Day-Dreaming Creativness!

My secret place is my escape from reality. When I am stressed I take it out on my creativity. I Slap the clay over and over, producing different designs as my hands shifts the clay, it becomes air-less and ready to be mastered by hands, that appear small now, but matched with the force of a motor can create things that haven’t been thought of yet, not even by me. I pull a bat from the shelf concentrating on nothing in this atmosphere, my mind wonders from this world. Gentle whispers come from the radio in the corner above the creaking pipes, unheard at the moment. I sit soaking my hands and frustrations in clean, but not for long, water. I start the wheel as fast as I can, feeling the adrenaline rush of a NASCAR racer, as the clay swiftly moves through my hands. I push through the middle of the clay, I reduce the speed, almost hypnotized by the rotation of the wheel. I stare at the bat for a while spinning it at a medium speed, as shapes with the form from clay drips. I pull the clay with my fingers making the side of the walls appear like ocean waves. The ripples move up the piece, to the rim, and dissolve in to nothingness. I keep making the walls thinner as I push the clay to its limits. It tries to collapse, but soon I have control. I clutch my metal rim in my muddy fingers. I stroke the piece up and down smoothing it appear in to silky ribbons draped around the tall form. I work with my sponge pushing the top in further and further until it gives in with small wrinkles of reluctance. I take this side of a rib down from the neck to the base to create a whimsical spiral. I pull the piece off the wheel; I stare at it for a while. It reminds me of a yellow squash that was growing in my garden. A breeze comes through the open door. I shiver, realizing how close to fall it is. It’s almost time for leaves to fall gracefully off the trees, crows fly in the air, and soon, snow will make its appearance for the first time with soft floating cotton balls that stick to the ground below. I think my summer has ended. No more green grass and budding tulips, no more smells of fresh grass clippings and the sound of the air conditioner filling the hallway. So many inspirations come from my random day dream moments throughout the day. I grab the bat, still gooey from the left over clay. I run out in to the parking lot. I find weeds sporadically poking up in the rocks and pathways around the building. I get many confused stares from the High School students in gym class. I lean down, picking the leaves from the plant. I have to sort through the slightly brown ones that got shocked from the cold weather last night. I bring the leaves that captured my attention in still slightly hypnotized. I pull blue, brown, and green slip from the shelf. Hearing the radio announce tickets for a local band I have never even heard of. I start painting the leaves with small brush strokes as it beads up, appearing to look like mercury; the beads spread apart and regroup around the veins on the unusual surface. The slip sinks in the holes dripping on to my clay covered jeans. I place the leaves on my squash form creating a pattern that matched the spiral impression. I start pealing the leaves off, unleashing the beauty of the mercury beads left around the veins. One starts to drip, I think of dew that I saw coming off of my chrysanthemum this morning. I leave it. I let the drip make a design of its own. I’m not sure where it’s headed, but it’s making my imagination go wild. I start thinking of all the many things it could be, as it slowly drifts down the piece, leaving its last mark on the cement floor. Splatters have become second nature to the floor. It has many drips, drops, and puddles from people letting their art leave an impression, on the multi colored surface. I finish the piece, by making one last impression in the bottom. My stamp is made out of clear acrylic. As I press the stamp deeper and deeper in to the bottom of my squash bottle I can see the clay spreading to make room for the A.M on the stamp. Now it is Complete.

One

This was just a short poem I wrote at school today. Tell me what you think!

One story

One time in my life

One breath on his neck

One stroke with his hand

One lasting look in each other’s eyes

One wrong move of the wheel

One screech of metal on metal

One last scream

One last flash

One moment

One time

People I Know!

This was a creative writing project I did for school. I was supposed to write one sentence on twelve people I know. Here they are!

1.Morgann-
Mozart's concerto is tapped on the desk with long slender fingers as she sits in her political science class.

2.Dad-
Garden hoe in hand, wearing his mismatched sweats, he traipses off to the garden for another day of battling the weeds.

3.Mom-
Dark curls frame her pale face as she wanders around down town, camera in hand, clicking away.

4.Norm-
Leaning over a woman's torso he shapes the clay, yellow rib in mud covered hands moves gracefully over the feminine curves.

5.Darrian-
Hair ever-changing, she wears jeans dragging the ground and sticks out her ghetto booty strutting her strong will in a little package.

6.Adam-
Feeling for his surroundings while listening for the sounds of wood sticks and num chucks swishing as he blocks them with kicks and punches.

7.Allen-
He's dressed in khaki pants with the never-ending pockets, appearing well traveled and knowledgeable, he sits and talks with students-always interested in their stories even though he has amazing ones himself.

8.Kaitlin-
Very sweet and innocent she wears plain T-shirts, worn jeans, with blond hair slapped hurriedly in a pony tail and walks in to church after a long day of home schooling, thinking about what sewing project to work on next.

9.Peg-
She talks of her garden with handicapped fairies dancing around the flowers at night and her many school stories from her years of teaching as she masters the clay with a few delicate touches.

10.Jon-
Tattoos cover his shoulders as he lights up a cigarette wearing black Dickie's pants with graphic tee, he thinks about what step to take next and which direction he should go while ignoring a call from his parole officer.

11.Tim-
His plaid shorts, a different color from his flip flops and Hawaiian shirt, he lounges on the boat surrounded by his well-loved family, sipping Corona and listening to Jimmy Buffet.

12.Terry-
He controls the clay keeping elbows locked pulls it making it as high as his elbow while explaining glaze combinations and kiln reduction to the dumbfounded class.

~**Poles**~

The lost but not forgotten

Half torn and wind swept

Advertisements of past ended sales

Nails, screws, tape and tacks hold these items

A yellowing scrap of paper, half torn off by the latest storm

Intrigues my eye

Saying “Denver Post” I try to squint and read the date

As the car starts slowly moving away

I see a poster of a yellow lab named Bruno

As I look a little closer I can see a young child hugging him

In the picture below the big letters saying “LOST”

A poster with bright orange writing catches my eye

I see the date was the previous year in July

Imagining what it must have been like,

For that was one of the hottest summers we have had for a while.

The poster says in big green letters everything must…

The ink had run from the recent snow we had fortunately got.

I thought maybe it said “everything must go”

Coming to the conclusion that is probably what it said

After I went through many different ideas in my mind,

But none of them exactly fit like “Go” did.

The old, new, and unknown posters

Still blow in the brisk winter air

Staying day in and day out

Being joined by new posters daily

By pedestrians walking on the sidewalk

And I wonder does anybody bother to read

The countless weathered sheets pinned loosely on this warn wooden post.

Gummi Bears

This blog started out a school assignment to write a short scene based off of a picture that my Mom found in the news paper, I was about twelve years old when I wrote it...hope you like it!

“Jimmy, tell these men what happened,” said his frustrated mother slumped in the small wooden chair in the corner.
Jimmy stared in to the mirror, listening to the rhythmic ticking of the clock above on the wall of the interrogation room. The police officer stood in Jimmy's line of vision.
“Are you going to just stare at that all day?” asked the police officer.
Jimmy pleaded, “Is Chris OK? What happened to the lady in the store? What’s going on? Where’s Chris?” His Mom stared in to his eyes reassuring him that Chris was in the other room and after he told the man what happened, he could see him, even though she knew it wasn’t true.
Jimmy, a smart boy for six years old, demanded, “No, I want to see Chris now. I want to make sure he’s OK!”
“What makes you think something’s wrong?” questioned the police officer who took a seat on the hard metal table.
“While Chris and I were getting gummi bears, those are his favorite, this man walked into the store. He was dressed in black. Chris said He looked like the robber in the movie we watched last night. Then he passed the isle we were in…” Jimmy paused and looked down at his shoes.
“Don’t stop, sweetie, you’re doing great,” urged his mom, tears running down her cheeks. She never thought something like this could happen in such a small town.
“Then the man pulled out a gun and told the lady behind the counter, ‘Hand me the cash and no one gets hurt!’ Chris told me he was going to tell the man we loved him in the movie and he wanted me to go with him. I told Chris that wasn’t a good idea and that I thought something was wrong, but he had already turned the corner. He started yelling, ‘Hey, Hey you!’ at the man. There was a loud bang and Chris fell to the floor. The lady behind the counter screamed, “You didn’t have to do that. He didn’t hurt anything.’ The man turned the gun on her and said,’ open the register and give me the money.’ I ran to Chris and whispered in his ear and asked if he was alright. Then I heard another loud bang, the lady screamed but stopped this time. I heard the bell on the door ring; I walked to the counter to look. The lady was gone and that’s when I called you, Mom.”
Jimmy looked at the corner as his mom wiped tears from her eyes and smiled weakly, “You did good, sweetie, you did good.”
“Now, I can see Chris, right?”
The police officer got up and harshly said,” Chris is gone; he got shot in the head. There was nothing we could do.”
“No! No! That can’t be. He just wanted the man’s autograph. He really thought he was the robber from the movie. Chris can’t be dead!” shouts Jimmy angry about what the officer just told him. His mom got up from the corner and embraced him in her arms as tears gushed down Jimmy’s face. He realized he would never see his best friend again.
Many Years Later...
”…and that’s what happened,” explained Jim to his son, Sam, many years later.
Oh, that’s why we come here every October,” said the young boy looking around the cemetery. “Can I put the roses on the grave, Daddy?” Sam asked while pulling a bag of gummi bears from his pocket.
“Sure you can, buddy,” replied Jim staring down at the head stone and remembering his long lost friend. Sam put the roses on the grave, looked at his dad, and sat on the grass. “Come on, Sam. Its time to pick up your mom from work,” said Jim taking one last look at his friend’s head stone until next October.
Sam grabbed his dad’s hand as they were walking away and asked, “know what dad?”
“What Sam?”
“My favorite thing is gummi bears just like Chris. Isn’t that weird?” exclaimed Sam. Jim thought of the many similarities between Sam and Chris and smiled knowing that through Sam he would always remember his best friend.

Caressing Waters!

I sit dangling my feet off the dock, watching the ships pass by heading away from the bay. I wave to a sailor, watching him slowly drift away, still seeing the rainbow sail almost invisible in front of the fiery sunset. The rays of bright orange ribbon against the deep blue sea are why I sit here, every night in the cool brisk air. Watching the sailors return to their well loved sea, the one thing that will never change for them, the tranquility of sailing in the waters, never knowing what the sea will bring tomorrow.

I stretch my leg out, feeling the water caress my feet with its silky touch. I sink down further, barely hanging on to the dock, feeling the cool waters splash on to my thighs, soaking my khaki shorts. I let go, falling into the waters. I bring my legs up to the surface letting my body drift to where I am floating on my back. I close my eyes, the cool water runs through my clothes, a wave stirs my body. I feel the rush of water across my stomach. My hair looks like brown smoke in the swirling liquid. I can see a lighthouse a little ways away with its lights swerving it reminds me of a carnival ride, bright and friendly, inviting people towards it.

The orange ribbon has disappeared leaving pitch black, no comfort of color, like someone poured tar on my little dock. I hit a rock, pulling myself up, feeling the cool sea air on my drenched body. My clothes cling to my smooth skin. I stay there, gazing at the midnight waters not seeing were the sea ends and the sky begins, resting my head on the smooth, grey rock watching the waters twist and turn. I feel the first drops on my now dry cheek as the rain starts. A slow drip-drop sound creating a nice lullaby lulling me to sleep.

I wake, startled by the now hectic waters, drenched in the tears of the dark rain clouds above me. I dive in to the fierce blackness. The sea is punching me, as the thrashing waters pull my head down. I struggle to breath, the once calming waters attack my fragile lungs until there’s no air left in my body. I float to the surface my eyes glazed over looking like foggy glass. The waters engulfed my heart. My one true comforting friend turned on me sending my life crashing to an end. I see my body floating lifeless in the sea as my soul lifts out of the dampened corpse drifting off, up to the emerging sunrise.

I Have a Dream!

I have a dream that one day-hopefully soon-we will treat each other with respect no matter what age, social class, or education we are from. The rich business executive who has millions in his bank account and the single mom who works two jobs, barely with enough to feed her family, should be accepted and given just as much compassion and respect as anyone else. Every person has a purpose and should not be discouraged by what they don’t have. They should be encouraged by who they are and what they can be. No one should be disrespected because of their belongings or their personal beliefs or their age. Why are the high school dropout and the valedictorian treated differently in today’s society? We all have our gifts and personalities, nothing is different. If you just look at the person standing in front of you, not at what he’s wearing or what diploma he has on his wall, but at his expression of gratitude for simply being treated as an equal.

* April Showers *

The first drops fall with a plop onto the cold pavement, starting the torrential downpour. The gutters start to fill with street sludge gathered from years of cars traveling to their destinations on the old black top. Running, it splashes on my jeans and I enjoy the sense of protection the dark rain clouds give, like their surrounding my town with a gray cover from all the stress and harm in the world. As I watch everyone else bustling for cover in their cracker box houses, I take full advantage of what these sporadic April showers give me—the freedom to fill my lungs with the fresh rain scent while I run for all I am worth on the soaked concrete. I feel the water drip from my hair. I lean my head back, opening my mouth wide, letting the cool liquid flow down my throat. As I fling my arms out, I spin slowly; giving my body to the storm, letting the thunder claps take my heart to its own beat, and the rain drench my skin. While the lightning slowly disrupts my vision so all I see is zigzags of electric flashes for minutes, I remember reality. I trudge home waiting in anticipation for the next April shower.

Random Jeans

a thread
hanging on by a prayer at the edge of the intricate swirled pattern
on the side of the worn pocket
torn at the edge from the constant habit of making the corner into a thumb rest. going down,
passing the thighs to the knees,
soft and lighter than the rest
showing the familiarity she has with this pair of well-loved pants.
one side has a small hole-
I wonder, was it from rough housing with her brother
or tripping on a log in the park.
for I will never know
because I am just a by-stander
admiring the companionship that she has but won’t know for quite some time,
until she is going through her belongings many years later and wonders
why she kept them.
until she examines them closer
and sees the love and memories I see now.
for I know, because I had a pair of those as well.

First Snow

Cold on my shoulders, it falls slowly on me, covering everything with crispy layers, sugar coating the surrounding grass. With the exhilarating effect of the first flakes drifting to the ground, I feel cold through the holes of my Crocks. I shiver, my breath looking like something is on fire in my throat. I fall in to the wet cover spreading my arms wide over and over as my legs follow in the same motion. Drowning in white, feeling my thoughts veer, as the freezing blanket pulls my once warm body deeper, lying there for what seems like a millennium as the below freezing temperatures take all the heat from my body, so all that’s left is a corpse laid in an angels half spread wings.