Well deserving

Big congratulations to IBPCommunity member C.E. Chaffin on his publication in today's Philadelphia Inquirer!

Paradigms By C.E. Chaffin

He is such a nice person and although attempts to comment on my blog - my videos and such make the pages load v slowly for some (I know, I know, but I did remove one from the front page the other day). :)

I appreciate him, his blog, and his talent. So congrats -
a fine placement.

random thoughts

I have had pretty close relationships with most of my patients - even had this patient that upsetted easily. when she did this, her family would call my cell and ask me to talk to her. I calmed her down and loved her v much. I now how a patient similar to her; she is in rehab because she fell and is now afraid/or needs assistance to walk. when she needs to get up to walk, they call me from my regular floor - she simply will not let anyone else help her, says that I am the only one who cares.

and I do care, v much, as I am sure others do. I just get so busy (esp during vitals) that I cannot get that extra minute to leave my floor. this made her cry the other day. sometimes I have to become hardened, try not to think of such things, and carry on with what I am in the middle of. when I finally got that extra minute, I found out that she fell again, and found myself in tears. I should of spent more time reassuring her that if she asked another to help - that person would take care of her the way I do. but if I had done so, she would question me, because she in fact did fall.

I need to organize my time better or perhaps be even harder that I try to be. I am tough enough or I thought I was, until today... now I do not know. today is another story that I do not care to share right now. xo

August antipasto

today was a v long day (no need to detail that). I am in the mood for an august antipasto from Foreign Cinema. hmm... I should add some mediterranean olives to that order.

I just need one of those delivery boys on a bike, a jet plane, and a destination to any white beach that caters to the bluest of seas. oh and one of those cool beach hats! no, scratch the hat - make it a soft lounge chair.

I must mention that the delivery boy is not invited. ;)

I guess any establishment could make you wonder

a late night note

this evening someone randomly entered the restroom in my flat, bent down, and sniffed michael's catbox. she then turned to me and said "Wow Cher, your catbox doesn't smell!" I think at that point, I stepped out of my own skin, and stood beside myself just to see my own reaction. I looked at her and said, "No, it does not." I then walked into my office and sat down. I have to wonder as I look back at it all - how the heck do I stay sane?

goodnight.

this and that

my friend pj (pjnights) and I talked until 3:30 am on the phone last night. we discussed BoZoO radio and how we both wanted to beat up Rg. ok - not beat up, but we did talk about what a great show they have going on over there. you know, some blogs and/or sites really make you feel good - BoZoO HomeGrown Radio being one. if you get a chance drop by and see what they have going on - Marcel Penn is just one of the great things they have added. BoZoO HomeGrown Radio

we announced the IBPC Poem of the Year! check it out here: The Versifier or read about our latest judge, David Biespiel here: IBPCcongrats and thank you to all poets!

last, but not least, go check out Tuche And Automaton it is a fun place to spend some time - we have some great artists like ann marie eldon, cocaine jesus, scott glassman, and more! ciao.

Winning Photo

Just heard news that my photo (above) had the highest score at USA101's 22nd contest. I am so grateful. I won $1000.00 and I believe the photo on canvas. I had a feeling I had won, but wanted to wait for the administrator's letter.

Thanks to Ry who made me go out and shoot when I was not in the mood and to everyone who voted, and continues to support my work. Camera used was a Nikon D50 SLR, hand held zoom. I hope to continue my love for photography and perhaps make a few people smile while doing so. grazie.

These Words Will Never Make Me Famous

I have gathered and brought home photographs from places I have been. From San Francisco to New York. In fact, San Francisco is made entirely of memory - photographs of days when my life truly mattered. It is almost laughable at this point to say I have come further than ever – when I feel a sinking at times like stone to sea.

In reality, this city that I lie my head in, this arboretum and garden of unmarked graves is nothing more for me than just limbo, where I fight for air space, but never really breathe. I feel that I definitely belong to an appendage of people that became artists to release some sort of inner language that speaks in tongues, and the only way to describe the feeling is to attempt to put it to word on paper or in a preferred journal.

I have a gift made entirely out of train wrecks and circumstances, but I have not established it, or have initiated only fragments - the remaining delay leaving, shift against bristle, never really willing to tell the prodigy of ‘me’. Not that there is anything to tell, but some may implore to be at variance; some have blisters on the soles of their feet from walking beside me.

Maybe I am extinct, only a creation in my mind, constructed of a softness that falters during the changing season – the harrowing waters that hold chin to seedling; stones and landscapes that can never be found after the photograph burns.

At other times and in other spaces, I am a liar. I do not fabricate much, but I have been known to tell myself a story or two; I fool my effort into oblivion each time my lips refute my surroundings, each time I tell myself of a deeper love story that should never fall short. And after calamity, I carve an alter for a totem pole made from past lovers, fancy the color red over black, and dip the eyes. There above the plot of this city I stand back and respect my work – I close my eyes and imagine a draw between myself and others. I believe that the sky might look down and dry the colors or perhaps blur them with a future rain. I never was one for calling on the names or retrieving paper notes from my backpack, to squall in the goodbyes that grew.

It is possible that this is not lament or a stone that I expect to throw. It is also wise to consider the lengths of bamboo that have covered the path that I once held dear. But to a writer, maybe it means a way of condensing the view, if only for a moment so he or she might feel the tightening of chest to swallow, or on a related note – the passing of an era. In any case I do not weep solely and sometimes not at all. And I do not engage in hysterical laughter, (even though it is said to cleanse the psyche). I do nothing at all, but write, and these words mean nothing to most.


-Cherilyn

IBPC Newswire

First - I would like to thank Rg from BZoO HomeGrown Radio, for helping me out with my blog. Check out his site here: BZoO HomeGrown Radio

Second - please take a moment to check out our blog -
The IBPC Newswire: IBPC Newswire

Judy Kronenfeld Teacher, Poet, Poetry Judge - Exclusive Interboard Poetry Community Interview In Association With BZoO Radio and Cloudy Day Art! Recently the InterBoard Poetry Community, an elite group of twenty plus online poetry communities such as Poets.Org, Writer's Block, SplashHall Poetry and The Versifier, had their annual poetry awards.


Neruda:

For you to hear me
my words
thin themselves out, at times,
like the trails of gulls on the shore.

A necklace of bones, a crazed rattle
for your fingers smooth as grapes.

And I look at my words from a distance.
More than mine they are yours.
Like tendrils they climb my ancient suffering.

They climb, like this, inside damp walls.
It is you the guilty one in this blood-wet round.

They are escaping from my dark covert.
You pervade everything, you, pervade everything.

They live, before you, in the solitude you enter,
and are accustomed, more than you, to my sadnesses.

Now I want them to say what I want them to tell you,
for you to hear as I want you to hear me.

The winds of misery may still bring them down.
Hurricanes of dream may still make them tumble.
You attend other voices, in my voice of pain,
Cries, of ancient mouths: blood, of ancient pleas.
Love me. Don’t leave me, friend. Follow me.
Follow me, friend, in this wave of misery.

They go on being miserly, with your love, my words.
You enter everything, you, enter everything.

I make, out of all this, an infinite necklace,
for your white fingers, smooth as grapes.

I changed the commenting to 'anyone' this morning, because my mum (well she is like a second mum) wanted to leave something, but couldn't because she wasn't a registered user. All I ask is pls no poetry left to the posts. Grazie.

Not a lot new here or I am too tired to think of anything. I am guest poet over at UV's site and I appreciate that. If you'd like to check that out, the link is on the right. Other than that, I want to crawl back to bed this morning - as I mentioned, I am extremely sleepy.

I need to drop my camera off to get it cleaned, so not too many photos for a few days. But here is a shot I took in Carmel, Ca. I hope you enjoy it. Ciao!

Scattered Notes Along Highway 81

You may take what you need from me—
I only enhance being a part of you.
And I drive from east to south, the flat of high-
way stretching through fields, towns, and the
darkening cities that pass.

I open the window—my heart and movements
vague: I am moving too fast to remember.
And oh, the ache beneath white breast—
at least a dozen shards sever flesh.

Because of you, they impel like hooks in
the mouths of swollen fish—what I have,
they take, leave naught to simmer in summer
sun. A ciascuno il suo.

I pull to the side, tear at my dress—
oh, the thought of you along my hemline:
imagining lessons learned only in dark places,
drives a woman to slave. I want you wet, an
open door, and between ankle and mouth,
I will seek pleasure beyond pain.

I stand in stillness, morning as far as the sea—
fresh fruit on my tongue as if I have already
had what is mine, as if we were not separated
by time nor season. My body rests against
the night, one hand gripping forever.

The breaths I have taken in your absence,
stolen from your palm, remain
straight-faced as I stare into nothingness.

And I want you to know that each second
that passes, my fingers grow tired of exploration,
require your slow, steady hand for guidance.

I want to know your scent, the churches that went
to flame knowing of the heat, the women before
me that fell into the fire—that layer of your
thigh, insatiable.

I must begin my journey again, rise from this
place, make my way to you. I must drive, I will
not eat, not cease this longing to be beside such
a man, a craving that will not cease upon my
cheek—it fashions resolve to hollow.

I am yours and I will slip myself into the soreness
of your chest—calming the split that I caused many
months ago— if only I can swallow the hours that
press, if only I might finish what I have started.

Draft II (will fix the structure later)

Spring is here and colors are taking shape everywhere you turn. Today I must of passed 300 tulips, just on my way to run errands. Such a lovely scene. I hope everyone is enjoying the season.

I have been so backed up in my email and messages - sorry for that. I plan on taking Saturday morning and writing everyone back. :)



That is a photo I took in the Poconos - such beautiful creatures.

preghiera serale

[ a small pleasure of birds, (preghiera serale) ]

I'm suddenly older
I mean, of course, how wily silence and nothing else
has happened. Like everyone else, I have only a first
few scattered thoughts out there in front of me
so starkly, wanting, to soften beyond the heart's
invisible, never obvious, reaches. I think of bedsheets
not quite warm, I think tables full of dirty dishes,
I think my legs are tree trunks sunk in grass
each time my heart is broken. Behind the grocery store
there's a mountain of bruised peaches. Slovenly present
with evening upon it. Bones, I feel my bones. You said
I have vanished under fingers, sublimated, and I've lost
a scene set in brooklyn, hours ago, when I fell asleep
and started to dream. There were distant sirens, drifting
like leaves through the streets I don't know the names of.
Suitably I might have asked you for a glass of water. You'd say,
the future of rain is river. But tonight the rivers are black.
I think entrapment comes up as a metaphor. We've never met.
Still, there is a prayer, like the night, it whispers
through the poplars, it is the color of my throat:
we love & we love & we love & we love & we love
but it turns out there’s nothing much to say
or translate into italian at the end.
* * * * *

how i

[ how i love you... ]

     madly.
some moments, increasingly,
 all sorts of,
     in    a
           haze

(lungs) drowned in the little room
with tears a night field.

are can: to make unbearable
   wishing we are we can; and, any turn,
   any any turn, this here, the as grassy
 as quiet,
       the hours in the sea

the poem was cloud, an impossible sing

pulled under unseen being some
 moments wishing sitting together
have like, all sense
       pulled under flat, pulled under
    under, again, some moments, pulled

irrational, even irrational
    breathed windows, most
 a blush. whole thing     forgive (me)

again but your absence
suffocates      a lacey turned little
body putting my mind to room, silently

   hearing your eyes
in the photograph, at the ceiling
 even kissing you up to your chin

your hum is flung from a tuning for –
tulip in mis shapen dark, flickering after
     growing

inconsiderable morning. to the whirr of daft
up forced the nigh
     a little her to hand, the ah ah of room burst light
always i scream
       i imagine lips
    lips enough, lips touch
   candles your all      always i imagine
to eat out of your
    empty hands. of your mouth, quietly, wearil

to make you feel madly        could is i think
much, anyway, i stand very still.

i will unveil you, passively, in the breathing,
     come, a long pause
               wishing

One of my favorite places to shoot

Flesh-notes

O lover,
O sweet boy -
I sit beside myself for hours, tremulous,
words or breath, moist, palms open as if
                     to say "I am yours."

        I think of you when I see
Khan 's painting — a woman, a man,
her hair twisted in his hand, lilies strewn
skillfully across
a marble floor.

'The Kiss' either beneath the window
or against the wall—
it does not
matter:
           your tongue slips and I col     lapse,
taste confection on the wire.

The flat of my belly, dark hair, poised lip,
and finger— ex posed,
                   for you.

Seated now, along the rail, I shift, bend,
open, like a river to sea and I oh, oh,
the look in your eyes,
                 the ache of your hand—
         I am seamless, sweetened with
                        each new touch.

Nails shape your back in red, map out where
we have been -
a fetish — dramatic pierce,
a maddened
kiss,
swept in a moment, like O'Hara or perhaps
the way Neruda might after a night of
                               poetry—
how a woman taught him devotion in spring,
left his hand
ashen against paper.

For you, my dress on the chair,
shadowed in the night, movements, soft,
unrehearsed
beneath the crest of your body.
I am brilliant, a silhouette on the backdrop of
Italy, where your storm sweeps me to reverie,
where I am stret ched,

                              like winter snow.

You brush a curl from my
cheek— your fingers tremble. I could lose
myself now,

become adrift in your thoughts.
I could escape the heated air, the scent of flesh,
the bloom
of beauty before me,

to run toward the open sea, where I would
sink transparent on the sand, where my will is no
longer my own.

            And as dawn arrives, night slips out
—left are two lovers inside a painting, quiet on
canvas, exhausted and in love.

Draft II 

Photos I took in b&w

The Meaning of True Love

Being a photographer, this video holds a place in my heart - brings tears to my eyes. Please push play. Nite. xo

Sad Patrol - Metallica

Ever since I can remember I have liked 'Sad But True' by Metallica. I always sang it loudly and confident. I esp loved the 'Sad Patrol' part! I thought it was
very creative. :)

Yesterday I find that it is not 'sad patrol' but, 'Sad but true'. I actually thought it was called 'Sad Patrol' as well. Eh - what do I know.

So, it came on today while out shooting and off I went... "I'm your eyes when you must steal, I’m your pain when you can’t feel... sad patrol."

I like it better that way. ;)

Stats

I get a lot of traffic here each day - from Canada to Australia, even further. Perhaps, I should ditch the whole chicken story, yea?