Penelope Cake
Writing Samples
Poetry
Trees
The small pines stand tall
like sentries
guarding what lies behind
in the dark forest
home to so many
non-humans
whose very existence
keeps us alive.
They say that trees talk to each other
but it is hard to imagine.
They help each other
take care of each other
and love each other.
They can do what we cannot.
Oh my!
If only
we could learn from trees
about how to be human.
How To Find a Dance
Go for a walk.
Look for something you love.
You’ll find it if you keep looking.
Keep looking until you’ve found it.
Then close your eyes and listen.
The music will be there.
So just dance.
How To Receive a Gift
Like falling, you must soften into it.
Give way, so that
the hardness of your bones
and the smokescreen of your gratitude
don't get in the way.
After all, a gift is
a moment of love.
Take it.
Morning Walk #4
This morning I saw the sea.
Lavender
With white ruffles
Sparkles of gold
Hints of green like I’ve never seen
A blue to see through.
Today I will dress myself
In the colors of the sea
And invite myself
To afternoon tea.
Morning Walk #2
There is time to find beach glass.
No need to bow
Down
Now.
It will be there when I find it.
For now, I look out.
Tall back, long neck,
Shoulders released.
To where
There
Is time.
Living By the Sea
We put seashells on our windowsill
Around the garden
And in our bathroom.
We wonder if it’s a trap
Like for lobsters and crabs.
But we don’t mind
Being caught.
We have seashells in our pockets.
Prose
The Couch
It is ugly, dirty, and out of date. But we live on it - husband, dog and me. It is a safe place. Twenty years old, we picked the upholstery because it was the closest thing we could find to fit in with the kitschy Mexican theme of our NYC loft. I'm sure you get the picture of a room like that – vibrant tropical colors, vintage linens from the 50's with images of “lazy Mexicans” in sombreros leaning against donkeys, Day of the Dead skeletons in festive costumes, and Frida Kahlo staring at you from every corner of the room with eyes that can magically see right through you. There was no TV and never has been, but we did everything else on the couch – eating and sleeping, talking and arguing, reading and writing, laughing and crying – again, you get the picture.
Then we moved the couch to a real house in New Jersey. It has many rooms and many lovely places to sit and be comfortable, but we still live on the couch. Husband, dog and me. We have, however, added the luxuries of personal computers, cell phones, and the separate worlds that headphones can provide. We joke. Why not just put wheels on the old thing and drive to the grocery store like that? Or even some sails so that we can ride the waves of the ocean nearby that we hardly ever go to? We think it is a good joke and tell it to each other often, laughing hysterically.
Then a pivotal moment came in the life of our couch. We realized that since we do live in a house, and in New Jersey to boot, we did have to put SOMETHING on the wall above the couch. I think its actually a rule. We tried birds for awhile but then watched the Portlandia episode called, “Put a Bird On It” and realized how terribly de classe it was. So since I call myself an artist, I decided to make something original instead. I bought a very large canvas at Michaels and hung it over the couch while I contemplated what to do with it. We discovered that we really enjoyed it blank. We could imagine anything that we wanted it to look like, anytime, and change the image in our heads whenever we felt like it. We could both see what we wanted and didn't have to agree on what it was going to be.
But one night I woke up at about 3am with a brainstorm. It became an uncontrollable urge. I took a pile of old magazines, calendars, newspapers and never read books that were probably destined for the trash, and cut out large letters. I glued them on the canvas. It says “ART OVER THE COUCH.” Its not an original idea even though I thought it was at the time, but all artists steal. It is still hanging there. But we are actually considering getting another blank canvas. I think we like that even better.
Lady
She sat across from me on the subway, reading. Behind the book, her orange sweater glowed like the sun, hot and insistent. The v-neck dipped down between her breasts, festooned by strands of beads in the same hue. Her ample earlobes flaunted fiery rings like those around Saturn and her presence blazed in the dull grey light of an everyday commute. On her lap she held a large purse of hurricane colors - ready to explode and expose what must surely be treasures inside. She was beautiful without pretense. She was art, worthy of the best painters in history.
Daffodil
Everyone called her Daffy, but her real name was Daffodil. She was born in the spring, of course, like a bulb flowering from her mother's womb. Her skin was fair, almost transparent, and her newborn head was covered with light blonde hair. She was unexpected - no one remembered planting her in the fall. It was just lucky that the squirrels didn't find her. She had been planted down deep, far from the other bulbs. She was alone except for the birds and the bees that hovered over her cradle. Her mother had died while giving birth to her and her father was carried away by the wind. Her little lips were thirsty for milk, like spring rain. She opened them wide to catch it when it came. It made her veins pulse with new life. But no one remembered feeding her.
Magazine Articles
The Bark Magazine