Category: Spoken Word

Spoken Word

Beauty From Ashes // Spoken Word Ed.

Rebekah EckardLeave a comment

One of my dearest friends, Bobbi Jo Brooks made a painting for me last year entitled Beauty From Ashes. We spoke a lot about the themes of the painting and I fell in love with the painting and everything it represents. When she presented it to me, we talked about me one day writing a poem to accompany it. A year later, I finally managed to capture some of Bobbi Jo’s ideas in words. The fruit of that is displayed below.

For more of Bobbi Jo’s work, go to her website bobbijobrooks.com

https://youtu.be/idkQ8ANf7i4

Beauty from Ashesby Rebekah Eckard

If you stand far enough away,

you’ll only notice the gold and white running down my body.

I shimmer in the sunlight and dance in the shadows.

You call me beautiful. Lovely.

As Pretty as a Painting.
I am a work of art,

not meant to be admired but experienced.

Come closer and touch me.

See for yourself what I truly am.

Run your fingers along my skin,

and find that I am not just a shell.

There is more to my story than what your eyes can see.

 

I am not a blank canvas.

Underneath my beauty there is a past.

There is always a past.

It’s only when you get close enough

that you begin to see the bumps and bruises-

the accumulation of ash that lies beneath

Years and years of failed perfection

Heaped upon the burning fragments

Of unmet expectations, hopes dashed from the rooftops,

falling short in all the ways I wanted to succeed.

Yet the artist took me as I was.

My bumps and bruises not a hindrance

But a foundation to be built upon.

Color and paint poured over and over

Soothing my enflamed wounds.

Making wonder from the darkest parts of me.

I can feel these new elements forever changing who I am.

Not hiding, but transforming.

Ash glittering into gold.

Ridged landscapes smoothing into porcelain.

So you see beauty where once was brokenness.
Yes, I am more than a pretty picture.

I am a living, breathing story

Echoing throughout time.

Ashes to Beauty.

Death to Life.

Come closer and see for yourself.

Come closer, and see yourself.

Spoken Word

Jupiter

Rebekah EckardLeave a comment

As mentioned in the video, one of my goals for this year (as well as continuing to work on my children’s novel, “Aedaliegh of Arceldör“) is to write seven poems based off of the book by Michael Ward, Planet Narnia,as well as the Chronicles themselves.

The first piece, entitled “Jupiter” ,  is based off the first book Lewis wrote “The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe.”

Enjoy! And hopefully, there will be more to come soon.

https://youtu.be/x3NBMy6P608

Jupiter

The world has been drained of it’s color like hope from our souls.

We stay huddled in our houses, scared of what the woods might hold.

We’re are covered in white and frozen in fear,

too scared to raise our voices- too scared the trees might hear.

Still, we grasp at ancient words and hold fast to the hope

of a king that is coming, breaking through the snow

They say when he comes, all will be made right.

They say when he comes, we’ll dance unhindered in the light.

And at the sound of his name, our hearts begin to beat

like an army of warriors being woken from winter’s sleep.

Do you hear the red robin’s song echoes loudly through the trees?

Behold the brook begin to bubble like joy overflowing from the deep.

Shoots are springing from the ground as snow fades away.

Look there, the sun rising red as day begins to break.

Frozen rivers part and blossoms release their blooms

as if all of creation felt our longing to be renewed.

So we shed our winter coats like a profession of faith,

trading our fears for swords there along the bank.

Our faces glow red with the warmth of the sun

as we bow before the king- the one who’s finally come.

King Jupiter you are- The king above all kings.

You roar with laughter and reign in magnanimity.

You are lion-hearted, and yet saturated in peace.

You are joviality and song-  the very picture of Spring.

But winter has followed us and she is staking her claim.

She points out all our failures, our follies, our mistakes.

She tells us we’re not worthy to dance in summer’s sun,

but her voice is overshadowed by the king declaring “come!”

Thunder claps over us as cold collides with warmth.

We shiver at the shadows, yet still we raise our swords.

And just when darkness seems to swallow us whole,

we look up to find the dawn rolling in, igniting hope.

Like the morning sun spreading slowly across a field,

our king descends, proving he both conqueror and shield.

And we can but simply watch as his beauty mingles with his wrath.

Conquering what we could not, he is the king we always lacked.

He calls us before him and crowns us with new names.

We are Gentle. We are Just. Magnificent and Brave.

We take our place beside him and to this great joy we cling:

We are no more than servants; we are no less than kings.

Spoken Word

Ink

Rebekah EckardLeave a comment

Surprise, Surpise. I wrote another poem* about my tattoos. I read it at a friend of mines party this week and thought I’d share it here. One day, I’d like to be one of those spoken word artists whose words pour out from their mouths slowly like molasses, full of body and rich flavor. Until then, I’ll hold tightly to my phone and say one too many “um”s before I start. We’re all learning how to be creatives. We all learning to speak boldly and look people in the eyes as we say “yes, I’m an artist.” 

*I wouldn’t really call it a poem, more of a “rhythmic rant.”

If you’re in Berlin, stop by “Art on the Terrace” and join our little creative community. 

the Color of Home
Spoken Word

the Color of Home

Rebekah EckardLeave a comment

 

 

Image-1 (2)Home looks a lot like the color green.

Coming home to little white house

against the backdrop of golden fields

with shutters that had been painted the perfect shade of hunter green.

You were our tiny grasp of the American dream.

You were a place to be free-

to run wild through pastures and carve mazes through fields of wheat.

I remember how we worked in those fields all summer long

building our little castle out of scraps we found.

I remember the sound of the shotgun when the farmer found us

Traipsing through his crops. We ran all the way home

until we found safety behind a great green door.

 

Home looks a lot like the color green.

One great wide expanse of a quadrilateral.

It was at the center of everything.

Your grass was the perfect shade of summer green,

surrounded by red brick buildings with white staircases spiraling up the sides.

How many times was the sun just too lovely to go to sit inside a classroom?

How many times did we throw down the weight we wore on our backs,

and throw Frisbee under the shade of giant oak trees?

The bell chimes and reminds us that another hour had passed.

One less hour that we could stay in the holy space.

The night before graduation, we escaped to this timeless expanse

And sat for our while in the dark of the night

ignoring the fears that came with tomorrow.

and the inevitable goodbyes we would have to say.

 

Home looks a lot like the color green.

It’s mint green tile covering the walls of the U-Bahn station

signaling that it is time to get off the subway,

that I can let my shoulders slump and my feet drag.

The day is over. My duties are done.

I grab a beer from the shop on the corner and take my time walking up cobblestone streets

that sparkle rose gold reflecting the setting sun.

and I inhale slowly, the edges of my mouth slowly curving up.

I can rest now. I am home.

Spoken Word

One Day

Rebekah Eckard2 Comments

I’m supposed to be writing a paper for school right now. While as I was typing out my outline, I was reminded of a poem (or rant) that I started working on this past summer. It just never felt like the right time to post it. But as I was writing my paper on the same topic, I just got really excited reading it through (and also I’m procrastinating) so I’m posting it now.

It was inspired by a conversation with my friend, KG, way back in July when sunshine and warmth were things that existed.

 

image-7
“Keep your fork, the best is yet to come.” -Southern Proverb

 

 

I want to sprint

straight on towards the horizon,

never turning or falling backward.

So that the pounding of my feet on pavement

will match the beating of my heart.

And I will stick up my chin and run into the wind-

one foot in front of the other in a perfect line.

But right now my feet are too swollen

from this dead weight that I bare

and so I find myself looking out the window

dreaming of a day when I’ll be able to leave this chair.

 

I want to speak.

I want to sing.

I want words to flow out of my mouth like poetry-

strong like a tide and loud like a waterfall.

But every time I try the words don’t come out right.

I just can’t…

I’m not able to…

Well the words, you see…

So I’m left typing on this computer screen

hoping the click-clack noises of my keyboard turn into a symphony.

 

And I want to see

right past those dense clouds and into eternity,

but my eyes are too weak to see the lines in own hands.

Like a blind man trying to find his lover in a crowd

I am always looking, always searching.

I strain my eyes and I put on glass lenses,

but everything always comes out distorted.

And so I walk home alone, and dream of a day

when I can once more look up at the clouds

And see ships and castles instead of another overcast sky.

 

Just tell me to pick up mat.

Send an angel to touch my lips with coal.

Rub some dirt in my eyes.

I’d walk to Siloam or to the ends of the earth

If you told me that I’d be able to touch the hem of your robe.

 

Like the trees in a storm, I am groaning for the sun.

Groaning for the day when this body will be made new.

When I shall run unhindered to your side.

When I sing of love without a stutter.

When I shall see beauty without having to look through fogged glass.

Come Quickly.

Oh, please come quickly.

 

Aedaliegh of Arceldör · Short Stories · Songs · Spoken Word

Stomp ( A Folk Song)

Rebekah EckardLeave a comment

Okay,y’all. I need your help. Below you will find an excerpt from the (children’s) novel I’m working on. It’s a scene I’ve been playing with for a while, and simply can’t figure out how to make the *stomp* part work in print. So, I would love and appreciate your input and ideas on how to best convey what I see and hear in my head. This is group effort, so y’all chime in.

bonfire-painting
Nikolai Astrup’s Midsummer Eve Bonfire, 1912.

 

Tonight, it was the Gehimni people who were given the honor of entertaining. More than twenty Gehimni men and women ran around the fire, hollering and making noise. It snowed in the Gehimnis for nine months out of the year, and so most of the bed had long beards that covered the majority of their face, and the women wore long skirts made of animal skin with all kinds of braids strung about in their hair. Suddenly, the Gehimini performers stopped running around the fire, and the women took their spots in a circle on the ground. A man began to strum a mandolin, as the others began to stomp their feet to his rhythm. The men threw their knees high up in the air only to bring their smashing back down with the force of a ten horses. Each of the Gehmini men fell in sync with one another until one man threw his head back and howled at the top of his lungs, Ooooooooooooohhhh, and the other men followed his lead.

I’ve seen the mountain tops and I’ve gaped at the sea,

but never has this wanderer beheld a beauty such as thee.

I’d scale the mountains tops and sail across the sea,

if you’d be waiting for me with a white dress and a ring.

 

Yer nose is as pointy as the snowy peaks,

and yer eyes are more emerald than the evergreen.

I know I ain’t much to look at, my darling sweet,

but I got heart a gold somewhere underneath.

 

My heart when it saw you went *stomp stomp stomp*

And my lips started singing this horrid song.

But my dear please know that if you love me so,

I’ll sing this song to you until we’re grey and old.

 

I’ve got a house here in these woods, I bet yer Papa would be proud.

‘Gotta fireplace and a porch that goes all around,

but I’m stilling miss something, perhaps a spritely frau.

So what do ye say, will ye marry me now?

 

The women sitting on the edge of the crowd jumped up and joined arms with the men, and together they danced a polka around the fire. They weren’t the best of singers, but that didn’t stop every single man and woman from singing, or rather yelling, at the top of his or her lungs. If only they would sing on key, they’d be quite good. The entire camp was mesmerized by them, and they joined in with the stomping and clapping with just as much vigor as if they had known the songs their entire lives.

 

Darlin’ let me dance with you until this night ends.

Yes, come a little closer. I don’t mind those hairs on yer chin.

Yer back is strong from plowing and I sure do love yer apple pie.

Oh, you’re the only woman who could ever catch my eye.

 

My heart when it saw you went  *stomp stomp stomp*

And my lips started singing this horrid song

But my dear please know that if you love me so

I’ll sing this song to you until we’re grey and old.

Yes, I’ll sing this song to you until we’re grey and old.

Also, would English speaking children know what a “frau” is? Can I use that word in a “fantasy” novel?  Thoughts? Comments? Suggestions?

Spoken Word

An Almost Love Letter to Myself

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I did a thing tonight. I went to this {amazing} meet up where I talked with another writer and we just sat in silence and wrote. Most days, writing is a solitary task, but tonight I got to sit at table with someone as we each did our own thing.Yes, it was a dream come true.

We started off the night by doing a little creative exercise where we wrote a Love Letter to ourselves. I knew before I started that my self-depreciation wasn’t going to let me get more than one or two lines in before hijacking the bus, but I thought it’d be fun to see where things go. And I was pleased to see that at the end of twenty minutes, I’d actually liked what I’d put down on paper. Was it a love letter? Pssshhh… course not. But it was close (kind of).

Truly thankful for the opportunity to be an introvert with other people and develop our craft together. Til next time, Athena.

You are bold.

I’ve always loved that about you,

except when I hate it.

So, I guess it just depends on the day.

I remember when you were a little girl,

you would come home crying

because you had opened that mouth of yours just a little too much.

Opened your heart just a little too much.

Let them see you just a little too much.

And people didn’t always like what was hidden beneath those fire red curls.

So, your tears would fall hard on journal pages

where you could say all you had in you and no one would ask you to stop.

How many time did you beg God to make you like all the other girls?

Quiet and graceful- a southern belle in modern day.

But you were from Iowa, so there was never a chance of that.

Fifteen years later, I hate to tell you those prayers weren’t answered.

You’re still that girl who says more than she’s supposed to,

always clamping her hand over her mouth half way through a sentence.

Fifteen years later, I hate to tell you that you’re learning to love it.

You’re learning to look people in the eye, and tell them what you’re thinking

That you’re learning the when’s and the how’s so that people actually listen.

That you’re learning to make them listen.

And yes, you’re learning to say I’m sorry,

because sometimes you do say the wrong thing at the wrong time to the wrong person.

But sometimes you also say the right thing.

Sometimes you say thing that the world needs to hear.

Sometimes you say the thing that one little girl needs to hear.

And maybe when she’s ten years old, she won’t come home crying

begging God to make her someone else.

Because when she looked at you-

hands raised in the air realizing just how wonderfully crafted she was-

and said so matter-of fact-ly,

“Ms. Bekah. I’m pretty. And smart. And funny. And Awesome.”

You pulled her close and whispered in her ear what you never said to yourself

“Yea, baby girl, and don’t you forget it.”

Spoken Word

Today I Wandered

Rebekah EckardLeave a comment

Yesterday, I had an introvert day. I painted and colored and cleaned and baked, all sorts of magical things. And I decided that I should take a break from all things good and go for a quick run. I begrudging put my aesics on and gave myself the usual peptalk. “Just do 20 minutes and you can be lazy and sit in your pajamas the rest of the day. Here, put on audiobook. This could be fun.”

Instead of taking my normal route to the nearest park and back, I decided to roam up and down the streets of Lichtenberg. I quickly found a new park, and with no google maps to tell how big it was, I just decided to wander in and see what I could find. “It couldn’t be that big,” I thought. “And it looks like it heads back toward home.” I should’ve known better.  Twenty minutes in and I was so lost, but I had never been more happy to be that way. I found a castle, old graves, a pasture full of sheep. Yes, in the middle of Berlin, I found a pasture of sheep. There were vines growing over old buildings and little summer shacks where women were out pruning their gardens. I was about 50 minutes into my run at this point (it should be noted that I am not actually in shape, and my body hurts like mad today) and I still had no idea where I was. But it was glorious. As a super planner control freak, I don’t just wander like this. Most of my days are calculated, each activity has a beginning and end time. I pride myself on being efficient, but make fun of how inobservant I can be. And after yesterday, I realized the two might go hand in hand.What do I give up when I cram more things into my day? What beauties do I miss out on? What precious moments?

So, as my year of learning creativity comes to a close (look for my 1 year birthday post on AUGUST 12th!) I’m wondering if this next year needs to include less doing and more dwelling.

But these are just silly ramblings that come before I present a poem. I’m just stalling to press to publish button. I really need to work on that. 🙂 But with nothing else to say, I think I’ll let you read my poem now. Read it, and then go out a wander some.

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Today I wandered for I had else nothing do,

so I humbled myself to walk underneath the sky’s hues.

My feet followed paths I knew not where they lead,

and I listed to my heart instead of a plan.

Secret passages laid undiscovered for I had not the time,

but perhaps if I had known, I would have sooner changed my mind.

For when I took the time to finally look around,

I saw magic in the making, just waiting to be found.

 

Shrub and vine held up buildings on the verge on collapse.

Wildflowers sprung from gravestones, bringing life from the ash.

The women tended their gardens, calling color from the dirt,

And I mourned that it has taken me this long to finally see the earth.

But now I call forth: “You are good, beautiful and true.”

You have revived my soul, like water seeping into roots.

As if only by beholding, there is beauty now in me.

As if by seeing you, I have seen what is holy.

 

Though I ran for hours, I did not once grow weary

For how could my legs stop when my eyes saw such beauty

I threw my head back and laughed as I turned round a bend,

I giggled as a school girl for all the glory flowing in.

And as I ran through the forest, the trees reached down to me.

So that I could touch their branches, and from their spirit glean.

Though my journey shortly ended, I returned home not the same

For there was wonder in my heart and peace running through my veins.

 

Spoken Word

The Sky Has Already Fallen

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The sky has already fallen

and I don’t recognize this new horizon.

Now my mind may wander but it cannot comprehend

this cataclysm that so easily wrecked my plan.

 

Like waves in the ocean the mountains fell,

left me trying to climb up the swell.

But every solid hold I grasped poured out from my hand.

I’m a fish out of water, a foreigner in this land.

 

The mountains I once called my home have fallen into the sea.

The sidewalks that once lead me to you have cracked beneath my feet.

Now there’s an ocean between us and it’s sink or swim it seems.

But if you ask me to come to you, I’ll meet you somewhere in between.

 

Could you build a bridge across this divide?

Pull me out of this rising tide?

For I know that I must cross this ever shifting sea,

It’s just that right now I’m afraid of stepping in too deep.

 

Yet with each step I take towards this new sunrise

I’m getting closer to the fusing of you and I.

And suddenly we’re in the middle, far from either shore

Must I choose between what lies behind me or before?