From now on this site will run off of the 'Muse Monday' blog...
All stories, photos, poetry, or creative content will be seen over there!
Thanks,
E Stelling
AKA Chef E
Monday, December 28, 2009
Muse Monday
From now on this site will run off of the 'Muse Monday' blog...
All stories, photos, poetry, or creative content will be seen over there!
Thanks,
E Stelling
AKA Chef E
Thursday, December 3, 2009
Poetry/Photography
- Muse I
I do have a fascination for abandoned places
This is the first I have photographed
I think it is an old spring house within walking distance of my home.
I couldn't get much closer without boots,
or a willingness to ruin my new sneaks.
I am determined to get brave with my investigating of these places...
~ Rebecca
This is the first I have photographed
I think it is an old spring house within walking distance of my home.
I couldn't get much closer without boots,
or a willingness to ruin my new sneaks.
I am determined to get brave with my investigating of these places...
~ Rebecca
Leaves
Under feet
Morning ground
Crisp sounds
Taking
Pulling
Unrevealed places
Needed
Needing
Care
To be seen
Dense branches
Guard
Arms
Holding back
Holding on
Sunlight, green
Rivers unseen
Trickling
Tickling
Ears
Thoughts
Forthcoming
Secret hideaways
Brave determination
Abandonment at a pathways end…
© E Stelling, 2009
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
Poetry/Photography- Muse II
Do you find yourself missing summer, as if a thief crept in the night removing it from under dreaming head...
Discovering a pebble in your pocket, hoping it could magically transport feet into a slowly sinking warm embrace...
Discovering a pebble in your pocket, hoping it could magically transport feet into a slowly sinking warm embrace...
Pebbles
Sand
Rest
Side
By side
Embraced
Pathways
Watery graves
Winding shores
Carry
Toss
Nature
Her fury
Polishes
Shapes
Saddens
Sensitive feet
Reminding
Life is shared
Walk with care…
© E Stelling, 2009
Thursday, November 12, 2009
Memory Box
I am trying to hustle to get some more material for my upcoming book 'Cast Iron Tempo', and had this piece dangling in my mind for months now... See what you think...
PS- I find it hard to juggle all of these blogs, so I have mainly been posting on my TMI... Come over and follow me there!
Mae’s fingers felt the ache of the evening cold as it crept under the old door, and into her bones. Pain shot up her hand as she drew out the needle and then pushed it back through the fabric. Arthritis took over her hands years past, but she was determined to get her latest blouse made before the weekend came. Earl T. her husband would walk in the door any moment. He spent most of his afternoons in the same place he had for the past fifteen years or more, out in the work shed.
Mae knew Earl was sitting in the same old spot next to his wood burning stove drinking coffee he made every morning in an old pot. His work bench was worn down by the rubbing of his small frame and hands across the top for over fifty years. The only evidence of green paint that remained to be seen was peeling on the edges and the legs. Roy their young neighbor was probably keeping him company, and putting up with Earl’s tales of flying thunder off Metcalf Gap. The only thing that would stop his rambling and bring him in after dark was the thought of missing out on a piece of homemade pie. Earl liked eating his pie, and then sipped his hot coffee off of the cracked saucer.
What Earl did not know, Mae did not make pies anymore. A girl from the local Presbyterian Church would slip them in once a week through the front door. This was part of their senior meal delivery service. Mae would also mend a few things for them from time to time in payment. The old couple did not have a dog to alert Roy, or other neighbors of her arrival. So Mae just let him think she was still capable of peeling apples, rolling out crust, and lifting them into the old stove. The door alone was hard enough to open.
Mae used a can opener and a microwave for most of their meals. Green beans, ranch style beans, potato and carrots, and other vegetables with a few pieces of store cooked chicken would satisfy her husband. She slipped pan cooked bacon in now and then to keep aromas of the old times present for him. He had always been a plain eater, and never spent much time in the kitchen. Mae preferred things that way. Earl was always outside tinkering with his newest inventions. Junk she had always called it. He was clueless like most husbands of their times. Earl might fuss with her to stop sewing if he knew she struggled with pain, so she kept him in the dark.
Mae had no plans of ever stopping. She enjoyed making her own clothes. Out of necessity she began to stitch as a young girl. Her own parents too poor to purchase clothes for her, or her older brother. Welfare and Indian heritage income saved them while Mae was growing up. Sure Clarence, her father worked enough to keep up the taxes on the old homestead, but most of the time they lived hand to mouth. On whatever her mother Ida could scrounge up. Mae sat near the front living room window in the house she shared with Earl. Sitting on an old storage bench full of photographs and keep safes when she would do detailed hand stitching. The box once held toys for the grand kids.
When the family would visit she knew the kids would head straight into the house and open the lid; it was filled with old dolls and dishes they had once left behind. The bench was a present from Earl T. He wanted her to have something to keep her sewing supplies in after they had gotten married, but she just used the old dresser and closet in the back bedroom. Mae knew she had way too many pieces of folded fabric to fit into that small bench. One day her daughter would have to clean out the old house, and knew she would be pleased to find what would eventually be hidden inside.
Old house
Standing tall
Attention needed
Details will fall
Within lie ghost
Boxes untouched
Russian matryoshka
Fitting us into the other
Passed on, memories long…
One day, years after Mae and Earl had passed on, their daughter well into her eighties; Ruby had begun to lose her memory. This was a sad time in the life of her niece Elizabeth, and other family members. Her brother along with many other old timers had already gone, and the remaining family cherished what Ruby could dredge up. Elizabeth began more frequent visits, so that she could write down information as it came to Ruby. One day while the two of them were searching Ruby’s house for old photos, the bench her father gave to her mother was uncovered.
She opened the lid and right on top was a neatly folded piece of material. With such excitement Ruby held it up and said, “Well I’ll be, lookie here. Why this was the dress my mother made me when I was a baby” In amazement they both talked about how Mae handmade all of their clothes, and she had even taught Elizabeth’s own mother to create beautiful hand stitching; which was a talent she herself practiced on her own two children. Ruby told her niece that this dress was made for her christening. Mae had used material from the shirt Earl T. wore when they got married.
Ruby folded the dress up and placed it back into the old storage bench, and began to pull out photographs. They were pictures of Ruby’s own children and grandchildren; that she herself placed in the box many years before. The photos her niece was seeking which once occupied its space were nowhere to be found. A few minutes later Ruby would pull out the dress, and repeated what she had just said about the dress.
PS- I find it hard to juggle all of these blogs, so I have mainly been posting on my TMI... Come over and follow me there!
Mae’s fingers felt the ache of the evening cold as it crept under the old door, and into her bones. Pain shot up her hand as she drew out the needle and then pushed it back through the fabric. Arthritis took over her hands years past, but she was determined to get her latest blouse made before the weekend came. Earl T. her husband would walk in the door any moment. He spent most of his afternoons in the same place he had for the past fifteen years or more, out in the work shed.
Mae knew Earl was sitting in the same old spot next to his wood burning stove drinking coffee he made every morning in an old pot. His work bench was worn down by the rubbing of his small frame and hands across the top for over fifty years. The only evidence of green paint that remained to be seen was peeling on the edges and the legs. Roy their young neighbor was probably keeping him company, and putting up with Earl’s tales of flying thunder off Metcalf Gap. The only thing that would stop his rambling and bring him in after dark was the thought of missing out on a piece of homemade pie. Earl liked eating his pie, and then sipped his hot coffee off of the cracked saucer.
What Earl did not know, Mae did not make pies anymore. A girl from the local Presbyterian Church would slip them in once a week through the front door. This was part of their senior meal delivery service. Mae would also mend a few things for them from time to time in payment. The old couple did not have a dog to alert Roy, or other neighbors of her arrival. So Mae just let him think she was still capable of peeling apples, rolling out crust, and lifting them into the old stove. The door alone was hard enough to open.
Mae used a can opener and a microwave for most of their meals. Green beans, ranch style beans, potato and carrots, and other vegetables with a few pieces of store cooked chicken would satisfy her husband. She slipped pan cooked bacon in now and then to keep aromas of the old times present for him. He had always been a plain eater, and never spent much time in the kitchen. Mae preferred things that way. Earl was always outside tinkering with his newest inventions. Junk she had always called it. He was clueless like most husbands of their times. Earl might fuss with her to stop sewing if he knew she struggled with pain, so she kept him in the dark.
Mae had no plans of ever stopping. She enjoyed making her own clothes. Out of necessity she began to stitch as a young girl. Her own parents too poor to purchase clothes for her, or her older brother. Welfare and Indian heritage income saved them while Mae was growing up. Sure Clarence, her father worked enough to keep up the taxes on the old homestead, but most of the time they lived hand to mouth. On whatever her mother Ida could scrounge up. Mae sat near the front living room window in the house she shared with Earl. Sitting on an old storage bench full of photographs and keep safes when she would do detailed hand stitching. The box once held toys for the grand kids.
When the family would visit she knew the kids would head straight into the house and open the lid; it was filled with old dolls and dishes they had once left behind. The bench was a present from Earl T. He wanted her to have something to keep her sewing supplies in after they had gotten married, but she just used the old dresser and closet in the back bedroom. Mae knew she had way too many pieces of folded fabric to fit into that small bench. One day her daughter would have to clean out the old house, and knew she would be pleased to find what would eventually be hidden inside.
Old house
Standing tall
Attention needed
Details will fall
Within lie ghost
Boxes untouched
Russian matryoshka
Fitting us into the other
Passed on, memories long…
One day, years after Mae and Earl had passed on, their daughter well into her eighties; Ruby had begun to lose her memory. This was a sad time in the life of her niece Elizabeth, and other family members. Her brother along with many other old timers had already gone, and the remaining family cherished what Ruby could dredge up. Elizabeth began more frequent visits, so that she could write down information as it came to Ruby. One day while the two of them were searching Ruby’s house for old photos, the bench her father gave to her mother was uncovered.
She opened the lid and right on top was a neatly folded piece of material. With such excitement Ruby held it up and said, “Well I’ll be, lookie here. Why this was the dress my mother made me when I was a baby” In amazement they both talked about how Mae handmade all of their clothes, and she had even taught Elizabeth’s own mother to create beautiful hand stitching; which was a talent she herself practiced on her own two children. Ruby told her niece that this dress was made for her christening. Mae had used material from the shirt Earl T. wore when they got married.
Ruby folded the dress up and placed it back into the old storage bench, and began to pull out photographs. They were pictures of Ruby’s own children and grandchildren; that she herself placed in the box many years before. The photos her niece was seeking which once occupied its space were nowhere to be found. A few minutes later Ruby would pull out the dress, and repeated what she had just said about the dress.
Monday, October 19, 2009
Red Dashboard- Revision
I had been out of sink with my last editor Erika who teaches and is super busy up in north Jersey, and now have just took on a phenomenal writer/editor/teacher- Michele Kallman, Princeton. We sat down together and worked on this piece I had written a few months back- Red Dashboard. Michele has been following my writing for quite some time and approached me about working together, and being involved with teaching drama and her own works that I have seen over the past months, I said yes.
If you read the first draft; which I totally wrote early early morning in one of my insomnia stints, and compare it to this edited revision, I think you will see I take my writing seriously, and hope to move forward with publishing my first book- Cast Iron Tempo- Poetry & Vignettes.
I also would like to thank Jeanne @ The Raisin Chronicles. She inspires me, and also helped with edits, support, input on this piece and other works. Thanks Michele & Jeanne you are two great writers, and good friends!
Red Dashboard
Walking the cold streets of midnight to escape my feelings is not my cup of tea.
I hate the cold!
I hate the darkness...
My feet pound the sidewalk in six inch stilettos…
Tap, Tap, Tap…
An unintentional SOS… Morse code…
Signals that I am getting closer to doing what I have wanted to do most of my life.
Living my own life the way it was meant to live.
Not sure who I am trying to warn.
Each breathe I take sends out smoke signals…
Soon his cologne is brought back into my nostrils.
Love, lust, the hatred...
Tainted with memories of his smile…
The compliments he gave me each day.
God, how I wanted him gone from my life, and I would almost do anything to free myself from his magnetism. Pulling my overcoat in tight around my neck as chills ran up and down my back. I felt as though eyes were watching me. Was he lurking around corners? In the city's dark doorways the paranoia had me walking even faster. A danger was present. Was I taking the wrong step, toward my own end? I had a goal. My goal was to see this life changing choice through. My car was not that far now, and I would be entering its toasty space; it was the kind of warmth that would help shake off the chill; possibly a false protection from the night.
Walking down late night streets was not something I like to do; yet it had become insomnia’s friend. I began to hear footsteps behind me. Could it be him? her? his mistress? That bitch that would not leave me alone; his weapon he now used against me. Drinks with acquaintances had provided false reassurance that I was in no danger. Even my friends did not understand how obsessed he had become. He wanted me, yet he would not let go of her. The cold was getting to me, I thought.
A light mist had veiled around me as the night was becoming dawn.
Only moments…
Tap Tap Tap…
I would be safe.
The sound of footsteps behind me grew louder.
My heels sank into the wet ground as I began to run faster, fumbling with my keys, I saw my blue Mercedes sitting near the corner curb. Adrenaline kept my thoughts clear. I can make it; it was just a few more feet. I got the alarm key ready just in case. There now I was safely inside the driver’s seat. The cool night mixes with the heat of breathe, as my exhalations fog up the windows, as I try to look outside. I panned around the cold tan leather interior.
Yes! The engine starts as a shadow loams within my mirror. Dread finds me once again. I yearn to escape these feelings of fear-ridden claustrophobia. Damn his sadistic charm! Damn his willingness to say anything and draw me into his baiting world; it's as though I am pulled through a funnel with no opening. Yanked into darkness I wanted no part of. In his mind he was the law, another powerful face.
Reaching quickly into my leopard-skin purse, I find my friend of safety, my shiny silver companion, loaded and ready. The car shakes, and I point my unsteady hand at the lurking shadow. The rocking makes causes hesitation to do what must be done.
Soon it all stops...
Crimson sweetness spills upon the dashboard, turning the darkness into my wine-sapped scene of violent passion...
If anyone has any thoughts on this piece, please share. How did it make you feel? Were you drawn into my story? What does the ending do for you? I will post another rework, as soon as we get it done. Thanks, E
If you read the first draft; which I totally wrote early early morning in one of my insomnia stints, and compare it to this edited revision, I think you will see I take my writing seriously, and hope to move forward with publishing my first book- Cast Iron Tempo- Poetry & Vignettes.
I also would like to thank Jeanne @ The Raisin Chronicles. She inspires me, and also helped with edits, support, input on this piece and other works. Thanks Michele & Jeanne you are two great writers, and good friends!
Red Dashboard
Walking the cold streets of midnight to escape my feelings is not my cup of tea.
I hate the cold!
I hate the darkness...
My feet pound the sidewalk in six inch stilettos…
Tap, Tap, Tap…
An unintentional SOS… Morse code…
Signals that I am getting closer to doing what I have wanted to do most of my life.
Living my own life the way it was meant to live.
Not sure who I am trying to warn.
Each breathe I take sends out smoke signals…
Soon his cologne is brought back into my nostrils.
Love, lust, the hatred...
Tainted with memories of his smile…
The compliments he gave me each day.
God, how I wanted him gone from my life, and I would almost do anything to free myself from his magnetism. Pulling my overcoat in tight around my neck as chills ran up and down my back. I felt as though eyes were watching me. Was he lurking around corners? In the city's dark doorways the paranoia had me walking even faster. A danger was present. Was I taking the wrong step, toward my own end? I had a goal. My goal was to see this life changing choice through. My car was not that far now, and I would be entering its toasty space; it was the kind of warmth that would help shake off the chill; possibly a false protection from the night.
Walking down late night streets was not something I like to do; yet it had become insomnia’s friend. I began to hear footsteps behind me. Could it be him? her? his mistress? That bitch that would not leave me alone; his weapon he now used against me. Drinks with acquaintances had provided false reassurance that I was in no danger. Even my friends did not understand how obsessed he had become. He wanted me, yet he would not let go of her. The cold was getting to me, I thought.
A light mist had veiled around me as the night was becoming dawn.
Only moments…
Tap Tap Tap…
I would be safe.
The sound of footsteps behind me grew louder.
My heels sank into the wet ground as I began to run faster, fumbling with my keys, I saw my blue Mercedes sitting near the corner curb. Adrenaline kept my thoughts clear. I can make it; it was just a few more feet. I got the alarm key ready just in case. There now I was safely inside the driver’s seat. The cool night mixes with the heat of breathe, as my exhalations fog up the windows, as I try to look outside. I panned around the cold tan leather interior.
Yes! The engine starts as a shadow loams within my mirror. Dread finds me once again. I yearn to escape these feelings of fear-ridden claustrophobia. Damn his sadistic charm! Damn his willingness to say anything and draw me into his baiting world; it's as though I am pulled through a funnel with no opening. Yanked into darkness I wanted no part of. In his mind he was the law, another powerful face.
Reaching quickly into my leopard-skin purse, I find my friend of safety, my shiny silver companion, loaded and ready. The car shakes, and I point my unsteady hand at the lurking shadow. The rocking makes causes hesitation to do what must be done.
Soon it all stops...
Crimson sweetness spills upon the dashboard, turning the darkness into my wine-sapped scene of violent passion...
If anyone has any thoughts on this piece, please share. How did it make you feel? Were you drawn into my story? What does the ending do for you? I will post another rework, as soon as we get it done. Thanks, E
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
Disenchantment - The Poem
This is a work in progress...
While driving through the cloud covered and rainy mountains of Kentucky I began to see lush green vines that draped the rocky cut out paths along the highways. Turns out that this plant is like a relative that comes to visit and never leaves.
Eventually coming upon this house that was floating on it's sea of green, and immediately I fell in love with the idea it would make a good subject for my camera lens and pen. Inspired by its beauty and not knowing about the plant, I soon began to discover man's disenchantment with his decision to bring it over from China in the early 1930's.
I found that most vines I grew in my yard in Texas would over take what ever lay in their path; unless you stayed on top of its yearly growth. This house lost its keeper, and therefore the past it once held has become trapped in the Kudzu's deadly grip...
Most of us spend; life
stomping out weeds
shouting out loud
deprived of love.
Scented air lifts
rain falls gifting kiss
leaving sediment; debris
covering life's crown.
Lush and green
transformation seen
usurping poverty's beams
too much of a good thing.
Fearless beauty is born
hearts become torn; awhile
moon and stars rest
upon your choking sea.
© E Stelling, 2009
An interesting Japanese article on 'Kuzu', or as we know it Kudzu...
I will be revising this poem as it is newly written under stress of making dinner, endless phone calls, husband disturbance, and random day to day kudzu in my own life! Any remarks on its flow, or direction shall be taken under consideration, and welcome. This is something new I am trying with my TMI site, and mistakes are bound to be missed...
While driving through the cloud covered and rainy mountains of Kentucky I began to see lush green vines that draped the rocky cut out paths along the highways. Turns out that this plant is like a relative that comes to visit and never leaves.
Eventually coming upon this house that was floating on it's sea of green, and immediately I fell in love with the idea it would make a good subject for my camera lens and pen. Inspired by its beauty and not knowing about the plant, I soon began to discover man's disenchantment with his decision to bring it over from China in the early 1930's.
I found that most vines I grew in my yard in Texas would over take what ever lay in their path; unless you stayed on top of its yearly growth. This house lost its keeper, and therefore the past it once held has become trapped in the Kudzu's deadly grip...
Most of us spend; life
stomping out weeds
shouting out loud
deprived of love.
Scented air lifts
rain falls gifting kiss
leaving sediment; debris
covering life's crown.
Lush and green
transformation seen
usurping poverty's beams
too much of a good thing.
Fearless beauty is born
hearts become torn; awhile
moon and stars rest
upon your choking sea.
© E Stelling, 2009
An interesting Japanese article on 'Kuzu', or as we know it Kudzu...
I will be revising this poem as it is newly written under stress of making dinner, endless phone calls, husband disturbance, and random day to day kudzu in my own life! Any remarks on its flow, or direction shall be taken under consideration, and welcome. This is something new I am trying with my TMI site, and mistakes are bound to be missed...
Monday, July 13, 2009
July 14th, A Time To Reflect
I posted this poem I had written for my fourteen year old daughter who passed...yes, NINE years ago...already? When we begin to walk hand in hand again with time, and then it is behind us...we can hardly believe we have lost anything, but I will always love and remember...Anelisa Diane Dillion...a beautiful soul...
...she will pull away and cry out
"my baby, my baby, is gone"
days, hours, months, a year go by
the pain lessens, worsens... dissipates
the journey has only begun...
Memories flood the mind, words occupy
others have shared come back in pieces
sad stories on the news become water over fingers
until the heart repairs... for now...
A Mother’s Heart Speaks Volumes
Early morning hours bring
my daughter; again
to my bedside
complaining of sleeplessness
Her heart
once again
S H O U T I N G discomfort
Hours of her
in my bed, crying
tossing in, tossing out the racing moments
I am naked, helpless
her fragile body
begging me to make it stop
I offer prayer; soft arms
a tangible mom against the shadow
Fourteen this woman child
more beautiful than could hope to be
She-my youth incarnate-
my blissful fantasies
how can her diseased heat
escape its chamber,
beating on its walls
S H O U T I N G…
Tears collapse onto her shoulders
before sleep can steal a soft reprieve
Moments, months, hope, now fear…
I do not see her older
I will not share her first kiss
I will never hold my grandchildren
I will only share what she has told me-in company with that secret smile
Her laugh now stilled
is heard by all that knew her
Her pain opened my eyes
set flight to my selfish anxiety
Early morning hours deliver
Ane’s memory to my bedside
Now my weary heart escapes its chamber,
beating on its walls
S H O U T I N G …for all that it misses
-E Stelling, 2002
...she will pull away and cry out
"my baby, my baby, is gone"
days, hours, months, a year go by
the pain lessens, worsens... dissipates
the journey has only begun...
Memories flood the mind, words occupy
others have shared come back in pieces
sad stories on the news become water over fingers
until the heart repairs... for now...
A Mother’s Heart Speaks Volumes
Early morning hours bring
my daughter; again
to my bedside
complaining of sleeplessness
Her heart
once again
S H O U T I N G discomfort
Hours of her
in my bed, crying
tossing in, tossing out the racing moments
I am naked, helpless
her fragile body
begging me to make it stop
I offer prayer; soft arms
a tangible mom against the shadow
Fourteen this woman child
more beautiful than could hope to be
She-my youth incarnate-
my blissful fantasies
how can her diseased heat
escape its chamber,
beating on its walls
S H O U T I N G…
Tears collapse onto her shoulders
before sleep can steal a soft reprieve
Moments, months, hope, now fear…
I do not see her older
I will not share her first kiss
I will never hold my grandchildren
I will only share what she has told me-in company with that secret smile
Her laugh now stilled
is heard by all that knew her
Her pain opened my eyes
set flight to my selfish anxiety
Early morning hours deliver
Ane’s memory to my bedside
Now my weary heart escapes its chamber,
beating on its walls
S H O U T I N G …for all that it misses
-E Stelling, 2002
Friday, June 12, 2009
So Sweet
are the arms of one who holds things lightly, bringing me joy and rushes of cool breeze through my spirit; that awakens my youthful . Shooting light through my inner heart, and colors the room with hues of red. The color that shows us the way down this path. Illuminating love to all who intercept.
I love you Robert John Stelling. Perfectly. Completely. Riddled with flaws, but unseen by the human eyes. Patterns that make us who we are, and what we love about ourselves.
Thank you for eleven and a half years of wonderful...
You are my poetry
you are my friend
you are human
you do not pretend...
I love you Robert John Stelling. Perfectly. Completely. Riddled with flaws, but unseen by the human eyes. Patterns that make us who we are, and what we love about ourselves.
Thank you for eleven and a half years of wonderful...
You are my poetry
you are my friend
you are human
you do not pretend...
Saturday, May 30, 2009
The Devils Angel...
This is a collaborative piece of my poetry, artwork, but Donna Kay's legs. All rights reserved by author/artist, E Stelling 2009. Be advised that if caught stealing any works off of this site or otherwise you will be prosecuted or end up on one of my recipes...
Thursday, May 21, 2009
I am, and always will be...Mom
Grand Memories
The room was silent except for shadows of a dusty piano sitting near a window in the formal hall. The world outside was clueless at what lay behind over grown towering bushes, chestnut trees, part of the over crowded landscape of our Monument Gardens.
‘Baby’, as we called my daughters’ favorite grand and expensive toy, was still waiting for her fingers to breathe life back into its frame; its long sleek legs mixed with morning half light stretched across the floor each day like arms beckoning me to find its mistress. She had gone; never to return.
I could not bear to touch the cold wood, nor its ivory keys. To leave my prints where hers still lie was unthinkable. Their music still haunts this house, and every room you may enter. Sheets of paper sitting upon the stand; musical notes, compositions; pieces half finished; music that would bring tears to my still aching heart. The sounds we loved once; that brought life to now silent rooms have become so still.
Now and then knocks at the door suggest I was expected to give up these moments, and return to what continued on in their worlds. Not even the slightest tugs from strangers could take this almost lifeless body away from the grand past, walks in the garden, tea in the afternoon, balls lasting until morning light, and her smiles.
© E Stelling, 5/2009
Mothers & Music
Dreams awaken shadowy rooms, half light door ways, echos of laughter, and running feet. Fingers pelting out one note tunes that make ears scream in pain. Yellowed ivory becomes worthless pain. I longed to hear the music that would bring tears to my eyes. I longed to watch her favorite movies, to look into her loves face, and remember how loud her heart beat for this boy that still lives his life now as a man. Dreams awaken a mother who lived without music, and in her pain. Things remain...
© E Stelling, 5/2009
Friday, May 1, 2009
The Red Dashboard
Walking the cold streets of midnight to escape my feelings is not my cup of tea. I hate the cold. I hate the darkness. My feet pound the sidewalk, as these six inch heels I am wearing seem to tap out Morse code. Signals that I am getting closer to doing what I have wanted to do most of my life. Not sure of whom I am trying to warn. Each breathe I take sends out another kind of signal, as his cologne is brought back into my nostrils. Love, lust, the hatred tainted with memories of his presence.
God, how I wanted him gone from my life, and I would almost do anything. I pull my overcoat in tight around my neck, as chills run up and down my back. Could he be lurking around corners, and in the city's dark doorways? Paranoia has me walking even faster. A danger was present. Am I taking the wrong step towards disaster? I had a goal. The goal was to see this thing through. My car was not that far now, and I would be entering its warmth; it was the kind of warmth that would still sting with its chill, but would be a protection from the night.
Walking down late night streets was not something I like to do, but had become a way of life. I began to hear footsteps behind me. Could it be him, or her, his mistress? That bitch that would not leave me alone; his weapon he now used against me. Drinks with friends had reassured me that I was in no danger, but they did not understand how obsessed he had become. He wanted me, but yet he would not let go of her. The cold is getting to me, I thought. A light mist was coming towards me just ahead. Only moments, and I would safe.
The footsteps behind me grew louder. My heels only tapped louder as I began to run, fumbling with my keys, and then I saw the blue Mercedes. I can make it; it was just a few more feet. I get the alarm key ready just in case, but there is no need as I am safely inside the driver’s seat. The cool night mixed with my heated breathe has begun to fog up the windows, as I try and look outside, and around the car. Yes, the engine is started, but a shadow now over loams my mirror. He has found me once again. I wanted so badly to escape him. Damn his charm, his willingness to say anything to draw you into his world.
Reaching quickly into my purse I find the gun. The shiny new thirty-eight is loaded and ready if he tries. I feel the car begin to shake as I point the gun at the shadow. The rocking is making me so unsure of pulling the trigger, and then it stops.
Red begins to spill over the dashboard turning the darkness into a crimson scene of passion...
God, how I wanted him gone from my life, and I would almost do anything. I pull my overcoat in tight around my neck, as chills run up and down my back. Could he be lurking around corners, and in the city's dark doorways? Paranoia has me walking even faster. A danger was present. Am I taking the wrong step towards disaster? I had a goal. The goal was to see this thing through. My car was not that far now, and I would be entering its warmth; it was the kind of warmth that would still sting with its chill, but would be a protection from the night.
Walking down late night streets was not something I like to do, but had become a way of life. I began to hear footsteps behind me. Could it be him, or her, his mistress? That bitch that would not leave me alone; his weapon he now used against me. Drinks with friends had reassured me that I was in no danger, but they did not understand how obsessed he had become. He wanted me, but yet he would not let go of her. The cold is getting to me, I thought. A light mist was coming towards me just ahead. Only moments, and I would safe.
The footsteps behind me grew louder. My heels only tapped louder as I began to run, fumbling with my keys, and then I saw the blue Mercedes. I can make it; it was just a few more feet. I get the alarm key ready just in case, but there is no need as I am safely inside the driver’s seat. The cool night mixed with my heated breathe has begun to fog up the windows, as I try and look outside, and around the car. Yes, the engine is started, but a shadow now over loams my mirror. He has found me once again. I wanted so badly to escape him. Damn his charm, his willingness to say anything to draw you into his world.
Reaching quickly into my purse I find the gun. The shiny new thirty-eight is loaded and ready if he tries. I feel the car begin to shake as I point the gun at the shadow. The rocking is making me so unsure of pulling the trigger, and then it stops.
Red begins to spill over the dashboard turning the darkness into a crimson scene of passion...
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
Frogs & Roses ~ Chapter II
Illustration by Gen @ GensBlogiddyblog
For Hannah...
Frogs & Roses, Chapter I Contd: Test quickly but sadly hopped back to the pond to tell his siblings about what he had discovered...(stay tuned for the adventures of Test the bullfrog as he wonders off towards the field of flowers for another tasty bite of lunch...) Well, in the beginning of the story we learn about how a family of frogs live amongst the pond that has a rather large tree hovering over it. Test is the oldest of his other frog siblings and has discovered there is more to eat than just insects...
After his mother tucked him and his siblings into bed Test began to tell his sisters and brothers about his new discoveries. They did not seem as interested as he had hoped, but told him that their parents said they were not allowed to stray further than their own home entry or the pond. They warned him that he was a fool and would become prey to other animals as his father had also warned him, so he lay there thinking about the pink tulip he had tasted earlier in the day. Thinking about its silky leaves, how they tasted, and about how they were sweet and tart all in the same bite. As he drifted off to sleep he began to see visions of the cluster of color just beyond the field and pond. His home was a safe haven. Test yearned to go further out, but his parents forbid it until he grew larger and could start a family of his own.
That morning out on the lily pads during breakfast he asked his father about the snake creature that had moved into his neighborhood. "One day Test you will be able to defend yourself, so for now stay away from them" his father told him. "Snakes, um yum yum" his father began to mutter to himself. "Chester" his mother called out to his father, "We are missing a few little ones, and I need your help over here" she ranted on. Test took this opportunity to hop off to the tree roots again and see if the old owl was around. He had questions about the snakes, but knew his father would not have anymore of his curiosity for the moment.
The old owl had been in the tree, but Test noticed he flew off out towards the field. He climbed up as high as he could to see where the bird was going. The day was a beautiful sunny, but windy afternoon. Test could see the grass leaning with the wind. He saw the old owl land in another tree that was very far, but sat upon the top of a great hill. Shadows of dark and light moved across the field and Test thought at great length about what this could be. He could not see above the limbs and leaves of the otter branches, so he did not know that it was light fluffy clouds moving way up in the sky.
Suddenly the sun shined the brightest and he noticed a patch of color just off to the left of the great tree that old Mr. Owl had landed in. A lough croak came out of his throat as he began to become excited. "Oh how I would so like to taste that color" he thought to himself. He could hear his mother calling out his name, and he knew if he did not go soon he would be in big trouble. Off Tester hopped back to the pond for their afternoon naps and sunbathing upon the lily pads. His mother and father would quietly sing them all to sleep. To most humans and other animals it all just sounded like a unique blend of croaking noises, but to the frogs it was a ballad of the most beautiful noise.
Later that afternoon one of the parent snakes had slithered into the pond and tried to see if they could catch one of the baby frogs for a snack. Daddy Chester was on to her and decided that it was time for Tester to see what they were all about. Without much notice he pounced on the female snake and Test watched with much curiosity. "This will teach you to try and get past my watchful eyes" his father told the female. "Please kind sir do not eat me, for I have many babies to care for back in my den" the female snake told his father. "We cannot have you trying your slithery tricks around here my dear" and he quickly ate the female. "But father" Tester pleaded with his father, "Why do you have to eat her"? His father told him that they eat snakes that roam around the water. He also shared that there were many other snakes out in the world that would easily eat him if he was not careful. Those snakes live out away from the pond, and are much larger he explained to Tester. "Be careful son and do not go to far out from the pond area, because I might not be able to save you next time" Chester told his first born.
Tester still had the patch of color on his mind all afternoon, but was disturbed at what he had just witnessed. How can such cruel things go on when there is so much beauty in this landscape he thought. When he found the right moment he was going to sneak off and go investigate the color, but he wanted to speak to the old Mr. Owl before he made his journey. His father had warned him not to venture off after dark, because that is when the snakes are more active around the pond, so he decided he would go back to the tree roots after his morning breakfast and sunning tomorrow. Test would learn as much as he could about the field life and what exactly was that new color he had seen. He was growing much bigger and his appetite was as well...
(I know you might have thought Tester would have made his way to the field by now, but he was smart enough to heed his father's warnings, and wanted to gather as much information as he could. Once he talks to the wise old Mr. Owl in the morning, he will begin his journey to the patch of color...we must have patience sometimes to become keen on what mysteries lay ahead in our journey's of life...)
Monday, March 2, 2009
Lost at Sea
I am posting a blog tomorrow about a soup I just made on my 'Behind The Wheel Chef'...and it ties into the old nursery rhyme 'Three Men In A Tub', but then this came steaming out into my own ocean of creative thought, becoming a poem...
CookAppeal Maker, E Stelling, 3/2/09
Lost on an ocean, a sea of green…
No sails.
No compass.
No direction.
Alone with only your thoughts,
Adrift on salty concoctions;
Add some passing fish
Make a paddle from drift
Stir up some friends
Throw in a bed of self discovery & personal growth
Healthy taste of what’s to come, and
You have cooked up;
A great big bowl of Yum!
There is a contest that you can enter using food you eat to spell out things...
If you want to enter this contest with Tangled Noodle...
CookAppeal Maker, E Stelling, 3/2/09
Lost on an ocean, a sea of green…
No sails.
No compass.
No direction.
Alone with only your thoughts,
Adrift on salty concoctions;
Add some passing fish
Make a paddle from drift
Stir up some friends
Throw in a bed of self discovery & personal growth
Healthy taste of what’s to come, and
You have cooked up;
A great big bowl of Yum!
There is a contest that you can enter using food you eat to spell out things...
If you want to enter this contest with Tangled Noodle...
To participate:
1. 'Write or spell' using food or drink and create a blog post about it until midnight on Friday, March 6th. Any previous blog posts you already have where you've created a 'written'-inspired dish or drink will be accepted.
2. Blog about your creation, including photos, and add a link back to Savor the Thyme (http://savorthethyme.blogspot.com) and Tangled Noodle (http://tanglednoodle.blogspot.com).
3. Send an e-mail titled 'Eating Your Words' to eatingyourwords09@cox.net with the following information:
- Your name
- The name of your blog
- The name of your dish or drink
- Your food blog name and the link to your entry, including pictures, by midnight March 6, 2009
4. Please keep it clean! Appropriate humor is always welcome.
Saturday, February 14, 2009
Black Horse Riding
While walking along fields of green
Hands sliding along summer wheat
Winds rose up and brought with it;
a black horse with no rider…
“Could I be of assistant” I asked
Wanting a drink, and
a good roll in the hay, he’d state
We began to discuss his purpose, and
good Christian ways…
He warned me of dark skies
Shots ringing out like thunder
Riding in on east winds
Making our way through streets of hate, and
judgment…and then he sang…
We’ve Left children crying
Fathers, sons, brothers are dying
Mothers left in pools of red
Death was all around us
No reason for war hurling in our heads…
Off he rode, that black stead
Back to the hill of white stone and rubble
Winter was coming, and peace to sow
Light shines now, to the North East
Where streets were once paved, and
flowed with rivers of unknown soldiers
We’ve Left children crying
Fathers, sons, brothers are dying
Mothers left in pools of red
Death may be all around us
No reason for war, a black stead once said…
Our children will walk the fields of green
Winds may rise up
Bringing messages from the east
Peace and songs they will share
“Bless my lucky star, a black horse will take you only so far”…
E Stelling, 2/13/09
For Obama...a song I composed, and a prayer for peace and our sons to never experience the face of death and darkness...
Hands sliding along summer wheat
Winds rose up and brought with it;
a black horse with no rider…
“Could I be of assistant” I asked
Wanting a drink, and
a good roll in the hay, he’d state
We began to discuss his purpose, and
good Christian ways…
He warned me of dark skies
Shots ringing out like thunder
Riding in on east winds
Making our way through streets of hate, and
judgment…and then he sang…
We’ve Left children crying
Fathers, sons, brothers are dying
Mothers left in pools of red
Death was all around us
No reason for war hurling in our heads…
Off he rode, that black stead
Back to the hill of white stone and rubble
Winter was coming, and peace to sow
Light shines now, to the North East
Where streets were once paved, and
flowed with rivers of unknown soldiers
We’ve Left children crying
Fathers, sons, brothers are dying
Mothers left in pools of red
Death may be all around us
No reason for war, a black stead once said…
Our children will walk the fields of green
Winds may rise up
Bringing messages from the east
Peace and songs they will share
“Bless my lucky star, a black horse will take you only so far”…
E Stelling, 2/13/09
For Obama...a song I composed, and a prayer for peace and our sons to never experience the face of death and darkness...
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
Frogs & Roses ~ Chapter I
The late summer winds began to cool off the little town of Laggwatts. The train was late that day as the conductor stood at the edge of the platform and looked down at his pocket watch. "Half past six... I will have to report that engineer again" he said in a huff as he turned and went back inside the depot office. Outside a boy sat on the bench with his mother. He watched across the field that sat just behind the train depot. Trees sat all about the area, but there was a small opening that allowed one to see just over a small hill. Just at the bottom of that hill sat a small pond. The boy began to imagine that he was in that clearing and he began to run about the green grass that swayed with the breeze and seemed as if satin was covering the hill like a chubby angel who was napping. He saw the blue water of the pond, and that is when he noticed lily pads that grew about the edge of its watery palace.
All that straining to see what lay in the field along with boredom caused the boy to slowly fall against his mothers side as he was falling into a dreamy world of wondrous sleep...A loud croak startled a small band of grasshoppers that were discussing the next stop before they head back to their homes for the night. They went back to their discussion as they realized from the hopping going on at the waters edge it was Chester and his family.
Chester had gotten married the winter before and had already started a family. He and the Misses had twelve little ones that were hopping about from pad to pad. Chester at once croaked loudly again to get all of their attention. Each one hurried along back into their small hole at the edge of the water. This was just under a big shade tree. The tree was so old that its roots had started to pop out of the ground and was giving many of the animal kingdom a place to call home.
All but one frog had hopped back home, and he was not even near the water. With out noticing earlier he had managed to slip from his mothers watchful eye and go in the direction of the most beautiful patch of color he had ever seen. His name was Test, and he was the first to hatch of the twelve tadpoles that Mr. and Mrs. Bullfrog had that first season of spring. He was named after his father, well in a way. Tester was a fidgety sort of frog. Many of his siblings were happy spending their afternoons amongst the pads waiting for supper to come along. No, Test liked his meal to be a challenge, and had a taste for the unusual...
Test dreamed of silky flower petals with hints of pollen. This came about one day when he was hopping from root to root just outside of his house. Strangely he had been watching a patch of sunlight coming in just from the tree tops and highlighting a small spot of ground at the top of root hill just at the side of the tree. Rains had washed most of the grass away. Leaving only mud or dirt depending on the weather. Test began to watch as green began to break through the ground and soon bloomed into the wildest flowers he had ever seen. He had actually never seen a flower before. Only grass and other small animals and insects.
Actually Test only had ever seen the colors of white, blue, green, and brown in his surroundings. Maybe a few spots of yellow or was it beige he thought. Well these green stems he had been watching began to have this strange fat bulb pop out at their ends. Curiously he would disobey his parents each afternoon just when the sun would peep through and watch that green house pop open and display a cup of tones he had not seen before. "Son, what are you looking at" Mr. Owl said in his direction. "Uh, who me Test began to look around, and then he heard a limb above move. "Yes, you son, your croaking is disturbing my sleep" Mr. Owl said, and then whoooo'd back at the young bullfrog. "Well, I am not sure what that is sir" Test explained, "I have been watching it and wish I knew what it was".
Mr. Owl began to explain to the young Test that he was looking at a tulip that had found its way into our tree spot. He explained that flowers find their way around the earth through birds or animals that eat them and their seeds; then distribute them back unto the ground when they are done eating what they want. "Squirrels are the worst of their kind" said Mr. Owl, "I do not like them very much". They hop about my tree limbs looking for nuts and things, disturbing me all morning and afternoon". Test asked Mr. Owl if he knew what color this tulip was for he had never seen such a site.
Test learned that it was pink. He wanted to get a closer look, so he planned to come back the next day and check this tulip out. Hopping back down to the lower levels of roots he went right through the opening just in time for his father was angrily coming out to look for him. "Test how many times, crooooaaaaak, do I have to tell you that it is dangerous out there for young frogs at night" said his father. Test went to sleep and thought about the beautiful pink color as he dreamed. That is when his father would go out and hunt for extra food. Taking care of so many little ones can be so tiring Chester thought to himself, but soon they would be old enough to go out and begin a family of their own.
The next morning Test quickly rose and headed out the opening fighting his way through his other eleven brothers and sisters. His mother warned him not to go off on his own, but he had already found his way out to the pond. He decided it would be better to have breakfast and then he would sneak back up to the top of the tree roots. Little did they know that a new family had just moved in only that very night before. A bunch of slithering water snakes who found young bullfrogs very tasty.
In the afternoon when the sun was at its hottest they all sat in the edge of the water under some lily pads taking a nap. Their mother would watch out for them as Chester also slept. When Test saw his mother start to doze off for a moment he saw his chance to head up to the flower. He could see it had already opened up in the warmth of the afternoon. Tulips you see open up in the morning sun, but because this one had found its way into a shaded area that only got a small amount of sun it was off schedule. Test hopped up to the top of the roots and this time he got a little closer. The afternoon breeze blew it and its petals back and forth. The young bullfrog positioned itself up on a root just beyond the flowers reach and watched as he began to get a peep inside of its pink dressings.
"Oh", he thought "if only I could talk to the flower". The tulip was shy and Test never heard it make a peep, but just as he reached as high as he could on his legs and feet the flower began to tip its had towards him. He could see inside of its cup. Strange long things that looked fuzzy and on the ends were little black tips.
Lovely he thought, and the nicest smell was coming out towards him. His tummy suddenly growled. Test was getting hungry, but as he was still leaning towards the tulip something hit him in the back and he landed right into the bulb of the tulip.
"What was that" he said out loud. "Son you had better watch out, a family of snakes has moved into the area and a small one just came at you" Mr. Owl told him. "Why Thank You" Test told him, "What would have happened if we had meet" he questioned. "Well son, you see snakes are dangerous to your kind. They eat frogs and other water animals for their meals. Kind of like how you eat insects" Mr Owl explained to the young bullfrog. Mr. Owl told him that he on occasion ate snakes, but he only like small tender ones. He also told Test that he had no reason to be afraid of owls because they most often preferred small tender creators like rodents like field mice and snakes. Frogs did not really taste like chicken as many have said.
While Test was listening he began to run his tongue around his mouth and the most amazing taste was occurring in his palate. A sweet aroma filled his nostrils. He became dizzy from its flavor. Had he just discovered a new meal for himself? Could it be possible that his parents forgot to mention to him that they also ate flowers. Taking his hands he pulled the tulip petal towards his mouth and he bite off a piece. Wow! He thought. Not even paying attention to Mr. Owl's rambling lecture he began to eat every single one of the tulips petals. Suddenly he fell from its top onto the ground with a small unnoticeable thud. "Well I see you have eaten all the pink from the tulip son" Mr. Owl remarked, "Now you run along back to your family before another snake comes along that is not too small to find you as satisfying".
Test quickly but sadly hopped back to the pond to tell his siblings about what he had discovered...(stay tuned for the adventures of Test the bullfrog as he wonders off towards the field of flowers for another tasty bite of lunch...)
This is for my mother who walked a path that did include some creativity, and was passed on to me. She always talked about wanting to publish a poetry book with this as her title, but it never came about. She did however manage to write two poems that I actually have the privilege of having the originals, and cherish...
Sunday, February 1, 2009
Mark Shardine
Some words of wisdom
For women who long to see
Men preparing meals:
"Does your husband cook?"
"Yes, he never hesitates
To serve calories."
Mark Shardine is one of our poets that attend 'Cultural Art Expression'....
For women who long to see
Men preparing meals:
"Does your husband cook?"
"Yes, he never hesitates
To serve calories."
Mark Shardine is one of our poets that attend 'Cultural Art Expression'....
Thursday, January 29, 2009
Spiders Ball- Poetry Prose
Spider Pictures
Just after dark when human life quiets down
In the darkest corner, rural life to city shed
A most amazing site
past tools, trash, and bike
Instruments of the smallest proportion
tables, drink, food, all vegan of course!
Making moonlight dance to the nuttiest
most swingin’ of sounds
Violins, piano, harp, a set of walnut drums
Crafted from human discard
Tiny spectacular mounds
At springs new day, once a year
With intention to dance and play
Not so true as we have all been told
All sorts of creatures will gather
in friendly fold
Tired, hungry from the cold’s long plight
Ready to eat, drink, laugh until morning light
The band starts warming up as guest start to call
No one gets in unless they have been invited
To the craziest of gatherings…The Spiders Ball
Outside many wait in line
Mr. Beetle tells jokes
A lizard dressed in a Zoot suit
Bright yellow, matching hat and white shoes
Mrs. Mole as scolds Jr. as he is...
blowing spit wads at the others behind
Old wise owl, Mr. Barr, whoooooo never misses a beat
Or any party, brought the best dancers,
Suzy Snake, because she is so light on her feet
Betsy and Bailey Bunny were summoned to the party
they began rounding up the family
As all ten bunnies are hopping about
Others had come from as far away as you can imagine
Country mice, birds, two to four legged creatures
and many of their kin
Many, many small creatures
in no way will harm or offend
In the highest of places
waits the their host, Maestro
with the silliest of grins
Honored to be the big grand daddy of them all
If any wonder why a spider started this ball
Then listen in closely as I explain
From the beginning of time, Mother Arachne
the first spider to grace this earth
worked from morning till night
developing fine webs of beauty and inspiration
never stopping except to have a bite
Generations of her kind came into this world
One, two, three, four to hundreds on the wind set flight
Once all eight legs touched the ground
With the rhythm of the wind
mixed with earths great sounds
Spiders were natural born dancers
Eight legs working, bouncing with rhythm and grace
Making homes for a family
catching a meal without hast
If you dare...just after dark
Follow your ear to the deepest corner of rural life or city shed
You might find a grand party
But if there is no signs of dancing, laughter or bright yellow suits
Then it cannot be... A Spiders Ball!
E, 2000 © all rights are owned by the author, and is waiting to be published as a children book, so please do not copy or duplicate this piece under any circumstances
My daughter Anelisa and I wrote this together. She was a great lover of any life that was created and roamed this world, and the first thing she would ask is "Do you have any pets, and what kind...".
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
A look into someone else's artwork...
I look about trying to find inspiration for my days work, a meaning to go on, for words to flow onto the paper from my pen, pencil, or keyboard...and I come upon sites through your comments, leading to an interest in what lay waiting...
This photo from 365 to 42 lay dormant in blog sphere, and moving from site to site it awakened my curiosity through a dragon from PoetryPicturesProse; that had turned to stone from antiquity and imagination leading to the land it once roamed...a journey down a road to places with borders, and to a place I had been...a world without fences that does not exist anymore...
No Fences...
Remember back in the day, roads and streets, filled with children, soccer balls flew with hats of joy and running laughter, across yards, into backyards. Children had no boundaries, no fear of unknown grounds or unseen rituals. Houses remained the same, filled with love and anger, touched by law of belief, full of their own truth. There was no such thing as a stranger, or unseen danger. Standing out back you could see clotheslines and trees, and on a good day you could see far, clear and through. Listen as a mom calls out for the son or daughter, or parents who loudly shared their cares till dawn, broken bottles and promises, trees that counted the days, months till it was blanketed by what was apparent, keeping the silence until spring.
Walls five to ten feet tall soon replaced open space, endless playground for innocent spectators, and neighbors have become strangers. Sisters and brothers in danger sun up till darkness hides no fear, only becomes a weapon for televisions and radio reports, as young children die under its cover. Dawn and its playgrounds give way to grave yards, the traces of things long gone remain to be seen…
This photo from 365 to 42 lay dormant in blog sphere, and moving from site to site it awakened my curiosity through a dragon from PoetryPicturesProse; that had turned to stone from antiquity and imagination leading to the land it once roamed...a journey down a road to places with borders, and to a place I had been...a world without fences that does not exist anymore...
No Fences...
Remember back in the day, roads and streets, filled with children, soccer balls flew with hats of joy and running laughter, across yards, into backyards. Children had no boundaries, no fear of unknown grounds or unseen rituals. Houses remained the same, filled with love and anger, touched by law of belief, full of their own truth. There was no such thing as a stranger, or unseen danger. Standing out back you could see clotheslines and trees, and on a good day you could see far, clear and through. Listen as a mom calls out for the son or daughter, or parents who loudly shared their cares till dawn, broken bottles and promises, trees that counted the days, months till it was blanketed by what was apparent, keeping the silence until spring.
Walls five to ten feet tall soon replaced open space, endless playground for innocent spectators, and neighbors have become strangers. Sisters and brothers in danger sun up till darkness hides no fear, only becomes a weapon for televisions and radio reports, as young children die under its cover. Dawn and its playgrounds give way to grave yards, the traces of things long gone remain to be seen…
Saturday, January 24, 2009
A look into my artwork...
Not only do I cook, clean, work, write poetry and short stories, I also dabble in acrylics with mixed media...I have sold a few paintings, and was commissioned to recreate a large version of one small canvas piece. Just thought I would share a few of my 'French Can-Can leg' pieces...
A few of the first pieces I finished looked a bit naughty on the 'splits', so I toned it down by adding a frilly undergarment skirt which they did where on stage to fluff out the skirts while they danced in places like Moulan Rouge...
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HISTORY/ORIGIN: Originally, the word Can-Can in French meant "Scandal, " or Edge , since they usually danced on the edge of the stage. The Can-Can is said to be the start of public nudity, because of the bare legs above the stockings to the frilly panties, which at the time was very indecent. Eventually the Can Can costume consisted of sporting fishnet stockings, high heels, bustiers, feathers and frilly skirts. The word Burlesque first came into use in the 16th. Century in an opera of the Italian Francesco Berni , who called his works burleschi. American stage burlesque (from 1865), often referred to as "burleycue or "leg show, began as a variety show, characterized by vulgar dialogue and broad comedy, and uninhibited behavior by performers and audience.Later the public tolerated the dance and it became very popular around 1830, mainly because the ladies would wear long black dresses and kick their legs up in the air, thus the men could see the knees and legs of the ladies (at the time was "Oo-La-La!). The Popularity lasted till around 1844, after this time the dance mainly was used in revues and musical comedies, especially in France.
In 1845, La Princesse Celeste de Mogador (Morocco?), Introduced the Can-Can Eccentrique at the Bal Mabille, Bal Montesquieu, Bal de la Citb dAntin and the Bal Valentino. It was performed by all walks of life. By 1848, it was frowned upon by the police as being to risqué.
In the 1890's the Can-Can was done to March and later Ragtime music. The Can-Can was originally a group (Line type) dance done by both sexes with the Tiller Girls and Rockettes as an off shoot of the Can-Can. Leading dancers would eventually perform the Can-Can for audiences. The ballet by Massine (b.1894) was an excellent example of the Can-Can, titled "Gaite' Parisienne " (1938), which later was made into a movie, "The Gay Parisian ".
--While both sexes originally danced the Can-Can, now however, the French Can-Can is now danced only by women. Most Americans are familiar with the Can-Can as portrayed in many Hollywood Westerns. Michael Jackson can be seen using a variation of the Can-Can in his dance routines (Lifting the Leg and circling it around).
Thursday, January 22, 2009
Storytelling- Picnic With A Bear- For Hannah
Hannah, I heard you like to read, and decided to share with you my love of telling stories. Did you know telling a grand story that will change day-to-day circumstances is nothing more than releasing your imagination and pushing it to your emotional limits.
To tell a story with so much heart that we can feel every nuance of our words is nothing more than the ability to dream out loud without fear of criticism, shame, hopelessness, despair, or even impatience.
In Storytelling, you tell yourself a story in the tone and warmth of a bedtime story, playing the the worlds of make-believe. As you begin telling your story, remember that you are living for now and that it is a real situation. Put yourself into each characters shoes and do what you think they would do and write it that way.
For example, is their something that you want to try, or have done that you would like to share with your readers? Write it with all the passion you have or felt while doing this like riding a bike with no hands, falling backwards into the ocean, diving into the fish tanks at the aquarium and swimming with the fish and mammals you have seen. How about slithering across the hot dessert, past all the rocks and cactus all the while the hot, hot sun is beating down on your body...
What if you were a flower and what it might feel like when the morning dew collects on your petals and a morning bee is buzzing around you...what would you say? Describe the whole experience in your own words, with every detail of your surroundings...sights, sounds, colors, and environment...
Did you know it is easier to make up a story, Fiction, than it is to write about our own real life stories? Why, because we have a hard time telling the truth, so we embellish, or just leave out stuff we might now want others to know about us.
Try writing 100 words about something that really happened to you, or about something you want to have in your life...combine the two...reality and imagination...non-fiction and fiction can be combined, but then it becomes non-fiction...see I told you it was easier...
Become a story teller...read my story below...
I have always wanted to have lunch with a bear. I think they are cute and cuddly, but I have not met a bear I could get close to. They do not come out unless you promise them lots of yummy delights to eat. Many people think they like to eat most anything, but I know for a fact that bears are very particular about what they put into their mouths.
Once I left a peanut butter and jelly sandwich on the hood of my parents brand new tracker SUV, three bears were in plain site, but not one of them ever came over to ask me for my food. Silly situation I know, but the smallest of the three bears did turn back towards me and placed his little wet nose right up into the air and sniffed. Then I think he muttered something to the second biggest sized bear who was possibly his mother, and off they turned moving quickly into the clump of trees off to my left.
That sandwich sat on the roof for at least an hour, and no other bears were to be seen. They have quite a good sense of smell, and are often referred to as dogs. I think because they run in packs, have a great sense of smell, and can run as fast or faster than any other animal like many dogs who are used to heard other animals.
I finally figured out what would catch their particular taste in food. Sweet berry pie. Yes, my grandmother makes quite good pie. She goes out in the yard where many wild berry bushes grow, and picks enough to make three or four pies. Wild raspberry, and elderberry grow easily in her part of the country. She actually lives not far from where I go and wait for the bear.
One day she called me and asked if I wanted to help pick berries and she would teach me to make her famous mixed berry pie. My grandmother was an excellent cook. I ate there at least twice a week with my parents, and often they would leave me in the summer for a whole week. My mother dropped me off and I was so excited to finally learn her secret for making those wonderful and tasty pies. When I watch her cut into those pies, I see the filling shimmering in the light of the kitchen lantern, and then watch as it oozes over the sides of the pan, and she drops a piece right onto my plate. All that is left after minutes is my purple teeth and lips as I smile back at her.
I watched as she took out the flour, eggs, and butter. Grandmother made a nice neat pile of flour, broke open two eggs into the hole she had made in the middle, and then cut up butter pieces and they landed all around the flour heap. Then she dropped a few drops of cold water into the heap and with her hands she began to bring all the ingredients together. Outside into the middle, rolling it over and over until it became a ball of dough. She began to push it down and roll it, push it down and roll it until she just knew when to stop. Placing it between a folded sheet of plastic she placed it into the dark corner, and said we had to wait.
Grandmother said "Let's go collect some very special berries for the pies". I hopped off of the chair and ran after her with my very own basket she gave me to use. We spent at least half an hour collecting all shapes and sizes of berries. She pointed and told me which bushes I pick from. Also telling me that if I picked the wrong ones we might get sick. I was very careful in following her instructions. Grandmother knew what she was doing, and had been doing it for a long while.
When we had gathered enough berries, we went back inside and rinsed them. Now she three all of them into a big pot that was already sitting on the stove. I helped her place some wood into the stove, and we waited for the pot to begin heating. We added some sugar, and a small amount of cider that she makes from her very own apples out back. I find grandmothers house is a good place for healthy fruits. I wish we could grow a fruit tree in our yard. My family lives on a smaller property and my father takes care of the owners milking cows. So we have plenty of meat and milk, but I miss the fruit.
Once the berries were finished cooking, they had become what she called filling, I helped Grandmother roll out the pie crust. We dusted the old wooden table with flour, and she brought out her old wooden rolling pin. This pin was heavy and almost as long as one of my legs, so I let her do most of the rolling. Grandmother then placed the filling into the pie crust and place another round piece of dough on top, carefully pressing down with every turn of the pie pan. To seal the crust she told me, so the filling will not dry out from the hot fire of the old wooden stove.
We finished making four pies that morning. I was tired and really thirsty. We had some lemonade and she looked at her watch to see if the pies might be ready. The pies in the back of the stove were getting pretty golden brown, so she took those two out and set them on the window sill. That was a good place for them to cool. Grandmother got a good cross breeze coming in that window in afternoon.
She suggested that we go into the living room and sit in the rocking chairs. I asked her to read me a story, and she said we had enough time on the two pies left in the oven to read me one short story. So off we went. Grandmother sat in her rocker and I climbed into her lap and she read from her poetry book. I picked out a poem about a silly duck that would not go south for the winter. As she told me the story she began to make quacking noses that made me laugh so hard we dropped the book. Suddenly we also heard a loud growl coming from the kitchen.
Grandmother threw me off her lap and ran over to the fire place where her old shotgun sat leaning up against the wood pile in the corner. She told me to stay right where I was sitting on the floor and off she went into the kitchen. I was too curious to just sit there, so I crept up to the kitchen door and peeked through the crack between the door and frame...and to my surprise I saw a big black bear with one of her pies in its mouth and as she banged a pan with the end of the gun it ran off.
That is how I know what bears really like...my grandmothers berry pies!
To tell a story with so much heart that we can feel every nuance of our words is nothing more than the ability to dream out loud without fear of criticism, shame, hopelessness, despair, or even impatience.
In Storytelling, you tell yourself a story in the tone and warmth of a bedtime story, playing the the worlds of make-believe. As you begin telling your story, remember that you are living for now and that it is a real situation. Put yourself into each characters shoes and do what you think they would do and write it that way.
For example, is their something that you want to try, or have done that you would like to share with your readers? Write it with all the passion you have or felt while doing this like riding a bike with no hands, falling backwards into the ocean, diving into the fish tanks at the aquarium and swimming with the fish and mammals you have seen. How about slithering across the hot dessert, past all the rocks and cactus all the while the hot, hot sun is beating down on your body...
What if you were a flower and what it might feel like when the morning dew collects on your petals and a morning bee is buzzing around you...what would you say? Describe the whole experience in your own words, with every detail of your surroundings...sights, sounds, colors, and environment...
Did you know it is easier to make up a story, Fiction, than it is to write about our own real life stories? Why, because we have a hard time telling the truth, so we embellish, or just leave out stuff we might now want others to know about us.
Try writing 100 words about something that really happened to you, or about something you want to have in your life...combine the two...reality and imagination...non-fiction and fiction can be combined, but then it becomes non-fiction...see I told you it was easier...
Become a story teller...read my story below...
I have always wanted to have lunch with a bear. I think they are cute and cuddly, but I have not met a bear I could get close to. They do not come out unless you promise them lots of yummy delights to eat. Many people think they like to eat most anything, but I know for a fact that bears are very particular about what they put into their mouths.
Once I left a peanut butter and jelly sandwich on the hood of my parents brand new tracker SUV, three bears were in plain site, but not one of them ever came over to ask me for my food. Silly situation I know, but the smallest of the three bears did turn back towards me and placed his little wet nose right up into the air and sniffed. Then I think he muttered something to the second biggest sized bear who was possibly his mother, and off they turned moving quickly into the clump of trees off to my left.
That sandwich sat on the roof for at least an hour, and no other bears were to be seen. They have quite a good sense of smell, and are often referred to as dogs. I think because they run in packs, have a great sense of smell, and can run as fast or faster than any other animal like many dogs who are used to heard other animals.
I finally figured out what would catch their particular taste in food. Sweet berry pie. Yes, my grandmother makes quite good pie. She goes out in the yard where many wild berry bushes grow, and picks enough to make three or four pies. Wild raspberry, and elderberry grow easily in her part of the country. She actually lives not far from where I go and wait for the bear.
One day she called me and asked if I wanted to help pick berries and she would teach me to make her famous mixed berry pie. My grandmother was an excellent cook. I ate there at least twice a week with my parents, and often they would leave me in the summer for a whole week. My mother dropped me off and I was so excited to finally learn her secret for making those wonderful and tasty pies. When I watch her cut into those pies, I see the filling shimmering in the light of the kitchen lantern, and then watch as it oozes over the sides of the pan, and she drops a piece right onto my plate. All that is left after minutes is my purple teeth and lips as I smile back at her.
I watched as she took out the flour, eggs, and butter. Grandmother made a nice neat pile of flour, broke open two eggs into the hole she had made in the middle, and then cut up butter pieces and they landed all around the flour heap. Then she dropped a few drops of cold water into the heap and with her hands she began to bring all the ingredients together. Outside into the middle, rolling it over and over until it became a ball of dough. She began to push it down and roll it, push it down and roll it until she just knew when to stop. Placing it between a folded sheet of plastic she placed it into the dark corner, and said we had to wait.
Grandmother said "Let's go collect some very special berries for the pies". I hopped off of the chair and ran after her with my very own basket she gave me to use. We spent at least half an hour collecting all shapes and sizes of berries. She pointed and told me which bushes I pick from. Also telling me that if I picked the wrong ones we might get sick. I was very careful in following her instructions. Grandmother knew what she was doing, and had been doing it for a long while.
When we had gathered enough berries, we went back inside and rinsed them. Now she three all of them into a big pot that was already sitting on the stove. I helped her place some wood into the stove, and we waited for the pot to begin heating. We added some sugar, and a small amount of cider that she makes from her very own apples out back. I find grandmothers house is a good place for healthy fruits. I wish we could grow a fruit tree in our yard. My family lives on a smaller property and my father takes care of the owners milking cows. So we have plenty of meat and milk, but I miss the fruit.
Once the berries were finished cooking, they had become what she called filling, I helped Grandmother roll out the pie crust. We dusted the old wooden table with flour, and she brought out her old wooden rolling pin. This pin was heavy and almost as long as one of my legs, so I let her do most of the rolling. Grandmother then placed the filling into the pie crust and place another round piece of dough on top, carefully pressing down with every turn of the pie pan. To seal the crust she told me, so the filling will not dry out from the hot fire of the old wooden stove.
We finished making four pies that morning. I was tired and really thirsty. We had some lemonade and she looked at her watch to see if the pies might be ready. The pies in the back of the stove were getting pretty golden brown, so she took those two out and set them on the window sill. That was a good place for them to cool. Grandmother got a good cross breeze coming in that window in afternoon.
She suggested that we go into the living room and sit in the rocking chairs. I asked her to read me a story, and she said we had enough time on the two pies left in the oven to read me one short story. So off we went. Grandmother sat in her rocker and I climbed into her lap and she read from her poetry book. I picked out a poem about a silly duck that would not go south for the winter. As she told me the story she began to make quacking noses that made me laugh so hard we dropped the book. Suddenly we also heard a loud growl coming from the kitchen.
Grandmother threw me off her lap and ran over to the fire place where her old shotgun sat leaning up against the wood pile in the corner. She told me to stay right where I was sitting on the floor and off she went into the kitchen. I was too curious to just sit there, so I crept up to the kitchen door and peeked through the crack between the door and frame...and to my surprise I saw a big black bear with one of her pies in its mouth and as she banged a pan with the end of the gun it ran off.
That is how I know what bears really like...my grandmothers berry pies!
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
FREEDOM
Freedom (A Poem For Aaron)
Once there were screams of terror as I left you behind
When returning tears of joy greeted us
You ran and sometimes fell, I helped you get up
And we ran together, know you have helped me get back up
Jokes rang out, yours so silly, mine sometimes mean
But we both still laugh, and your wit matured
I embraced a little boy, blonde hair, big smiles
You embraced my teachings, and now I smile
I taught you to love, hug, to easily say your thoughts
Your son will learn that a man can be soft
We walked the valley of death together, and cried
She watches as we both continue that walk
Together we win and loose a few battles
Together we are stronger than apart
Today we woke up and felt freedom
And that freedom feels good.
© E Stelling, 1/09
Saturday, January 17, 2009
Real Beauty
RICHES
Beauty apparent
defined by what is seen
a trait more valuable
than a heart of gold
half a century ago
Grace Kelly, Ingrid Bergman
or perhaps
Elizabeth Taylor
highly revered
treated as a goddess
beyond a beauty queen
working for your love
pulling herself together
facing many lights
magazines and counters
lipsticks and perfume
can only describe
what she will reveal
sexy bikinis and lingerie
barely cover
changes
surgeries
lasting
only
for a short time
- © E Stelling, 2000 All Rights reserved and owned by author
Friday, January 16, 2009
A Mother's Hear Speaks Volumes
Last night I got a phone call...Veronica's only son, only 22 was killed in a car accident...my heart sank...but my thoughts went to her...
She would-
journey down a path of disbelief
hoping that the fear would fall away
as she saw her child walking towards her
as always, had done years before
walk into a room, only shadows for warmth
see her child laying there...like an angel
want to hug them, hold them,
as they had before, and hugs returned
they are slightly warm, possibly cold
dead weight hangs in your arms
she will pull away and cry out
"my baby, my baby, is gone"
days, hours, months, a year go by
the pain lessens, worsens... dissipates
the journey has only begun...
Memories flood the mind, words occupy
others have shared come back in pieces
sad stories on the news become water over fingers
until the heart repairs... for now...
A Mother’s Heart Speaks Volumes
Early morning hours bring
my daughter; again
to my bedside
complaining of sleeplessness
Her heart
once again
S H O U T I N G discomfort
Hours of her
in my bed, crying
tossing in, tossing out the racing moments
I am naked, helpless
her fragile body
begging me to make it stop
I offer prayer; soft arms
a tangible mom against the shadow
Fourteen this woman child
more beautiful than could hope to be
She-my youth incarnate-
my blissful fantasies
how can her diseased heat
escape its chamber,
beating on its walls
S H O U T I N G…
Tears collapse onto her shoulders
before sleep can steal a soft reprieve
Moments, months, hope, now fear…
I do not see her older
I will not share her first kiss
I will never hold my grandchildren
I will only share what she has told me-in company with that secret smile
Her laugh now stilled
is heard by all that knew her
Her pain opened my eyes
set flight to my selfish anxiety
Early morning hours deliver
Ane’s memory to my bedside
Now my weary heart escapes its chamber,
beating on its walls
S H O U T I N G …for all that it misses
-E, 2002
She would-
journey down a path of disbelief
hoping that the fear would fall away
as she saw her child walking towards her
as always, had done years before
walk into a room, only shadows for warmth
see her child laying there...like an angel
want to hug them, hold them,
as they had before, and hugs returned
they are slightly warm, possibly cold
dead weight hangs in your arms
she will pull away and cry out
"my baby, my baby, is gone"
days, hours, months, a year go by
the pain lessens, worsens... dissipates
the journey has only begun...
Memories flood the mind, words occupy
others have shared come back in pieces
sad stories on the news become water over fingers
until the heart repairs... for now...
A Mother’s Heart Speaks Volumes
Early morning hours bring
my daughter; again
to my bedside
complaining of sleeplessness
Her heart
once again
S H O U T I N G discomfort
Hours of her
in my bed, crying
tossing in, tossing out the racing moments
I am naked, helpless
her fragile body
begging me to make it stop
I offer prayer; soft arms
a tangible mom against the shadow
Fourteen this woman child
more beautiful than could hope to be
She-my youth incarnate-
my blissful fantasies
how can her diseased heat
escape its chamber,
beating on its walls
S H O U T I N G…
Tears collapse onto her shoulders
before sleep can steal a soft reprieve
Moments, months, hope, now fear…
I do not see her older
I will not share her first kiss
I will never hold my grandchildren
I will only share what she has told me-in company with that secret smile
Her laugh now stilled
is heard by all that knew her
Her pain opened my eyes
set flight to my selfish anxiety
Early morning hours deliver
Ane’s memory to my bedside
Now my weary heart escapes its chamber,
beating on its walls
S H O U T I N G …for all that it misses
-E, 2002
Sunday, January 11, 2009
Pain
Usual NightCould not sleep
again
went downstairs
watched TV
washed dishes
keeping my mind
distracted
Lay on the couch
familiar pillow
blanket await
fan blows
away
empty noise
Starring at the dark
keep things locked
up inside
not seen sunshine for days
heard it snowed,
feel its cold
Pain has brought me to the end of a road, now
I have to take myself the rest of the way
I am going to break my rusty cage...and run (Rusty Cage- Johnny Cash)
Wednesday, January 7, 2009
Rustic
Rustic...
old
junkyard
sculpture
window
new or used
hearty
possibly mean
rough cut
celery
onion
carrot
potato
sometimes
stew
often lean
colorful
dark
white
if you see
tomatoes
bright orange
or green
watch out
it might
bite
What do you see in my picture?
Johnny Cash- "I'm gonna break my rusty cage and run....."
Saturday, January 3, 2009
Texas Skies
Clouds dot clear skies in Texas like mesquite and tumbleweeds blowing along old highways. Taking on shape like when a woman catch’s a glance from a tall and lanky cowboy who smiles and tips his hat. Leading to a conversation laced with flirtation, becoming a date and a beer down at the local bar.
Maybe a scoot across the old saw dust dance floor, where he pulls her in close giving off a hint of wanting more, as his face leans into hers, now cheek to cheek. Loneliness, a moment bring on a kiss that may or may not be what either were looking for at the night’s end.
All that is left is a scene of rustled blankets, musty bed sheets, an empty room filled with vast memories like Texas skies dotted with pretty white clouds that can take on shapes that remind us of so many things.
E Stelling, 2008 All content is owned by CookAppeal, LLC and its owner
Friday, January 2, 2009
...in the fast lane...
Photo courtesy of Photonuts
Many country back roads hold treasures to the naked eye, and I never miss the chance to take a turn down one of those paths. They can lead to mystery and stories untold.
Can you imagine the day when these vehicles dominated the road? The men and women we see in our parents old photos who got all dressed up to go out on a Saturday night...grandpa's slicked back hair, short sleeve dress shirt over his new white T, or even maybe a freshly ironed T-shirt with its sleeves rolled up with a pack of Marlboro reds tucked in tightly...along with freshly shined shoes and pressed trousers...hop in the driver side and they are ready to roll...cruising avenues...watching the chickies in their clinging tight sweaters and matching poodle skirts, bobby socks, penny loafers, and lipstick smiles.
Daddy's car was ready to attract some excitement on a Saturday night. Plenty of hot chickies out there waiting for them...maybe even a group of young girls at the drive-in gawking over all the beautiful cars rolling in...the smell of burgers and fries...sodas and shakes sitting on the door window sill. Maybe a drive up to the nearest hill top and lovers over look, and the chance for an arm over the shoulder and even a good night kiss as you look out into the night filled with city lights.
All innocents of their era in many ways...but the true story of this car has been hidden for the past century. Buried under the heat and winds of Oklahoma's tornado alley. Following up on the identity of this cars owner we might find it belonged to a local raised and wanted gangster of the twenties. Depression and prohibition had made it hard to make a decent buck in those times. Running with the elite of the bad ass bootlegger wanna bees.
The beat up Chevy truck you see, just up to the left was once a jewel of its time as well. This beauty could have been owned by the bootlegger's side kick and partner. Growing up together in that dusty old town the two decided to run booze and out run a few lawmen on the way.
At the ripe age of sixteen and seventeen they were chased down by the law in over six counties. Get away cars of their time were big and fast. Engines like...well they just do not make them anymore. Life in the fast lane..that is until they both were caught. One wrong turn off the main road near town they were arrested by their own cousin who just happened to be the local and honest sheriff.
Long jail terms for the both of them...the city impounds their vehicles and here they are in this back road junk yard...names and details changed to protect the guilty...and all the rest is up to you...
Writer~ E Stelling 2008
Photo~ Donna Kay 2008
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