Rain - Wind

 

Rain

My heart was hung out in the rain

Pull it in!  I cried.  Pull it in!

It vanished like frost on a window pane

Too late, too late, simply too late

Too long in the rain! I cried

It melted like frosting on a cake

Wind

The wind blows harsh currents across the seas, oceans turn, twist, rise, move to the swell of surface white caps, secretly placing shiny crystals upon these lips, as they tell you their secrets. Are you listening to the wind, is your ear close by?

Do you taste the savory, do you feel the bite upon your skin, all the while wind batters your side, telling you, whispering to you, saying to you, don’t cry?

“You don’t have to understand”, it speaks in a low, tremulous voice. 

“She doesn’t know how to die”

the voice is heard over the wind, in a sigh

“I’m here to make it clear “

the wind murmurs in her ear

Deception

I see a shadowed outline of a face by the window, a small lamp in the background throws a back-light, making it difficult to know just who this person is, and my eyes begin to deceive me even more than before, when the ripple of the old hand-blown glass pulses distortions...

The figure moves, weaving objects in the room, from here to there, what do you see....where....through the view of the old glass in the window...? 

Are these the secrets hidden within, from behind, from without, and when you see in, and then out, do you feel the bile--is it vitriol, is it real, this picture framed with guile?

A Journal of Indulgence

 

A stranger no more

I pulled an all-nighter, indulging myself in thought.  Nights are the best, when eyes are closed, looking inside of dark halls, and having the ability to light up a room..  Skirting around a complicated issue doesn’t exist in these lighted rooms.  It all becomes reality. 

It can be shocking to see what I indulge myself in; in these written words on the walls that I see, and manipulate into forms - I see myself, but can that self only live in our minds until these words are spoken, allowing them to become real, seen as truth to a world in which we live?

I write words to satisfy my thirst; I drink the reactions these words have on others. I’m probably no different than these vampires everyone seems to be so obsessed with, and as I play in the oceans of my mind, I also swim in everyone else’s, driving myself to finding out who that self really is.

Obsessed is what I am, with a short circuit in these connections to all feelings which are thrown into pieces of my self.  I have to express these obsessive words in some form, art preferably, before that connection can be welded together.

Every single word I write, feelings become a light switch to illuminate that dark room inside of my head. The more indulgence, the more obsessed – Has it become over-indulgence?  Is it a progression of eating everyone’s words, until I’ve become so bloated; making me look at each word with feelings so intimate it hurts?  Is it necessary for me?  The word feelings, as I say I feel this way or that way, is just a word until you identify its depth, attaching a form and space to it.  I indulge myself until it becomes painful.

What is it to feel this kind of pain, and if I say I hurt, does this pain mean something different to someone else?  The word obsession is a strong word, and what are the reactions of people who hear it?  When I light up a room for all to see, does it become a room for all to understand, and are you able to explore this room from within, which contains those feelings?

Yes, I am an indulger. I test feelings as much as I can when writing about them.  I’ve shown them; I’ve gorged and bloated myself until I’ve exposed them all, whether ugly, or beautiful, until I have to throw them up for everyone to experience.

The rooms are lit.  I feel satiated knowing a stranger out there is no more.  Is that stranger you, or is it me?

The Kiss

 

The train tracks shimmer in the afternoon sun, stretching long lengths of steel into the distance of the sun scorched day. 

I listen, I wait, I sway.

One o’clock, one-fifteen, one-thirty, it's a lifetime.  You will be here, I know.  I will not cry. 

You’re due at one-forty five. 

From this barren earth, eyes cover in mist.  I listen, as my heart pounds a beat.

I watch vibrating waves of heat.

Is it the sun reflecting the wet of my eyes? Then a glimmer, a glisten, something moves towards me.

I cannot see.

The gate starts its downward motion, the bell rings its toll, and I wait to hear the rumble as it nears.

I feel my fears

seeing through my tears

too many years

Wait!

I step onto the tracks

we kiss our fate

The Hand

photograph by Kathleen Shattuck

The hand reaches out; fingertips touch the uneven plaster on the wall beside the bed; the moon seeps through the curtained glass, casting ominous gloom upon this hand. Stare at this hand, it belongs to a stranger. 

Who is this stranger that lives in this room tonight? 

The shadow of the moon feels cold against the warmth of this hand.  Does this hand belong to this arm that holds it upright, straight, and away, flat against the undulating prickle of sharp edges on the wall?

The hand turns, slowly, palm facing towards this stranger, fingers curling, nails biting into the palm, which seems to be saying, do not touch me - then stretches out until each tip extends and spreads from inside, into a breadth of vulnerability it opens the width of the fingers; opens, opens wide, wider it stretches until pain sears into the sinewy muscle, as sharp teeth may gnaw into a bone. 

Come, soon, look at this hand; watch as it beckons, watch as it moves, before it moves toward the cold shadow of the moon.

How Can I Say Goodbye

when I still see you sitting there, when I still feel you lean into me, when I still absorb the light from your eyes, how can I say goodbye---

when I can touch the shine of your hair, hear your breath in my ear, see the impression you’ve left in the chair, how can I say goodbye----

when I still smell your sent floating near, when your love has become my whole, when your shadow moves away to fly, how can I say goodbye?

We were two as one

you lied

now we are two

you are gone

I am

one

I

died

goodbye

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

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

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.

Exhale

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

Lifeless 

Emptiness

That’s all I’ve come to know

A story, alone on the shelf

Myself-alone

The exhale becomes the rhythm of the cobweb’s sway

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.

Two Piranhas in a Fish Bowl

crack

water escapes

down the counter

puddles flow

down to the floor

four eyes - stare

breathe in

breathe out

expand

contract

glass splinters

shards fly

raining stars

sharp, shiny edges

down to the floor

Lay side by side

four eyes - stare

vacant

two piranhas

helpless

door opens

two eyes - stare

meow

two piranhas

nevermore

Prosetry

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."

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.

MY HEART

 

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.

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

Cat

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



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.

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.

Flavors of Love

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

Or

taste its full bitterness

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

Or

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

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

rooms

closed

far

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