You are what you love, and not what loves you back

All day I thought I was lonely, was wearing it like a weapon, but I realise that
I was just alone. This is the great distinction of my life, the thing that has had me reaching for door-frames as if the world was falling in on only me. This is what has ruined me.

I do not know how to reconcile these sides of me. I feel a dull sense of duty to the secrets I've pressed into people's open palms, ignoring the fact that they are fractions of me, not them. I want to tell all but I have less and less to say. I am writing a notebook's worth of small character sketches, but the book keeps getting smaller because I rip the pages out every other day and promise to start again.
I want to achieve something, prove to myself that I'm better than a drawer full of balled-up notes and mistreated notebooks. I will finish.
I will finish and fix it all.

things I am forgetting:

- how to talk to you
(I tried my hand at equations, explaining myself through maths, but I got stuck between the cosine and 'both sides must be equal'. I have tasted biology on the tip of your tongue and picked your physics out from between my teeth - chemistry was
why I left and how you stayed, a hairbrush and some gum and a messy bed.

My last hope is dear sweet Desdemona, constant Penelope, two ladies with water in their hair and one who threw herself from the battlements. My last hope is blank verse and comfortable iambic pentameter. My last hope is sibilance and the weight
of punctuation.)

- why I cared, and how, and how much
(nothing feels safe. nothing feels safe. nothing feels safe. nothing feels safe. nothing feels safe. nothing feels safe. nothing feels safe. nothing feels safe. nothing feels safe. nothing)

- why I wrote anything, ever
(that's it, that's all. I am no good)

- promises and bathroom floors
(you were smoking me, weren't you? between your yellow fingers. you just inhaled
and exhaled without saying a word)

-[I have always read 'angels' as 'angles' and I think this explains more than anything else could]


* I am not sure who wrote this, ( I hope I did not mess it up too much) but I thought it wonderful. here is the link:
click me

Laughter

I do not know why I titled this "laughter".

nikon d50 slr hand held/windy/focal length: 38.0mm (35mm equivalent: 57mm)/ exposure time: 0.0031 s (1/320)/ aperture: f/8.0 /whitebalance: auto/ metering: matrix.

* on another note - autumn is here! :)

A Softness in the Ear

(after a phone conversation)

There are too many hours before dusk,
where one can become mislaid along
the hidden curves of the throat:
a burst
of laughter,
of white space,
of delicate, corporeal vocals;
a counting of the harvest in cultural

rearing. The voice is a lover: a span of
the sensual sun, a nervousness that lies
low in the season, waiting or begging
for release. And the flutter of chest
becomes wet, a way to taste the tongue,
or perhaps a lead that one must pursue

solely. I say this before the rain in hopes
of encore or breadth -
I don’t know why I like it. I just do.

O, if I were an atlas –
a diagram that reveals warm breath on flesh,
I would gather the hum that cascades nicely
from the sweetened lip, sweep it to elite waters,
and drown in what could never be mine.

*just a first draft. :)

What friends are for

been a bit busy being in the hospital, but I have been home since yesterday. it was a v trying time. I did receive a wonderful warmth here:

click me

some really great friends. I am appreciate that. the way the members came together like that shows you what true friends are. I will not forget that. anyway, I am ok for the time being. I am dealing with some other things that are so unbelievable, though. and although my heart is weak at the moment, I will not let anyone or anything crush it completely. eh.

*a special thanks to all who called me today... I am still smiling. is odd, on the phone today I noticed that a friend sounds just like one of my best friends. even his laughter. that made me smile. here is a photo of him: (I could of fixed up the photo and removed the spot, but am so sleepy)



he graduated med school ahead of me and is in foot/ankle reconstruction. we had a long talk the other night (and I am so bad about staying in contact) and we sorted through our lives and what we had hoped a long time ago would happen - we planned road trips and such, but we both had gotten much too busy. I miss him. I suppose I will call him tomorrow. no - I will and I will be a better friend.

well, it is late and I am tired. sweet dreams to my fellow poets, photographers, and the like. xo

Before Prayer

Each night I imagine your hands.
I ignore a November that falls silent on the grass.
Shall I consider? Each night I swallow your darkness,
my chest, a necessity, a firm mattress that hides
your eyes as you crawl through the sheets and up
my spine. This is how we exist.
Each night I set voices to fields that sink
deep into your hands of rosaries, where we are seated
in partnership, where we burn and bone, coaxing
forgotten graves that fall.
They burst into bloom while mouths are still wet
in the soil. Each night I keep vigil beside you
as you rock yourself to sleep.
My wings, your wet pillow. Your tears, my comforter.
Tonight I will pull along the shadows, place
your chest to mine, and somewhere in the distance
a train will sound. The sound will be of riders
returning to loved ones—
it will open our eyes to here and now.
It’s not that we have made history or have turned
a deeper shade of gray. It’s not that we are failing
or clinging to the past. It’s the way the season stares
leafless and white before the churchyard like a trunk
of fleeting memoirs that rattle in the attic before
death—that string of voices,
now frozen in the red of a raven’s throat.

Breaking Benjamin

Before you interpret this, I must divulge to you
all that is clandestine: his voice, a garden
always it exists in neat rows, lexis in the lungful
of forget-me- nots, the intricate identifiers such as skin,
accent– flesh, inevitably imitate events that slowly
pull faces as I pass the mirror.
& I spend seasons sleepless on his face, in the silhouette
of his body long after he’s laid it down. I scatter flowers
in breath - a deeper blue in the cherry, where I draw
his chest to a pause, carry him to the scents, each
so delicately decorated in the softness of rivers that utter
devotion. But his mouth is heavy. Indeed, I am speaking
of the tongue, of the nether sea, the vortex
in its garrote - no exit, a void, a lilac snapped shut.
& I cannot deliver. I lift his snowy lids, release the colors
into the sky, where simplicity permeates the air, & his lips
part affectionate, wet. I kiss his throat to pursue a sole
riposte, feel a constriction that tugs my hand, pulls me
back as the night that hangs nervous in the thickets.

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.
* * * * *