Standing in a crowd
My voice loud and strong
Yet ignored and silenced
Sound waves evaporating
In a polluted air of false leadership
“Danger!” I call
While the oppressor’s mist
Clouds the senses
And tunnels my pleas
Tattered spirits weakened
By hate, fear, and pain
Spread misery cloaked in promise
Their words as weapons
Shielding the fragility within
We must unite in love to confront our truths – past and present
Or face an unrecognizable future.
Mesmerized into separation
Floating through time and space
Alone without loneliness
Trapped in imagination
Characters, alive in thought
Strangers to all but one
Their paths pre-determined
By the whim of the pen
They flourish or suffer
A single artist the puppet master
Locked away until needed
Pleas echoing off figmented clouds
Fictional silhouettes created out of passion
Fade in color and essence
Til the artist calls for them once more.
Spirit soars on wings of melodies
Soul’s nourished with purpose
Healing on levels unseen
Feel it, embrace it, share it
Inclusivity shining brighter than the house lights
Welcoming all to showcase their talent
Love of theatre and its power to heal
Radiant beams of artistic energy
Dancing up the aisles
Inform, enlighten, entertain
With or without music
Taking us on a journey
Allowing us to reflect, patch wounds, and gain perspective
The way is broad, wide enough
For us all to share the stage!
The rejuvenation of Spring
Kisses the eyelids
Pierces the soul
Awakens the senses
Nature and Nurture – equal parts home
The origin of life and how well we live it
Moments pass, noticed or not
Renewing, refreshing, and re-energizing
We are part of a whole
Connected though holy apart
Anger, fear, bitterness seep into our soul
Course through our bodies like an infestation
Spreading hate and fueling bigotry
We react to dispel the virus within
Unconcerned with the peril in which we put others
Our words matter, whether used as a healer or weapon
They speak volumes about what is left unsaid
Revelations of torn spirit
Splitting the core of who we are
A people bruised but unwavering
Stronger together
When strong apart
Keep which heals
Dispel what weakens the spirit, mind, and body
In celebrating the diversity around and within
We acknowledge our flawed past
Moving forward towards a healed future.
“I know what I’m gonna be when I grow up,” my thirteen-year-old-self declared. “I’m going to be a soap opera writer!”
The revelation spread throughout my body, my eyes wide and heart fluttering. It was a career choice no one around me shared, definitely not on any of the what-are-you-going-to-be-when-you-grow up quizzes. I had no idea how to proceed once the declaration was made. I wished for the goal instead of working towards the destination.
I let the dream fizzle as fear of failure success intensified. But I kept writing, always kept writing. For I didn’t write for profit, fame, or critical acclaim; I wrote because it brought me joy and fulfillment. During my high school study hours or when I finished my classwork early, I’d whisk out my notebook and let the story ideas take shape.
Long before “shipping” and “fan fic” were added to pop culture vernacular I was doing both. There’d be a particular TV pairing which captured my attention and interest, and my creativity ached for an outlet. I’d imagined scenarios as to how the story would play out. What would the characters say? If the couple was broken apart, I’d wonder what could/should happen next to bring them back together. The words flowed out as though my Drama Muse sat beside me refilling the ink.
I’ve written fan fiction/spec scripts for over 25 years and yet I’ve never published a one. Call it “fear” or “low self-esteem” – I now know that embarrassment held me back from sharing this talent. Some of the doubts were as follows: I do not own the shows or characters. Does this make me seem like an obsessed fan? Am I wasting time writing others’ stories instead of drafting my own? Would people laugh at me?
Even now, as there are multiple online outlets dedicated to sharing “fan fiction”, I hesitate adding my stories to the list. I read the works of fellow writers who “ship” the same pairings as I do and have discovered real gems; authors who capture the tone, dialogue, and character traits of the show they adore. I can completely visualize the scenes as they depict them and feel a shared comraderie with like-minded word artists.
The “fan fic” stories I created over the past three decades remain some of my proudest creations:
· Bailey and Sarah reuniting years after the Party of Five finale
· Many differing versions of Peyton & Lucas’ romance (One Tree Hill)
· Liz and Jason complicated history and miscommunications (General Hospital)
· Sonny & Brenda (enough said)
· Filling in time gaps for Emily and Jack, especially his reaction of her S2 finale revelation (Revenge)
· Eponine’s “ghost” mentoring Marius’ teenage daughter (Les Miserables)
The possibility of sharing any of the above still makes my stomach do flip-flops, but I’ll never stop writing them because one artistic creation inspires another. I write about TV, film, and theatre but until now stopped at actually posting examples of my dramatic writing passion.
I’m closer than ever before to pushing past my fear and perhaps in the next few months I’ll share some oldies and recent inspirations: Rory/Logan (Gilmore Girls). I’ll keep writing, always writing, whether it be via fan fiction, poetry, genealogy, or Young Adult fantasy.
Stay tuned!!
Myths, folklore, ancestral connections
Embedded in my memory
Energizing my spirit
The paths of those who came before
Walking alongside my own
Ethereal Celtic voices and harps
Drums and flutes of the First Nation
Lungs coated by coal dust
Hands that pulse with the earth’s soul
Your imprints grounded in nature and DNA
Diarmuid and Grainne – rooted in Celtic mythology
Grandma Joan – passing down a sixth sense and Native energy
Ellia and Granny Sue – love of food, family, and Slovak tradition
Their stories motivate my artistic spirit
I accept and embrace the energy
Of those who lived prior
And the ones whose spirits remain
My pencil ready to record the past to inspire the future.
Daylight dancing with destiny
Cascading over each surface
Strength, inspiration, and heart
Leading the artistic spirit across the floor
Moonlight streaming through crevices
Revealing hidden beauty at every corner
Magic, mysticism, fantasy
Empowering the creative spirit within
Shades of grey blending into one
Uniting life and the energy that surrounds
For though our paths are unique
We never journey alone
How The Greatest Showman inspires the artistic spirit within!
I love The Greatest Showman. No, adore is more fitting! I adore everything about this fantastic, heartwarming, toe-tapping, inspiring musical. If you have yet to see the film, bookmark this post and go buy the digital, DVD, or streaming copy – it’s worth your time and your money.
As I sat in front of the computer to write my film review of this award-worthy film, I struggled. I was not at a loss for words – just the opposite; the words flooded my mind and heart. The classic review-style post I’d drafted, while detailed in appreciation, was impersonal. The blog writer put the review aside to make way for the artistic spirit within.
In recent months I rediscovered that the beauty within is far superior to the exterior. Embracing all that you are, broken mirrors and perceived imperfections abound, is not only possible but essential and attainable. For as…
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I was born more than once. Such a declaration may be considered blasphemy to the religion I once called home, but I stand by my claim. I believe that when my body and spirit part, my spirit travels across a time continuum which fluctuates. What seems like mere days/years in the spirit realm equates to a century gap on Earth. This I believed long before my first past-life regression session, and the after-effects solidified my hypothesis.
I wrote the piece below after my initial session – the images unhidden and the emotions raw – for the words ached to be released. Such is the recollection of my past-life self – a woman bruised physically, emotionally, and spiritually – set in a European countryside in the 18th or 19th century.
How could I have been so foolish? Love coloring truth and reality. Did I ever know him? Or did I only love the façade he showed me?
I had such high hopes for a life well lived. One full of joy, laughter, passion, comfort, and love. I never knew the love of a man – authentic love, that is. I imagined it as a gullible, imaginative teenager who fell at the first man who showed the slightest interest.
He was funny, charming, strong, and confident. He could flush my cheeks with a mere wink. My heart and body fell, leaving my mind silenced.
It didn’t take long for the scars to appear – penetrating my heart and bruising the flesh. The hands that once caressed every inch, soon left visible imprints of his anger and cruelty.
In the beginning, my name on his lips filled me with pride, made me feel special. I was his – he chose me. He loved me and I would forever make him happy. It didn’t take long until I prayed for his silence. For when he called my name it accompanied words no mother would ever let her child utter.
The first time we made love I barely felt the pain as my spirit soared in bliss. The first time he took my body without consent I hid my spirit so as to dim the pain.
I missed him terribly during year one, longing for his prompt return from a hard day’s labor. I craved any moment of his waking and found delight in making him happy. I’d count the hours until day turned to night, pleading with time to hurry.
Now, I treasure each moment he’s gone, dreading the hour I hear his footsteps and smell the whiskey. As I care for my children while the day burns bright, I plead for time to stand still.
I was his and his alone – proud to be his chosen bride. I knew I pleased him in every way that mattered so that he’d have no reason to seek it elsewhere.
After our second child, I was grateful for his wandering eyes and hands. Thankful for the evenings I slept alone and safe.
The moment I saw him I couldn’t imagine a future without him. My identity merged with his – the two of us linked in unbreakable bonds.
As I gaze upon my unrecognizable reflection, I welcome the illness that weakens my body – ready for inevitable future which will cut the ties that bind.
I love and hate my children, grateful for their loving presence yet resentful of their existence that limits my freedom.
A life that welcomed me with laughter and warmth ends with solemn silence and unspoken apologies, the air ringing with regret.
I’m ready now, my battered spirit, to set you free. I must burden you with prayers for my children, parents, and siblings along with the unfulfilled hopes of a life never fully lived. Take me away, far from this place, where time does not exist. Let me rest in God’s kingdom so I may grow in strength and heal my wounds.
Bless my children, bestow upon them grace, unending love, bravery, and strength. May their lives henceforth be better than the one I provided for them. Let them be kind and be treated with kindness, resolve differences peacefully, and love one another.
Kelly Deeny