Artistic Sorrow

As she throws the clay
Knocking firmly into place
She man-handles it violently
Push and Push
Until she brings it in to center
She roughly pulls it up-the pot collapses
With the mere force of her hands filled with tension and stress
She collapses-just like her pot
As only drip-drops of tears are heard
Popping in the water bucket

Babies

My day is filled with giggles
With innocent baby faces looking at me
With eyes so big
They lay and sit on the floor loving the squishy blocks
I take one of them into my arms feeling the heartbeat
I play a game bouncing her up and down
She laughs, hands clapping as she bounces on my knee
My eyes sparkle with joy of being a part of their day

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.