Tuesday, March 30, 2010

Open Mic Wednesday- Reading Other Works

I am going to start a new project- I am going to read at least one or two poems from fellow poets I know, or have known at open mic. I attend two that allow poetry, and have been told there are a few more, but not really close- In New Jersey an hour from your house in bad weather is two hours, so I will see...

Go check out Poet/Writer/Teacher, Jessie Carty's 58 Inches(she got a shout out), as she posts poetry (v)blogs, and keeps up updated on information pertaining to the poetry scene and poetry writers.

I hope you enjoy my reading, but I do wish I could find someone to man the camera, as I am not so great with it at such a long distance (I could swear it was zoomed in closer than this is what I am trying to say).

Monday, March 29, 2010

Muse Monday 17- Voyeur

If you have ever worked in a professional kitchen environment, then you can relate to this rap piece I perform

Health Food Café
‘Kitchen Rant’

Morning drains, smell like sewage and shit
Scented candles, burn… surreal relief
pantry shelves filled with clutterenters the store police
she moves through door... the store... my mind
Preemptive remarks sounding like mutter.

(sing with rhythm )
   move the pans to the top
   from underneath the pots
   bare cabinets now leave
   wasted space to heave
   sweep up with the mop
   sling food around the juicer

Its m u s i c and n o i s e
Carrot, beet, celery, and apple hip hop

Front door opens, smiling faces
at any cost all ready to share
some check out today’s menubuying food products to repair

(sing with rhythm)
   maple salmon, BBQ beef, fake meats
   Caribbean grits, 3 kinds of soup
   salads of all kinds….
   carrot apple raisin, apple slaw
   crunchy raw brownies to finish it all

Lets regroup… purely all healthy cuisine

Here nor there… so what’s a little disorder
As long as we roll and bounce
Through the days short mortars
Sweeping around the change
Our work feeds the soul
Merits of this and that
With little technique, just more cooperative ingredients
But Monmouth of grief if not obedient
Covering and disguising what’s really going on…

(sing with rhythm)
   high rent and bad location, location, location
   too many chairs and not enough tables
   damn to no oven and no menu fabrications

What’s good is the food, company present, and regular creations
Counter space seating, and talk of the nation
To the end of the day, dishes piled high
Food splattered aprons, needy floors and counters

All good, because 'I' just let sleeping dogs lie.

- E, 2008 ©

Saturday, March 27, 2010

FSO- Friendship Bridges

Once again I am taking a theme on our shoot out and twisting it to fit my photos. I have met some of the nicest people through blog, and hope to meet many more! The internet is a true bridge that connects us to people, places, and subjects we might not otherwise have known!

I had the opportunity to go into NYC and attend a wonderful book fair, The Rainbow Book Fair, and meet the most fabulous, friendly, and supportive 'Bryan Borland' fan club- Ann Marie (her daughter, a wonderful teenage boy they know, his parents, and another friend from New Jersey), Beth (Louisiana), Victor (a fan of the poetry), and his NYC contact (I apologize for lack of remembering all those others I met!). So many nice people!

In the attempt to interview Bryan, with his first published poetry book just out, 'My Life As Adam', we had a camera set up, but it went off after only two minutes of our wonderful fifteen minute talk about his journey as a poet, a gay man in Arkansas, and as well as our shared experience with loosing people in our lives that have given us this unique connection! I look forward to these new 'bridges' growing in so many ways all of you I met today!

Tuesday, March 23, 2010

Grovers Mill Coffe House Open Mic

Gosh, we are always are worst critic, but I seriously need to LOOSE WEIGHT!

I know, I know, just a lot more of me to love...I gotta get healthy is that better?

Okay that felt better, now enjoy!

Saturday, March 20, 2010

Monday Muse 16- Adams Debut

As I visit Bryan Borland's poetry site, one cannot help but notice this photo I hijacked (with out permission, sorry baby!). His eyes, his stance, surroundings spoke to me. Our shared grief is like two rivers that flow into one pool, fates pond, and we both play together on its southern banks...making mud pies of course!

Still Life

A boy alone in the shadow
of trees- his brother, a father
killed by circumstance
by nature-
out of control courses
Time moves forward

Steps to the left- sunlight
a face, eyes that need not
speak words, a mouth
genetically shaped
stories, a life shared-

Steps to the right- shadows
mix with lines of light,
creating images, of jail,
a growing male
lost in a jungle
of feelings,
pain, fumbling paths
beating inside a heart
than his surroundings

He is standing- tall
in just the right place
the right moment, as
Adam, an almighty
prevails. Legends will rise
from bravery, truth
traveling in time
others, lives for good

We step forward- together
the right movement

© E Stelling, 2010

You can purchase Bryan's book, 'My Life as Adam' on his blog. A full length collection of poetry; read a few of his poems, watch his videos and soak in his sunlight; it will, I guarantee, change your life...

'The soul cannot think with out a picture' ~Aristotle

Wednesday, March 17, 2010

Read Write Poem Prompt #118

read write word #118: digging
March 12th, 2010
by Deb Scott

This week uses words offered by Barbara, Nicole, Marian V., Mark S. and Rallentanda

To write to this prompt, pick as many (or few) of these words as you want and write a poem using them. (And if these words don’t suit you, pick your own. Just write a poem, or two.

Enjoy the week’s words, no matter which ones you use.

So...here is my try...

Mirrored spuratic patches of growth along paths give life,
meaning to a cook passionately gathering fiddle head fern tips

Joy disembarks early morning furtive schedules, as mist rises,
fumbling stage-coach, off road, wheels crushing into uncertainty

glares are given by mistresses in disassembled turquoise gowns,
magenta hats with exotic feathers, costumes balancing cups

hot cocoa turned cold, held with delicate hands wearing
gloves coated with long night nonpareil pleasures- wasted talent

food engineers time on silly amusements for strumpets; delicate
butter, seasonings will turn foraged greens into savory moments

for kings, a masters most admired preoccupations, winning
job security in a days passing....

Open Mic Wednesday

I Love it when Jessie Carty @ 58 Inches post her open mic videos- so, here is mine. Of course I can be so critical of myself, and I never look into the camera, Jessie *lazy eye wink*...and I looked it up 'Autobiographal' is a word.

We tried out a new sounds system, and it seems I am reading to a stadium, well we had a packed house, lol, and if you cannot laugh at yourself...laugh at your video!

Tuesday, March 16, 2010

Friday Shoot Out- Colors, and a poem

This week's theme is 'Colors' by Doreen- Color.... your favorite color. Where ever, what ever you see in your town or surrounding area, like the country, out in nature. I am a nature lover!!!

I totally hijacked this weeks them and used it in honor of my mother's birthday this coming Monday, my Irish heritage, and new life that comes to my writing- this speaks of a color that screams so loudly to my own personal preference- shades of red.

This weeks Read Write Poetry prompt #117: create a hinge, by zachary schomburg is Volta- Part One, missive; Part Two, confession, with a few liberties of length from m'E twists, winds together up a trellis, reaching for sunshine...

PHOTO (shot this way on purpose): My mom enjoyed the fact my second job in high school as a cook, I would bring her new foods to try, things my picky father would rather, her not cook, or we could not afford. My plate above is a balance of the colors in my life, and a food she never got to try- Broccoli Rabe.

Remember Émeraude


Sister and Brother think of Mama in March, her
hairdo in the 60’s- touching the sky. Elizabeth Taylor looks

black dyed raggedy towels, but Man! did she smell good
in her favorite drug store cologne, those tight waist

poofy skirts gliding across shiny hardwood floors. How
did she have the energy to keep up with him, and not

her own children. His dance hall queen with no jewels,
only invisible crown of beer bottles shards. Barely

a father present, teddy bear bribe doors slamming,
and echoes of her voice in between repetitive ramblings,

years of misery, “you kids have no idea what
really goes on”, annoying please- I still feel her anger, hair

brush whelps, bruising, tear drops on my cheeks, and years of
mental illness consuming a house, passed down from generations.

Maturity questioned her childhood; was her family ever
like her- do parents realize they are role models. Mama

lies in the bed, nursing home bible at her side, buzzing television
company, baby sister told her on a warm day in May, 

my son’s seventeenth birthday, he was gone- for a moment
she smiled, even laughed, and followed her only life to the grave.


I fight off the smell of baked bread, cake and pies, roast beef
laced with fear, ghosts arguing as I enter a kitchen.

While coffee smells good, but it gages me with images of thick
full pots sitting all day until 4 AM, and hard to clean scrubbing.

Grey hair defines, disguises men and maturity- my own hair
dyed, locks brought back to life, brownish red.

An emerald ring was made unintentionally before my son
was ever conceived, born years later.

Dirty, full ashtrays are sickening, poison my air as smokers
stare into the distance, mashing down the butts unaware

a prostitute had just filled a needle and began to shoot up
cocaine in the same room I sat, I looked away.

Down the road death bed dementia brought on confessions
of infidelity at bus stops; MP drunken altercations; loving

a wife; not being a good father, and never an ‘I’m sorry’ uttered
I was high on drugs the day after my daughter died, until

my parents passed. I did not attend my mother’s funeral-
this poet still hates the color green even if it symbolizes- new life.

© E Stelling, 2010

Time to drag out an old Award

And the award for being 'Sexy Mamma Of The Year' goes to....

I created this award over a year ago, and have not given it out to anyone lately...You have to be special, supportive, frequent my blog, and just be a good worthy Sexy Mama!

Also, you have to love bubble baths like me! Do you? Oh, so I will not take it back!

Bryan Borland - We have connected in the most painful loving way possible!
Farm Lady - You have been a good friend, and you love my goats!
Katherine - You are a new friend, and I look forward to knowing you better!
Darn Girl - You know I love you girl!Shake those babies...
Jessie Carty - You encourage me to be the best poet!
GingerV- Because my friend you will always be a hot sexy mama!
Mark @ Butler and Bagman- You do not need to run in stilettos to receive this one!

PS- I do not expect you to place it on your site (only if you want), this was just something funny I came up with when I was receiving awards last year from so many blogs who had to idea who to pass theirs onto...but you truly are all Sexy Mama's! So wear the honor proudly...

Actually to really take it a step further...Hubby and I just watched a favorite movie of my son's a few weeks ago, and the song comes to mind "You are truly... Truly Scrumptious"...now what movie was that from?

Chitty Chitty Bang Bang!

This was fun to watch it and remember what my kids did at certain points of the movie, and how excited they got...my son would sing all the songs...how the loved musicals like me...just sayin'- sharing a memory...

Monday, March 15, 2010

Muse Monday-

Room For a View

All enter your solitude
need for need 

four walls
       small room
             most- painted, dingy white

    occasional company, second beauty
             two by two mirror

You in the corner
        a new face
              turning your light on

      stage set, waiting star

Back straight
   long thin legs
      slight curves-
                all in the right places
Down to the floor
          details, dressed in velvet

Your vanity
     porcelain, bling of choice        
        voyeur confidence
The silence of your space; you
     one of two
         ones purpose clear, always used

You are easy,
         and a place for watching eyes...

© E Stelling, 1992- Revision

I wrote this in a dingy club bathroom in the early 80's, this beautiful raw wood chair with a red velvet seat all alone in the ugliness of a toilet-

Of course this bathroom is a newer one- but when I was there, and had my camera it reminded me of this piece I had written, and the angle of the photo worked-

How fun it was to read it, and have the audience feel it was so seductive...oh, if they only knew...

Friday, March 12, 2010

Friday Shoot Out- Wrought Iron

This weeks theme was chosen by JarieLyn- Wrought Iron

Wrought Iron is one of my favorite architectural aspects of buildings, homes, and especially historical homes and bridges, and not my little ruse of getting you over here was funny right? Can you picture me in irons?

Do not please, I am a good girl!

The mixture of stone and wrought iron, even if it is not 'real' wrought iron as they made it long ago...

A closer look...Imagine Victorian dressed people walking along this bridge as they take in the sunshine along the water way, and walking through the park at the top...

The many farms that surround us have iron fencing, and I like to go visit the local producers of cheese and meats...I get to say hello the animals!

City boy keeps his distance from the farm animals, he is gazing as they call for attention. More fences shots...

Well looks like this is going to be short- An unusual thing for me, but I cannot find my wrought iron photos in my archives, so Thank You  for joining me for this weeks theme, and go check out the other

Sunday, March 7, 2010

Semi-theatrical Matter

Story Line- A Girl, Her Van, The Dumpster, Riddled With Emotion

Every time I haul a bag of garbage to the trash bin the guilt is bigger than me. Picking my body up, dropping it over with the thump of the glass bottles weighing it down. Flinging a life into the abyss of endless waste, once
priceless- maybe, just maybe as these thoughts are rolling in the smelly matter, a better sense of 'waste not, want not' would cling; follow me around, reminding me each time I buy something, to be more mindful of what and where it will end up.

Scene- Van parked next to a snowy dumpster
Actor- Southern Girl in cold north east

Things sit on the floor were useful, once-
Now they symbolize childlike pranks,

embarrassment, brief moments of fun
when simple "No Thank You" would suffice.

Act I:

Mindless exchange of words, frozen acceptance
eye contact commitment, street peddler corners

Guilt laced afterthoughts- blindness, blank
face refusal, keep walking attitudes

unneeded items pile up, hoarders convention,
storage fees lost, all for free entertainment.

Act II:

Crap lay in state, taking its chance with spilled
liquids, stale french fry grease marks

imprinted sneaker soles, dirty snow
stains on an already cold van floor

Act III:

Today's trash bin company, city dump
workers treasures- meaningless

gifts from strangers, and a repeat performance.

Thursday, March 4, 2010

Friday Shoot Out- In Rememberance

I am with Ann (a comment on the members voice)- I like to get my word in as often as possible about the brillianty put together DNA of a baby girl I had on March 1st, 1986, at 11:50 PM, thirty hours of hard easy, but a long labor. All that time you put into being pregnant, a parent, and then to be told, or surprised by their death? Hardly seems worth it right?

Hell No!

I would not be who I am today if it was not for my children. Sure life molds you in so many ways, but children are a breath of fresh air! Laughs! Oh the screw ups you make as a parent are worth the laugh on their own.

Memories are what keep us going. Our heart grows in so many ways through loss. Not the path we would chose, but not our choice. You can go back through my post this week. Her birthday memorial of sorts. You will see every year that passes I am able to handle things that are thrown at me in life. I still cry, but losing my grandparents with in six months apart in 1994 was my first brush with loss. Seeing their home as seen below still sitting their, all the memories, but mamaw nor granddad Akin would answer the door if I were to go up and ring the door bell. That is hard to deal with. I spent so many years in their living room of 1305 Long Avenue, Fort Wort, Texas. I lived with my parents in the trailer in the backyard when I was born.

I no longer live in Texas, but my soul still wanders, follows small puffy white clouds that dot Texas skies reminding us of so many things, like tumbleweeds and mesquite trees dotting long dusty and hot highways (Bryan, already in a poem I wrote)...

I took a trip to Texas last summer, a journey to re-visit my roots, something I was  running from for years, and I liked what I found. I not only found a family lineage of Tennessee heritage, but I found a voice for my poetry. I am now embracing my southern drawl. I let Ya'll slip out, a little hint of who I really am.

I look forward to taking a journey through your memories, and I hope you enjoy mine...

I am proud of this shot above (I made her pose)- My dad's only sister/sibling, Aunt Earlene in front of Mammaw Estil's house, or where it used to be. She has dementia, and this was a good memory lane day for her. A neighbor bought the house; it was falling down, so they left the walkway, and first steps of the front porch. They planted a garden to honor the couple that occupied this farm for over 70 plus years.

My father's mom never quite got over her mother's death, and I remember her reflecting the loss when we were in her garden collecting fresh beef steak tomatoes.

My grandfather called himself an inventor, and a poet. History of Scot-Irish immigrants in the Appalachian Mountains called them tinkerers. He built glider planes, and had a fascination with birds since childhood. My grandmother sewed the canvas coverings for them. He would have the residents of Breckenridge Texas help him push it off Metcalf Gap, Texas. To the left is a valley. He never crashed here. Earl T. Akin did however crash and killed his partner in the old barnstorming/wing walking days of the 1920's. He never like to talk about it, but an uncle would bring it up as they bragged about his accomplishments. My grandparents were deeply in love and you would see them kiss each other all the time. More of a loving peck.

My fathers family all lived to be in their nineties, and passed in their sleep, Granddad was 99 when he passed...

I never knew my great grandparents, only their nine children, including my grandfather, Earl. I remember visiting Aunt Mytle's farm, fishing, rattle snakes on the end of her pitch fork, and her in a dress while she supported a flashy pair of cowboy boots. She was a hoot, and the only girl. This is the Akin homestead property still owned by my uncle John Ed. "You might not want to walk the property without a good pair of boots, and a snake kit close by", my uncle said to me as I took off towards the lake to see if I remember my first six pound catfish on the end of a fishing pole, and the jack rabbits that would jump in front of our car. Out came the shotgun as my father shot with precision at the nights menu entree to the rattle snake appetizer. Taste like chicken!

Just down the road, on hundreds of acres of dusty west Texas soil is a cemetery, Post Oak. There are uncles, and aunts, cousins, relatives through marriage buried. Most of them lived through the Great Depression, and were true 'Hillbillies', as oil was found on the land, but they still lived frugal. A few miles down the main drag in Breckenridge is the cemetery my parents, and immediate relatives are buried, and they are as follows.

My aunt stands in front of the Akin section of my fathers family. I am torn in whether to be buried her with my daughters ashes. Hubby is not so fond of these parts... This is the son of the youngest Akin brother who came over from Ireland and started it all in Texas...

My Daughters, Anelisa Remembrance Piece

On the sidebar is a 'Camera' that leads to the other My Town Blogger Friday Shoot Outs, and you can join if you would like; it is fun to share shots of the town we live in as well as sharing themes such as this!

Dear John Letter

Dear John,

I know it was hard for me to ask you to play the piano at Anelisa's memorial; it was hard for me to be there. I have wanted to say something to you...it has taken so long to say these things to you since we last parted, and that I hope you realize what you did for me.

You gave me a gift that I was not able to open until this year. The gift has sat in the back of my mind for almost ten years before it was ready to play out in reality. You gave yourself, your time at the piano to teach a student out of love. She loved you, and there was never any jealousy on my part in the time spent when we would come over. I enjoyed working for you, helping keep your office going while you took Ane and Aaron on runs.

I also wanted you to know that since Aaron had no interest in keeping the sheet music, so I passed it on to my clients son recently. He has been taking piano lessons, and excels in composing his own beautiful work. Rahual may not understand what this piece means to me, but maybe one day he will listen to the words and think of his own sister who passed only just a year ago of a similar disease as my own child. Helping take care of her for three years as I cooked for their family was implementable in my healing.

Let me tell you how much you still mean to me after all these years. Ane loved her uncle, and there was no other. She loved the 'Titantic' move, and Leonardo- God was she boy crazy! If she were around today, she might not think he is so cute!

Our memories shared of her zest for life, and her will to go on, will ring out in our hearts for ever.



Wednesday, March 3, 2010


Thirty five thousand, seventeen days
have passed since a world changed, a

plate of cheese fighting the elements, moved
to a heavier plate. The pretty orange one

whose chip became a crack, left
broken lying next to unwashed

shriveling grapes on un-kept counter
while worms eat through to the core of

waiting granny smith apples in a dusty
fruit basket: once, shiny and green before

decay and gray matter took over. There
is a chance life can be revived with tears

life springs running over the edge of vessels
here and there on the floor-

a house; a home, left to nature, to chance
in torrential storms, or over flow-

of a sink full of dirty dishes
sitting under a ticking clock

hanging next to this years calendar.

© E Stelling

Difficulties mastered are opportunities won- Winston Churchill