Search

thebutterflyspeaks

art is about life / life is about art

we grow into one

We grow into one, you and I-

Like vines, branches, we grow from separate lives

Into the composite we are.

 

You have me in your ambiance ~

My voice has changed to harmonize with yours.

Your hands burn with the feeling of my skin

I set fire to you with my eyes.

 

And you inflict ecstasy on me-

You warm my toes with

Your toothy joy and sunbeam stare.

You bleed your love all over my universe.

And I fall to the depths of peace.

 

And you’re there with open arms that reach

All the way around my mental circuitry-

Around the whole city block of me

And my raving individuality-

 

And then you kiss me

And tears become stars.

 

 

Lane Eddington Copyright 2017

 

Advertisements

perfect dream

 

short film elisabeth donaldson poetry
Photo by Molly Lins

Wind me up

I’ll get your dinner and

no, I don’t need to eat

‘cause I’m a winner

 

Don’t worry about

this porcelean face

I was born this way

Don’t worry- the dishes are done,

now I’ll lie in the sun and melt away

 

Just drug me and

put me to work—

I’ll look fabulous

I’ll be nothing but curves

as i disintegrate

Just drug me and leave me

the keys

so I can go outside, please

 

It’s hard being perfect for you

But I’ll do what I can—

if I feel alone, there’s always alcohol

If I get downhearted

I’ll put more lipstick on

I’ll practice being clean.

Aren’t I your perfect dream?

 

Once long ago, I had a conscience

Once long ago, I thought this and that

But this apron and these lovely wooden spoons

are all I know now

they’re all I love in this world.

 

It’s too bad I need batteries

To live in ecstasy

 

If I were to act like myself, you wouldn’t love me

If I were to have an opinion, I’d be fried

So I’ll put more lipstick on

And be satisfied.

 

And when my soul cries…

I’ll just anesthetize.

 

And when my heart breaks..

I’ll just remember, I’m a fake.

 

–L.K.E.  Jan 5, 2017

elisabeth donaldson
Ruth Chapa Photography

 

Where is Poetry?

“where’s the place for poetry?” you asked

ah, well, in between the nooks and crannies of creation

the glue that holds petals to flowers

and lovers to each other

the spit that was spat on the shoe of tyranny

that is poetry

 

“where’s the place for decency?” you asked

inside the heads of the dead that died for freedom

in the hole beneath the corpse of idealism

beyond the gallows of a false democracy

the flag that flew when someone said hypocrisy

and underneath a soldier’s brainwashed constancy

there you will find decency

 

“where’s the place for artistry”?

Beyond man’s boundless universe

Underneath your eyelids, of course

In every cup of coffee that rejects normalcy

It is merely the conquest of infinity

Riding the shoulders of a militant reverie

There is artistry.

 

Where is the place for poetry?

In the handshake of possibility

Where dreams escape fragility

As we gods sit in our gallery…

Painting, weaving, destiny

Deciding that one and one makes three

Creating the world that others will someday see…

There is poetry.

 

 

Lane Eddington

September 20, 2005

Getting Off the Ground

I saw this butterfly one time and it looked really beat up.   This was at the Butterfly House I visited in Aruba, early this year.

I’ll never forget it because it effected me profoundly.

If you’ve been reading my writing you know the connection I have with butterflies.

I had been snapping pics of all different types of butterflies, all fluttering gaily, and then I saw this black one that looked like it had been through a war.  It was old, maybe dying.  It definitely looked like it had seen a thing or two. It looked defeated.   The emotion I felt from it, just looking at it, was incredibly real. I felt its sadness and its pain.

It was what I could become.

I realized, just because you’re a butterfly, doesn’t mean you have an easy life.  I mean, flying around isn’t always paradise.  You can get clobbered. You can get caught in a net or you can get steamrolled or you can get sprayed with pesticide.

You can lose a chunk of one wing, or you can have some kid wickedly pull one off.

When I was a kid, there was this boy in the school yard that used to torture butterflies. I used to try to protect them, of course.  He was the epitome of what I don’t like in this world.  It taught me about cruelty, at a young age.  Some people really don’t care. They laugh at the destruction of what is most sacred and precious to another.  And the butterflies – little yellow ones, I remember them to this day– lay there crushed on the blacktop.  The light of the universe, the breath of God, broken and destroyed for this kid to have something to do.

As for being a butterfly… it can teach this lesson:   Just because you’re a thing of beauty, doesn’t mean you get treated well.

And just because you’re divine, doesn’t mean you have it easy.  You can forget what you are.  You can just stop flying. One day you can just decide “I’ve failed.”  And you sit down, on a rock, and you just stay there.  You can isolate yourself from life.  You can decide to be still.

Then maybe your wings atrophy and you become an accountant.   And one day, someone reminds you of what you are, and says, why can’t you get off the ground?

 

But you’ve been so demoralized and denatured and destroyed…. That you don’t know. And you say, “What do you mean? I’m late for my job as an accountant.”

So this is what could happen.  Or you could be the yellow butterfly crushed on the pavement. Of you could be sitting on the rock thinking you’ve failed.

Point being….  Butterflies can’t just be the thing admired and praised.

They sometimes need to be saved.

How do you save a butterfly?  You remind it… that it can fly.

Lane DiBlasi

9/30/16

 

 

 

The Fortress

 

The Fortress

 

There once was a girl who lived in a tiny brick room in a huge fortress.

 

The fortress belonged to her, but she knew she was not the only owner.  Other people, whom she didn’t know, also lived in the fortress.  She mostly stayed to her little room, but somehow the fortress was growing larger.  Every day there were more and more rooms, hallways, and new sections.  The fortress was meant to keep out intruders, so it was built like a maze, with crooked hallways and strange arrangements of the rooms.

 

One day, after being in her room for quite some time, she tried to open her door, and couldn’t.  The door wouldn’t open. Someone had built a brick wall right outside of it and it would only budge an inch.  She found out that the newer rooms were being built around her room, and she couldn’t get out anymore.  She wondered how she could escape.  She couldn’t climb out the window because there was a deep chasm below it.  There was no explanation of why this was happening.   She couldn’t imagine why anyone would have done this.

 

Banished to her little room and with nothing to do, she began to write. She used all of her notebooks and even the walls, and she wrote thousands of stories. They were all about boundless fields and open landscapes, and wild people from other countries she’d never been to, who could roam anywhere they wanted. Meanwhile, the fortress kept growing around her.  She could hear them building.  There were new hallways, new stairways, and many new rooms every day. Yet the girl could not leave the room.  She still couldn’t even open the door.   She began to hate her surroundings and wish to destroy everything in sight.

 

When there was no more paper or wall space to write on, she began to sing.  She invented songs and poems about being free and escaping from the fortress. She slept more and more, dreaming about open fields, dreaming that she was outside the room and outside the fortress, looking in.

 

One day she woke up and realized that her room was different somehow. She looked around and finally knew what it was that was different – everything was closer together. Her window was smaller. Her door was smaller. She was so frightened that she started thinking about breaking the window and diving in to the chasm outside her window.   She knew she would surely die if she did this, but it would be better than being stuck here. But something told her that wouldn’t be right. Still, she spent more time than ever – all day and most of the night – singing and dreaming about other lands, far way meadows that stretched on forever, and she prayed to God to be rescued from the fortress. She chanted out words of being free and far away.

 

But the next day, her room was smaller still. And the next day it was smaller than that. Finally it was so small that there was just a tiny point of light for a window, and just enough space for her bed. She went to sleep that day and tried to leave her body. She tried to make all the walls disappear and give way to a tremendous landscape of hills and fields, with no buildings in sight.   But she would wake up, and the walls would be real as ever.

 

The girl kept sleeping, dreaming of freedom for an unknown period of time, until something very strange happened.   One day, she was dreaming about one of her landscapes and she saw something in the distance of her mind, among many trees and flowers, on a great plain. It was a large brick building. In her dream she began to walk towards it, and it grew bigger and bigger. She walked through the door and into winding hallways, through many endless brick rooms and up and down many stairways.   She wondered what this place was here for.  She wondered what it was supposed to protect against – certainly there was nothing in this idyllic place that could be dangerous.

 

Finally she found a wall, standing alone in front of a door to a small room.  The room was very hard and solid.  She sensed that behind this wall the room was closed in, and it was enclosed that way mistakenly.  She could not see in or get into it.  She noticed that there were no other people in the entire building, but she sensed there might be someone in this closed-in room. She noticed how efficiently it was held closed, and what a good job someone had done putting this obstruction there to close it off. She felt the bricks of the four outside walls of the room, and noticed how dense they were.

 

When the girl awoke from her dream, she could still see the vision of the outside of the room. And she wrote a song about how well the room was built, and how interesting the fortress was, with its many hallways and compartments. She took the stories she had written about escaping and tore them up. She cleaned the writings off the walls and looked at them for a long time. She decided that they were not bad walls, they were strong, good walls. They did a good job of keeping her here, safe from the outside world. She fell asleep thinking about all the parts of the huge fortress she was in.  Her fortress. She dreamed very vividly about every part of every stairway and every room.

 

When she woke up, she opened the door and stepped outside into the beautiful green field.

 

Lane K. Eddington

January 11, 1997

 

butterflies resting

Your face is calm… like butterflies resting

And waves in the sea that have not yet formed

You have the kind of face that shines like smooth cliffs above water, reassuring fish that land is there

Your eyes are sure, so I am sure

Your hands on my waist remind me that my feet are touching earth

And there is a sky.

But your mouth opens to me and all the world changes…

The way things change in dreams, colors melting all life together

And your mouth is dangerous

It decides whether I live or die

Whether love is solid rock or crumbling sand

And I tremble at the thought of this power you suddenly have

When a moment ago

You were butterflies resting.

 

 

 

 

Copyright March 13, 2005

 

 

 

The Rider

The Rider

 

A rider, dusk-stained

in the desert,

caught my eye –

it was surprising

he had neither

coat nor feather,

but tears on his saddle

and in such dry weather

they were still

not dry.

 

As he came close

I watched his shadow

playing in the bony sands –

as if to warn by

growing longer,

reaching out his

black-grey hands

that some despair

was coming closer,

reaching toward

our fertile lands.

 

Closer still,

I saw his face

which looked so

scarred with grief –

I felt a chill of

loneliness and

could not find relief.

His ruddy scarf

was thick with dust,

and hands cracked

with the heat.

I gasped anew

when also saw

no boots upon

his feet.

 

I ran to meet him,

but he then

dissolved, a

cloud of mist.

Where was this rider?

Was he just a phantom

or a ghostliness?

 

All that day,

I searched the desert

for the rider and his steed

but realized, at last

he was an omen of a

future deed.

 

Years later,

I remember him;

he had come to warn

of times of shadow,

grief and sorrow –

not today, maybe tomorrow –

Still I wonder

when I’ll see

the reason he was born.

 

 

 

Lane Eddington

September 15, 2003

I want to be a writer when I grow up.

My first talent in this life was writing.   According to my mother, who raised me on a strict diet of poetry and prose, everyone from A.A. Milne to Emily Dickinson, I wrote my first poem at the age of 2.   The poem was:

“Num num num, I chew my gum, num num num.”     A masterpiece.

My mother is a writer and so is my grandmother.   My grandma still writes today, even though she’s in her 90’s, for the Intermezzo, the magazine of the Chicago Federation of Musicians.    And my aunt, an elegant combination of artist and healer, recently published her first book.

My father, an English major and songwriter, raised me on Shakespeare. I can still recite his favorite sonnet:   “Let me not to the marriage of true minds, admit impediments…”     This is one of the things you couldn’t help but hear come out of his mouth if you spent enough time with him.  I never reminded him of how often he’d repeated it to me, because it was my favorite too.    He challenged me once to interpret it, in the same way in which my mother challenged me with lines from Dickinson.  They would say, what do you think this line means?  And they were proud and amazed when I’d be able to understand these writers’ obscure metaphors, which predated my existence by centuries.

My grandmother on my father’s side, was an English teacher.   She, I’m told, was a true wit and unfortunately I never got the chance to meet her. My father always says, I would have loved her.

So with all of this literary heritage, needless to say, I’ve spent my entire life writing poetry, short stories, songs, and everything in between.   But, I’ve never really attempted to do anything with it professionally.

I remember reading Tori Amos’s biography and her personal account of the moment when she decided to abandon 80’s glam rock, and go back to her roots, arriving eventually at the landmark album “Little Earthquakes” which somehow accomplished the amazing feat of being a breath of fresh air and simultaneously a blast from the past.

Being an avid Tori Amos fan, I look to her life as a blueprint for my own.   Could I, at this late stage, go “back to my roots” and find success being a writer?

I’ve been blogging for a long time.   That’s, arguably, a form of writing.  It really is more like journaling, which I’ve also done since a young age.  But I guess I never really took it seriously.  These days, you can make a living being a professional blogger.   That sounds almost as ridiculous to me as being a professional shopper, or video game player, because like those things, writing has always seemed to me to be more of an escape than a profession.   But, I’m realizing lately that the thing which has been missing in my life is doing something as my work that doesn’t FEEL like work.  In other words, having that thing which I do without thinking, be also that which makes me a living.

Writing is my most basic gift.  Whether I was born with it, or whether I am simply the product of all the Shakespeare and Dickinson I grew up around, it’s in my blood.   I think Archie Comics also had a lot to do with it, somehow.    But I’m a writer.  Pure and simple. I know that by the fact that I am doing this, writing this, right now, to escape “working.”     It’s what I run to when I’m happy, when I’m sad, when I’m in pain, when I’m inspired, and when I feel nothing at all.   When I change and when I stay the same, I put it on the page as a method of breathing, of processing, of making my way through life.     Isn’t it funny that I would just figure this out, at this age.   It feels like finally keeping a promise to a friend, which you made about 10 years ago, apologizing all the way.  But it also feels like coming home.

I suppose in your late 30’s you start trying to simplify your existence. You look at what you have, which hasn’t disappeared with the travelling circus of your 20’s, and what wasn’t abolished with the “race to face reality” of your early 30’s.   What you’re left with, is your core.  It’s what were born with, and what you will die with.   It’s what you have to offer, and what you can’t escape.  It’s your bones.

So, I guess this is sort of a coming out party.   Here I am, world, writing at this desk I bought on craigslist, on which sits my cat, and my half-drunk 3rd cup of coffee of the day, in my home office with butterfly stickers on the wall.     My name is Lane DiBlasi, and I’m a writer.

 

 

June 22, 2016

 

The Ache

It aches when I awaken, it aches when I retire

It wraps itself around me, and wraps me in its fire

It pulls against my muscles, it pulls inside my head

It doesn’t want to let me sleep, but makes me stay in bed.

 

It talks to me of lonliness, it draws tears from my eyes

It reminds me of my failures, it begs I compromise

It wants me just to lie down, and let my heart turn grey

It wants me to forget to live, and sleep my life away

 

But I am NOT this body.  And I am not amused

I am not these cells that hurt, so don’t get me confused

This plague that is upon me, is just an enemy

I AM the Spirit inside, and I know that I am free.

Blog at WordPress.com.

Up ↑