The beauty of being a writer just keeps giving back. I wish everyone could have as much fun. I attended Literary Orange this past Saturday, April 4. All the speakers were awesome, the panels excellent, the dining table denizens a treat to meet and greet.
This morning I listened to my dog snoring little 11 lb dog snores. I saw the wind dapple the tiny pools of water in the gutters by our house. I felt the wind and watched the clouds billowing with promised rain. I enjoyed being alive today. Down here. On this earth. Sometimes it's "more gooder" than others.
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
Sunday, March 1, 2009
From Up Here
God I love this time of day. It's quiet. The sun is out. It's starting to smell like fall, and the world, though sullied with financial sewage, will most likely make it through to the other side, spinning at it does on its axis in the quiet -- the death quiet-- of space. "Ohm," it seems to say.
I look back at the solar system as I ride out of it and hear nothing of the cries of anguish reaching up from Wall Street, haranguing off the pages of newspapers, echoing up from tent cities, sidewalks, apartments, and the six-bedrooms houses in foreclosure.
From way up here, I'm not afraid. I float ignorantly above the roiling red ink seas. I do not smell the crimson sweat of crazed traders, and I do not see the blood-shot, staring eyeballs of investors unable to ignore the destructive tickers rolling across ubiquitous monitors.
How much nicer to see the world turning from up here. Care to join me?
(C)October 2008
I look back at the solar system as I ride out of it and hear nothing of the cries of anguish reaching up from Wall Street, haranguing off the pages of newspapers, echoing up from tent cities, sidewalks, apartments, and the six-bedrooms houses in foreclosure.
From way up here, I'm not afraid. I float ignorantly above the roiling red ink seas. I do not smell the crimson sweat of crazed traders, and I do not see the blood-shot, staring eyeballs of investors unable to ignore the destructive tickers rolling across ubiquitous monitors.
How much nicer to see the world turning from up here. Care to join me?
(C)October 2008
Sunday, February 15, 2009
URBAN WILDFLOWERS
The word "urban" to me means city. City like New York. City like L.A. City like Chicago. Like not suburban or country. I'd call where we live suburban, but it's rapidly going urban. When does the sub find itself scrubbed from the property and ground down into "urban?" And it's definitely a down not an up, for although some call it progress, it (urbanization) drags pollution and overcrowding, crime and stress along with it, making tranquility its victim, sanity a mortality statistic, like soldiers in a war meant to conquer poverty in a place that didn't want the ravages of civilization anyway, thanks.
"Whither the wildflowers?" we ask. Whisked away, the wildflowers would want to wave wistfully in wide women's backyards, but will waste away in the wagons with wooden wheels drawn by dirty white horses every Wednesday during the week and every third weekend at the end of every month ending in a "y."
The wagons went West, the wildflowers wilted, and Urbanity laughed to see them go, triumphant again--restaurant chains, drugstore and hardware store chains muscling each other in the background for newly paved-over wildflowers. Man's striving to have more had created a place to escape FROM on the very next plane to find the open spaces where the wildflowers grow wild, but not the people because there is peace in the wilds. Contradictions notwithstanding, the open spaces beckon closed minds formerly full but now emptied by predatory purveyors and pedantic preachers. Pus-carrying pimples on pre-pubescent people in countries no longer confined to the U.S. but bleeding globally, harbor no longer in solely U.S. ports, but spread beyond borders in electronic vastness making no one immune to the disease of progress in the 21st century.
"Whither the wildflowers?" we ask. Whisked away, the wildflowers would want to wave wistfully in wide women's backyards, but will waste away in the wagons with wooden wheels drawn by dirty white horses every Wednesday during the week and every third weekend at the end of every month ending in a "y."
The wagons went West, the wildflowers wilted, and Urbanity laughed to see them go, triumphant again--restaurant chains, drugstore and hardware store chains muscling each other in the background for newly paved-over wildflowers. Man's striving to have more had created a place to escape FROM on the very next plane to find the open spaces where the wildflowers grow wild, but not the people because there is peace in the wilds. Contradictions notwithstanding, the open spaces beckon closed minds formerly full but now emptied by predatory purveyors and pedantic preachers. Pus-carrying pimples on pre-pubescent people in countries no longer confined to the U.S. but bleeding globally, harbor no longer in solely U.S. ports, but spread beyond borders in electronic vastness making no one immune to the disease of progress in the 21st century.
Friday, December 5, 2008
The Day After Christmas
‘Twas the day after Christmas, when all through the house
I looked everywhere, but couldn’t find my spouse.
The presents from Christmas were strewn everywhere,
With nary an empty space, sofa, or chair
The children were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of techno-toys danced in their heads.
And I in my sweatpants and my hubby no where near,
Ran to the garage to see if his car was here.
When out on the roof there arose such a clatter,
I ran to the yard to see what was the matter.
Away to the sidewalk I ran with a dash,
By this time, my face had become as white as an ash.
The sun on the top of the slippery, wet roof
Made me scared, and curious, and no longer aloof.
When what to my wondering eyes would appear,
My husband, was sitting up there, drinking a beer.
In his little old bathrobe, so old and so ratty,
My husband looked cute, but I fear he’d gone batty.
More rapid than eagles, his beer did he drink,
And I whistled and shouted “What will the neighbors think?”
As old wives that before the wild hurricane fly,
When we meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky
So up to the house-top I dashed in a hurry.
To sit by my husband and share in his worry.
And then, in a twinkling, I heard the whole tale:
He’d spent all our money on Christmas stuff on sale.
As I drew in my head and was turning around,
Up the ladder came the kids, still in their nightgowns.
Their hair was all messy, their faces still wrinkled,
Their slippers were red and had sleigh bells that tinkled.
“What’s happening, what’s wrong?” the two asked quite worried.
“We heard a loud noise and then we just hurried.”
Their dad’s eyes, how they watered, his face looked so sad.
His cheeks showed his sorrow; it didn’t look like their dad!
His miserable mouth was drawn down in a frown
And the beard on his chin was grizzled between the brown.
The stump of a cigar he held tight in his teeth,
And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath.
He had a broad face, and a little beer belly,
That I say came from too many trips to the deli.
He was sullen and quiet, not at all himself,
And we cried when we saw him in spite of ourselves.
But a wink of his eye and a twist of his head
Soon gave us to know we had nothing to dread.
He spoke to us then, and gave us a smirk.
“I guess I’ve just been the silliest old jerk.”
And laying his finger aside of his brain,
Gave us a nod, and said “I won’t do this again!”
He stood on the roof, to his family gave a cheer,
And together we all hugged thanking God we were here.
But we heard him exclaim, 'ere we climbed down to the yard,
"I’m going to take and cut up every credit card!"
-- Kathryn Atkins
2005
I looked everywhere, but couldn’t find my spouse.
The presents from Christmas were strewn everywhere,
With nary an empty space, sofa, or chair
The children were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of techno-toys danced in their heads.
And I in my sweatpants and my hubby no where near,
Ran to the garage to see if his car was here.
When out on the roof there arose such a clatter,
I ran to the yard to see what was the matter.
Away to the sidewalk I ran with a dash,
By this time, my face had become as white as an ash.
The sun on the top of the slippery, wet roof
Made me scared, and curious, and no longer aloof.
When what to my wondering eyes would appear,
My husband, was sitting up there, drinking a beer.
In his little old bathrobe, so old and so ratty,
My husband looked cute, but I fear he’d gone batty.
More rapid than eagles, his beer did he drink,
And I whistled and shouted “What will the neighbors think?”
As old wives that before the wild hurricane fly,
When we meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky
So up to the house-top I dashed in a hurry.
To sit by my husband and share in his worry.
And then, in a twinkling, I heard the whole tale:
He’d spent all our money on Christmas stuff on sale.
As I drew in my head and was turning around,
Up the ladder came the kids, still in their nightgowns.
Their hair was all messy, their faces still wrinkled,
Their slippers were red and had sleigh bells that tinkled.
“What’s happening, what’s wrong?” the two asked quite worried.
“We heard a loud noise and then we just hurried.”
Their dad’s eyes, how they watered, his face looked so sad.
His cheeks showed his sorrow; it didn’t look like their dad!
His miserable mouth was drawn down in a frown
And the beard on his chin was grizzled between the brown.
The stump of a cigar he held tight in his teeth,
And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath.
He had a broad face, and a little beer belly,
That I say came from too many trips to the deli.
He was sullen and quiet, not at all himself,
And we cried when we saw him in spite of ourselves.
But a wink of his eye and a twist of his head
Soon gave us to know we had nothing to dread.
He spoke to us then, and gave us a smirk.
“I guess I’ve just been the silliest old jerk.”
And laying his finger aside of his brain,
Gave us a nod, and said “I won’t do this again!”
He stood on the roof, to his family gave a cheer,
And together we all hugged thanking God we were here.
But we heard him exclaim, 'ere we climbed down to the yard,
"I’m going to take and cut up every credit card!"
-- Kathryn Atkins
2005
Sunday, November 23, 2008
Katella Avenue, Cypress California
Don’s Turf Motel stands alongside a row of sad buildings whose demeanor can only be described as 1950s architecture, the word architecture applied loosely. The structure has an exterior of plain brown warped wood, aging cracked paint, and light brown stucco walls chipped and worn showing dirty white stucco beneath.
The requisite vacancy/no vacancy sign only “neons” the NO. And we wonder. Does that mean there are REALLY no vacancies? Does it mean people LIKE staying there? Do these people know there’s a Marriott Residence Inn less than a mile down the street? Or that Disneyland is eight miles away? More importantly, are the people that stay here the kind that would care? It is said that people check into this motel with no more luggage than several fifths of Jack Daniels, drink themselves through two or three or four days and nights, hiding safely from family and friends, for who would think to look for them there?
Are ALL the rooms filled with people like these -- the empty bottles metaphors for the chasm of addiction that alcohol creates and fills for some, sex for others, food for still another group? Perhaps there are jockeys that stay there. It is, after all, across the street from the Los Alamitos Race Track, and may be, like in the story of Seabiscuit, a place for the featherweight men and boys to hang their jockey pants, affordable for two three, or four in a room. Do we know?
On some weekends, bikers by the dozen crowd the parking lot adjacent to this seedy throwback strip of history. Hells Angels congregate here, attracted to the older architecture, perhaps being reminded of easy riders of days gone by. Or would the Marriott parking lot down the street snub the Harleys and run them out as a deterrent to higher class customers – businessmen who stay near the companies down the street – Yamaha, Mitsubishi, and more – to sell or work or avoid a commute from Bakersfield where they can afford to live?
Along the same road a few blocks down, the Finish Line Foodstore completes the ensemble of late fifties/horse racing ambiance. The flashing sign appeared one summer evening as twilight eased onto the avenue. A small crowd had gathered to watch the store’s new sign depicting horses mating at a representational Finish Line. As the crowd grew, police were called in to break up the throng that had spilled onto Katella, slowing traffic to a canter, then to a halt. In fact, the automobile cops had to call for motorcycle backup. Stalled, the motorcycle police summoned the horse-mounted officers.
It took the equine staff a while to fit out their steeds, mount and arrive at the scene. In fact, by the time they came to the Finish Line Foodstore, the storeowners had produced guns. The crowd had lobbed strawberry boxes at the sign, purchased from the nearby strawberry stand, and the humping horses had sticky strawberry pulp dripping off the sexy sign making a sloppy mess of what was an education in animal husbandry for city folk who had never seen it done in real life.
Mounted Officer Sergeant Ron Flood, an imposing figure on his horse, Flash, announced through a loudspeaker, “EVERYONE NEEDS TO LEAVE. NOW!” No one moved. Few people heard.
Suddenly from above, a pair of helicopters arrived. One was a news helicopter. A spotlight bathed the darkened crowd in daylight. Sergeant Flood waved them away because behind them was the police helicopter he had requested. He repeated one more time, “EVERYONE MUST LEAVE NOW. YOU ARE IN VIOLATION OF THE LAW. IF YOU DON’T LEAVE, WE WILL ARREST YOU ALL.”
The warning was ignored. Although some folks nearby heard the blast, they were actually more interested in the fight that had started near the front of the crowd. Within minutes, the fight spread. The heat of the day, the stench of recession; the outrage at the display all spilled over into a frenzy of pent-up physicality. Women and children were invisible to the men whose self-control had passed the tipping point. Teeth and hair, blood and spit flew into the air.
As a last resort, Sergeant Flood shot his gun into the sky, grazed the helicopter, and the sound of the ricochet finally woke up the heli-cops waiting to engage. Six men dropped by tether into the roiling mêlée. Billy clubs trumped fists; riot gear paddled street clothes; and finally tear gas stunned the manly to meek, hammering the testosterone-thick air and returning defiant fighters to submissive.
Names were taken, handcuffs snapped, ambulances wailed in the background as Sergeant Flood borrowed a billy club, and astride his faithful steed, destroyed the offending sign whilst a wily lawyer in the crowd clicked pictures.
Although the First Amendment was invoked at the hearing three months later, the judge threw out the case. “No one in our community needs neon humping horses at the Finish Line Foodstore at twilight or any other time.”
The gavel came down. BANG. Case closed.
The requisite vacancy/no vacancy sign only “neons” the NO. And we wonder. Does that mean there are REALLY no vacancies? Does it mean people LIKE staying there? Do these people know there’s a Marriott Residence Inn less than a mile down the street? Or that Disneyland is eight miles away? More importantly, are the people that stay here the kind that would care? It is said that people check into this motel with no more luggage than several fifths of Jack Daniels, drink themselves through two or three or four days and nights, hiding safely from family and friends, for who would think to look for them there?
Are ALL the rooms filled with people like these -- the empty bottles metaphors for the chasm of addiction that alcohol creates and fills for some, sex for others, food for still another group? Perhaps there are jockeys that stay there. It is, after all, across the street from the Los Alamitos Race Track, and may be, like in the story of Seabiscuit, a place for the featherweight men and boys to hang their jockey pants, affordable for two three, or four in a room. Do we know?
On some weekends, bikers by the dozen crowd the parking lot adjacent to this seedy throwback strip of history. Hells Angels congregate here, attracted to the older architecture, perhaps being reminded of easy riders of days gone by. Or would the Marriott parking lot down the street snub the Harleys and run them out as a deterrent to higher class customers – businessmen who stay near the companies down the street – Yamaha, Mitsubishi, and more – to sell or work or avoid a commute from Bakersfield where they can afford to live?
Along the same road a few blocks down, the Finish Line Foodstore completes the ensemble of late fifties/horse racing ambiance. The flashing sign appeared one summer evening as twilight eased onto the avenue. A small crowd had gathered to watch the store’s new sign depicting horses mating at a representational Finish Line. As the crowd grew, police were called in to break up the throng that had spilled onto Katella, slowing traffic to a canter, then to a halt. In fact, the automobile cops had to call for motorcycle backup. Stalled, the motorcycle police summoned the horse-mounted officers.
It took the equine staff a while to fit out their steeds, mount and arrive at the scene. In fact, by the time they came to the Finish Line Foodstore, the storeowners had produced guns. The crowd had lobbed strawberry boxes at the sign, purchased from the nearby strawberry stand, and the humping horses had sticky strawberry pulp dripping off the sexy sign making a sloppy mess of what was an education in animal husbandry for city folk who had never seen it done in real life.
Mounted Officer Sergeant Ron Flood, an imposing figure on his horse, Flash, announced through a loudspeaker, “EVERYONE NEEDS TO LEAVE. NOW!” No one moved. Few people heard.
Suddenly from above, a pair of helicopters arrived. One was a news helicopter. A spotlight bathed the darkened crowd in daylight. Sergeant Flood waved them away because behind them was the police helicopter he had requested. He repeated one more time, “EVERYONE MUST LEAVE NOW. YOU ARE IN VIOLATION OF THE LAW. IF YOU DON’T LEAVE, WE WILL ARREST YOU ALL.”
The warning was ignored. Although some folks nearby heard the blast, they were actually more interested in the fight that had started near the front of the crowd. Within minutes, the fight spread. The heat of the day, the stench of recession; the outrage at the display all spilled over into a frenzy of pent-up physicality. Women and children were invisible to the men whose self-control had passed the tipping point. Teeth and hair, blood and spit flew into the air.
As a last resort, Sergeant Flood shot his gun into the sky, grazed the helicopter, and the sound of the ricochet finally woke up the heli-cops waiting to engage. Six men dropped by tether into the roiling mêlée. Billy clubs trumped fists; riot gear paddled street clothes; and finally tear gas stunned the manly to meek, hammering the testosterone-thick air and returning defiant fighters to submissive.
Names were taken, handcuffs snapped, ambulances wailed in the background as Sergeant Flood borrowed a billy club, and astride his faithful steed, destroyed the offending sign whilst a wily lawyer in the crowd clicked pictures.
Although the First Amendment was invoked at the hearing three months later, the judge threw out the case. “No one in our community needs neon humping horses at the Finish Line Foodstore at twilight or any other time.”
The gavel came down. BANG. Case closed.
Monday, August 25, 2008
In My Dream
In my dream I was a fallen princess.
It was so quiet I could hear the wind changing its mind.
You were wearing your deep purple high tops
As we sat eating mangoes soaked in rum.
You asked, “What do you want?”
I answered, “I want freedom from myself.”
You were sure if we hid, Death wouldn’t find us
Even though we knew it was time.
My dog, Life, and I
Went out and saw the moon.
No man was in it.
He was on a break.
Or Death had found him first.
We didn’t know.
You brought your cat, Hope,
To play with my dog.
We had sex and died right after.
©Kathryn Atkins
Fall 2004
It was so quiet I could hear the wind changing its mind.
You were wearing your deep purple high tops
As we sat eating mangoes soaked in rum.
You asked, “What do you want?”
I answered, “I want freedom from myself.”
You were sure if we hid, Death wouldn’t find us
Even though we knew it was time.
My dog, Life, and I
Went out and saw the moon.
No man was in it.
He was on a break.
Or Death had found him first.
We didn’t know.
You brought your cat, Hope,
To play with my dog.
We had sex and died right after.
©Kathryn Atkins
Fall 2004
Stand Closer
Orange and yellow lilies
Mixed with fuzzy brown grasses
Bend softly, ballerina style
Over the edge of the chipped clay pot.
Stand closer and you’ll smell them.
Hop-red double impatiens
Sport blooms
Pushing for attention
Against the green fichus wall.
Where rats play tag in the tangled branches.
Stand closer and you’ll hear them.
Don’t-you-love-it purple flowers
Survive
Next to the spreading snow-white alyssum.
I am the garden where they grow.
The rats are my sins.
Stand closer and you’ll see them.
© Kathryn Atkins
Fall 2004
Mixed with fuzzy brown grasses
Bend softly, ballerina style
Over the edge of the chipped clay pot.
Stand closer and you’ll smell them.
Hop-red double impatiens
Sport blooms
Pushing for attention
Against the green fichus wall.
Where rats play tag in the tangled branches.
Stand closer and you’ll hear them.
Don’t-you-love-it purple flowers
Survive
Next to the spreading snow-white alyssum.
I am the garden where they grow.
The rats are my sins.
Stand closer and you’ll see them.
© Kathryn Atkins
Fall 2004
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