Blessings

Remembering the glint
in Clint’s eye when we touched
glasses of Chardonnay
sparkling yellow, oaky
this wine that brushed our lips
fondled our tongues, colored
our cheeks with roses red.

Addie, my gift from God
sleeping in the next bed
honeyed hair splayed around
her pillow, a halo
a rainbow, glints of gold
shining in dawn’s soft light.

Parrish at three, feeding
redbirds in our back yard
tossing bread in the air
his tiny hands waving
inviting them to eat,
his hair a golden mass
of curls, so normal he
no hint of what would come.

Paul, my ever stalwart
rock, my only brother
like me, a survivor
of unspeakable loss
in whose hands I would
place my very being
certain he would save me.

My three devoted dogs
who never hold a grudge
give freely of their love
lie by my side, snoring
softly, sleeping soundly
warming me at my core.

Blessings, rememberings
these and so many more
decorate my living
stain it with hues of spring.


© cj Schlottman

48 Hours

Again, fear and dread come
to throttle me out of
the peace I have found for
just one moment in time.
Again, paralyzed with
fear, I shriek the silent
scream of my much wounded
heart, heavy with the sting
of not knowing, spilling
tears and fears through my core.
Missing, he, my only
son, poisoned by illness
and drugs to keep him sane.
My mind, a toxic land-
fill of past loss, can but
imagine him alone
in danger of himself
at the mercy of those
who would suck the very
marrow from him and leave
him a pathetic pile
of wounds and confusion.
After forty eight hours
again, there is word of
his appearance miles from
home, in hospital. I
remember to breathe and
wonder when this season
of fear will reappear.


© cj Schlottman

Hope

Author's note: The guts of this poem come from today's post on Six word Fridays. Melissa asked us to write something about hope, especially with Japan in mind. My natural style does not lend itself to just six words a line, but I find that writing that way gives me energy and ideas for poems that do. You can read the first version by clicking here.



Hope is in not made of things
or even food and water or
preaching or praying aloud.
It is not ours alone but
shared by us with all mankind.
Buried deep in our brains, hearts.
We find it by excavating
our souls, diving the depths
of our own secret oceans
casting aside the unyeilding
debris that holds us in its
grasp and blinds us to hope
healing, reconciliation.
Freed, hope swirls around the earth
blanketing it like a new coat of paint.


© cj Schlottman

CELEBRATING MY LITTLE COTTAGE

Here'e my entry for today's Poetry Potluck. It's a great way to practice your skills and be exposed to the talents of many other poets. Please use the link above to go there and join in! There are dozens of good pieces there, so read as many as you can!



The copper fountain splashes
as the fire crackles its song
to the stockings hung above.
No big tree, but four metal
ones dangling with hand blown
ornaments reflecting light
from candles glowing. Santas,
tiny stars twinkle beside
gingerbread boys and penguins.
Jerry Garcia in shades
a red shirt with palm trees.
Santa riding a dolphin.
Poinsettias and Christmas
cacti decorate the ball
and claw tub in the guest bath.
Sparkling lighthouses hang
beside Wise Men, a brilliant ball
of gold, green and blue glitter.
A gold crowned nutcracker with
candy cane breeches stands guard
over the others, sword at
his side, silver hair and beard.
Rustic wooden cutouts meant
to stand above the door watch
over the scene. A snowman
with twigs for arms is framed
on it either side with a green
tree with a gold star atop
a rustic Santa standing
at attention.
My little cottage is warm
and the Santa hat on Poppy’s
urn keeps me smiling.


© cj Schlottman 12/26/10

For the Record

Here's a link to my Six Word Fridays contribution this week. It's fun to sit down and write a poem, just for fun, no over-analysing, just writing down words in lines of six words for the fun of it and letting it take you where it will. Click on the purple link below.

For The Record

Reflections Lost

This is another poem I shot off to Six Word Saturdays. I sat down this morning and just wrote it. Not my best work, but it's what it is - a hastily written and unedited poem.



transform yourself if you will but
beware of finding a stranger in
the mirror one morning and wondering
where you went - was it the
new friends you sought to be
included on all the right lists?
was it the little work on your
face to erase the lines you
earned back when you were you
the real you, the one with
certainty of purpose and confidence in
who you were? where did I
go you will ask yourself as
you stare at the stranger in
the mirror, no one staring back

Parrish - July 9, 2010

Across the table you lift the
corners of your mouth in a
wry smile sparing me the sight of
your edentulous upper gum,
souvenir of years sleeping on
the streets of Atlanta.

Sunken coals, eyes dilated by
drugs to keep you sane reveal a
distant twinkle so soon gone I
wonder if it were ever there.

Tan in spite of long days in
hospital, drugged, alone, sedated
iv bags hanging over your head
needles stinging your arms, streams of
of fire coursing through your veins
only a TV to pierce the
tightly packed gloom of
isolation.......

....you pick at your food.

Tucking your hand under the table,
you hide the hideous hole, the
wound surrounded by scarlet skin,
a small pocket of pus at the
center of a tender target
born of the poison that could have
killed you.

A Brown Recluse

Tears collect in my lower lids
slide down my cheeks, splash shame
onto my plate. You, the wounded,
reach across, take my hand in
yours, stroke it softly, smile your sad smile.

“Tranquilo, Mama, tranquilo.”



© Claudia Schlottman July 24, 2010
Revised February 13, 2011

Of Butterflies and Hurricanes

This is an older poem I'm linking to Pot Luck Monday!





Tiny butterlies flap their wings
high in my chest, in the back
of my throat, sending sparks up the
sides of my neck, prickling my scalp.
They spread into my chest, growing
into sparrows or wrens stealing
the space where I breathe, filling the
hole where my heart was with chaos.
I breathe long and slow to settle
the havoc, but to no avail.
The pounding penetrates to my
back where an eagle spreads his wings
bruising my rib cage, clawing my
wounds, pecking at my pain.
A hurricane, the energy
breaches my diaphram and roils
my gut, leaving me heaving with
nausea, tingling with thorny sweat
gasping for air.

© cj Schlottman 07/10/10

My Heart's in Lost and Found

My heart's in Lost and Found
just where I do not know.
I had it with me when
you died, or did I? Maybe
you took it on your final
journey, forgot to send it back.

It was yours alone, for sure
as I gave it to you those
many years past in the heat
of our new love, the fire
of passion and youthful lust.

I miss my heart as I
do you, my one true love.
Please come back and bring it.
Oh, I know you can't do
that. You can't come back, but
could you leave my heart in
my dream one night, a kiss
out of darkness on my breast,
the flutter of its beating restored?


Just a note: I participate in a meme called Six Word Fridays, and each Friday we are given a word with which to work. It's the brain child of Melissa at http://www.makingthingsup.com/six-word-fridays/ Last week's word was found. We may do with it as we wish - write a six word sentence using the word, or, as I have chosen to do, we can write a poem with six-word lines. I have tried unsuccessfully to link this post to Six Word Fridays, and I apologize for not having a button for it. I will keep trying to link up from here. In the meantime, you can Google Six Word Fridays and find it there! This little poem was my entry last week.

Father's Day 06/20/10

She rolls the nicotine lozenge around
in her mouth, staving off a cigarette.
She stares through half open shutters, tries
to visualize the ninety-eight degree
heat, too hot to walk the dogs
too hot to repot the phlox, the dirty
copper fountain has lost its splash, water sliding across the leaves in subdued murmurs.
The fish lies at the bottom of his bowl
bored by the stillness of her bedroom.
Trying to squeeze good words from her brain
she sips cold coffee from a stained mug
stares at the stack of journals on her desk,
her bra dangling from the arm of the chair
where she flung it last night, a basket of books
the photo of her father in Navy dress.
The drone of a lawn tractor fills her nose with
perfumed memories of his push mower
throwing blades of grass pasting themselves on
his trousers as he leans into his toil
a green cloud of sweetness stirring the air.

Revised January 6, 2011
© cj Schlottman

Frozen Heat - © Claudia Schlottman

05/19/10

Frozen Heat

I stumble, take a half step back 

fly down a dark shaft legs thrown up 

in a perfect vee. 

Birkenstocks scraping the roof of 

the tunnel fly off and pound my 

face. Dress blown over my head, my 

back heats and blisters with friction. 

I land hard in a frigid pool. 

Tears breach eyelids squeezed against 

the darkness, drain down my face in

rivulets of scorching sleet.

My mouth flies open and from it 

howls and screeches of poisonous

pain hurtle forth as from the throat 

of a wounded dog.  I peek out 

to see only darkness, no hint 

of light glowing in the distance. 

I hobble to my feet, groping

in the inky space for warmth.  

My feet burn scarlet with cold 

my teeth clack, arms break into a 

hot rash, then freeze.  I stagger, flee

the cold, falter forward seeking 

the warmth you stole in the fever

of your dying.                    

Sarah at 13 -

Written 1998     © Claudia Schlottman Transcribed July 4, 2002

Sarah at Thirteen

She stands, hip cocked, in a

tank top--cotton knit, striped in

muted hues of blue, brown, green.

Hints of breasts push

against the fabric.

Chill bumps stand on slender

arms.  Thumbs hooked on belt loops

of jeans that sag over

boyish hips, she looks straight

ahead, shifts her weight.

Necklaces - tiny beads

strung together by a 

friend - gleam in the March sun.

[A dog tag (Old Navy)

hangs around her neck.]

Adidas--the perfect

pair--peek from beneath the puddled demin of her

[too-long] jeans.  She tosses

her hair--blonde, chin length, no

bangs.  Blue eyes flash beneath

dark brows, startling slashes

against her fair skin.

She turns, delivers a wide, unselfconscious

preorthodontic smile.

Messages from Mama - © 1998 - Claudia Schlottman

Messages from Mama

An unsettled goose, the phone clangs.

The machine dutifully answers

each call, records each message.  Slurred

speech, garbled words slide into the 

quiet air, crowding, clouding it.

Fuddled, my mother claims neglect,

abandonment, alleges pains

belittled, overlooked, ignored,

says she can’t breathe, her heart won’t beat,

feebly searches her addled brain

for clues to where she is and why.

I hear confessions of antics,

scenes to earn attention.  I see

her strip naked, struggle to pull

the mattress from her bed, steer her

wheelchair down the hall, the stump--once

her leg--exposed, waving wildly.

More incomprehensible words

follow.  The air is thick with mum-

blings laced with strident demands:  drugs

for the pain, Kroger toothpaste, a

pen to replace the one they stole.

And I should bring them right away.

Lisa © 2010 Claudia Schlottman

Cowboy boots, red & black & scuffed

                         

swallow spindly legs   chemo-smooth

& pale.     Khaki shorts droop past a 

waist whittled by a tummy tuck

   

the one good thing   she says   to come

of this cancer.   A ripped white tee cascades down 

her ravaged chest   both breasts carved away 

the healthy one   they say   just to be sure.

Gray hairs sprout from a worn

bandana tied in a do-rag over her ears

 & cold-blue eyes tattooed with sooty semi circles 

sink in an ashen face laid waste 

by poisons meant to buy her one 

more spring. 


© cj Schlottman 2010

Linked to Thursday Poetry Rally Week 53      


I nominate Delible at Cat's Blog                                  

Hand and Glove

When you were here you were

the glove & I the hand

safe & balanced & strong.

Then the fever of your

dying melted the glove &

it dripped off the ends

of my fingers, spilling

itself into a pool

of sadness in which I

stood naked, afraid. I

crawled beside you in

our bed, warmed by your

fever, knowing it to be

your last warmth, as your breaths

drew longer, your heart slowed

& stopped.

I held tight to you, listened

hard, desperate for any

hint of life but there was none.

I lay with you, my head

pressed to your still and quiet

chest, feeling a chill fall

over me & wanting to

follow you.

© cj Schlottman  2010

Linked to Gooseberry Garden

The Bell Ringer - ©2010 Claudia Schlottman

I tack into a cold wind across the
Wal Mart parking lot, eyes focused downward.
At the crosswalk, I look up and see her.
The Bell Ringer.
Boots, black and spikey and pointy-toed, white
fuzz spilling out of the tops, tight black jeans
look painted on long legs, shapely yet slender .
Under a black leather jacket a red
turtleneck hugs her swan’s neck, a jaunty
green and white scarf wrapped around it.
Dark red lipstick just matches her sweater.
Breasts, small and high push against the fabric.
“Merry Christmas.” “Thank you.” “God Bless You.”
I look into her cafe au lait face.
She grins, revealing gold caps on two front teeth.
From under a Santa hat pulled over
her ears, golden hoops, the size of bracelets,
dangle, brush her shoulders, twinkle in the
sunlight as she jumps and dances, keeping warm.
She must be six feet tall without the boots.
I think I should drop a dollar in the
red bucket suspended on a black frame
but decide to wait, give on my way out...
Too cold now to dig into my purse.
I shop for dog food, eye drops, beauty cream,
check out, but at the door I realize
I’ve not kept out a dollar for The Bell Ringer.
I scurry past, a rat hiding from light.
Didn’t I put a check for $100.
in another bucket the day before?
I load my purchases into the trunk
start for home, her golden grin shining from
every light pole, stop light, oncoming car.
I brake and turn, speeding back to her post
only to find she has evaporated
vaporized into the cold.
Dark is falling hard and I drive home
at a creep, not understanding just
who it is that I have disappointed.

Waiting for Saint Jude

She hands her son pills

watches him swallow

drugs to scare him sober

moves to the sink parks the glass

resumes peeling, chopping eggs

stares blindly across the marsh

rubs a paper towel

across her face blows her nose.

Snuffles, throat-clearing sounds

spin her around to offer

comfort, toast cooked in a

black skillet dancing with butter.

She sits, smokes coffee untouched

watches for tremors as he

forks food into his mouth

washes it down with juice.

His knees agitate as

he works his heels against

the kitchen floor.

He gags bolts for the sink

vomits, rinses it clean

She digs in her purse for pills

quickly checks the lock on the bar.

Jaw set, she refills

his glass, hands him

another dose of Antabuse.

Outside the dog stretches

in a patch of sunlight.

Marsh hens clack, Redwings caw

clouds drift on a spring breeze.

She recalls a time

when alcohol was

for swimmer’s ear and

egg salad and pan toast

could cure all ills.

© 2010 cj Schlottman

Photographing Clint - ©1999 Claudia Schlottman

Photographing Clint  - 1999 - by Claudia Schlottman  

He leans back, arms outstretched

on the rail, terry robe wrapped

around his long body

cinched with an easy knot,

his silhouette framed by

an almost-dark sky that

hints of a purple 

and orange sunset.

A few degrees atilt,

a wine glass rests between

his thumb and forefinger.

Hot-tub water drips

into Birkenstocks--size 46,

he draws one foot up and

props it on a picket,

breaking the robe, showing

a knee, hinting at his

nakedness beneath.

Seeing the camera,

he cocks his head, silver hair

shining in the porch light,

and looks straight at the lens.

Brown eyes gleam as he breaks

into the smile he saves

for me alone.

The Other Woman ©2010 Claudia Schlottman

I never knew this woman
of steel and guts, this woman
you said would survive no matter what.
I never saw the iron at
her core that was clear to you,
that you believed was the glue
that held her in one piece.

The woman I know is
a pretender a coward
who hid her angst, rallied
the family, sent them to
lie at your side, sit at your feet
until death began slowly
to reveal itself and they
could no longer bear
the sounds of its rattle
in your throat

The woman I know lay
with you all afternoon
awash in tears and lied
to you and said she
could endure it and not to
worry to go ahead and die
if you needed to.

Clinging to your sweater
her head on your shoulder
alone and scared she touched
your cheek, scorched with fever
said good-bye but didn’t mean it.

Fear

Since my brother’s cancer came back

I’ve tasted dirty pennies.

Not a stick of Dentyne - not a

cigarette will stave it off.

Sipping a cold martini from

a hand painted glass I bought to

make me feel better masks it for

only the moment.

Awake at three-thirty, I blot

sweat from my face, brush my teeth

wash down Xanax with water from

a plastic bottle.

The pounding in my chest subsides.

At last I sleep - hair dried in

curly mats against my pillow.

©  2011 cj Schlottman

Yoga

lights dim new age music

spilling softly from speakers in the ceiling

i push the small of my back

into the purple mat

i open my eyes see Belle’s head

suspended over my face

she sniffs my mouth whiskers brush

my nose sniffs again as though

she can smell the rot of grief as i exhale

wretched gloom won’t leave

my head even while stretching

twisting holding proud warrior

or downward facing dog

breathing long breaths counting slowly

to ten with each new posture

segueing seamlessly from pose to pose

even in yoga there is no peace

(he’s dead, you fool, he’s dead)

i sit legs crossed hands folded

between my breasts as though in prayer

chin down i mutter namaste &

wish i could disappear

©  2010 cj Schlottman

Snakes in My Head - © 2010 Claudia Schlottman

I wish i were a reptile    a young snake

so I could   shed my skin by rubbing 

my nose against a rock    separating 

it at my lips     slithering out 

to reveal a more   hardwearing one    

growing and sliding under

rocks  through dark places   unnoticed      

sneaking into houses    scaring 

people inside.

Unbothered by cold   i would hibernate 

through it    &  in warm weather    bask 

in the sun    lay eggs or give live birth  

like boas & cobras & garter snakes 

birthing    a wriggling writhing mass of young 

to begin growing   molting   

becoming more rugged & craggy with 

the passing of each season.

Carnivorous   i would eat whatever 

i could catch    master   and swallow

rats & bugs & fiddler crabs & lizards 

insects & groundhogs & even small dogs.

I’d have    no heart    to break & no conscience 

or    sense of loss    i’d not think of my young  

nor remember their father. 

Thanksgiving Feast ©12/06/09 Claudia Schlottman

Perrier Joet from a hand blown flute
long stemmed fading from green to blue
tastes bitter on my lips & stings my tongue.

Chocolate mousse melts to mud in my mouth
while the hole in the room grows wide
& they pretend it’s Thanksgiving when we
all know it’s the edge of madness.

Cheese straws are sawdust in my throat choking
me, pasting my cheeks to my teeth
my tongue to the roof of my mouth. Will I
ever forgive you for leaving
me to strangle on my grief?