gardening

Raking old annuals—
dried and nipped from the cold of winter.
In a state where even perennials
can be annuals, or annuals can be houseplants.
The ground softens with the rain of May,
as memories are slowly scooped away
into buckets, and discarded as mulch.

Creating new plants—
sowing seeds into raised beds, and excited
for fresh growth and prosperous vegetables.
A chapter of last year’s crop has closed,
but the seeds are already springing through
compost like deer over fences.
No unwelcomed guests, but smiles in the backyard
of those whom are profoundly loved.

glasses

Sweat trickles down the flushed face,
creating tiny streams of salt and crystal dams.
Pulse beats, pounds, and elevates—
approaching mountains only experienced
climbers can embark upon.
Morning sun—glorious and bright—
glaring off sunglasses that try to block light.
Regardless of practical elements,
who are meant to protect retinas from UV-rays,
the sun’s radiance shines through.

your things

Once the unattractive, dreadful futon departs,
there will be an empty space on the oak floor.
When walking past the spot where the splintered wood resides,
emotions fill up the room like a toddler on Christmas Day—
joyous for the gifts Santa gave, yet silently took away.

A burden will fall off the shoulders of the homeowner,
who embarks on a glorious future free of harmful tenants.
The laminate might be ruined from the piss of dogs,
but it will be honest, pure, alone, and wiser than the futon—
broken, shattered, and lacking substance and a sense of self.

spring nights

Music echoes from the brown, upright piano, whose melodies leak tones through cement walls. Outside, grasshoppers shout back their tunes of happiness in the heat of the night. No longer are they frozen, but jumping through time with green crabgrass underneath their limbs. Each chord drifts away from the minor, only focusing on the major sounds that ring peace and beauty to those that hear them. The pianist is only out to please those tiny insects who wear less than fancy attire.

california

Cutest niece in the whole world.
I love the look on her face... adorable
Four generations--Grams, Sis, Mom and baby Paiton
I love the little blue track suit.


Going for a walk with Paiton in 70 degree weather with a slight breeze from the East, and laughter from the West--heaven.

Went for a jog around mile square park, and felt liberated, wonderful, and pure. Met up with my sister and Paiton at the large oak tree, and had one of the best days in a long while.

Ate the best vegan food in the whole world!!!

Took a stroll to Clint's work, and was very proud of him and his accomplishments. His office was quiet, but everyone was friendly, and really admired Clint.

Went to church with mom, sis, and Paiton, and ate lots of food and laughed so hard I about fell out of my chair. Permanent smiles and love.

I have great people in my life that I am honored to call family.

mistakes

Even Home Depot does not sell a thick enough spackle to cover the faults in my wall. Smearing the gaps with a putty knife, the spackle slowly dries and cracks, leaving imperfections on the surface of a colorful partition. The spot is weak compared to the other 4x8 pieces of sheetrock who remain sturdy and resist temptations of boldness and anger. Each day, I look at the soft spot on the wall, and try not to irritate it further, but relapse and cave the mud backwards toward the studs. I bought a new patch kit yesterday and smoothed the wrinkles out, added texture, affixed primer, rolled on paint, and crossed my fingers in hopes that no one will notice the blemish I covered for the fifth time this year. I must remember that speaking positive and helping others will detract from the blemish created when a time when wallpaper and flowered curtains were customary.

A moment away from poetry, and an illustration of what I feel today

Sifting through emotions, and savoring the ones that count. I am a human being, intrinsically social and wanting to please like the 5th grader bringing home artwork for Mom to see. Traveling through the motions with more depth and understanding—guiding through the skies with the swiftness and steadiness of an artist’s hand. Viewing each failure as a unique crater, which ultimately defines the beauty of the moon and gives it shape in the night. Blazing bright through the indigo sky, I am the bird taking flight over the picturesque mountains and valleys of Montana, watching the skies melt hearts together into a melting pot of love and friendship. I wonder why our souls cannot be more like burning incense that subsides slowly on all those that gather around it. The fresh smell of sage soothes minds and stimulates conversation over red and white wines who mirror those individuals that age with fineness. We gather like clear glasses, uniquely imprinted with colorful designs and etched glass. Laughter and life embody every movement of my soul as I drift on a boat in an ocean of happiness with all of my family and friends aboard.

gender bound

A girl dressed in pink—
the skirt two inches above the bony knees
sporting bruises from conflicts on concrete.
Smile pretty for the camera, crossed legs,
crimson bows, and pale lipstick shines while
painfully melting under neon lights.

A woman dressed in white—
the gown two inches above her knobby ankles,
aching from the high heels she wore for eight years
to make her appear lengthier to the human eye.
A false purity and sense of self,
hiding from the reflection in the full-length mirror.

Dressed in flannel—
white-washed jeans fade further
in the sunlight of today and tide of tomorrow.
Footprints in the sand appear unique,
and fail to recognize femininity. The pink and white
dresses society forced her to wear are tossed
in the ocean as the waves crash and break fibers
into tiny, unrecognizable pieces.

The Pen

Black ink imprints lines and dots onto ancient paper
creating gel-filled puddles of solid passion.
Words and signatures become permanent once liquid
flows slowly, readily, and peacefully like the waves
on Seal Beach after a brutal storm from the east.
Occasionally the ballpoint tries to fix past mistakes,
but makes additional smudges along the way. Scribbles
are distinguished as art, offering a glimpse of humanity
in a world dominated by Microsoft Word. Instead of trying
to white-out misspelled words, the pen crosses through them,
gravitating toward distinctive verbs over others.
Break free of being simple by using phrases that urge
literary movement across the Atlantic. Write tonight,
before morning draws nearer with the Pilot pen
who links soft hands with sensuous readers.

love

Quotes filter my thoughts, as you tell me "without depth, we die."

The emotions that are blooming inside of my mind are that of flowers in the spring: bright, beautiful, and bold. Capturing a picture of beauty and elegance beyond anything imagined.

The values in my life become more defined as time progresses toward a new revolution. We will create revolutions together of love and peace, where souls follow hearts rather than comfortable walkways.

Tell me which books to read, what captures your mind, and what influences your hand to write words that sing like the flock of birds outside of your window.

We will be one, in time, painting words on the canvases of each other's hearts.

say cheese

Four clicks come quickly,
printing wet images in sepia .
The decision for blue or red curtains
is never seen amongst the gray.
Stuffing two people in a makeshift closet,
forcing closeness and embracing it.
Looking at one another clearly
in front of the lens, feeling giddy
with something new like a hot affair.
The images stop, years pass,
and photographs are left only as a reminder
of a bright memory in time.
Old fashioned, no erasing,
trashing, editing, or deleting
like modern cameras
that depict a false reality.

Lava Lamp

A clutter, a clash.
Red and clear oil coat
the floor as timeless
elements shatter memories
from the 1960s. Broken glass
causing piercing pains
on soft, bare feet.
Slipping and sweeping up the mess
by the ancient record player
that misses several beats.
Distorted sounds
smashing, crushing—
silence, inner peace.

Alumni

In silence, pondering the past—
watching, wondering, wailing
sweet tears underneath Orion’s Belt.
The bold constellation recalls memories
unforeseen and a magnitude of beauty
with a twist of mythological brilliance.
Glancing through scraps and old photographs,
appearing as if talent wastes away…
8 to 5… Monday through Friday…
week by weak… succumbing to the year.
Can color emerge in a dull painting
or mountains appear in a foggy sky?
Will future personalities and creativity
rise about 6’ cubicles and fluorescent lights?
There is satisfaction in security like the paperweight
holding valuable contents in place.
The fascination with sifting sand washes away
with the tide as direct deposits routinely fill accounts.
What may appear a “wasted talent” doubles
as a brightly colored gem, shining across rows
of white 6x10’s, providing intellectual stimulation
where needed most.

life is not fair... as we know

At night, I lay down to write. Tears beautifully fall between the lines written with passion, love, and fear. Why hold back emotions, when eyes begin to swell? Driving the same route each morning, attempting not to think about where and how streets became misguided, ending somewhere not imagined or deserved.

Internal corruption for many individuals, and humility for only a handful.

Her wings are not broken from the dishonesty of those above, but rather she leaves quietly with the grace of an angel. I have faith she will bust through the brick wall, or at least climb over it quickly. She makes sure everyone is okay before herself, a self-sacrificing purity above those I have ever encountered.

Now she can put herself first, and have the peace she rightfully, justly, and respectfully deserves.

Unrecognizable Photos

Ice melting on the streets—
a reminder of global warming.
Sloshing, slipping, and skidding
along blacktops without a need
for brown, leather ice skates.
Birds migrating north to native
Big Sky Country where antelope
graze and picturesque scenery
creates the images found on postcards.
Two hundred miles away,
a park once known for naming
150 glaciers, dissolves its population
to a mere 27. A beautiful portrait
burns and fades underneath flaming skies.
Ungrateful, unthankful, and wasteful—
Mother Nature would be ashamed.

Shipwrecked

The lonely calls of Manx Shearwaters echo
across the vast waters of the Atlantic.
The catamaran drifts further from
the destination without deck crews
to guide it Westbound. The Captain
strands himself on his own ship,
by slowly pushing each mate away.
Once being entitled to a few selfish moments,
they became frequent and old
like the sea-green algae lining the ship’s hull.
Alone, he stands, searching for someone
to guide him home, but finding only Shearwaters
hunting fish in the dark, frigid waters.

new year, new beginnings

What an amazing start to the New Year...


Paiton Lynn Seader
January 2nd, 2009
8 lbs, 20 1/2" long

 

I am excited to see my niece, and am actually planning a visit to California in March or April. My sister and Clint are amazing parents already, and I am thrilled for them.

2-0-0-9

Epiphanies filter my mind with the drop of a sparkling ball. Smiling, laughing, conversing, and being creative are only a few of the resolutions written in my red journal that once gathered dust on my nightstand. We constantly hope for change, but it takes action or outlines to succeed. Pick up the pen, watercolors, laptop, guitar, weights, or whatever it may be that creates awareness, and do it. I never once admired marketing ploys, but Nike engrained in minds everywhere across the globe to “JUST DO IT.” With this New Year I feel a sense of joy, happiness, fulfillment, wonderment, and a completed sense of self. No longer will I watch from afar, but act with the full intentions of my heart.

christmas paintings 2008

just thought I would share some of my paintings given as presents this season

fiesta of lights

No one can view or steal the mental photographs
I made of you last night underneath clear skies.
The pictures extended beyond the surface layer of skin
protecting our insides from bodily harm, but exposing
them to conversation, attraction, and permanent smiles.
No one can explain the image I hold of you in my head--
asking for a pen and writing thoughtful words onto paper.
Bright lights and pop music could not compete
with your intelligence or attention as you remained focused
on the mission at hand--impacting with words and meaning.
We forgot where we were for a brief moment last night,
but only the connection of our eyes could decipher
the direction our hearts were being taken.

los angeles at night

Waiting over red wine
your call comes nearer,
clearer, louder than before.
We are the revolution,
where our art manifests
and hopeless romantics
become one under the twilight
of a radical city. Jumping,
leaping, bounding over
parking meters, our hands
gently collide.

Mysterious writer

At night, she comes with her notebook and colors dreams
with words so vibrant sunglasses are needed to block the pigment.
The pen moves readily, steadily along the paper and paints
pictures with prose and music with harmonious rhythms.
The stunning silhouette of her tapping away on the vintage typewriter
triggers flooding and after-shocks within the human chest cavity.
Drinking tea and staring out the window at the view from above,
she moves to the beat of her mind and the ring of her heart.
In my unconscious fantasies, I am the paper she types upon,
the words she chooses, and the pauses she places for significance.
If only she were closer, my presence would filter into her writings
as I sit in the corner and watch her create books and make history.

joy to the world

I am pretty ecstatic right now…

- Lunch breaks become more than sleepy time, but art time
- Refinance at 5% means lower payments
- Christmas in Burbank/Oxnard
- Making presents for my family
- My sisters “bun in the oven”
- Cleaning out my closet
- My amazing friends/coworkers
- Being alone, broke, and happy

X

Trays of fudge and candy occupy tables with red and white clothes.
Turtlenecks and sweaters with glitter meet in a circle
and converse over red wine and mint fudge with sprinkles.
The false tree bares no presents, just shatterproof ornaments and
simple reminders of our first Christmas together long ago.
Silent hours are spent fluffing, decorating, designing,
and stringing lights no one will ever see or admire.
The corruption of a time that was meant to be a reminder
of something more than debt, chocolate brownies, and roasted turkey.

eight

Fighting to hold back the words I want to say. Since age 8, the words became hidden behind a violet jacket in the closet. Pulling the arms away, there were messages of help written with permanent marker on the walls—seeking visibility, but hidden in dismay. Always the mediator, holding back the tears until cracking that day on the playground when you caught me trying to run away. The whistle blew from afar, and taking off like a cheetah, I galloped across the hop scotches, Chinese jump ropes, and tether ball courts. Tears made rivulets on my rosy cheeks as you grabbed my arm and led me back to room 23. I left my soul on the black asphalt that day, only to be stepped on while kids played dodge ball and around the world. I am finally picking up the remaining pieces of soul dust imprinted with little Sketchers and wads of gum. I could have been re-baptized and submerged in salty tears this month, but no longer will I deny feelings that have been absent since age 8.

- 22 F

Freezing temperatures pollute the air, but I refuse to be frozen. The sharp burning from my skin and into my lungs attempts to rapture me into hibernation. As the weather draws colder, my heart remains warm because of those individuals that have drawn me into their homes and removed me from the cold. I will not become that girl from the X-Files movie that is trapped in the ice only to die without a change in appearance. I am constantly changing, and refuse to be frozen.

"Issued by The National Weather Service
Great Falls, MT
4:26 am MST, Mon., Dec. 15, 2008

A WIND CHILL WARNING REMAINS IN EFFECT UNTIL NOON MST TODAY.

LIGHT WINDS... COMBINED WITH THE VERY COLD TEMPERATURES... WILL ALLOW FOR WIND CHILL VALUES TO RANGE FROM 40 TO 55 DEGREES BELOW ZERO THROUGH MONDAY MORNING."

Rolled 20s

When traveling through the core of the earth,
each layer of rock becomes softer as we melt
together like the night we ate blue ladies.
Your back pressed against my bony chest,
feeling your heart beat through the layers of threads
and washcloths vaporizing with Vicks.
Kinetic energy flowed through the pink walls
and I forced myself to look away from you,
but was drawn to the pictures you painted in my head.
Across the vastness of the sky, tiny stars moved
as we sat in the hot tub sweating, thirsting for
one another’s presence in a trivial town.
Distant as we were, we chipped away with a breaker bar
at the crust. We reached the core, which was hot
like our elevated body temperatures in the cold snow.
Holding hands with you at the core caused my soul
to burst like lava in a moment of eruption.
I left you that blissful night for my best friend,
with only regrets and rolled 20s in my pocket.

Treading

People always think of a near-death experience as physical. I am here to inform my readers that emotional death exists and shares similarities to those individuals that come close to dying. No, there is not a bright light as the heart stops and suddenly revives itself again. No, there are no hospital gowns and tubes hooked to ones body like a breaker box. No, there are no priests reading last rights underneath florescent lights.

Yes, there is that gasp of air after being held underwater for two minutes and finally being able to breathe again. This time, it did not take a brush with death to change my perception of life. As I found myself drowning, my muscles gave their last hurrah and forced my head above water. The experience became life-altering, like those individuals that are given a second chance at life. Viewing life from a new set of eyes is refreshing and rewarding, if only I could share this with you.

North

Sitting on the bay window, and looking at the luminous colors that filter the sky. Internal questioning ceases only for a moment of tinted bliss. Looking out, the gravel road to my right curves, and I cannot envision where it ends. There is this constant search from afar, but without physically moving closer, there is no way to decipher where the road will take me. The last thing I desire is sitting on that crimson bay window for the remainder of my life with regrets—searching for something that does not exist. When really, I had that something all along, and took the perfect life for granted. Without hitting the rocks and bumps on the road and swerving from the furry things, life would become routine.

I slammed into a wall earlier this week going down that infamous gravel road. I was not looking for the rocks to dodge, but hitting them as I drove. Realizing in my mind the mistakes I made, I borrowed my father’s back hoe. Pushing the bad rocks to the side, I smoothed out what remained of the road, and started off new. Without change, how will an individual grow?

There are ways our routes will cross, but it will not be on Applegate.

Although the rope unravels, one thread holds it together. It reminds me of that frozen lake from the movies. Each chunk of ice dramatically breaks away, and two people are stranded on separate pieces going opposite directions. I toss you the rope and it begins to break, but I refuse to let you go. It is that one lonely string that hold us together.