May 31, 2011

Memories Made

Here is to beautiful memories made, the sea, the sun, the wind, the shade
The sun is rising on an ocean’s crest, sparkling surf, foam and mist

Birds catching the wind – reach for the sky!
Majestic white winged gulls, calling a high-pitched cry

Clouds gathering slowly together, becoming one
A sun setting lower, brilliant colors, a blinding sun

Footprints on wet sand, pressing shells out of sight
The moon comes up – causing shadows, reflections, giving light

The sand is warm, then cold, once hot
as a blanket, the sun is sought

Cold is the sea, warm is the wind
it dries the water but stings the skin

The sea, endlessly pounding, never quiet, never stopping, never still
it is always changing of free will

Thundering waves, gentle waves
obliterates thoughts, castles, but making caves

Erasing words, washing in and washing away
these are the memories here to stay

To beautiful memories made
the sea, the sun, the wind, the shade

May 25, 2011

Lost In Love

I touch your hand, and feel you near
I touch your cheek, and the world stands still

I feel the pulse of a heart that beats
I hold your thoughts, and sense the fear

This beating heart, close to mine
saving time, but moments lost

keep the night away
 keep the demons cast
keep the day at bay
you are here at last

Hold me to you, hold me now
feel where we must be

take the chance  
take it somehow
our cheeks touch
feel the warmth

Our hands touch, so we can share
feel the night, tonight
hold these memories
we threw away

May 20, 2011

The Cobweb

I wrote this story one evening.  I was confined to my TV, and my thoughts.  I had a painful tendon problem in both of my hands for more than six months, and was told to use my hands as little as possible.  I'm a potter who lives in her head, for her clay.  I also write.  I couldn't play with my clay, but I wrote anyway.

Chickpeas, Bulgar rice, fresh roasted red peppers, that’s what she is cooking.  I’m watching the Create channel, no sound, just watching.
I’m eager to try some of these menus, ones I know I can create. And the serving dishes are all of a beautiful design and color.  I know I can duplicate.
I turn away from the silent TV, I look towards the empty wall at the foot of my bed.  Empty wall, until my mind dumps its load upon it. Then something catches my eye.  A moving object, I must take a closer look.  It could be a spider.  I get up, out of the solitary confined position in which I must keep my hands.  Moving my hands, contained in braces, is a pain.  It hurts.  I inhale, deeply, then let go of an over-sized exhale against the wall.
I pull myself to a kneeling position on the bed, only to inspect a small cobweb that has snagged a corner of the plaster wall.  At the foot of my bed, it moves, a little, as my breath extends to seek it. 
I watch its grace, in the way it sways back and forth. 
I am far from graceful; I am awkward in my pain, so I leave this cobweb alone.
In watching this cobweb, I back away, feeling the pressure to compose these menus, or construct these platters for serving. I can’t help but pine.  Now I must turn off this television. Now I must lie down, seeing and feeling the pain in my mind.
Face reality
Continue resting your hands
But don’t think
My heart wants to sink
I’m struck through and through, propelling pieces of me, summoning the air, not with my hands, you fool, but with a whisper.
This cobweb appeals to me
It moves
It beckons me move
I’m tired of hearing my doctor telling me
Keep those hands still 
Not one more word out of you
I want to write
I want to create art
Stop, my hands tell me
Again the cobweb moves to a fro. 
How long is this pain to last?
I suppose forever, if I cannot stay motionless
Go to sleep
That’s all I’ve come to know
A story, alone on the shelf
The exhale becomes the rhythm of the cobweb’s sway

May 18, 2011

Why do I love you?

I love you, I love you, I love you.
Why do you love me?
You shine.
What do you mean, I shine?
You know, like a star shines.
But, I’m not a star.
Well, to me you are.
Go to hell.
Don’t talk like that.
Why not, it’s how I feel.
You still shouldn’t say that.
You can’t love me.
Yes I can.
No you can’t, you don’t know me.
I know you well enough to know I love you.
Go to hell, you know nothing about me.
But you shine.
I’m not a star shine.
Then what are you?
I’m 100% moon shine.
You mean all this time I thought you were a star?
Yes, afraid so.
How disappointing.
Yup, I can disappoint.
I’m sad.  You're cold.
I know, now go to hell.
I’m already there.

May 15, 2011

Two Piranhas in a Fish Bowl

water escapes
down the counter
puddles flow
down to the floor

four eyes - stare
breathe in
breathe out

glass splinters
shards fly
raining stars
sharp, shiny edges
down to the floor

Lay side by side
four eyes - stare
two piranhas

door opens
two eyes - stare
two piranhas


The following is a brief explanation of what the word prosetry means, or has become, to me.  Also, I've given a definition, as I found on a search for this word.  It is unique.

When I first started to write from that space that can't be defined, other than calling it the creative space, it showed itself in poems of strict rhyme, to me.  I had no control over these subjects and words, they controlled me.

I have also written in technical form;  I've written in story form, where the subject grows beyond comprehension, into novel length.  I wrote short stories, and as these short stories started to take on a form I didn't recognize - that combination showed itself as a type of prose and poetry, mixture,  the word Prosetry evolved....And now I use it to define me. 

Although, not everything I write, here, belongs in this category.  Writing, for me, is an adventure in thought, and not all of my thoughts are going to be well received.  Some of these thoughts go down into the depth of dispair; some may surface to the top, showing a bubble of silliness striking me. 

No artist/writer is always in control of their thoughts, and in conclusion, brings me to write on this blog the subjects that may not be considered by readers, who consider themselves rational, as sane.  Whether rational, or irrational, this room becomes a place to explore. 

Not long ago, I found a wonderful writer by the name of Haruki Murakami.  He'll take you beyond, and above, that level-headed world we see day to day.  He layers thoughts into a psychological conundrum, and the philosophies become real.  Landscapes become virtual dreamscapes, while awake.  And the question arises in my mind, where do I fit into that scape we call life?

"Prosetry  is the fusion of philosophy and art that strives to make sense of the continually narrowing gap between utilitarianism and art. Prosetry has no strict forms, but its practitioners seek to find meaning in culture by weighing a particular topic's utility against its spirit. The word prosetry  is a portmanteau of prose and poetry.
Prosetry is investigative in nature. But it is somewhat abstract in its approach to artistic investigation. It is the artistically concrete examining art.
Commonly explored influences on art are postmodernism, commercialism, advertising, trendiness versus timelessness, and life spans and cycles of fads. If the proliferation of artistic genres in the late 20th century is symptomatic of a humankind's striving to project a socially marketable image of themselves, prosetry seeks to explore the reasons behind that striving.
Prosetry can be utilized through music, essays, poetry, drama, and film, or any art form that can explore its own societal influences.
Later reinvented in the city of Chicago by Vincent Lengerich, introduced at poetry bars as "The Most Hated Poet in Chicago" inside of his poem "The Green Mill" as a direct threat to people calling themselves poets in the poetry bar The Green Mill located on Broadway and Lawrence. He used the word, completely oblivious to its previous existence.
Prosetry was originally conceived through the examination of influences on Slam Poetry."

May 14, 2011

An Interview With Self

An interview with Self on: How does philosophy and cooking the Thanksgiving dinner enter today's current philosophies?

K.S.:  What do you see as a philosophical view in the mundane job of cooking?
Self:  I think it all started when I read an unusual interview between Ilana Simons and Ted Richards.  I saw that Soccer was the topic, as well as the insularly feelings of being an academic.  I figured if someone could take a competitive sport, a singular academic achievement, and turn it into a subject that could interest the masses, I could also think of a subject that might stand out as important, and the idea of cooking came to mind.
K.S.:  In what way do cooking methods have to do with philosophy?
Self:  I know that sounds strange to the common ear, but just having your stomach growl and shoving a microwave dinner into a machine, doesn't make for a cook, right?  It is very philosophical.  A lot of thinking is involved.
K.S.:  Well, yes, of course, you're right.  Can you explain further?
Self:  I thought about the rigors and mechanics of thought, as it shifted to the actual coming up with something that would be pleasing, both to myself and to others.  You actually do have to think beyond reaching into a freezer for the food that someone else went to the trouble of fixing.
K.S.:  Tell me about the Thanksgiving dinner idea.
Self:  What is the most complicated, or let me re-phrase that, what is the dinner of the year that requires a singular cook to become multitasked with thoughtful interludes into one's self, to complete with accuracy?
K.S.:  That seems sensible.  Tell me more.  I'm always interested in cooking.
Self:  Well, I love to create something different during this process.  To concoct a dish that has been handed down through years of family history, and changing it up for today's society is always a goal of mine.  The process isn't easy, and one can either succeed with honors or fail miserably within the mouths of many.
K.S.:  What does the task require? 
Self:  First off you have to think on your feet.  There is no sitting down to ponder long, once you get your food ingredients out.  Timing is everything.  It's a race to the finish, and I do mean a race.  You have a dozen guests sitting down at the table, and expecting to be all fed at the same time.  That means - the Turkey must be fully cooked in a desired way that will please everyone, and being at rest while the rest of the food is ready to go on the table.  But, I'm getting ahead of myself, let me back up.  Thinking about whether or not your guest would like appetizers, and how much time do I spend visiting with them before I head into the kitchen.
K.S.: Are there any kinds of preparation, beforehand, or do you do it all while the Turkey is in the oven.
Self:  Good question!  There are some things that can be prepared the day before.  Cranberry sauce, if made from scratch.  Pies may also be prepared in advance.  Then the first thing the next morning, the stuffing/dressing is placed into the cavity of the Turkey - Then in the oven it goes.
 Close to its coming out, you have the potatoes, the vegetables, the rolls, the salads, and then the small relish dishes to be made.  All can be put into the refrigerator and kept until needing to be either heated or cooked.  I think the major thought is preparation and cooking time.  You must know how much time each of these foods must be cooked.  It's down to the wire, the last hour before it is plated.
I always anticipate someone not liking what I set on the table, because of all of the different likes and dislikes, favorites that are to be satisfied in this process.  I worry about making a mistake along this journey.  The repercussions of not getting the right ingredients in, forgetting something, and at the last minute find it's too late to make changes.  I have to go with what mistakes I've made.  I mean it can be little things like, choosing butter over margarine for the rolls; Whole cranberries over jellied cranberries, and Pumpkin pie, apple pie, or mincemeat.  Cornbread or regular bread for the stuffing, or Giblet gravy or no giblet gravy, these are the questions.
K.S.:  Do you think it really matters, in the end?
Self:  There are literally dozens of choices in this process of making a Thanksgiving dinner, and it's all in your lap!  I wonder whether it really matters to a guest, whether or not they get what their own family had prepared for decades, while being fed some concoction that is foreign to them, by a non family member.  This process is not an easy one to take up in one's mind.  It all requires a certain amount of education, and it is a lonely road to travel, at times.  You are insulated from others as you sit in front of your TV set, preparing yourself by watching Hell's Kitchen.

May 13, 2011


Now this is a rather interesting situation, finding my heart just shifted into another position. I thought I knew what this heart said - at least I thought I did, if you knew what lives within these lies, that here upon make their bed.

When I expound great orations to the mass, I never thought they’d come back and bite me in the ass. I live the lies I claim as truth, and wish I could stop time, when all I give for you to see is a clock without a chime.

I regret so many things, but this one takes the cake, if you know me now, leave me now, for your caring and giving sake. You know not what you see before you, this I must beseech, I will take whoever sits too near, and burry within my reach. 

Hold my tongue, and close my eyes, I speak not another tone, I can quote from every wise one’s mouth - I may call you on the phone. I can show you what you want to hear, unless it becomes my heart, an empty space, never near, pushes against, apart.

Go today, find the truths, never more from me - leave me now, and let me die, never more will be.  My heart is but an empty space, amongst a lonely stain, my heart is but an empty place, which begs you not remain.

May 10, 2011

Shandi's Poem

Just One More Day, Just One More Night

Just one more moment to hear the song
just one more memory soft and long

The clouds will sing so near the sky
night will mummer her soft goodbye

I hear these voices now floating near
they cry out loud with every tear

Through broken hearts these souls will beat
until I see soils trodden feet

Hard the times we see and know
hands are warn from cold of snow

These hands are cracked from rock hard soil
the blisters bleed from long days toil

Again I hear these memories
 soft and long forever these

Into the sky the blackbirds swing
down to the earth where children sing

Lifting hearts with careful ease
carrying goodbyes across the seas

Until we meet, once again
until we speak, as to a friend

May 9, 2011


Encumbered by my presence - meow, she sits and demurs
Cat purrs

She licks her paws - passively ignores me
non invasive I try to be

She needs attention - this hand needs to stroke
cancel the yoke

Unattached, she walks away - alone, she lives alone
quietly to roam

Stretch of limbs – across the mirror
silence echoes in my ear

May 7, 2011

A Rose, a Child

A rose is like a child, a child is like a rose, you nurture it to help it grow, you keep it straight and in a row.  You shield it from all things around, you lean it up, you hold it up, you keep it from the ground.

This tree is strong, this child is strong, no others can surpass, you’ve helped a little sprig, become mature at last.

The stems are long, the leaves are wide, to fill the space along its side.  A bud appears upon this tree, so small, a little thing, a child you see.

To open wide its little eyes, soft and round, we hear no sound, this tiny bud becomes a bloom, amazement does abound.  To see a bloom, so full and bright, how can this bloom, once a bud, give off this shinning light?

Hold the bloom between your hands, with loving care, your rose still stands.

You smell the rose, the fragrance sweet, you touch a child, your cheeks will meet.

The dew will come and kiss the rose, a tear will drop on a tiny nose, the bloom was kissed by drops of dew, let go the rose for you are through.

Close your eyes and you will see a beautiful, loving, giving tree, close your eyes and smell the air, the fragrance still may linger there.

Close your eyes and hear the sound, of once little feet still around, close your eyes, reach out your hand, to touch, to feel, to understand.

Open your eyes and you will know, the rose is me, a child to Thee.

May 5, 2011

Seasons Of Love

I first saw you in the fall, in every light of every day - I loved you in the spring, all through the month of May

I held you in my sight, you set the bells to ring, and I loved you through all seasons, in comfort by your wing

While walking down our path, sleepy shadows fall, you take my hand in yours, to show love conquers all

I kissed you in the morning, we talked of dreams we’ve had
I held you all through evening, until our passions fled

I go to you - you come to me, these seasons of eternal love, to hear the muted notes, within the clouds above

Though our hearts may pull away, I’ll love you without reason, I’ll love you day to day, as months caress the season

On oceans great and vast, we sail away together, we will meet our spring head on, and our love will last forever

I hold you in my arms, as I loved you once in May - I give my love to you, to grow from day to day.

May 4, 2011

Flavors of Love

Does love have a flavor, do I taste its soft sweetness 
taste its full bitterness

Do I drink it with soda, do I drink it with ice 
drink it straight up

Do I taste every flavor, allow it to linger

Is it full
Is it shallow
Is it empty

Do I allow it to wander, or allow it to cling

capture its shyness
yield to its form
hold fast its wishes

~It burns going down~
It sets reason to fire
It takes every breath
It shapes every edge

It hoards all time
It manages all moments
It captures the seconds
It wastes every minute

It hollows my days
It punctures my eyes
It blinds me with flavors
It quenches my thirst

May 1, 2011

A light in My Room

Sitting waiting to be lit
Light that blooms in darkness
Light that sits on doorsteps
Where did it go
The day left

The days are shrinking from luminaries
Fashioning the edges of night
Knowing the windows are frosted 
Knowing the sill is damp 
Warmth is there, but where
Where is the light that seeks you out
Show me now 
Where is the closeness that searches
Wandering rooms in vein
But how


I shut the door
I close the room
I silence the voice
I darken the night
I step into gloom

My lament is here within these walls
These dormer bared windows
Holding the candle’s light
unblemished across the lawn

Throw your curves
Seek the shadows 
Waves of light
Request the wick
Who snuffs them out
Candles of night
Who finds their warmth

Shadows across your face
Curving around your chin
The brow
The eyes

There but for you
Marching in tune
Dance of the hour
Within the light - a light in my room