South Beach

You are waiting   crisply dressed   
your face    shaven smooth

glows at the sight of me

as I arrive at the home

ask the driver to wait.

The nurse dispenses

medication for the two

days you will stay with me.

Our cabbie drives us to

South Beach   you chatting

him up like the you 

before bipolar struck.

Calmer now since new

medicine    you are still

unable to amble

clipping at a brisk pace

along the avenue.

The peek-a-boo sunshine

stings my pale skin    a stark

contrast to your bronze arms.

We walk down Ocean Drive   

taking in drag queens    

in gold lamé ruffles 

strutting outside The Palace.

Lunch at News Café.

Relaxed    you shamelessly 

flirt with our waitress.

You     just months ago so

malignantly manic 

unable to hold a thought. 

Iced coffee at Starbuck's

cools us    evaporates

sweat from our skin.

We talk    your tanned face

almost relaxed    no 

angling for compliments  

no perseverating.

A pastel canyon 

Art Deco hotels tower

over us    the sidewalk 

lined with diners in a trail 

of cafés    as fans blow 

mist into the steamy 

heat of midday.

Tiring    you    my golden son

hail a cab    our  ride to the
cool dim light of my hotel.
You switch on the TV.
In minutes we are asleep  
dodging our demons
if only for the while.

© cj Schlottman  2011

For Loren

What was it that you wanted 

when you took me to your side

made as to soothe me   help me heal?  

What happened to the man who 

brought a waterfall of 

laughter cascading down 

the front of my dress

poked a tiny hole in 

my heart so a trickle

of tenderness could drip in

fold itself around my 

oozing wound born of loss?

What made you want me to 

fuck your lover then turn

on us when you thought 

I had   a viper spewing

flames of hatred   vitriol

meant to burn out my core

corrode the embryonic

seeds of healing there?

Serpent that you are   you’ve 

begun slithering 

circling me as new prey

forgetting you molted 

cast me off   so much   

dry skin baking in the sun.

You dare to approach me

take my hands as though

you have a right and

I jerk them back.

Waterfalls of laughter 

long forgotten   dismissed 

as bait to lure me to 

your writhing nest of madness

I stare you in the eye

smooth my dress   brush past you

and wipe my hands on the hem.

© cj Schlottman

Tuesday, June 28, 2011

For John, Who Died Anyway

Leaves pasted together 

by dew   carpet the path 

across the meadow.  

Twigs snap under your boots.

You stride out    head high    push 

challenge   stare down the cancer 

that   robbed you   first of a 

kidney   then a lung.  

I clamber after you 

up a steep hill   jeans wet 

to the knees.  You pause   

lean on your stick   suck air 

march toward the gurgle of   

the periwinkle spring.

Winded   I scramble   half-jog  

struggle to keep up

uproot vines to plant at

my back door   a symbol 

of your strength this day.  

Across the road   the smell

of wet hay penetrates

our noses.  Your stick a sword 

you lash at underbrush

lead me through a thicket 

to the creek   point out 

mountain laurel in bloom. 

I snap blossoms   bunch them

in a bouquet of sorts.

Tiring   you tug in 

a broken breath   attack 

the hill as I scramble 

alongside   take your hand

never a thought that you

would die.

© cj  Schlottman

Night

Night comes in sparkling gems

of sunlight, twinkles of

stars in your hazel eyes.

Shimmering refections

from ocean water at

whose feet we linger late

give glow to your visage

radiate to my own.

You flash a smile, fold my

hand into yours as the

sun sinks into the sea.

© cj Schlottman 2011

Thursday Afternoon

Crisp, clean shaven

no hint of booze on

your breath, you arrive

with your new girlfriend

the one you say makes

you feel like

you never felt,

the one you say you

want to marry.

You recross your legs

tug at starched cuffs

fish for compliments.

There is talk of orchids

her hobby and mine

as you fidget.

I like her at once

this girl you say will

drive out your demons.

I need to believe this

girl who knows all your

secrets and loves you anyway

is not just another person

for you to use up, suck dry.

I ignore the warning

sting behind my breasts

smile and fight back the urge

to leap to my feet

shove her toward the door

scream for her to run

escape while she can.

Instead I choose to lie

to myself, allow my

love for you, ill-spent

and wasted, to blind me.

I owe this girl the truth

but if I tell her all

she will abandon you.

Then who will suffer with me?

© cj Schlottman

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