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thebutterflyspeaks

art is about life / life is about art

Snow Day

A muse is like a book that

only appears when you are

Moved by stillness. 

The pages of this book

are fragile, old paper that I can turn slowly.

My life has felt like a broken VCR,

Stuck in fast-forward. 

The snow falls outside, blanketing my concerns and my worries. 

The pace of the slanted raindrops 

seem to say: “Calm yourself. There is time.”

The blanket of white that has

Taken ownership of our city says, 

“stay here. Sleep. Reset.”

There is a cycle to nature 

A cycle where the crinkled thoughts of yesterday

The sharp rattle of worries and the jabs of deadlines

Become like quiet sleeping children 

In snowsuits, curled up after a day’s play.

I strive as hard as I can

To be better, faster, always keeping up.

I am relentless.

I don’t give myself space

Until the sky says,

“It’s time to remember yourself.

You are an artist, remember? 

You are a poet. 

You are not just a tornado of productivity.  

Please, be kind to yourself today.”

I sit and look at my kitchen

Listen to the dishwasher swishing

Like a tiny troupe of tap dancers…

I feel my breathing

I drink orange juice

I am calm, but I fear coming

To a complete stop.

What is the optimum motion?

What is the value of rest?

What is balance?

Is too much exuberance bad?
Is exuberance good? 

I am a mess of warring adjectives.

I know one thing…

The world stops turning when

It has something to tell you. 

What I’ve heard is:

Be grateful for your life

Be grateful for others 

And their resilience

Appreciate the water

And the ice

And one more day

Of this incredible life.

Snow Day

Confidence

Now I have no fear

now my eyes are open wide—

now you disappear.

the end of summer

 

I’m tired of the great, full moon;

I’m bored with cricket’s song

I can’t withstand more roses;

the summer’s been too long.

 

It’s very well to love someone

it’s very well to yearn…

but after months with no relief

it’s getting time I learned.

 

There’s no peace to be found in this

though sunshine flirts each day…

that scented breeze is just a tease

for what will fly away.

 

I’m too old to be stargazing

I’m too wise to have faith

This spirit of forever shows

It’s only just a wraith.

 

The passion’s grown and done with

like grasses green turned brown

It’s time you loved another.

it’s time I left this town.

 

The pastures are too green for me

I long for winter’s chill

to hold me close, a long, cold night

because I’m sure it will.

 

 

 

Original Poem and photo by Lane DiBlasi Copyright 2019

Infatuation

You said for me to trust you.

So I did.  Put my arms around

Your waist and closed

My eyes-

Sparks and Ferris wheels-

Ice cream and fresh green grass

Flashed in my mind

For you were sweet

As sleeping late on a Sunday

And deep as the sky

I drowned in the possibility

Of your eyes

Until I realized

My life

Was compromised.

 

 

Copyright Lane Diblasi

Photo credit: Lane Diblasi

 

The Traveler

He travels through an endless sea of time

Behind the scenes, a thing of disbelief

To right the wrongs and set the world in line

So human beings can reach their destiny.

 

The sailor sails, the pilot flies, and he

Walks through the ages, undetectable

He’s not alive or dead, deliberately

He changes fates while being untraceable.

 

To human beings, this may seem divine

Or to the others, scientific fact

That wishes, prayers and hopes resolve in time

Despite the absence of an earthly act.

 

Of course, I’m speaking of the only One

That made the Stars, the Planets and the Sun.

 

 

 

-Copyright Lane Diblasi 2-18-19

 

 

Rain

Rain comes down and drenches the earth. 

Dirt turns to mud.

Things get messy. 

Water penetrates the soil and touches dry roots.

Water is absorbed.

 From here, change happens. 

From destruction, creation can be done. 

From mud…. life begins. 

Let it rain.

Resurrection

How do you bring a civilization back from the dead?

It is a reverse birth —

The wailing of labor pains takes the shape of earthquakes

Which rock a silent desert

Rock a quenched planet

Until a new river comes pouring forth.

The earth weeps and cracks

The plates move and open—

Some fall inside to be devoured by molten lava,

As the pillars of a new world

grow up from a chasm of hopelessness.

Blood rushes forth —

Souls aflame;  those pure and those sullied, separating into two echelons

While rain blesses and kisses the smoking embers of the past.

A screaming, howling life emerges

To dominate and reign supreme

amongst lesser beings.

This is our destiny;

We are here forevermore, and the earth will take new shape

beneath our steps.

 

 

 

Copyright Dec 14 2018

All Rights Reserved

the little fighter

I believe persistence is a gift.

It’s a talent.  And I know that I have it.

Sometimes, I think it’s just the caffeine. But with how many people in this world drink coffee, and how few end up being like me, I doubt it. I know I have an uncanny ability to pick myself up and re-orient to the goal, and try again. And try again. And try again. And eventually win.    Sometimes I feel like it’s a strange trait.  Like other people wonder how I keep going and so do I.  But I rely on it, to win. I can outlast anyone.  I can re-create myself and re-appear, and eventually you’ll give up or quit, but I won’t.

Years ago, I found a purpose.  I had taken on a new job, and I was challenged to do something that seemed very unnatural to me—talk to people I didn’t know.   I had to come face to face with my own fear, and drag it, kicking and screaming, to the ground, or I would be faced with failure.  In that first trembling attempt, and second, and third, I needed something to grab onto.  So I dug deep, and I finally found this rock, like the core of the Earth. It was unyielding. When you push against it, it just pushes back. It won’t ever break.  That purpose, when I’m backed against a wall, is what I lean against.

My teachers and other kids used to tell me I was sensitive. It’s true. I’m an artist, and artists can sense many things.  But I think sometimes, sensitivity is confused with weakness.  Wearing your heart on your sleeve, is not seen as a trait of a fighter or a winner.  But I’m both.  I can get disappointed, or my pride can be hurt, and you CAN hurt my feelings.  But– I keep showing up.  I fight back and I make it my life’s mission to beat the crap out of whatever adversity has presented itself.

 

I was talking to my husband about it today and I was describing it.  I called it “the little fighter.”     He said, you know, that little fighter has another name.

“What?” I asked.   He said, “Lane.”

Betrayal

I believed in you. 

Monuments built out of sand-

Crumbling in the tide. 

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