No where was this more evident then at Ayni Gallery in Santa Barbara this past Saturday night, when Art Without Limits hosted its first annual "Coming Out" event for their emerging artists. Musicians, photographers, painters, poets and writers took the stage to share their craft with an ever appreciative audience. I too, swallowed my nerves and read two original poems. I owe this feat in great part to my two amazing mentors: Sojourner Kincaid-Rolle (poet/writer) and Ann Dusenberry (actress). Together they help me both hone my skills as a creative writer, as well as practice the art of sharing my work in front of an audience.
Following are the two poems I wrote and shared, as well as photos from the event (taken by another emerging artist: photographer and dear friend of mine Shannon Jordan). It was truly an inspiring evening. Thank you to everyone who came out in support of art.
xoxo...lika
My Wolf and His Dog
His shaggy hair, bleach white as the Pennsylvania snow; fine as hot beach sand.
it blows everywhere; getting all tied up in sailor’s knots.
It is a strong mane, framing gentle, weathered eyes that have seen too much,
and yet not enough.
Her hair, it goes everywhere. Pure white flecks of Tala’s soul left anywhere she touches.
And anywhere is everywhere my wolf goes.
She follows, as I will.
Loyal beings we are; wolves in a pack.
“Follow me across the sea,” he says.
Tala leaps aboard, as I dive in to swim alongside the giant sea vessel.
Ramblin’ Rose carries my wolf and his dog,
up and down the ebb and flow of the ferocious blue.
Is it safe to climb in?
Where I am, the water feels cool and I float with ease.
Like the sea, I am liquefied.
Do I belong on the boat?
I belong with the travelers, with my wolf and his dog.
I am a traveler and I am his wolf.
I will listen.
I will protect.
I will follow.
“Follow me to the farm,” he says.
I say, live off the land and I will live with you.
Let the dog run the rich acreage, and we wolves will howl at the moon;
we’ll watch the sun come up over the ridge and set among the waves.
Let’s follow the waves!
Tala leaps and rolls in the sand, mimicking our motions in the sea’s curl.
As we paddle in, the moon rises.
She howls at it too.
--
For she is your wolf, and you are mine.
The day you found me I became your loyal moon howler too.
So wherever you go, or whenever I do, wolves wandering as we must—
in hunt of adventure, of knowledge, of self—
We will know to seek the moon.
I will howl,
so will you, my wolf,
and Tala dog too.
The Rhythm of Time
How to wait without waiting?
It is an art as fanciful as dance and music.
I find the tic tocs of the soul’s clock placating.
Sit under a mighty oak that’s shading
time’s melody; among the fallen leaves’ fine ruin
is how some wait without waiting.
The slow pulse of seconds is infuriating.
Still, the rhythmic beat will move you through it:
the tic tocs of the soul’s clock are placating.
The leaves sing a tune, as swaying
branches dance under the sky at its bluest.
How one longs to wait without waiting.
Sunrays fall and quickly time is fading
into shadows whose sound is fluid,
helping the tic tocs of the soul’s clock be placating.
Soon the jingles of the stars are cascading
and the sound of time finds its true fit.
How to wait without waiting?
Let the tic tocs of the souls clock be placating.
