Images of Parrish

1

you don’t come in night dreams   instead your image flashes 

in bright light as I walk the dog around the pond

you pedal past gleaming sweat   feet a blur   head lowered  

against the wind   your demons in close pursuit 

you never had a neutral gear

2

i lift a banana pudding from the oven and 

you appear   wielding a spoon to reach around me   

stab at the meringue   shovel hot sweetness into your mouth

turn the spoon on me   paint my lips with sticky

confection as my arms fly up in surrender

the taste lingers as you fade away like so much mist

3

at the bistro by the sea i glance up to see your

handsome face lined with lightening bolts of the storms that rage

in your beautiful head   you smile   flirt with the pretty

brunette who sets down your perrier

you wink and call her darlin’   i study the menu   

and  look up to see only the surf slapping the pier

4

in the sunroom you sit   ankle over knee   in the 

yellow chair across from mine   heel pumping the floor as

you swipe a hand through tight brown curls   

pale green eyes   the color of mine   fix a question 

that hangs in the air between us   what will happen next?

the answer comes at your deathbed when your heart slows   stops   

and nothing remains but the artificial rise and fall of your chest

© 2016 cj Schlottman

Summer 2014 - Happy Birthday, Parrish

I stand at the end of the pier

the sound stretching out between me

& the suspension bridge & a

fiery sunset of clouds purpled by

exhaust spewed from stacks at 

the chemical plant   the pulp mill.

I turn & it’s last summer when

desite the seagull droppings

you fixed your elbows on the rail  

adjusted your sunglasses & cap 

studied the horizon for the yellow

pilot boat bringing your father

back through choppy waters.

Faces hidden behind dark shades 

& floppy hats   unfortunates  

from Nebraska where there is 

no ocean or salt air to breathe

ambled to the rail. 

Chest puffed out you pointed to the craft

as the boatman worked it snugly 

against the pier’s metal ladder.

Your father fixed his hands on it   

his head popped under the guard chain

& he stood as you pulled him 

into a man hug.

The unfortunates stepped in to shake  

hands with the famous bar pilot

snap photos & drift down the dock

to see what the crabbers were catching.  

It’s today again & and I shift 

my gaze back to the fiery sunset

now slipping over the edge

of the earth   it splays rays of pink

& fuchsia & orange into 

the purple haze   settles into

the horizon & a tear gleams

on my cheek in its last light. 

Copyright 2015 cj Schlottman

Once More - A Valentine for Clint

warm me with one more kiss

soft lips  sweet breath of dying 

trace your fingers on my face  

& shoulders  wash my back 

dissolve my fear with water warm  

& lie with me naked in

perfumed sheets  your legs pulled up

to fit into mine as tears 

flow down my cheeks & you 

take the air from the room saying 

darling  it’s been a great ride.

© cj 2014 cj Schlottman

Worms in Your Head

(On life with an adult child who is plagued with bipolar type 1).

worms in your head   demons 

bore holes in your soul   blind you 

to dangers that trip you  

hurl you into the gutter 

of drunkenness 

mania overcomes you

expansive gestures slice into 

the air   your voice ascends to 

a shout   strident sounds crowd the air

& you think you can 

walk through the wall

sleep settles in   a sunset 

into the arms of Morpheus   

you moan   work your legs against

the sheets & dream

night terrors rage   you leap

from the bed   a primal scream

in your throat spills over       

trembling lips   fills the air

with static & fear

pills & two hours see 

you in bed   sedated   calm

breaths quiet   a soft snore

the only sound from your room 

© 2013 cj Schlottman

    

Any Monday Night

(Baby Boom n.  a sudden, large, sustained increase in the birthrate, especially the one in the United States and Canada from the later 1940s through the early 1960s)

Lined up at the bar like crows on a fence

our conversation is muffled by the din

of others talking.  We are baby boomers at the 
neighborhood bar, single every one of us, avoiding 
another meal alone.

There is comfort in familiar faces, bustling servers, 
the smiling barkeep, clanging sounds from the kitchen, 
the smell of grease.  We nuzzle our drinks, sip slowly, 
roll the taste around in our mouthes - and sigh.

One watches “Jeopardy” with closed captioning and 
shouts out the answers.  Another bemoans the stupidness 
of others while yet another talks to the air.  Two slip 
outside to smoke.  Left to our own devices, we eat 
fried food and have another drink.

Conversation lags and we climb off our stools, deal 
with our coats and start for the door.  Along the way, 
we stop to speak to other boomers we recognize but 
cannot name.  We smile and wish each other good night 
and walk to our cars and drive home.

© 2013 cjschlottman

Unknown Ocean

vivid colors drip from

your brush, paint my dreams bold

orange and yellow

bedclothes roll, waves on

an unknown ocean 

splash, flash rainbows

on the ceiling, walls

domino dots carpet 

the floor, drip off

the edge of my room

as i drift through space

i see light, feel warmth

against my naked flesh as 

my personal black hole

sweeps me down its cold shaft

   

© 2013 cjschlottman

Holiday Dirge

outside chimes sing   driven

by blasts of bitter wind

echo their song of summer

steered by gusts of august

five hundred miles away 

doors open & close as bells 

chirp their tinny tune 

and my son leaves for nowhere

a blizzard blows in my heart

pumping glaciers of blood

to frigid fingers   toes

its only song   a dirge

© 2011 cj schlottman

For Ruth

she lies on her bed    eyes closed

covers folded neatly across

her chest   white hair smooth & splayed 

against her pillow 

her hands quiet & folded

across her heaving chest

eyes shifting behind her lids

the hint of a flinch as I

inject her with morphine 

tell me she is there   aware

i take her cold hand   fold it

into both of mine   lean in

to coo into her ear   say 

peace will soon override 

her torment   breath come easily  

the whisper of movement 

in her frail fingers

tells me she hears   believes

her body descends into 

the arms of Morpheus   

silently calling back

to me that she is safe

i stroke her hair   kiss her cheek

await her next soundless plea

© 2011 cj Schlottman




Linked to Poetry Palace

blockhead

heavy blocks   cubes of concrete

line the streets   block after block

they show my way home   a block 

of ice waits   between my poem 

and me   shows no sign of melting

obscures my view of words blocked

by its shine

wooden lettered blocks tumble

in my head & i am one

the one with the C just blocked

by the Q   i am a blockhead

© 2100 cj Schlottman


LInked to dVersed 

Thank You, Mr. Martini, Whoever You Are

martinis are my drug of choice  

made with tanqueray   frosty cold 

straight up   garnished with two olives

not three  not fancy ones   green ones 

stuffed with pimiento   served on a 

charger   no paper napkin for 

my elegant libation

the masterpiece arrives in a 

shiny silver shaker on a 

black enamel tray   the waiter

shakes it and in a display that 

leaves me breathless   pours the elixir 

into my glass   crystal   of course

when the icy rim touches my

lips   i close my eyes and exhale

a sigh as big as montana

i caress the rim of the glass

with my finger   stir the contents

with olives speared on sterling 

silver mini-swords

i swirl a second sip around

my teeth   taste it on my gums 

my tongue   swallow slowly   savor 

the essence of juniper as 

it finishes in my nose   

© cjschlottman  2011

Bubble Stuff

Bubble Stuff

a gentle storm of glistening 

glowing gossamer orbs

sprays into the air   

shiny tiny spheres mixed 

with larger circles float for the 

moment    evaporate 

amid child-giggles and squeals

small hands grab at luminescent

globes drifting just beyond their reach   

as sunlight sparkles over the 
round rainbows they pursue

© cj Schlottman 2011

Linked to Bluebell Books:  Short Story Slam Week 11

Over A Cliff

I am unable to 

connect the dots that form

a whole picture of

this mess who is my son.

Stories conflict   plans are 

made   then unmade   maybe

never made at all   just

fabricated in his

quest to manipulate

my world   insinuate

himself back into a

position of power

from which his illness will

infect me   bring me once

more into the cyclone 

of co-dependant craziness

he so craves and that would

drive my life like a run-

away bus straight over

the edge of a steep cliff.

© cj Schlottman - 2011

BONFIRE

Bruised   broken   bound by our

own sinew   traps & tie-downs   

we share souvenirs   sores

of love lost twisted with

spikes of hope.

We circle this thing between us

poke it with sticks   prod it

test it’s toughness   measure

it’s mettle.

Scarlet stains of sadness

tattooed on our hearts   we step

back   stumble forward   gauge

the heat of the bonfire.

Its flames in turn rage and

smolder   reflect yellow-blue

in our eyes   warm our faces

as we leap into the blaze.

© cj Schlottman  2011


LInked to Gooseberry Garden

Your Crooked Smile

There are times when I am 

moved to tears   cannot hold back

the sadness or joy that

catches in my throat   steals

my breath   chokes the words I

intend to say out loud.

The sound of your Texan’s

brogue   your bourbon laced breath

move me to open my 

heart   spill it over you

in kisses   caresses

I save for you alone.

Memories of loss move

me to the edge of

sanity   only to 

loosen their grip when you 

appear in dreams   wake

me with your crooked smile.

© cj Schlottman

September 09, 2011

Curtains

Curtains

I see my world through gauze curtains 

wafted by fog tumbling over 

itself into the corners of my brain.

Behind my eyes a carousel 

of blurred images swirl

to organ music piped into my ears.

Hints of smoke filter through my nose

riding on the memory of a 

skirt aflame   engulfing my leg.

Thunder rattles my drowse   winds blow

through the curtains   snatching them down

   their remnants strewn across my bed.

I drift from sleep to consciousness

   nausea strikes from within   pain

emerges from behind the screen 

of Lortab.

Attacked by unseen torches    my 

wounds reignite   scorch my flesh anew

   send tears sliding down my face.

I taste their salt   reach for the bottle

   wait for opaque curtains to once more

surround me   hide me from my pain.    

© cj Schlottman

August 30, 2001