Mantra Schmantra

My neighbor and I started this year off right! Declaring our goals to manifest great things with the power of intention and positive energy.  We’ve even drafted a daily mantra – “this year, I am open to welcoming the perfect available man for me into my life”.  We goad each other whenever we’re veering wayward, off the path of positivity, and we remind each other with smiley face icons and exclamation points to keep our eye on the prize and manifest only good things into our lives.  I’ve been jazzed up and on a roll – feeling sky high and affirming every positive thing (or potentially positive thing) that happens each day with gratitude and delight, confident that each of these little upbeat happenstances are symbols of my awesome powers to manifest.  I’m walking the walk and talking the talk…

Or at least I thought I was.

Today, waiting for my bag to at the tedious conveyer belts in baggage claim at JFK, a very handsome man stood beside me and made eye contact.  He had crystal blue eyes, like marbles, hidden beneath dark framed stylish glasses.  Well coiffed hair, dark, with a hint of gray at the side burns. Slender, tall, casual chic in style.  Overall, a handsome man who surprised me and made me smile.  Well, all of my efforts at positive energy did manifest one thing – for maybe the first time EVER, my bag was the very first one to appear.  I almost applauded right there on the spot.  This little bubble of jubilation was not lost on my handsome observer.  I shrugged demurely and said “now that’s a first!  I feel so lucky!”  To which this apparition of beauty replied “You should play the lotto”, his blue eyes lingering upon me and making me feel all girlie and ebullient inside.  “Maybe I will” was my rather clever retort as I awkwardly gathered my bag and carry-on and prepared to leave.  Turning in his direction, I made eye contact once again – you know the kind that registers, hovers, makes it feel wrong to break away.  I stood there a wee bit dumbfounded and couldn’t think of anything to say but “have a good day”.  He looked ever so slightly surprised and returned my parting salutation with a gentle “you, too”.  I walked away feeling something had gone terribly wrong.  A little loss, a tiny grief, made each step gangly and uncertain as I headed toward the ground transportation exit. I even hovered a moment, hoping he’d end up in the taxi line directly behind me. When I finally saw him again, he was on his cell and looking around for his ride.  We had the briefest stint of eye contact once again and then both of us continued on with the rest of our lives.

What happened to being “open to welcoming the perfect available man for me into my life”???  I couldn’t find one single flirtatious word, one little hint of sex appeal to invite this handsome stranger to open up to me?  Is all of my mantra talk just BS? And do I let it slide in the heat of battle when an opportunity finally does arise?  How many times do my words go unspoken?  Do my desires crouch and hide, waiting for some other perfect time to make a well rehearsed and scripted entrance, stage right?  Is there a playwright alive who could write me some lines for just these types of moments?  How can I claim to be open and welcoming when all I do is clam up and rely on courteous pleasantries whenever a potential beau catches my eye?

As I rode all the way back to my Manhattan home, I felt the positive energy of the last few weeks begin to fade. The reality check of another potential loss hung heavy in the air, and I found myself thinking of my very first crush. High School.  Oh God, was I smitten!  And no, I could not talk to him either.  A tacky little 8 year old boy blew my cover, telling him all about my fatal crush. But sometimes I wonder… sometime I wish… Had I told him myself, who knows?  Maybe I wouldn’t be needing all these mantras today.

Sounds in the Rock

Stillness

 escapes me

 when your trumpet rings,

 heralds your entrance

 across a barren stage,

 void of props, scenes

 from the theatrical games

 we used to play.

Motion

 gathers, curls, creeps

 a rising tide of whirring thoughts,

 hula hoops

 that ring ‘round

 the rosy patches of my mind

 bright spots amid the brainy gray

 pink perfect memories

 that mottle the cortex

 and muddy the music

 of my speech,

 interrupting

 disengaging

 unforgiving the fits and starts

 reclaiming the spotlight

 in this thwarted present

 of Here and Now;

I stammer

 and hang glide

 across the valley

 of the longest moment ever

 in the hope of landing safely

 near you.

You are coming at me. 

Lightning strikes my kite

 and keeps electric jolts

 from pouring like rain

 through my very toes

 that reach for you.

Rays of love light

 dart

 from the open sunrise of my mouth

 shining the cresting wave

 of my frozen tongue

 high

 vaulting from the red ringed roof top

 of my teeth

 an echo

 failing to launch

 to land,

 to speak.

…

(and then later, the poem ends with…)

The words retract

  before they even begin,

  bountiful in volume

  this unheard symphony

  your approaching presence sings;

  in the second of a lifetime

  You pass by

  ungreeted

  once again

  by Me.

All the noise within Me

  turns

  to watch you wander away

  silently.

©2012 DOS

The excerpts of all of the poems presented in this blog are copyright protected, as each and every poem has been copyrighted.   For a complete copy of any poem, feel free to email your request to: duvallosteennyc@gmail.com.

Visions for Hemingway

Hemingway once wrote: "I want to write one true sentence." And "If I can write one sentence, simple and true, everyday, I'll be satisfied".

I read this recently in a new-ish book about Hemingway’s first wife. These words grabbed me, pierced me straight through to the core.  I find myself thinking about them frequently.  What is a true sentence anyway?  Who is the arbiter of truth?  I am often aware as I tell little white lies for social convenience or glaring lies of omission to avoid social conflicts, etc.  How often do we tell the truth?  And to whom?   Maybe the reason we have to write the truth, in sentences, is that it is simply too hard to speak.  

As an actor, I am a keen observer of human behavior and much of the human interaction around me. I watch the millions of strangers in New York City as they lie with their eyes or fidget their way out of answering a question truthfully.  We speak in polite idioms and socialized systems with the excellent manners we were taught as children, but often, a whole other world of truth rages underneath.  It intrigues me, our human struggles with this concept of truth. And how often do we lie to ourselves or convince ourselves of truths that are altogether un-true.  I wonder… whose truth is the one that counts?

As a poet, I find that images speak more truthfully than words ever hoped to.  I am keenly aware of the power of symbolism and the way it envelops me in multi-layered truths. The world is full of them – literal signs on the street, the nagging recurrence of certain song lyrics, or images in nature that make us stop and reflect, sensing a higher truth which always comes just when we need it most. 

Once in my late twenties, I was grappling with the concept of man-made religion verses a more personal style or level of spirituality.  I woke up from a nap in the middle of a Saturday afternoon to find my very Catholic crucifix split apart and just barely hanging from the wall; my rosary wrapped around it and dangling just inches above my face.  I laughed aloud. This image was a perfect and very true picture of exactly what I was feeling on that particular day.  The image stayed with me, as they often do, following me like a shadow, crowding the corners of my mind.  Finally I took out a pen and sat down to write. I don’t know if there is “one true sentence here” (let the arbiters of truth decide, whomever they turn out to be), but never a truer or more literal image has come to me…

My crucifix is torn.

Hanging lopsided

like an autumn leaf

yet to fall from my bedroom walls,

distorting the perfect oval

of the rosary that rings around it.

An illusion

as the weight of those glass prayers

splits Christ from His cross

partially.

The nail pierced through His feet

the only thing

that binds Him

to that dogwood tree.

Tilted toward my eyes

poised to dive

down-to-earth

and share this plane with me.

Sure to walk upon my welcome mat

and turn my water into wine

sans Halo

sans Shrine.

Naked with knowingness

embracing the Divine within my ribs

swelling with breath of tears.

Beauty ejecting shame

and all the metaphors of ritual

force-fed in high chairs

potty trains

elementary grades

imposed nick-names.

Powerfully pulling me beyond.

A roto-rooter

for the clogged plumbing in my soul.

Cleansing like a slimy mud bath

the Genesis of letting go.

©2012 DOS

The excerpts of all of the poems presented in this blog are copyright protected, as each and every poem has been copyrighted.   For a complete copy of any poem, feel free to email your request to: duvallosteennyc@gmail.com.

Easy Addiction

I confess that I have an addiction. Starbucks matcha green tea latte with soy milk has some kind of happiness drug inside it. It is a VERY green beverage that always draws raised eyebrows when people see me sipping it. I eagerly justify this addiction by praising the power of green tea to purify my pores and rid me of the free radicals that life in an urban environment readily bring.  And I go out of my way to hold meetings or social occasions near or better yet IN a Starbucks, so that I can get my ‘fix’ and continue my happiness trip.  Of all things to be addicted to, surely green tea is one of the best, yes?

With my craving in mind, I recently scheduled an appointment with a client at a Starbucks near his hotel.  I arrived a bit early to carve out a space for us and gather the necessary chairs from random spots or single sippers with no need for that second seat.  Another gentleman arrived in close proximity and began eyeing me frequently. I worried that he was “hovering” – the famous New York City trick that allows ones to pounce the instant a seat becomes available.  I kept feeling his eyes upon me and started to feel a bit nervous. Luckily, my client arrived and we sat with our respective beverages.  After a fairly intense and even emotional meeting which ended in a hug (always a good sign), he ran off to another appointment while I tidied up and began the layering process – scarf, hat, coat, gloves…  The slightly suspicious gentleman remained in his seat nearby and feeling no threat to my now unnecessary seats, I looked up and made awkward eye contact, even offered a feeble smile. To which this portly stranger gently replied, “Man! You really know how to rock a dress!” 

Ha!

It was so unexpected and delightful that I catapulted, with the help of the happy drug in my green tea latte, straight up to Cloud 9.  I laughed and beamed at him, thanking him kindly for his surprising compliment.  I sauntered out the door with a spring in my step, grinning like a goofy Cheshire cat. I know how to rock a dress?  Really?  What a wonderful thing to say to a lady, especially following an intense and emotional meeting with “the boss”.  I thought to myself how easy it would be to get used to that – the feeling of heartfelt glee that bubbles up spontaneously when unsolicited flattery comes my way.  This fellow caffeine addict had just made my day.  I sang a song of gratitude and decided this was an addiction worthy of cultivation. Where is the man who will sing my praises, especially on difficult days?  Who will lift my spirits with one quick lash of wit, with one well placed nod of acclimation?  I aim to manifest more of that feeling, and in fact, once wrote a poem that emanated from such a tender and incessant need. After writing the poem, I couldn’t decide what to call it.  Eventually the lone word “wish” found its way to the top of the page and somehow … it fits.  Isn’t every addiction kindled or ignited by the passionate presence of a wish, somewhere deep inside?  ??? What do you wish today?  I pray that you will “rock your wish” each and every day and that together, we will manifest a more beautiful world…

Wish

Your pupils make museums
of each masterpiece
you un-earth
in this excavation of me 

mined and searched

my pit falls open
as you shovel with your wanting
every beloved inch of me
restoring cracked mosaics
placing the pristine sculpture of my sides
on a worthy stand for your lingering memory

tickling treasures from my torso
till laugh out loud beauty
comes leaping from me

… (and later, the poem ends with)…

my lips curl, tender

a mirror for your ecstasy.

©2012 DOS

The excerpts of all of the poems presented in this blog are copyright protected, as each and every poem has been copyrighted.   For a complete copy of any poem, feel free to email your request to: duvallosteennyc@gmail.com.

Foggy Feelings

Foggy Feelings

I always get lucky when I travel.  While I was visiting friends in Orvieto recently, their friends called to invite us to Sunday lunch.  The hosts had been gifted a whole thigh of wild boar (Cinghiale) and wanted to share it with some friends.  Luckily, I happened to be in town, so they also invited some other American friends who now live in Orvieto, to balance the native English vs Italian speakers.  We loaded up and drove down to the countryside in Umbria.  The hosts live in a marvelous, beautifully restored little villa with scrumptious views of the rolling hill sides of Umbria, complete with vineyards, Medieval towers, the ubiquitous Cypress trees that line the driveway – everything BUT a view of Orvieto.  Two large trees block the view of the lovely Etruscan town of Orvieto, and its gorgeous cathedral (or duomo) with a post Renaissance façade.  Much of the greeting, the grand tour and the get-to-know-you chit chat centered around lamenting the lack of Orvieto in the view. I, however, was delighted with the view just exactly as it appeared.  The dining room is located along a long glass wall, so that we all had the immense pleasure of the “bella vista” while we dined.

 The meal was wonderful, the company exceptional.  Despite the fast flying Italian dialects all around me, I managed to keep up and understood much more than I anticipated.  After the meal, it was show-time as the hosts had just returned from a vacation abroad to India and the Maldives Islands.  We ooohed and aaahhed and laughed on cue at charming photos and listened to their remarkable travel tales.  All the while, an evening fog slowly crept into the valleys of Umbria.  By the time we finished our five hour pranzo (lunch), the view was misty with multi-color grays mixed among the greens, and evening lamps began to appear throughout the charming country side.  I found myself enchanted.  Full of fabulous food, heart-warming connections and locally made red wine, I fell in love with fog. Its creeping, its mysterious shaping of our human eye, as visions appear and roll like clouds, as dusk pervades the very roots of my soul.  The farm houses, the villas, the vineyards – all took on a romantic quality like love scenes in the rain at the movies.  It made me long for a handsome man to hold my hand, a sister to tell my secrets to, a lover to steam up the windows even more…  I found myself nostalgic for things that had never been.  How can it be that we miss what we have never had?  Perhaps the idea of former lives is not so foreign, not so incredulous.  I remember writing a poem entitled Nostalgia once, while sitting in Central Park soaking up the muted colors of the Fall.

NOSTALGIA

As the first frost fades

My Indian Summer dawns
I relish the rays of sun
that speak to me
as I journey toward my second home
in Central Park.

…

Kaleidoscopes of autumn leaves

swirl in funnels of sprinkles
wind-dropped atop the "Imagine" shrine
reflected in my eyes
blowing out the candle of Lennon's dreams
and doing him homage
all the same
with their diversity of hues.

 Creation thinks it’s spring.

The wildflower bursts of hope

swell the teardrops in my eyes
as the crinkling death of summer
neath my feet
crunches me toward winter
and the absence of my Solar friend.

…

This brief return of June

cruelly beams you into me.
I cannot help but lose my breath
and briefly sink into the quicksand
of our memories.

©2012 DOS

The excerpts of all of the poems presented in this blog are copyright protected, as each and every poem has been copyrighted.   For a complete copy of any poem, feel free to email your request to: duvallosteennyc@gmail.com.

Color Speaks

Once again while traveling to Italy, via Paris, I was struck by another thoughtful inspiration. 

Quite honestly, I was tired, and a bit grumpy from not having slept on the six hour “overnight” flight.  Not sure why, but I can rarely sleep on air planes.  It is a gift to be able to snooze in the discomfort of economy class, and one that I admire greatly in all the folks around me who sleep so peacefully. 

I was weary.  The Charles De Gaulle airport leaves a bit to be desired in terms of user friendly design.  I arrived in Terminal E gate 37 and had to walk all the way out through terminal F (which sounds MUCH closer than it is, as it somehow follows terminal C & D). Then, I had to proceed through the baggage claim area, exit the secure part of the airport in Terminal F and then walk all the way back to  Terminal D, re-do the security checkpoint and find my way to Gate D 58.  All of this was at least a mile and a half on foot.  And after little or no sleep, with a somewhat heavy carry-on bag, I was more than slightly annoyed.  When we “boarded” at Gate D58, a shuttle bus drove us some 12 minutes over to Gate E40 where we actually boarded the aircraft.  You do the math – E 37 to E 40 via Terminals C,D and F, at least 2.5 – 3.0 miles round trip.  Any traveler would have been ready to kill by this stage.

With an odd stroke of luck, however, sunrise caught my attention at the window.  As I watched the multi-color parade of clouds and sun and bright blue skies, I painted a happy tune across my mind and found myself smiling sweetly at the beauty of Mother Nature.  Ironically, I also found myself appreciating Her order, Her wisdom, Her efficiency, despite the foolishness of we human “organizers”.  In that moment, I felt the power of color to heal, to lift the soul and enhance the present with its beauty, its intensity, its emotion.

Not surprisingly, I have always been particularly sensitive to color. Art lures me with its vibrancy and/or its emptiness of color. I feel the passion in a powerful red; I sense the tears in certain shades of blue; I relish the growth in the color of green. Van Gogh once wrote in a letter, something about “the greenest of the greens I know”, implying that there were many more greens unknown to him.  It is true.  There are an infinite number of shades and hues and each has the power to speak to us, within our very souls – whether we know it or not.  The mystery of color has always appealed to me – its unknowable nature, the essence of the variety of life.

Sometimes the very first thing I notice in a man is the color of his eyes.  Or his aura…

Color Speaks

The hue of his eyes sings

Jazz to my smile,
as umbrella brows
dance in verdant surprise,
like wildflowers.
I am quiet, astonished,
bathed in that Tuscan aura.

Brown,

as the deepest roots of trees,

belying the youth in those vacuum eyes,
the pupil sparkling to his inner core.
Laughter, like forty shades of green
rustles the leaves along my forearm,
a spring-time storm,
Brewing.

… (and later, the poem continues) …

Race-car red,

the jolt of that kiss
the razor-sharp slice of his buoyant tongue,
flicking away the rusty chains that bind me.
He burns and cuts the skin off me
to savor the bloody sweetness I hide
in various tints of white.
I am rainbow-full beneath
and he slides down inside me
to paint me anew
from scratch.

©2012 DOS

The excerpts of all of the poems presented in this blog are copyright protected, as each and every poem has been copyrighted.   For a complete copy of any poem, feel free to email your request to: duvallosteennyc@gmail.com.

Airport Pecking

I was traveling to Italy recently and awaiting my connecting flight in Charles De Gaulle airport in Paris.  It was early morning and the various gates in terminal D were filled with sleep deprived passengers snoozing, reading or slurping their morning caffeine fix.  Having suffered the comforts of economy class on the trans-oceanic flight, I was void of humor, stiff and overly aware of the boredom all around me.  When suddenly a small bird, tiny little fellow, flew in from somewhere and landed at my feet.  His total lack of fear appealed to me as he flitted in, around and through the many shoes, bags and chair legs on his path.  Soon, his partner, another miniature winged friend, showed up to join him.  The two were scavenging, searching long and hard for some neglected morsel, some wasted bounty, some hidden treasure that would fill their tummies with delight.
 
These two were peckers – checking out every little wad of rubbish or ball of dust.  “Is this food? … Is that food? … Is THIS food?”  On and on they went, poking their beaks into anything and everything that might have the slightest hint of nutrition or savory satisfaction.  It reminded me of the dating scene.  How often do we go through life hunting, pecking, even digging for some little aspect of affection.  “Is this Love? …  Is that Love?  … Surely, THIS is love???”  Like my feathery friends in Paris, we single creatures bravely seek out the very essence of what we crave, despite language barriers, physical boundaries or inconsistent social creeds.  The many pairs of shoes we wear to walk the walk or dance the dance du jour.  I think sometimes I get so caught up in the hunting and pecking that I forget to really look and see what is before me.  The illusion of that which we seek brings inspiration and longing and the powerful pull of need, but no matter how charming the destination, isn’t it the journey that is supposed to count?

I often find myself manifesting amazing things through my words.  I have even conjured up a romance with some of my wishful thinking.  I wrote the poem “He” as an invocation to bring the man of my dreams to me.  When he shows up, I wonder if I will still be asking “is THIS love?” or will I fly away in search of my next or newest fantasy…

HE

When He speaks,

i'll listen
chewing every crumb of Truth
that slips from his tongue.
i'll savor
the rhythm of his laughter
as it rains on me,
rocks me in an aural storm
of Unity,
a Dance of sweet vibration,
the Voice that unhinges me.

When He steals the covers,

i'll tuck him in and snuggle,
tugging gently
to free a fold for me
as i wiggle into my sacred spot
beside him,
each breath
felt more deeply than before,
a coffee warmth
that lingers,
the taste of smiles
all over me.

… (and later) …

And when He gives,

i'll train the athlete inside me
to cultivate stillness

and believe

down to my toes

that i am somehow worthy

of the gift

He brings.

©2012 DOS

The excerpts of all of the poems presented in this blog are copyright protected, as each and every poem has been copyrighted.   For a complete copy of any poem, feel free to email your request to: duvallosteennyc@gmail.com.

Fever Speaks

I woke up weak and feeling lowly today, after fighting off some germy demon in my sleep. Vivid dreams and construction noise confounded to rouse me from my stupor. Not yet a fully fledged cold, but I could feel the workings of my white blood cells as my immune system kicked in and kicked  my butt.  As I lay there, I felt the weight of vulnerability press upon me.  Everything feels tender when I am not well – I am fragile and slow.  My usual zest for life takes a holiday and I breathe, in stillness, in respect, in surrender to whatever it is that ails me.

In these slow motion moments of nothingness, I feel my connection to the universe.  The entire world skips, honks, works and flies right by me. I am useless and yet somehow still a part of this extraordinary world.  Having nothing to contribute on such a droopy day, I simply lie still, contemplating the noises I hear, considering the thoughts that slide from the ether, soaking in the beauty of Life as it goes on without me.  I shrink to a smallness that feels infinitesimal and whisper my thanks for the blessing that is my life.

I always come through an illness feeling cleansed or purged, stronger and more powerful, with a deep and genuine knowing of my very own will to survive.  This gets me thinking about the places within us that are vulnerable and how perhaps we should celebrate them instead of hiding them under mounds of armor and foolish pride.  The poem below was written on one such afternoon, when I just had to lie down and let my body heal…

She sleeps

She sleeps

in fetal pose.
I trace the curve
of her hip with my finger,
that pocket of Divinity
where complete surrender
resides.
I could take her hip bone with me as I go.
There is no need.
For I know that she would give it me
if asked.

©2012 DOS

The excerpts of all of the poems presented in this blog are copyright protected, as each and every poem has been copyrighted.   For a complete copy of any poem, feel free to email your request to: duvallosteennyc@gmail.com.