Nothing Special

Nothing special happened this morning…  I woke up slowly… my body was rested and I thought about my dreams. The house was quiet… the sun drifted into the window at my feet and warmed the cool floor. I walked outside to hear the rustle of the leaves chasing the shadows left by night. The grass whispered to the sky… "It’s time to rest… it's time to sleep". I relaxed within my thoughts… the sun warmed my skin as the gentle breaths of wind teased my senses. Nothing special happened while I waited for my coffee to brew… the familiar aroma filled my lungs and drew my attention away from the sleepy cat… she patiently waited for her morning snack and rubbed against my leg as a thank you. Nothing special happened as I watched the moving swirls of cream melt into my favorite cup. Nothing special happened as I reflected on my life, my God and my place in time. Nothing special happened as I remained at peace…

                                                                    Shannon R Killman

Hollows Eve

One night in October…  I don’t remember it being too cold… I don’t remember it being scary… I don’t remember any danger. But, I do remember the excitement, the energy and the anticipation. Finally, it was here! I remember laying out the master plan with my friends to make sure we had the most efficient route for maximum results.

 “I think I’m going to be a pirate … I can use some charcoal to paint my face to look like a beard. I have some old jeans that I can shred at the bottom and I think I’m going to wear my mom’s white fluffy shirt and a bandanna from my camping stuff. I’ll get one of my Grandmother’s hoop earrings. “

It was that easy. Or maybe it was hard to decide what you wanted to be. But, it was exciting and the prospect of hauling in all of that candy was intoxicating. I remember giggles and a slight bit of nervousness. There were safety pins... there were always safety pins. Mom would fuss over us and tuck and fold… more tucking and fixing.

I would stand in front of the mirror like a king while I was fussed over. And… the photographs… lots of pictures. I remember being fascinated by the flashbulbs. We had a camera with a new flashbulb attachment. It had four bulbs on one cube. When you took one picture, it would spin around and ready the next. I remember wanting to touch it to see if it was still hot. It felt strange under my fingers, like the skin of an egg roll.

I remember meeting up with my neighborhood friends and yes… more pictures. Then we were off with warnings and directions from on-looking mothers. We ran from house to house. We scanned the streets that were full of ghouls and ghosts. The sun was going down and we didn’t want to miss a house. I remember running with my bag of candy… running with purpose and excitement. I was worried about my safety pins and my mask. The slits in my mask were flopping over my eyes... I could hear my hot breath echoing in my mask.

We would check to compare how much candy we were hauling in. Everyone wanted to have more than the next. Someone would tell us of a house that was giving out whole candy apples or popcorn balls and we would scatter in that direction. The streets were always full of children and adults walking their children. It felt like a carnival. We were old enough to go on our own and we loved it. It was after dark and we were like young scavengers. I remember the freedom… I remember the rewards… I remember the happiness and the joy of it all. I remember the love and the thrill… all on one cool night in October.

Shannon R Killman

Season’s Sound

I sat outside this afternoon, in the quiet of the day... to listen and to watch. The cat was patiently perched next to me at my feet. The wind blew in light breaths around us. Luke, ever alert, watched the free-dance of the paper thin leaves of the birch trees I planted a dozen years ago as they tumbled to the ground… his ears scrolling in every direction to catch the sounds within his fiefdom. Our female cat Toonces lay in sleeping silence under the lazy branches of an azalea bush.

The crispy chatter of the leaves caught my attention as they pinballed through the wiry branches high above. They made their way to the ground with no conscious… no hurry or effort. The colors are the colors of early fall. I search for the reds of my memory, but the falling birch leaves are like peacocks of yellow and brown… the reds elude them. They vary from yellow to gold and brown… the brown of the earth and the brown of young chocolate.

The wind is happier in the fall. It moves with purpose. It collects the energy from the earth and fills the empty spaces between branches. Our lacy leaves become nature’s music. The squirrels trot behind us with mouthfuls of dried leaves. They scurry in bursts to their nest-making high in the treetops, squawking as they go.

Small birds bathe in the loose leaves like in the first rain puddles of the early spring. They bounce in groups of two or three… always alert to the heart racing sounds of intruders. It is easier to hear a far away dog barking into the wind. It is easier to breathe the air that holds onto the light moisture of an earlier sprinkle. The smothering heat of summer is merely a memory.

I can hear the patterned drumming of a driveway basketball… the chiming of a child’s bicycle bell, saddened by the approach of colder weather. The chirping of little birds has been replaced by the mocking calls of grazing blackbirds. I strain to hear the absent sound of the dove that nested in the Leland Cypress. They greeted me daily through the summer months… they have moved on.

We must all move on… a new season… a new journey in time. It will pass without me if I don’t take the time to watch and to notice. It will pass if I don’t take the time to notice the small things… the hidden things… the quiet things… the sights and sounds of a new season.

                                                 Shannon R Killman

Be Calm

-I am here… I was here before you… I will be here after… be calm my child… know that I will share my love with you… be calm.-

A spark… a movement… a warmth… I feel but don’t know what I feel… a love... a flow. I am not alone. A spirit is within me… comforting me. I feel small. I feel incomplete… I feel the energy of exuberance… I feel alive… I feel alive… I am alive…

You sing to me… I can hear your soothing heartbeat… it surrounds me and is part of me. I feel the vibrations of your movement, I am calm. I’m not afraid, because you are with me… a part of me. I can move more freely now. I can see through the waters of life. I can feel your joy… sing to me mother.

I can feel your joy… but I can feel your pain. Why do you cry? Why do you not talk within your soul? I feel the need to stretch… to roll out my legs and arms. Yes, you are back with me. I can feel your smile and your touch. I feel calm and patient…

-I am here… I was here before you… I will be here after… be calm my child… know that I will share my love with you… be calm.-

The sounds of the outside fall onto my ears and my mind. I am curious… I am strong… I am eager… it is not time. I know it is not time, yet you cry. The sadness within you pulls at me. Sing to me mother… sing. I feel dark without your voice.

It is wrong… I am not ready… the pressure is uncomfortable… I cannot fight. Who is pushing? Why do you cry mother? Why do I fear? The sounds are wrong… you are tense… your heart races… please calm my fears… sing to me mother… please sing. The pain! I can’t escape! Where are you? I need your touch! Your heart is screaming! Touch me! Talk to me! Feel me! Sing to me mother! - The quiet comes… why? I am tired… I love you… Mother… I love you… please… sing...

-It is done my child… I am here… I was here before you… I will be here after… be calm my child… know that I will share my love with you… be calm. We shall sing together…

                                                                   Shannon R Killman

Perhaps an Escape

Perhaps to the origin of my birth,

the deserts of my youth,

the mountains of my memories or

the valleys of my ancestors…

Perhaps to the streets of adolescence,

the landscapes of maturity,

the city of young love or

the rooms of loneliness…

Perhaps to the waters of adventure,

the oceans of discovery,

the sands of desire or

the ancient oaks of laughter...

Perhaps to the countryside of friendship,

the sidewalks of solitude,

the tracks of companionship or

the roads of freedom…

Perhaps right around the corner...

Perhaps on any beach, any time...

Perhaps today or tomorrow...

Perhaps, only in my dreams…

                   Shannon R Killman

the Hobbyist

I made an attempt, after reading some poetry the other night, to try and develop my writing to a more classic style. I did some research on-line. I read some of the classic poets' works and it built my curiosity.

There seems to be several layers and styles of writing including creative writing, freestyle, modern, and classical. There is therapeutic writing that the authorities try to encourage inmates and prisoners to involve themselves in. It seems that when you can capture deep emotions and put them to words… it works wonders for the tempered soul.

There were suggestions on how to develop a poem… how to take notes and how to edit the work. It seems that most poets and writers are tortured by the use of one or two lines or words. The best advice was to read the analyses and critiques of famous works and try to develop your personal work off of the perfection of others’.

There are a lot of rules to poetry. There are stanza rules, rhyming rules, timing rules, line rules, verb usage rules and repetitive usage rules. There was quite a bit of encouragement for the new writers. Among the suggestions were to keep a notebook and jot down feelings and emotions that can be used in a poem. Start the poem and them put it down for another visit on another day. Change a few lines and words and then put it down again for future consideration. It will eventually come to an end after much editing and re-editing.

It is apparent that most poets and writers are poor but philosophical… educated but determined. I will never be an educated poet which is perfectly alright with me. I have been given permission to be a casual thinker, a freestyle writer and a therapeutic writer. I am apparently a “writing hobbyist”.

I will continue to scribble down my thoughts. I will continue to attempt to write down my observations and emotions. I do it for myself to clear my soul and conscious. I only save them in a social forum to preserve them. I want my thoughts to be preserved for my children and their offspring… self-centered, but honest.  Ahh... that was very therapeutic…

                                                                   
                                                                          Shannon R Killman

In my Dreams

Why do you elude me in my dreams?

I see you there… with no surprise.

I look for you in night’s slumber.

In my mind, somewhere in the mist.

You walk in whispers…

Drift like a dancer in her prime.

Your eyes call to me…

I answer with my very breath… you smile.

Anticipation fills my chest…

I have little time… memory's touch...

The perfume of youth…

The salt of your desire.

And again, you escape my grasp…

Flirting with my love. 

You drift into the shadows…

Waiting still...

                                Shannon R Killman