A poetic journey through my mind

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Brother to brother,

Memory to thought,

Tasting the stories

that old one-eye sought,

Storing them safely

in the heart of a cloud,

Mythos eternal,

Never spoken aloud.IMG_2279


Me and my Shadow

Sorry folks, I’ve tried to warn Mia about words…they can turn and bite when you try to make them march in line. ¬†ūüėČ


The puppy who never grew up, by Mia Sloan

His name is duke because that’s a good name for a big dog but he’s not a real dog he only lives in my head. ¬†He used to be real, but then he wasn’t mine, and now he’s just mine and nobody elses. ¬†When he was real he was a puppy and I saw him in the store and I got to hold him and he loved me and I loved him but he costed too much money so I had to leave him and I cried. ¬†And then I heard him crying too, outside, and it was dark but I ¬†snuck out anyway and looked and looked but I couldn’t find him. ¬†The next time, I checked at the store and they said he was still there, it must have been another puppy but I knew better. ¬†So that night I heard him again, and ¬†I ¬†couldn’t find him, so I was sad and went home, and he was there! ¬†He was in my room! ¬†I ran and hugged him but my arms went right through him, so I knew he wasn’t real, but I asked him to stay with me and he slept on my pillow and in the morning he was gone again. ¬†I cried and I called the store and they said he wasn’t for sale anymore, because he was sick. ¬†He didn’t look sick when he was with me, so I waited for night and he came back and I cuddled him all night and gave him kisses and when he tried to leave again I held him and he just curled on my lap and went to sleep. ¬†And then I called the store and they said he was gone, and I tried to tell them he was with me but they didn’t understand. ¬†So now he is the puppy who lives in my head and I love him forever and ever, and he loves me. ¬†The End.


The Dance

Liminal, the place between, between the seen and the unseen, the corner view, the edge of sight, the distance between wrong and right, the gap that lies between the worlds, where all the dragons sleep, tight-curled, from page to page, from left to right, in and out and day and night, all the spaces in between, where the tricksters dance unseen, in whirling steps of green and blue, and dancing, make the world anew, in colors of the brightest sheen, to decorate the place between.


Collages

 

So these are my new toys, made from licensed images¬†from my all time favorite artist, Jasmine Beckett Griffith, manipulated for my personal use and enjoyment with a combo of iPhone apps…in no particular order:

Bazaart, Exacto, ColorSplash, Waterlogue, and Distressed FX.

I generally suck at ¬†“visual art” so I thought I’d check and see what y’all thought. ¬†ūüėä


Puzzle

bright and quick or dark and scary, ¬†she’s the woodlands favorite faery, flitting from her treetop aerie to the forest floor below. ¬†Try to catch her, beam of sunlight, or at night a falling star, laughter ringing, high voice singing, soon you won’t know where you are. ¬†bright and quick or dark and scary, she’s the woodlands favorite faery, flitting from her treetop aerie to the forest floor below. ¬†Follow her through shifting shadows, bright and dark at once is she, as she leads you, you will follow, and your home you’ll never see. ¬†bright and quick or dark and scary, she’s the woodlands favorite faery, flitting from her treetop aerie to the forest floor below.


Beauty (trigger warning: descriptive language)

Hard, soft, hard. ¬†Hard, soft, hard. ¬†She rocks in a rhythm, ¬†a pattern, a silent rhyme. ¬†Hard, soft, hard. ¬†Bony knees clenched tightly under her chin, skinny arms wrapped around like a ragged bow on a present never to be opened. ¬†Hard. ¬†Soft. ¬†Hard. ¬†Huge luminous eyes stare straight ahead, eyes made to seem even larger, sunk deep in their pits of shadow. ¬†Mouth open slightly, a rifled purse, ¬†soft keening cries spilling constantly forth. Hard. ¬†Hard enough for her head to impact the cold cinderblock wall with a muffled thunk. ¬†Soft. ¬†Soft but fast, back and forth, quiet swish of cloth on the painted cement floor. ¬†Hard once again. ¬†Thunk. ¬†And still the cries, still the stare, still the eyes that see nothing but the past, the past which is her eternal present…hard..soft…hard.


The Bad Thing

Softly she stumbles,
Silently weeping,
Down past the rooms where her children lie sleeping,
Down the dark stairs she goes cautiously creeping,
No light required, her feet know the way.

On one hand soft fingers hold tear stained note lightly,
The other a fist on which knuckles show whitely,
Fear, rage and shame are all mingling tightly,
As outside the nighttime brightens toward day.

Soon she’ll be leaving the note so deceiving,
her heart deep in grieving for memories lost, while upstairs the villain snores loudly, sleeps soundly, midst blankets and pillow as if by storm tossed.

And young ones will wonder at lives torn asunder, how silently thunder can come in the night, filling lifes pages with a nightmare of rages, forcing the caged bird to finally take flight.


Mirrorrim

 

Mirror mirror on the wall, hanging there so silently, can you see me here at all, or do you stand in awe of me?

See my skin as white as snow, see my smile as sharp as thorn, behind my lips so rosy red, a beauty grown, but never born.

My people love me, as they might, they laud my beauty and my grace, adore my hair as black as night, and see in me my mother’s face.

Mothers ash is buried deep, beneath the sacred Rowan tree, but should I cry beneath its shade, I hear her voice still speak to me.

Blood red tears soak through the ground, nourishing the thirsty earth, and whispering the leaves take voice, echoes of her cruel mirth.

Stepmother, fear me as you should, for though you may have fathers ring, tis I who owns his beating heart…in me, the conscience of the king.

Huntsman with your sharpened knife, you track me for the queen so good, a single kiss and you are mine, amazed amidst the darkened wood.

The beating heart, unlike my own, ensconced within a box of gold, and carried to stepmother dear, a tragic tale will soon be told.

By animals in forest deep, my body torn too much to save, the heart the only evidence, to lay beside my mother’s grave.

From kitchen knave to scullery maid, soon all in mourning deep will be, whilst I move through them whisper soft, feeding on the tragedy.

And then, replete, I’ll slip away, down to the caverns dark and deep, far from the biting of the sun, where spirits howl and duergar creep.

There among the little men, I’ll sleep until I thirst again, then waken, smiling in my bliss, to share again my blood red kiss.


Edit: Very Important Question

 

(Hmm. ¬†8 “likes” and no comments. ¬†Guess that’s a “no thanks” to Patreon for now. ¬†ūüôā

Okies, back to ¬†“work”…maybe something will be worth supporting in the future.)

Heya! Got a question for y’all. Ever heard of a thing called “Patreon”? It’s part of the whole crowd funding scene, a place kinda like Kickstarter but with two notable differences: A) It’s just for artists, but for artists of all stripes and types…and B) Instead of one time donations, it’s a recurring thing, allowing folks to be, basically, patrons of the arts…at whatever level is possible for them. From a dollar a month to…well, as far as you wanna go.

The fun thing is the reward system. For each level of payment there’s a reward, contingent on the particular artists choice and type of art.

For instance, for visual arts it might be anything from being able to see works in progress before anyone else, to being entered into a monthly drawing for an original piece!

Also, like Kickstarter, there may be goals to be reached, depending on the artist in question and their needs.

I’m seriously considering starting a page, for two purposes. I’m still really intent on organizing my stuff into book form, or maybe even two…one for the “social commentary”/awareness sort of ones (that one will be a not for profit project, but it won’t, unfortunately, be free to make…) and one for my mythology based work, both the poetry and maybe even some short stories.

I’m also moving, soon, from Florida back out West, to Salt Lake…and I want to build a tiny home. My severely limited mobility really cuts into my creativity, as chronic pain leads to depression and anxiety. I’m basically living in one room now, and one under 400 sq. ft. space with no doors or stairs or other nonsense sounds like my idea of paradise…not to mention it would be my first actual space entirely of my own…at 47, that makes it about time.

So I guess I’m asking for advice…does it sound like something worth doing, and should I put the effort into it?

Don’t worry, my new stuff will still come here (hopefully more often than recently…the more I write the more they come, I’ve found.) and it will be free as always.

But folks who want to follow me over to Patreon will have to let me know what sort of thing you might like for a reward…some of the ideas I’ve had are a chat/text group just for y’all, to talk about whatever…(in case you missed it, I LOVE to talk…ūüėĚ) or maybe personal suggestions/requests for poems, toss me a random poem prompt, stuff like that? I’m even up for challenges…give me (almost) any three words and an adjective (funny, horrific, romantic, etc) and I’ll find/construct a piece for you. If any of these sounds good, just leave me a note in the usual place, and maybe we can make this happen!

Love,
KC


Perspective

On the bright side, he loves me,
On the bright side, he’s home,
On the bright side, I’m with him,
not here in the dark on my own.

In the light of the bright side the darkness seems endless, the patterns repeating again and again, and the glare of the bright side is searing and deadly, pinpointing where the light ends.

On the bright side, he loves me,
On the bright side, she’s gone,
On the bright side, I’m with him,
not here in the dark all alone.

On the bright side (where is it?) I’m with him (I miss you) not here in the dark all alone…


I hate my hands

Hand one

Stupid RA. Stupid painful almost useless fingers. Stupid whiny me.

Hand two

I’m at a point where I’d almost rather chop them off than deal with trying to use them…the operative word is “almost”…for now.


Blue Streak

Alice in blue jeans, my rabbit-hole child,
blue hair and blonde eyes and an icicle smile,
how in the world did you steal my heart, while constantly staying that one step apart?
Alice in blue jeans, my looking glass girl,
here in a flash and gone in a whirl.
Always arriving, but never to stay,
time after time you must be on your way,
how do I catch you and hold you so tight that your icicle smile melts into delight?


Heartsong

Where do I live, what is my pride,
What is this tickle that burrows inside?
The howling at night when the loneliness calls,
the whisper that screams down behind the white walls?
How do I find it, the place I belong,
do I follow my heart,
do I follow a song?
Do I search for a scrap of rhyme scrawled by a cloud,
or something my heart begins screaming out loud?
I’m lost in the maelstrom of “present” and “now”,
in time rushing past, can I stop it somehow?
Can I hold the years still, though the waters are strong, and finally return to the place I belong?
Lost in the whirlwind,
staring back through the years,
do I answer my heart song or follow my fears?


Mother of Forests

0113ff9adff9369794bd739698bc598dc56a50b300Spread my mind and guard my soul,

the me that is and always will be,

help my roots grow deep and wide

and may you always shelter me.

 

May you dance with every breeze,

delight the eye with every sway,

train my mind to hear and teach

the wisdom you impart each day.

 

Take my voice to be your song,

through street and inner-city school,

let your shelter shade their minds

and temper heat with dappled cool.

 

Take my words to sing your praise,

and fill the ear with endless green,

until their hearts can grow again,

until their life and yours run clean.


Death and the Cheese Sandwich, a ramble in realtime.

The hardest thing for anyone with -any- “invisible” disability, mental or physical, seems to me to be that no one really believes it. As long as you are doing badly, dark days, physical issues, pain…it’s fine. But just as soon as you manage to drag yourself up from the bottom, it all of a sudden becomes a commonplace. Not a struggle well rewarded, but merely “Why didn’t you do that before?”.
They hold “normal people” up to you as if they were some goal that you are supposed to aspire to. “Normal people take daily showers. Normal people are social. Normal people…” Normal people can kiss my ass. I can’t think of anything I’d less rather be than “normal”. Normal people watch politics, reality shows, commercial/cable tv…and -enjoy- it! Normal people are “too old for cartoons”, even anime. Normal people believe everything someone posts on FaceBook, even when the same picture has been used a thousand times to solicit help for so many different causes no one can even remember what the original was. Normal people watch sports…well, the guy half, anyway. Normal people don’t take medications unless they have a cold, or they’re over 50. Normal people don’t collect “toys” from their favorite series or books. Normal people don’t read speculative fiction, unless it’s romantic, and then it’s ok.
Let’s pause on that one for a second…never mind that, as the quote almost said “it’s like having an affair with a cheese sandwich”…never mind the uber-teen-angst aspect…never mind all that. Since when did the paranormal/supernatural turn into todays fantasy romance? Not dissing the goth thing. Far from it. Full-fledged Fairy Goth right here. But seriously, people? Vampires and Werewolves in love triangles with poor confused women…notice that it’s almost -never- a human -male- having to choose between the woodsy, outdoorsy, sexy-feral wolf-chick and the sophisticated, refined, sexy-dangerous vamp-chick. Hmm. Maybe I should write one. Or mix it up. Gay vampire is a thing…and lord knows that Were’s and Bears would hit it off…so a confused young queer boy who doesn’t understand why both sides are attractive to him? *giggle* No, luckily for the world of Para-Romance I have more self-respect than that. ;p ¬†Besides, according to “rule whatever-it-is” it’s bound to be already out there. ¬†>.>
Ok, Wild Tangent exercised, now back to the original rant. It’s just frustrating to be the only one telling me how well I’m doing, and having to lift myself by my own bootstraps, figuratively speaking. And it’s downright painful to have people accuse me of not being sick, now that I’m doing better. Hard enough swimming upstream without the folks around me pouring poison in the water and strengthening the current by weakening me. I know all the explanations: “They’re jealous. They’re afraid you won’t need them. They need to be needed, so they sabotage.” Bull. In my case, while the first might be barely possible, it’s accompanied by so much straight out hate and paranoia that “unintentional sabotage” isn’t an operative phrase…it’s closer to “deliberate malfeasance”. Frustrating? Try infuriating, especially since there’s not a blessed thing I can do about it, not having that sort of temperament, little say the physical, psychological or emotional -ability- for that sort of nonsense. *shrug*
So yeah. It’s almost 5 in the morning, I haven’t written a word in weeks, haven’t even opened my laptop to play games…why should I, I have my phone for that? And so my brain rots slowly away, and my “curious appetites” get…well, curiouser and curiouser, if you’ll excuse the misquote. ;p So I get on tonight, for various reasons, and start looking at craft things. >.< Doh. Sooo many new toys!!! I need all the pretties and shinies! Mia and I are in a constant tug-of-war over all the bright beads and moldable plastics and jello-molds (No, dear heart, we need to actually -use- the ones we’ve bought before we can -maybe- justify buying more…no, not even the 100 count silicone gummi bear mold with the special dropper, I’m sorry. ;p) and so on, until I’m left to wonder…how in all the special hells of Hel do “normal folks” manage to keep from going insane and running ferret-shock through the internetz screaming “Shut up and take my money!”?
Also, is insanity different from creativity, and if so, how? Discuss. ;p
This is now over 700 words long, in case anyone is interested, and since I love you all to distraction…I’m gonna go and stop distracting you. Don’t worry, though…I’ll be back with more whinging and complaining and maybe, possibly, although don’t count on it, some actual creative work. Like a poem or story or something. Not just me/us rambling. Oh, and just in case it isn’t clear or you’re just tuning in to the Kyotzeta Channel…there’s only one of me. Promise. I’m BPD (or whatever new buzz-word they’re calling it now…;p) not MPD/DD. I just happen to have unusually talkative inner voices that refuse to stay inner, and since I’m my own best company, why the Hel not?
TTYL, my internetz!
KC, Mia, et al.


Through the Looking Glass…Again.

The mirror me has other eyes,
I meet them, not from vanity,
Dark they are, and umber hued,
The color of insanity.

Pinned like a butterfly I stand,
Meeting that endless gaze,
Till terrified I wrench away,
And dash into the maze.

The path before me twists and turns,
All distance an illusion,
At every bend another choice,
Each step ends in confusion.

The Sound of Madness watches me,
Her mocking gaze surrounds me,
Laughing as I stumble past,
And walls of glass confound me.


Paper Girl pt. 2: Paper Mache

Once there was a little girl made of paper, with a hollow space in the middle that ate the world and never had enough. The space howled and whined and ate and ate, not just food, but love, and kindness, and pain, and anger, and courage, and all the things that make up a little girl, or even a big girl, until all that was left was what other people saw and said and stuck on. Then one day, the little girl had enough. She held on to her last story, holding until her fingers were on fire, until her tears melted in the fire, until her anger turned back to ice, and the last story came to be a strong, solid shell around the hole. The hole whined and snarled, but no matter how hungry it felt, how empty, the girl knew that it would never be filled. So she built her shell with the food, instead. She took the kindness, and the courage, and the words and words and words that everyone threw at her, and she used her pretty eyes to make them as pretty as she could, and pasted them into bright places and patterns on her hard, strong paper shell. Sometimes the hollow was stronger, and a few pieces were lost, but she always managed to find new ones, sometimes even better ones. And maybe she lived happily ever after, in her own way, and maybe she didn’t, but either way, she had a new name, and it would keep her safe. She was no longer the paper girl…she was the Paper Mache Girl!


Hiding

comfort the child who hides in your eyes,

dry her sad tears and heal her soft cries,

shine the sun bright in her windowless space,

and help her stand tall, with a smile on her face.


Paper Girl

Once there was a little girl who was made out of paper. On the inside she was all empty and missing and gone, but on the outside people had stuck pictures and stories and questions and lies and truths and more stories about how they thought she was and what they thought she was like and they just kept putting more and more on until she had a nice paper shell on, all made out of what everyone else thought and felt and said about her. And she lived all alone, and she kept out of storms, because all the loud noises and yelling and words could tear pieces right out of her paper shell and just let it go it flying off into the wind and she’d never get it back, even if it was a part she really liked. And she stayed away from people in charge, which was hard, cause everyone was in charge, cause they could say things and do things and tear things off of her that they didn’t like, or didn’t agree with, or just because they felt like being mean that day, and she couldn’t do anything about it because there wasn’t any her inside to do anything so she just had to stand there and watch, with her paper eyes, as the pieces tore off (and it hurt, when they tore off) and flew away. And then one day one of the people she loved, one of the people who were closest to her, was sad and mad and scared and got really upset at something the girl did, and so she gave her to the really-in-charge people, and they took her away and locked her up in the dark and the cold and the wind kept blowing all the while they looked at her and she could feel the pages and pieces blowing off and off and off like a storm of her. And then they let her go, but she was so fragile then, her shell was so gone, that bits and pieces of the hole inside shone through, and scared the people around her, so she tried to put things back on, but they kept falling off, cause she didn’t know how to make them stick. Only other people could do that, but everyone didn’t know how many pieces she was missing, so they didn’t know to help fill in the gaps. And so she kept moving and going, cause what else was there to do, and the people-in-charge kept tearing and ripping at her, like dogs with a newspaper, and when she tried to tell them that they were hurting her, they just got angry and tore more, and told her that if she didn’t stop they would lock her up in the dark again and she knew that if they did that, that all her pieces would just fall off, and she’d dissappear forever, so she just kept trying and trying to hold things together, but pieces were falling off and she didn’t know what to do. She tried using lots and lots of glue to hold things on, but it made her sick, and sleepy, and didn’t really help, it just made things take longer to do and still the pieces fell off. She tried to ask other people to stick things back on, but it just confused them, and they got frustrated with her asking and asking and didn’t want to be around her anymore. She even went to the people who made the glue, and asked them what to do, but they said she had to learn to do it herself, and they couldn’t help, unless she felt like she was going to start tearing pieces off, herself, and then they’d lock her up and use lots of glue to stick new/old pieces back on, but she knew that that kind of glue only worked for a little while before it cracked and made things worse than before. And they kept telling her that she had to hold herself together, and keep doing what they said, or they’d lock her up in the dark again, and no matter what she said or did or didn’t say or didn’t do, they just kept tearing and tearing until she was so weak all she could do was lie in a pile and listen to the sound of pages fluttering off into the distance, more and more and then less and less until all that was left was one piece of paper and it had this story on it…and pretty soon now, that one will go too, and that will be the end.


Two Sisters

sister, sister, tell me true,
what I ever did to you,
stretch your hand to save me here,
and you may have my sweetheart dear.

I will have your sweetheart, true,
but never will I rescue you,
my hand outstretched will never be,
for sake of what you’ve done to me.

sister, sister, tell me why,
I see my murder in your eye,
what e’er I’ve done I’ll make amends,
and you and I shall live as friends.

Never shall I stretch my hand,
to help you safe up to dry land,
though it may be hard to see,
I’ll think of what you’ve done to me.

sister, sister, tell me here,
is it of my sweetheart dear,
I will forsake him, for your sake,
and you his hand may surely take.

it is about your sweetheart, aye,
whom you love half as much as I,
and though on me he has yet frowned,
he’ll turn to me once you are drowned.

sister, sister, save me, please,
and I will swear on bended knees,
that you a bride will shortly be,
and I no more shall envy thee.

I will not save thee, sister mine,
though your prayers are sweet and fine,
this stream will bear you out to sea,
and you no more will bother me.

sister, sister, hear me now,
my curse on you I hereby vow,
you may well have my sweetheart true,
but this black deed you soon will rue.
sister, when you take my man,
try to hold him if you can,
his faithless heart will ne’er be true,
and this last thing I do to you.


In The House of My Enemy (trigger warning, child abuse)

 

In a basement, in a closet, in the corner of my mind,
I am hiding, I am running,  I am being hard to find.
Hide me darkness, hide me silence,  hide me safe from any sight,
keep me hidden, safe and quiet,  far from pain or rage or fright.
Search is coming, pain and anger, fear is icicles inside,
eyes are staring, heart is beating, breath is curling up to hide.
Footsteps nearing, rage is searing, in threat and anger raving,
darkness broken, hard words spoken, fear and pain past saving.
Hands are groping, no more hoping, plleas and promises ignored,
pain and screaming, fade to dreaming, till the darkness falls once more.


An Ostrich visits the Circus

“Look!” Cries the Head Clown. “I can be the Ringmaster! In his pretty suit, with the whip of Ultimate Authority…I can be the Ringmaster!”

“Look, look!” Cry Dick and Jane. “Look at the funny clown pretending to be the Ringmaster! Oh, look, his pants just fell down!”

“Look!” Cry the Audience. “Look, look, the Ringmasters pants just fell down!”


Dylanizing

Playing with the jagged bits of unsanitary dreams,
forcing truth down till it fits or merely till it screams,
slicing bits and pieces off to make a straighter edge,
or bashing at it till it fits with meanings heavy sledge.

kicking at the door of art, screaming to be let in,
screaming to be heard at all, past chaos’ heavy din,
wheedling and whining low, a dog chained in the yard,
waiting till a treat is thrown, for doors to be unbarred.

Dylanizing with the hope of widening my reach,
vocalizing, sermonizing, never practice what I preach,
hiding here behind my mask of pixel, key and grammar,
behind the glass I cower back, hem and haw and stammer.

I am the tarots fool, you know, dancing on the ledge,
I am the little dog that barks, shoving you to the edge,
I am the words of learned men and the tricks of any clown,
and when I leave, the lights go out, they bring the curtain down.