Thursday, April 30, 2009


"The key to to let go of fear."
--Roseanne Cash

In a conversation I had with my mother last week, she expressed that she felt a change was coming for me. I wasn't quite sure what to make of the comment, but I trust it because of its source. I also trust it because I have felt something stirring within me, though I can't quite pinpoint what it is or how my life will be affected by it.

It's funny how there are specific times in our lives when we feel as though we are on the edge of something. When we feel the energy of forces beyond our body, pushing/guiding/channeling us. This "a change is coming" feeling is truly mysterious when it is, in fact, followed by something life-affirming/centering/changing.

So I'm raising my hands up and letting go of any fears that may keep my little spirit from growing the way it needs to grow.

Grow Maura, G R O W.

Wednesday, April 22, 2009

little british boys

This week I find that I am being moved quite a bit by the talents of young british boys.

I just watched this and the little lad had my heart bubbling with joy.

Tuesday, April 21, 2009

***must see***

Last night Jme and I watched a movie that lovely landed in my top ten favorite films.

It ignited my youthful spirit unlike any film I've seen in years.

Creative, honest, fun. Perfectly accessibile to both heart and mind.

Go rent.

Son of Rambow

Now. Go find it. Go! Go! GO!

I promise, you will fall in love <3 with it.

(and if you don't fall in love with it, there is something wrong with you.)

Monday, April 20, 2009

fishing for good love poems

I'm on a mission to examine good love poems and I have always been a captivated geek of Adreienne Rich's poetry. This particular poem makes my toes curl.

Adrienne Rich
from Twenty-One Love Poems

Wherever in this city, screens flicker
with pornography, with science-fiction vampires,
victimized hirelings bending to the lash,
we also have to walk . . . if simply as we walk
through the rainsoaked garbage, the tabloid cruelties
of our own neighborhoods.
We need to grasp our lives inseperable
from those rancid dreams, that blurt of metal, those disgraces,
and the red begonia perilously flashing
from a tenement sill six stories high,
or the long-legged young girls playing ball
in the junior highschool playground.
No one has imagined us. We want to live like trees,
sycamores blazing through the sulfuric air,
dappled with scars, still exuberantly budding,
our animal passion rooted in the city.

I wake up in your bed. I know I have been dreaming.
Much earlier, the alarm broke us from each other,
you've been at your desk for hours. I know what I dreamed:
our friend the poet comes into my room
where I've been writing for days,
drafts, carbons, poems are scattered everywhere,
and I want to show her one poem
which is the poem of my life. But I hesitate,
and wake. You've kissed my hair
to wake me. I dreamed you were a poem,
I say, a poem I wanted to show someone . . .
and I laugh and fall dreaming again
of the desire to show you to everyone I love,
to move openly together
in the pull of gravity, which is not simple,
which carried the feathered grass a long way down the upbreathing air.

Since we're not young, weeks have to do time
for years of missing each other. Yet only this odd warp
in time tells me we're not young.
Did I ever walk the morning streets at twenty,
my limbs streaming with a purer joy?
did I lean from any window over the city
listening for the future
as I listened here with nerves tuned for your ring?
And you, you move toward me with the same tempo.
Your eyes are everlasting, the green spark
of the blue-eyed grass of early summer,
the green-blue wild cress washed by the spring.
At twenty, yes: we thought we'd live forever.
At forty-five, I want to know even our limits.
I touch you knowing we weren't born tomorrow,
and somehow, each of us will help the other live,
and somewhere, each of us must help the other die.

Friday, April 10, 2009

"empty" with Ray

I love Ray LaMontagne.

There's truly something magical about listening to him sing.

I feel like his soul is whispering into my ear.


Wednesday, April 1, 2009

april fools

April 1st
A perfect day to risk hitting on a Baptist baby.
I was a Catholic.
You were a girl
and so was I.

There was a spin of the bottle the week before.
Spinning…spinnin’…spin…stop. You.
We felt the difference.
(The difference was we would go on spinning like that bottle.
Eight Aprils.
You spent one or two away, but I kept tap dancing on your tongue.)

Our first date was a double date.
You brought a boy.
I brought a boy.
You and I went home together,
no pity for the fools who fell for us.

We were the fools,
fickle and fabulous non-fiction.

So April drops in again today,
joking over silenced memories and some two thousand miles.