Crows

Crows

In twilight’s mist
a dash of black
pierces through fog

Turning my head I see crows
Dancing like notes pulsing across a scattering page
Synchronized wings carry them, as if one
from the ground, pure white with snow
into winter’s bare trees

perched crows polka dot the branches
they wait

waiting

for a slight sway of a conductor’s baton
for the music to begin
for the next dance

The Day my Kitchen Smiled

I have had enough. I said into the frigid air as I pushed the snow into the shovel and tossed it behind my back. I do not want to be your friend anymore, I said to the innocent snow shovel while stabbing the crusty snow with it. March in Maine, I sighed. Snow piled up in never-ending heaps, icicles hung from every gutter and chunks of dirty ice were scattered about. Even the snowmen, once cheerful in newly fallen snow and bright-colored mittens, looked burdened by the lifelessness. Enough. I wasn’t quite sure what yet another March snowstorm would do to my already wobbly sanity. Enough!

Winter’s gloom permeated my home. The walls inside my small dark apartment mimicked the world outside. I plopped myself into my rocker in the kitchen and looked around me. My kitchen was dark and dreary. Was there no escaping winter’s dark shadows? The dark blue-colored walls seemed to be laughing at my depressed state. I scowled at them and begin to think. I do not have any control over what happens outside, but I do have control over the inside. I became determined to make myself a little refuge Maine’s never-ending winter. What is a happy color, I thought. Hmmmmm. Happy, really happy. Orange! My kitchen would be orange.

Two days later, my friend Martha knocked on my door. “Come in!” I yelled. Martha stepped inside. I was in my kitchen eating my breakfast, surrounded by paints, ladders, brushes and drop cloths.

“What are you doing?” she asked with a smile.

“What does it look like I’m doing? Do you see all my stuff?” I asked with a smirk. “ I told you I couldn’t stand the darkness one moment longer!”

When Martha left, I got to work. I rolled the walls and stretched the pole to the ceiling with each stroke. While I waited for the walls to dry, I started on the trim. The sun moved around the side of the house, and it began to get hard to see. I grabbed some special lights. I looked at the clock. Three o’clock. No wonder I was hungry. I grabbed some lunch then picked up the roller again. I put on the second coat of paint. I finished painting the trim. I checked and rechecked every spot and fixed all of my mistakes. Finally, I was done! I looked at the clock. It was 9:00. It took me TEN HOURS to paint my kitchen! I wiped the sweat away from my forehead and fell into a chair.

The next morning I crawled out of bed, sore from all that hard work. I spied a few spots of orange on my arm I’d missed in the shower the night before as I walked down my hallway into the kitchen. I stepped inside. My orange walls smiled at me. It was as if the sun sparkled against the walls! Mission accomplished, I thought.

Moments later, a cup of hot tea in my hand, I rocked in my rocker. I looked up and saw a slate grey sky framed in sunny orange. Only a few more weeks until the days become longer, a few weeks until we’ll begin to see the ground again, I thought and smiled back at my kitchen walls.

Seeking

A mother alone
on Christmas Eve
searches for the promise of Christmas.

Distant chimes beckon her back
to warm wooden pews
smooth with prayer
god’s hallowed voices
welcome her

Restless hope invites
her blue-eyed sparkle
Unsure of why,
there she is
head bowed whispering,
forgive us our trespasses
folded fingers seek
god’s embrace

Sweet forgiveness
pulls her home
a hymn on her lips
cradled in family’s comfort
she wraps herself in the promise of Christmas

For me there is little more powerful than hearing a good singer-songwriter. I love when I hear a song that makes me think, ‘Yeah, that’s it. That’s what I think. S/he’s captured it in so little words! Wow, well-said!” I find myself doing this over and over again with Slaid Cleaves. As he said himself in an interview you can read about from his website, "I eventually learned — or decided — that my job was not to tell people how I felt, but to tell them how they felt.” Again, perfectly articulated. His songs are a good mix of folk, blues and country, what I’ve come to know and appreciate as Americana. I’m not the only one who appreciates Slaid’s songwriting. Stephen King, another native of Maine, said this about him,

"I’m not particularly good when it comes to talking about music, but I know what works for me: what comes across as one hundred percent authentic. Slaid Cleaves is that thing. He starts in, and something inside the listener speaks up an says, “ You’re home.” He can be funny; he can be romantic without being sappy (no mean trick);he can touch your heart…His taste is as deft as his touch…I’m so glad I found Slaid Cleaves, because my life would have been poorer without him. You’ll feel the same, I think when you listen to this beautifully crafted album."

I’ve been listening to Slaid Cleaves’ songs for almost twenty years now. Slaid grew up in my adopted hometown of South Berwick, Maine and moved to Austin, Texas eighteen years ago to pursue a career as a singer and songwriter. He’s worked with me in writing workshops with my eighth grade students, done benefit concerts for local causes and has performed in the town of South Berwick, every summer for the last six or seven years in our Hot Summer Nights concert series. He brings with him his humble charm and thoughtful storytelling and shares it with all of us on the lawn in front of his elementary school where I now work as a first grade teacher.

Last week he performed here once again in South Berwick. Slaid has just released his newest C.D. Everything you Love Will be Taken Away. He sang many of his new songs, and they took my breath away. Once again his lyrics and melodies spoke to my soul. As you may guess from its foreboding title, his subject matter is not trivial. In this latest C.D. he writes poignantly about death, capital punishment, political deception, war, heartbreak and despair. The song which the title comes from, Cry is #6 on the Americana charts-above Bob Dylan! It’s the story of his parents’ long marriage and its end. The song that struck me the most was Temporary, which came to him in a dream and was inspired by epitaphs on gravestones. In it, he makes it clear how everything in life is indeed temporary. Watching him perform it, I was reminded to live and be truly present in each moment.

The writing seems effortless, yet any writer knows that to be untrue. When I hear the polished words of Slaid’s songs, I know how much hard labor made them as tight as they are. I know first hand how particular Slaid is about words through a good friend of mine who grew up with and co-wrote a song with him. She happened upon a story about Flagstaff, Maine in Yankee magazine a few years ago and began to write a poem. The electric company, in search of an ever-increasing demand for hydroelectric energy sources, decided to dam up the Dead River at Flagstaff, ME. The town would be flooded and be submerged under a lake forever. As she investigated further and labored over her writing, she decided to send her developing poem to Slaid. Over the next year, they worked, back and forth by e-mail ‘polishing’ the words while Slaid worked on the music. The result was a song, “Below”. You may want to check it and the video my friend made documenting the story on U-tube.

I’d encourage any of you to check out his website. Just google Slaid Cleaves, and you’ll find it. You’ll find some interesting stories, interviews, reviews and video and audio clip. Most of all, though, I hope you’ll listen to some of his songs and find what I've found, a little piece of myself. Happy listening!