowded room
where pictures of your regal line
were there for all to see
Your name oh winged victory--
They emblazoned on the side for me--
Oh they were sold at slave market price
to those who walk uneven roads
Oh such as I have tread...
I’ve learned to walk--make liquor talk
and run from hound and hawk
But this fine day I stand with you
False prince among the princes true.
----
3.17.12
Petite can be more... like less can be more, as they say.
For one constant wanderer and wonderer like me, my mind expands constantly to ideas of various breadths and depths. Like this one ... petite can be more.
A precious keepsake in few simple words.
Petite can be more- can be interpreted in so many ways .... for me, i may just interpret it now as - within my small frame lies big dreams, hopes and ideas, that my sphere of conciousness knows no height- and definitely can soar more than 5'1".
-----
4.15.12
Once, twice, three times a petite lady...
Living a 'petite life' is unusual and challenging.
Being mistaken as a teener in mid 30s, can be frustrating rather than flaterring. Once, twice, thrice- will always be a petite lady- nothing less , nothing more.
For me, the best antidote for this 'petite life' is telling my story - and sharing thoughts of overcoming immesurable heights with courage and confidence- all wrapped up in my petite self.
-----
4.27.2012
Once written as an introduction to a poetry book..
For most of my life, I was a dreamer and a visionary. Meandering in a listless existentialist morass, I observed people make something of themselves--and wondered how I could reinvent myself into one of them.
Throughout this mundane cycle, I began to write poetry and wandered into an avenue where I could be myself. I wrote about the things that keep us human and the things
that take us beyond. I wrote on love and hate; beauty and profanity; grandeur and humility; high and low.. I wrote about my life.
Words became my lone companions when the world ran at light speed… becoming salvation to my enigmatic essentia. I sat in silence, listened to the choir of my heart and pieced together words like Arachne on her loom - to create a rhythmic language… to create hymns of being.
And in this ethereal bliss of pen and soul, Ah! I awakened - no muse inspired me - for I am the muse - chastised from the worn path of humanity and reborn from amniotic ink.
This blog ( before for a book) is a celebration of recreating-and finding myself... leaving footprints behind because now ushers me to my new reality….
---
3.11.12
Your Shoes, My Shoes
Central Park, New York City
Our feet they deigned to finally meet
One sanguine winter day
Ah, said mine to yours I see-
The footwear that we share-
In make, in color, yea in size
they are the same, oh so alive--
So tell me, where have yours been?
Said yours:
Hands picked them up at Macy’s shop and clothed me in them fine
I’ve taken walks and coffee talks
and run with hounds
and dined with hawks
At day’s end, these hands, my friend
lay my raiment down to sleep--
on a cushioned floor in a hallowed hall
‘side Manolo’s keep--
And You--?
Said mine:
They were born in a crowded room
where pictures of your regal line
were there for all to see
Your name oh winged victory--
They emblazoned on the side for me--
Oh they were sold at slave market price
to those who walk uneven roads
Oh such as I have tread...
I’ve learned to walk--make liquor talk
and run from hound and hawk
But this fine day I stand with you
False prince among the princes true.
----
3.17.12
Petite can be more... like less can be more, as they say.
For one constant wanderer and wonderer like me, my mind expands constantly to ideas of various breadths and depths. Like this one ... petite can be more.
A precious keepsake in few simple words.
Petite can be more- can be interpreted in so many ways .... for me, i may just interpret it now as - within my small frame lies big dreams, hopes and ideas, that my sphere of conciousness knows no height- and definitely can soar more than 5'1".
-----
4.15.12
Once, twice, three times a petite lady...
Living a 'petite life' is unusual and challenging.
Being mistaken as a teener in mid 30s, can be frustrating rather than flaterring. Once, twice, thrice- will always be a petite lady- nothing less , nothing more.
For me, the best antidote for this 'petite life' is telling my story - and sharing thoughts of overcoming immesurable heights with courage and confidence- all wrapped up in my petite self.
-----
4.27.2012
Once written as an introduction to a poetry book..
For most of my life, I was a dreamer and a visionary. Meandering in a listless existentialist morass, I observed people make something of themselves--and wondered how I could reinvent myself into one of them.
Throughout this mundane cycle, I began to write poetry and wandered into an avenue where I could be myself. I wrote about the things that keep us human and the things
that take us beyond. I wrote on love and hate; beauty and profanity; grandeur and humility; high and low.. I wrote about my life.
Words became my lone companions when the world ran at light speed… becoming salvation to my enigmatic essentia. I sat in silence, listened to the choir of my heart and pieced together words like Arachne on her loom - to create a rhythmic language… to create hymns of being.
And in this ethereal bliss of pen and soul, Ah! I awakened - no muse inspired me - for I am the muse - chastised from the worn path of humanity and reborn from amniotic ink.
This blog ( before for a book) is a celebration of recreating-and finding myself... leaving footprints behind because now ushers me to my new reality….
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