Category: Bright Spot Log!

Write Something Terrible and Feel Great!

Let the poem write itself

Let the words flow through your pen

Open your mind

Let your thoughts come out to play

 

Let the story write itself

The plot is there

The characters already live

Just pluck them from thin air

 

Let the wound heal itself

Give it attention

Give it great care

Let it breathe in fresh air

 

Let the puzzle sort itself

Don’t pick up the pieces

You’ll just make a mess

Don’t worry, time sorts out all puzzles

 

Let the song compose itself

Words have wings

Marry your words to the harmony

Words don’t always need music to sing

 

Be a canvas to the whole world

Let children fill in the emptiness with their vivid imaginations

Let amateur painters blot out the darkest corners with their unlearned brush strokes

Let seasoned artists mold,shape, create

Something from nothing

Definition out of thin air

 

Write something terrible and feel great about it

The best art

Comes from many attempts

So at first when you grab the pen, the paper

The paint brush, the canvas

Don’t worry if you’re gonna fuck up

Truth is, you will

But don’t let that keep you

 

How did we learn to walk?

By first falling flat on our faces

Well, go on then!

Write something terrible and feel great!

Sing and hit the wrong note

And don’t yourself hate

Paint,paint,paint

The canvas doesn’t ever worry

Whether you’ll make a mistake

The stage doesn’t care that you tapped out the wrong beat

Or that once, you had two left feet

The blank pages in the book don’t care about grammatical errors

They trust the writer knows what to delete

So, what are you waiting for?!

Eva Santiago copyright 2013

 

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The Displaced

To be homeless is nothing more than to be displaced. They are no different from those of us who have a place of our own. They wake up the same as you and me. They need love and affection like you and me. What is to be displaced?

Is it a choice a person makes?

Is is a curse?

Is it random?

Does it choose you?

Do you choose it?

I’ve been close to being homeless at one time in my life. I was kicked out of somewhere to land on some one else’s door-step;only to find out  I was not welcome there either. I  literally had no place to call my own during that brief time. I was displaced because  of my family‘s lack of concern for me. Who of you are bold enough to admit   you’ve been home less at one time or another? It could have lasted an hour,a day, a week , a month or even a year. No matter the length of time,,or for whatever set of circumstances, you know what feeling homeless is like.

The United States of America is The Great Land of Pretenders. When I was displaced, I held a full-time job, I wore nice clothes, I ate everyday. I just lacked my roof. I went to work and wore the same happy face; no one knew of my plight. I pretended all was well with me and kept going because well, that is what one does in the land pf pretenders.

To be homeless mean so much more than to lack a roof over your head at night. In my view, to be displaced is to be without family. Family tossed me out;I ended up living with a bunch of strangers . I was cut off from my rightful place and role in my family. So I struck out on my own;left all those people behind because that’s when I knew I had to forge my path and find my family.

Displaced people wander about looking for acceptance and connection. I sure did. You can be a wealthy person and still merit the title of  displaced soul only because you’ve no family, no ties . No true bonds to family whether it’s your blood or family made of close friends. You can own the whole world and all its treasure but if you have no true connection to another soul, you’re a displaced soul. I have met many in that plight who  were so full of the pride of life and the total sum of their possessions. Yet they had no one who checks up on them at least once a day to see if they’re ok.

In the land of pretenders they teach children everything about the value of material things and nothing about the value of life. Generation after generation children are not shown to pursue love and to attain peace at all costs.

EVA SANTIAGO copyright 2013

Blind Man’s Braille Part 4

We are all such spoiled brats

Never content with what we have

Always wanting more and more

Seldom appreciating what’s at our fingertips

Always taking for granted what’s in the palm of our hands

We yearn for this, that and the other. If we really took in a flower’s scent in our own backyard;feel the delicate petals, velvety and rich on our fingertips

We’d certainly know we’re all royalty awaiting the great awakening

Show me

Show me

Show me heaven

Yeah, it’s all around

Look in my eyes, you’ll see a glimpse of it

The prince and the pauper

The princess and her toad

We’re all royalty awaiting the great awakening

My beauty healed your beast

Your kiss awakened me from a deep coma like slumber

Run away with me and immerse yourself in the unseen

Behold the light of my torch and you’ll no longer be blind

Run away with me and immerse yourself in my dream

Behold the light of my torch and let me blow your mind

When we first kissed I whispered ,” I wanna lose myself in you…”

Inundate yourself in my being

Indeed, we’re all royalty here!

EVA SANTIAGO copyright 2013

 

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Notes From My Amusing Muse

Art is all around us. Art like love has to be seen with the eyes of the heart first. What comes from the heart, goes to the heart. Whether it’s light or dark, matters not. Art is all around just like love is. If you’re blind,  you’re going to miss it .Even the darkest of souls can produce breath-taking art. For you see, to  make art one must have faith in the unseen. It takes the tiniest seed of faith, like that of a mustard seed, to move mountains. So with a minuscule grain of belief, one can see the unseen, speak the unspoken, write the unwritten. Reach the unreachable, touch the untouchable,love the unlovable. Thaw out the glaciers in another’s soul. Start a bon fire in a heart full of ashes.

Art transcends time and space. As artists we grow frustrated because we live on a 2 dimensional plain;when we know that the 3rd dimension and dimensions beyond that  do  exist. We travel to those dimensions, while day dreaming and at night we continue dreaming with our eyes closed. Artists are time travelers. We journey there and bring back snap shots of it. Through our artistic expression, we pull the future into the now. We travel back in time using our passion as our time machine;we learn from the past’s light and dark moments. We honor fallen heroes. We keep the memory of our ancestors alive  and pay homage to them by telling their stories through different forms of self-expression. We stay in the present as well, knowing that above all, what matters most is living fully, NOW! We do so to capture it in its purest form so we can pass it down to unborn generations.

It takes courage to be an artist in our world, But then again,I believe all artists at all times have needed pluckiness as well. Leonardo Da Vinci and his plans for a flying machine; what did his contemporaries say when he showed them the sketches for it . Or, did he even have the nerve to show them? Mark Twain penned Captain Stormfield’s Visit to Heaven; a book that in my humble opinion is his best masterpiece. He worked on it through out his life and had it published posthumously. It took boldness to write his account oh how he saw heaven. Could it be he chose to protect his work from viscous critics and only to share it with the world once he vacated its premises?

It takes valor to live the life of an artist:

To write from your gut.

To dance your heart out.

To invent something that will help humanity.

To sing a new song to the heart-broken.

To compose symphony after symphony while you’re completely deaf. That must have taken Mr. Beethoven extra nerve.

It takes true grit to paint when you’re almost legally blind, Mr. Monet produced the best work of his career when he lost his sight.

It takes  bravery to put a pencil to your mouth and draw amazing pictures when you’re a paraplegic in a wheelchair.

It takes gallantry to go from once having played the role of Superman;flying around in his red cape .Leaping over tall buildings in one single bound. To end up in a wheel chair for the rest of his life, yet touching the masses more than when he appeared on the silver screen.

What about the young Spaniard soccer player who hurt himself in a car accident and lost his passion for life when he couldn’t do what he loved most. Then he gets a guitar and turned world-wide recording artist.These and numerous more artists continue to beckon us all to follow our hearts and listen to our gut

Art creates ambience. Art instills feeling and gives a place its soul.Art is alive and has a heart beat, Even dark,moody art can inspire;it can let us know we’re not alone in our own darkness. Art can make you feel a mess inside and it can quiet your restless heart. 3 little letters combine to make such a powerful word.Like love, which is one letter more; the shortest words can create beauty or wreak havoc.

Perhaps artists are closest to God‘s heart because we’re foolish enough to see the unseen,then we believe it and finally,we make something from nothing. There is love,there is faith and then, there’s art. The 3 work together,always to benefit us all.

EVA SANTIAGO copyright 2013

Tucson Spring

His Guitar Menagerie

He picked her up

He ran his sinewy hands on her curvy body

He touched all of her contours deliberately

Every finger he placed on her neck was calculated

Her long neck he studied inch by inch

His rough hands traveled further south

Until he reached her opening

He had been looking for a certain sound

He’d been at this search of his for quite some time now

He knew the price of a good instrument

Searched high and low for The One

A trained musician was he

Willing to pay top dollar for her

And one day he found me….

 

He saw me and knew what he’d found

He ran his  rough hands on my curvy body

He touched all of my contours deliberately

Every finger he placed on my neck was calculated

My long neck he studied inch by inch

His hands traveled further south

Until he reached my opening

I was that sound he’d been looking for

And since he claimed to be an expert musician,I let him in

Only to find out soon enough, I’d be treated like he treated his prized guitars

 

I thought with me he’d be different

I was after all, his highest commodity

His most valued of all his possessions

I could not have been more wrong

For you see, he was deaf all along

And he’d never planned on hearing my song

 

From day one he’d said

“My guitar is my other woman.”

I should have known with him

I’d be good as dead

With him I’d grow old

And become one of his old unsung hymns

But I thought I’d give him a try

C’mon someone had to break and get in right?

It damn near cost me my sanity

It damn near cost me my life

It damn near cost me my sight

He treated me like one of his fucking guitars

 

Year in and year out

On my heart

He placed a dark mark

Pretty soon he put me in a corner

Right next to his cherry red Strat

Right next to his rosewood Gibson

Below was his onyx colored Fender

Above me, the queen of us all: His 12 string

We all were there collecting dust

Over the years he’d grow dissatisfied and he’d trade one of us in

To him this trade-off was no big thing

 

Living with an insane guitarist

I became the outsider

Looking in on his guitar museum

Like a lone drifter, like a wandering tourist

And that’s how it came to be

He treated me like one of his fucking guitars

All of his moves although as smooth as can be

Were lacking of passion: Cold,rehearsed and calculated

And day by day

I felt as if I was going insane

And night by night

I gave up and I never again sang

 

Until the day came

When I found my dignity

And I decided to vacate the premises

Of his mad guitar museum

I said good-bye to his Strat

I told her to stop being a spoiled brat

I kissed Gibson on the cheek

And told her to stop being so weak

He’s been done with you-last time he touched you was more than a week

Then I saluted the queen-the 12 string

And she looked at me

With a little envy

She knew like all the rest

I was leaving for good

 

He soon found out I was done

And he was suddenly alarmed

Even asked me with his voice trembling,

” Why do you seek to bring me harm?”

I told him, ” I’m not yours. I never was. I can never compete with your other woman

That’s right, stay with your precious guitars

I am not made of wood

I am not made of metal

You never planned to make me your number one

You never cared. You never could

I refuse to be part of your guitar menagerie

You’ve brought me great misery

I have been in great agony

Why I stayed for so long

Is truly a grave mystery

It has even killed my song

I have to go find it again

Take care. So Long!

 

And I walked out the front door

And suddenly I heard a crashing noise

Behind me there, on the red tile floor

He’d smashed his queen-the 12 string

She lay there in bits

By then it was too late

I was out of there…I had found my wings

EVA SANTIAGO copyright 2013

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Canned Anything Sucks

Canned prayers are like canned potato chips,canned soup or any kind of canned food. Canned food lacks vital nutrients necessary to sustaining our bodies. When we pray, God wants to hear each of our own distinct spirits; our spirit has its own unique voice. When your child asks you for something,,you hear their own unique voice. So why do religious people recite their religious prayers and incantations over and over? God doesn’t want canned voices that all sound the same  millennia  after millennia. Remember the old sit-coms ? You hear canned laughter in the back ground right? That means those voices we hear in those old TV shows are probably coming from dead people. We need fresh, un-canned expressions TODAY, not  from the past.

The disciples learned to pray from their Teacher. He didn’t tell them to recite The Lord’s prayer ; that was just a prayer manual, one they could follow and learn how to approach the King . Certainly not to say the same words over and over. Oh how religion wants everyone to be a Pringle’s Potato chip: All the same shape,same taste, all fit neatly together stacked in a metal can.. I believe heaven and its citizens crave to hear each unique voice on earth.

Unique self expression is the most powerful weapon a person can use. Your own voices unleashes things into the atmosphere and sets things in motion in the universe. Not one star is the same.Not one snow flake is the same. So why do people try so hard to be like some one else? Even our brains are wired differently. No 2 people on planet earth think exactly the same. So it’s reasonable that we’re all different voices  and each one of us must utter what is in our hearts to set things in motion. The Bible is not a here is what to say to God type of book. It goes beyond that. It’s a how to approach heaven using your own voice to unlock what is yours through the power of your own distinct expression. Heaven remains locked up when no one dares to step forward to use their own voice.

Martin Luther set the religious system upside down by nailing his own unique expression to the door of the established church. The whole universe was in an uproar when Galileo defied religion’s rules that dictated how the universe runs. Where are The Martin Luthers and Galileos of our time? Stand up and be heard if you’re one of them!!

” The Bible teaches how to get to heaven not how the heavens go.” -Galileo

EVA SANTIAGO copyright 2013

shhhhh

Your Beauty Hides Inside Your Beast

You hurl insults

Like a monkey hurls feces

Like a hippo in a battle

Like a stampede of angry cattle

You hurl insults so fast

In the presence of your temper

You,your shadow cast

You’re bitter about everything

You there, the girl with the short past

No one is safe

From your bitter distemper

You’re the heroin

In your own self-made dramas

Oh please,please,please,child

Save the drama from everyone

Keep it far,far from your Mama

So STOP!!

Stop acting like such a beast

A beast of prey

You’re the beauty

In your own self-created beast

Only you have the answers inside

To appease your own beast

Cease and desist

You’re on the wrong road

Cease and desist

Go find your prince to kiss

He is there,on that lowly toad

Get up off that low road

You’ve traveled on it for so long

Life really isn’t such a terrible load

C’mon, come up higher

Humble yourself and dwell in your humble abode

You’re the beauty inside your own beast

Let her come out to play

Let her be herself every once in a while

Stop being fake;put off that costume today

BE YOURSELF!

Have your own style

Empower yourself

The time to change is NOW

Please,no further delay

BE YOUR OWN HERO…

Eva Santiago copyright 2013

PAINT!

PAINT!

The canvas doesn’t lie

So don’t be a pesky ‘lil fly

The canvas is my friend

On it my frustrations die

 

The paints on my brush

They quiet and they hush

My ever aching soul

My ever aching heart

 

Wet paint is my balm

To smooth out all the wrinkles

To soothe and calm my soul

The paints oh how they calm!

 

My canvas can be anything I choose:

Cotton,linen,paper,rock

This is where I never lose

Rock-paper-scissors

 

The canvas is better than a lover

I can be me

I can discover

I can fly

I can swim

I can sink

I can fling paint angrily

Or I can use paint sparingly

 

The canvas is my silent partner

My accomplice

Together we conspire

It knows my long-held desire

It knows who lights my fire

It senses when conditions are dire

It directs me as when to retire

 

The canvas is my date

It never stands me up

It never arrives late

It is quite the perfect play mate

It never keeps me waiting

It never says it’ll call

And then it doesn’t

it never looks for an excuse

I’d rather paint than be out dating:

An idiot

A moron

A clown

A buffoon

Better to paint

So my heart won’t faint

 

So whether you use:

Brushes

Knives

Even your 10 fingers

Your cat’s very tail

Yeah, that’s how they got 9 lives!

 

Paint your troubles away

When you feel lonely

PAINT!

When you feel”

bad,mad,sad:

PAINT!

When you feel misunderstood:

PAINT!

When you hear,” You should…”

Don’t should on yourself:

PAINT!

When chaos is your daily bread:

PAINT!

When you feel as good as dead:

PAINT!

 

Identify your pain in the paint

Look pain in the eye

Use it to your advantage

Then lose your pain in the paint

 

Paint and grow wings

Those wings will cause your to soar

You’ll leave normal behind

You’ll not be the same for ever more

PAINT!

EVA SANTIAGO copyright 2013

 

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