A poetic journey through my mind

Smell of blue!

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.


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!


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.


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!”


Wired

crossed wires bind around my throat, beneath my skin, within my mind.
wires down which angels float, and all the hells unwind.
words are lost within the screams of countless teeming hordes,
instead of lullabies I hear the clash of fiendish swords.
rush of blood inside my veins, the whir of ancient clockwork,
the soundtrack to my failing life, by some demonic store-clerk.
blood red tears, cliche at best, are pouring down my cheeks,
evidence of grinding gears, subconsequential leaks.
slipping chains and clashing cogs and wires tangled always,
I hear the whine of bodys end, down all the future pathways.


A Woman of the Word

Waiting for the Kingdom, living for the now,
Finding comfort and guidance in His holy word,
Faith in Him, in community, in family and friends,
A shining example of those who Witness, making sure His name is heard.

Saplings  grown to mighty trees,
Loving sons of a loving mother,
Phone calls, visits, love so strong,
A resilient cord, from mother to brother to brother.

Living in this world, preparing for the next,
A lifetime of community, a network of friends,
Family and the word, song and story,
Sharing the news of the days when joy will never end.

(For Miss Annette Marcus, with love and thanks for sharing so many things…so much more than just a roommate, I hope I can call you a friend.)


Sky, falling

I remember the scratch of the wall at my back and my cheek when I woke up. The cool soft of its solid made me smile.

Sky bits decorated my warm paper cloak, melding faces and words, facts and lies, all into one soft shell that hugged me tight.

The sky fell and fell and fell, a tympani of pain in jungle green and neon blue. I looked for her, and the grin crawled onto my face with spider toes.

She crouched over the pond that feet had made on the step, squeezing tiny fish from the colors in her hair.

Each little brightness grew as it fell toward the pond, and landed with a splish of color and sound, before sprouting teeny fragile wings and flying away into the falling sky.

She wasn’t smiling. She never smiled. But her two-tone blue and green eyes twinkled like jewels as she followed each of her creations up and up and up.

She glanced at me, and nodded, as her dirty fingers worked another once-bright neon rainbow plait of hair, releasing another spark of color to its journey.

“They’re only going back…” She said. “Soon you will too.” She looked away, but a crooked smile twitched her lips, for just a moment.

Her voice knife rasped through my brain, and I shivered, and coughed. “Oh.” I said, and watched until the last scrap of color faded into sky.


Pointless

Not wanted, dead or alive.

What do I do, now that I’ve lost the point?

So many heroes in the world, 

So many villains,

So many many many extras, 

background noise in the Big Picture 

that so few can afford to see.

And me. 

Sir Not Appearing In This Picture.  

The Nun of the Above.  

The Maiden China, breakable, do not fold,

swindle or mutilate.

Was there ever a point?  

If so, what was it pointing to?

And why?

Points are sharp.  

Ugly things that rip and tear.

Off the edge of the map, 

deep in Here There Be Dragons land.

How do we know that the Devil That We Know

is better?  

Who says? 

Maybe we should all get The Point.

Just dive off the Cliffs, 

and the Clints, 

and the cliches, 

and impale ourselves on 

someone else’s Points of Reference.

What is The Point of Order, anyway?  Who decides?

Never Mind.  

It’s a bad idea.  

It leads to thinking.

I think, therefore I thwim.

Keep your head above water.

Head and shoulders above the rest. 

Never rest.

It’s another bad idea.

Sleep is for the week.

And we are the weakened.

The ragged jagged remnants of 

the once discrete Points of View.

All poured and stirred in the Melting Pot.

Melted, melded, gelded, shorn.

Doesn’t it feel better, 

now that all that heavy thinking is gone?

Just rock away in the Cradle of Humanity, 

and babies, you can sleep while I drive.


Ripper (sample of wip)

(This is just a bit of a story I’m ¬†working on, thought I’d throw it up here and see if anyone thinks it’s worth keeping. ¬†;p)

“…what I’m looking for…” The phrase drifts, a scrap on the wind, the ancient melody almost completely obscured by the whine of ‘Dogs antique gennies grumbling to life. “Yo,’Dog! You seen Tea?” Seadog turns his bullet-eyed glare from the grease-covered hulk in front of him, making damn sure I feel the sting before he speaks. “No.” Convo over, he turns the gaze back to the recalcitrant metal, which I swear seems to wriggle with shame before its heat. “Umm..right. Well, uh, if you do..” An impatient grunt is my only answer, which is anyway better than I expected.
‘Dogs moniker comes from his temper, rather than any oceanic experience… he’s Seadog cause he likes to jump salty at any time…so I know better than to expect any further clarification. “Thanks!” Dodging the random machine part that flies in my direction, I take off again through the yard, eyes peeled for my sister-bae. “Tea! Hey, Teabag! Wake up, damnit! We gotta get stripped, it’s fight night!” An irritated grunt from behind a pile of scrap heralds the appearance of a scarecrow-gurl…hay hair sticking out from under a grease mottled cap, shaking black-nailed (grime, not paint) hands shading red rimmed blue eyes in a streaked white face. The voice, when it comes, matches the affect. “Ahh, crom. Seriously? You’re not pulling one?”
I groan. “Tea…man…tell me you didn’t go partying the night before a fight…” The scarecrow shakes her head…although the face she pulls then says she regrets it. “I didn’t go partying the night before a fight…it was two nights ago.” She looks up at the sky as if she might spot a calendar up there somewheres, and grimaces. “…I think.”


Songline (for VisDare)

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I can still feel his warm strength as we curled together on
the couch that morning. “You know I have to go, right? It’ll only be six months. Not long. And when I get back, we’ll get married. Promise.”

I turn my head to smile up at him. “My spaceman.” He grins, and his arms
tighten around me. “I just can’t believe I got in! In my last year!’

I keep the smile on my face as best I can, until
the door closes behind him, and he’s gone.

I still dream the countdown. The numbers harsh in my ears, behind my
tightly closed eyelids. If I’m lucky, I wake before zero. I didn’t even
watch him go.

My ancestors followed the songlines, and found home. So I play. I play
a songline for him. And one day he will hear it, and hold on…and I
will lead him home.

(This is written for Angela Goff’s weekly Visual Dare prompt, my first offering, hope it works. I also wrote a longer piece, just to get the story straight in my head…I think it stands alone, and I’m going to put it here (in another post) in case anyone wants to see. ;p)