I’d write of ripples air moves,
blueberries in a borrowed bowl,
streams in half light,
the rush of where rapids curve,
the first day you swore love to me,
how sunlight spills on your knees,
presses my thighs,
the gentle wind’s romp
in waves of lemon,
and never tell you I love thunderstorms,
and say goodbye in not so many words.

It has been cold in Carolina! I hope everyone is staying warm. Sarah

This quilt is a king size, mixed with stars and a Greek pattern.  There are various owls sewn into each block.

I made this quilt for my Mother.  The name of this quilt is “Rosie.”

I have named this quilt “Flying Blocks.”

I hope you have enjoyed looking at a few of my newest projects!

June Promises

Marriage wades like a big black-and-white dog follows,
sometimes growls, sometimes smiles.

I’ll not lie, I am told three strikes and you’re out,
but I collect wedding dresses like memories.

Here’s one:

Husband number one stands at a gas station,
stretches upward on his toes,
his eyes reach down my backside pumping gas.
I am wearing cutoffs, legs, lean, sharp lined muscles,
and his tattletale looks make me feel naked
in ways a smile can make a face seem bare.

Another:

Number two reads our license,
forks out twenty one dollars,
states I am bought and paid for. That is all.
The sound of laughter means nothing.
His profile flutters below my eyes,
the tip of tongue curls inward,
and I learn about large, quiet, letter-listening eyes.

A third:

Number three likes to eat,
slips around me, whisks flour of my butt.
Mouth open, he laughs aloud,
the sound, hard and forceful,
bright as smell of fresh grated orange.

The final:

We watch two red birds in flight,
and sadness stalks me,
crawls up my gut, and I know what loss would be
to lose one you’ve ached for over thirty years.

Each of us is passionate and detached like them -
the way one can take what comes, love it fully, and let go.

Bad Fucking News

A soothing glow of the neon sign maker’s shop
blinks messages; its strawberry color flames
the hungry to invitations of peril.

The walk past windows frames intervention,
mixes with photos of molded hamburger,
the need for more Hazmat training,
and typewritten memories
of my fingers kneading
“Young Doctor Who’s Searches For Love Voodoo Doll”
from stored wheat grains that promise to rise.

Views parachute, and a parallel universe spreads open
to night club scenes, a man eating blue pills,
ensuring the fountain of youth,
Maestro-entertained ladies,
balance in worlds of lawless order,
the carved inlaid table
(designed by Gurka),
and Bud’s Clydesdale images trampling snow.
Even the shadow boxed cat angles his head,
and whispers, “Wash window.”

Gut feelings of sadness full throttles,
growls a snake-bottom groan,
reflects on young NFL comeback star
who raved to his death,
and the wonder of Krispy Kreme
no longer being open 24/7.

The lights flicker in an on/off M.A.D.D. head
like night a repeat offender hit the car head on,
or dreams I read about in poetry post thread.
It seems anticipation wakens you
to the amazement you survived one more night.

But more often than not, it’s about fat quarters,
and husband with odd sense taps
impatient step, grass that only grows in winter,
glade scents that fill rooms, invading cow ants,
and visions of arresting man [butt-naked],
except for his stethoscope,
scribbling on his pad about how I’ve been fucked
by Throck Morton and slowly mouths BFN.

Snow Upon Snow

Loraline outside again
says and does things,
when she thinks no one can hear,
and confides to a lonely wren;
a clear head braided and bowed.

As hope pushes will
and will pushes shovel
she still vows to move
snow upon snow
proving she can set the flowers free.

Now, I see through Modigliani’s eyes
knowing the girl with braids,
is disguising a wistful poetic charm,
and, realizing his style;
her life remarkably tragic.

Loraline, a dark outline basks
against blocks brightened by white
color signs chiseling the pathway wide,
and deep inside she remembers,
here on ancestral tasks she treads.

Her feet soon frostbitten,
hands gloved and snow shoved,
so day and night she’ll be able
to walk ahead, beyond the future,
and the past that weighs heavy.

Mumbles for peace,
Loraline outside again
says and does things
when she thinks
no one can hear.

Her primitive tongue
creates a spirit
sung in ancient voices,
she remembers versed ways
just this once reliving choices.

Boogey On Down To Broad Street

Could the groovy woman in orange be named Liska,
and puckered up to toke away her afternoon?
It’s hard to tell when John Lennon’s sitting on her bridge,
hiding cat eyes.

I want to be prey in the middle of street doings,
spew fire, strut the catwalk,
and inanimately pose
in hopes of slipping across some action.

It’s true – look: It’s not a falcon; it’s a fox with stand up hair,
in the background imitating Louis Vuitton.
Inside the hood he’s camouflaged, gangster tats,
pierced nipples, plying plausible excuses
of whether to bump bones or not.

A little on down there’s this guy in blue,
maybe late teens, mid-twenties,
somebody that might see through white lies.
He rocks, back and forth, reminds me
the doctor is on my case.
It seems sexual fantasies cause my sneezing.

Poking out holes tertiary looks cloud puzzled skies.
Her coat’s okay, but momma’s in my head,
repeating only three colors to a scheme,
and that wouldn’t be blue, pink, yellow, and brown.
It shocks my socks off that she has the look on her face
of a girl you could trust.

But she could be a hooker mom like me with that fashion toboggan
or a mugger ready to bang somebody, strip them of their money,
and clothes. She kind of looks like the friend I had that left
her two-timing, married, ex-boyfriend at the Motel 6 butt-naked,
depositing his clothes into the garbage dumpster upon exiting.
My shrink needs to help take back that nightmare
or refer me for hypnosis.

But it’s clear the old geezer ahead in off-white hot pursuit thinks
she’s the new kid on the block selling secrets
for the oldest profession on earth.

New coats capture eyes of the only woman walking
the straight and narrow line.

See the folly!

A winter land downy coated, camouflaged in doubt,
and galloping the imagination wild.

I’m sure there’s at least one bare skin holding out for mink.
Somewhere – like how frost glitters diamond-patterned,
a bell ringer seeks salvation,
the elderly badmouthing a president
for fucking with Medicare.

The riddle of life or maybe it’s irony -
we’re not all wind up robots
holding auditions for cold weather gear.

Enjoy a picture of my little Dicken’s Snow Village:

Dept. 56 Dicken's Snow Village

December 2009 – This has been an “iffy” month – the weather shifts, and moods.  I’ve posted a few of my writings below.  Hope everyone will enjoy!

Feelings Yield Me to Touch With Quiet Grace

Conformists turn 180º,
follow your slaughter
like bleach soaked pigs
in blind-folded bliss,
and I survive empty, unknowing, & left
to cradle empty shell without validation.

The lullaby lingers in soft sighs
in the bending brush of hangings.
Opaque breasts embody bellied sobs
in undersexed hours.

Everlasting life and death flaunts entwined.

I love you, little boy, melodic child.

The pink tangerine sunset
will always be your smile,
the clouds your hands
blowing kisses,
forcing nature to flutter
that what buries me beneath
its strong embrace.

Even now sensual lips
soft as pink-tangerine sunset
and iris pelted skin glows.

I wait greedily for dawn mist’s wake,
the first note of a red-legged thrush,
and the complex song it sings.

Before you came I was a plain morning glory,
trailed a clapboard porch, blended in
weed-tangled span of downhill ditches.

Time slips away, as downpours gush.
Pilfered flashes fuse and disappear.

Earth quakes and fractals outline vision.
Fission can only be one of love realized.

Sleep stirs me in this hill’s hold.
I’ve grown old in this lost day,
bent by rain-floods of a teetering mind.

A blue bird erupts from crimson stamens
to fly away as insanity rocks intoxicated
to fresh smells of stir-crazy jubilation.

Quietly, I rest offhand and knee-jerky,
reverently, sitting temperate and living
the bleakness of missing limits, thinking.

Art Evolution

The temperature drops. Or so it feels.

I enter winter and the church with fruit cake
in my bag, and meet a man who brushed by me,
a month earlier, with a patch on his eye,
tilted to the right side of his nose.

He emerges with no visible signs
of ever being wounded.
I draw specific details:
without the patch his lips are perfect,
and visualize other objects standing stiffer
than his priest collar.

I decide, officially, in my mind, at this moment
it’s the season to mail Christmas cards,
write the lost and volunteer a little.

We discuss the nativity scene,
relationships between religion and art,
of how neither would have survived
if artists had not lauded
atrocious plosions,
coverted flashes
from shame to beauty
via esthetic elucidation.

Our conclusion was:
the masses are,
though they barely know it,
beguiled by art.

Obsession

My old man commutes with me on wild rides,

mixes strange pills in his vodka tonic.

His compulsions drive me batty,

even at low speeds.

Ecstasy-bound we both fly;

he’s from the pill-popping baby-boomer-generation

one propelled to bodyguard a vain sixties chick.

Full-throttled I spend his money, drink

to dawn, add to full house of collections,

a compulsion that causes his butt cheeks

to suck up and his hair stand on end.

He claims it’s all okay,

except when he misses medications.

It’s then he becomes my fixation,

and I hang in a room to rock,

cross-dress the dolls, peep

his way the same as a full moon

leaks blanchâtre mist.

Sculpture bends over whispers –

pictures grab lives that shift,

and shutters swing, jars window,

slaps screen.

Stacked curtains hide tattooed stains.

He flip tricks, spins, bursts free

streaks across the living room

like he was on a nude beach

bird watching with ten pairs

of binoculars, and I stumble

across the wedding dresses.

Mumbling reveals I’m kinda weird,

married all this time, but still buying

wedding dresses.

It’s then I decide to wear one for dinner,

jump on the Harley and head out to Shoney’s

all-you-can-eat buffet.  You’d think I’d frozen

time with one hand and traveled through it

to escape obsession, avoid entrapment,

resisted urges and found the great escape –

a night away from Ebay and Amazon,

the poetry forums all the while

saving my old man from shame.

It’s just for a night like the seasons in between.

Cooler air dithers, calls wild ones to ride

fast and free, float out split ends

of control that hang icicled

in mind melt’s where life

passes fast and quick.

The old man’s bones snap and bare toes pop.

He pulls out his umbrella, straps on leather chaps,

biker hat and reaches around my waist.  It’s then that

I know we share a festival of longing, and there’s plenty

of time and ample room in our place where mania blooms.

Obsession

We met jamming
in a basement of misfits,
running on a handful of blue dots.

Cramps made me do it,
starve off the heart’s suspicions
for a little while.

Angels floated head,

and a devil’s trail

led to his bed,
held pleasures
of heaven and hell.
Endlessly, ecstasy sought.

Demon and whore dance:

frenzy of desecrated lust.

Somewhere midstream
uncurbed passion reigned

unearthly games,
claimed essence

and promised more.

Our heads snaked

and watched Medusa fly

goggleplex of years,

leaning woe-be-gone weak,

weeks and a devil’s stash.
Morning, December, I walk
grocery lane in late hours,
super-sized in a wishing well store,
reach deep into pockets,

drop a dime –

believe it’s a coaxer

of deadbeat moments.

A Salvation Army hovers nearby,

and palms their bells.

I understand why people kill for love,

and hope wishes don’t turn his ass to stone

or cut off his wide-reached control,
shrink his penis, or blind him from sex,
only doom him to speak
and hear what I feel.

Being the Southern mannequin that I am,
I don’t think I could ever ask people
to party. But, I would have no problem
being the life of the party -

dangled from the ceiling,
or seated upturned,
a fixed stare -

Other heads wan
dank lily blues,
and drug parched mouth,
one that sucks air
out of cans.

My straw might as well be
my mother’s withered teat.

I see you pass me by,
an indomitable surge,
in a slow lane.
Hear my last call
for free camaraderie,
see these eyes -

They’re ancient and alone.

Weeds push sidewalk’s crawl
wavelike,
and I’m on underside
of this green quilt,
fornicating with threads
that pull it all together.

My flesh addles like rapid water,
the sun hot on resin skin.
Brood of my mother breaks skull,
turns her “sweetie cakes” indifferent.

Imagine seeing the sun
in her face,
and not being blinded.

I think you need to be bit
by the hair of the dog,
so let me offer you a drink.

This bottle spins a crazy dial,
and sip-after-sip I see
the love-gesture
of your arms,
revitalized,
and stroking mounds
of lush velvet,
sorta like a song-sung-wrong -
nasal and peevish.

As you lie across couch,
and listen in silence,
I come to you and know
you really hear it all.

So I continue with my great love stories -

Once upon a long time ago,
when there was no place to go,
I moved in a little trailer
that was Larry’s with his roomy.
The roomy wasn’t so old then,
and hadn’t forgotten how
to put out fires that burned hot.

Dressed in red, my black hair flipped
full of cold light, and accentuated
fine-drawn lines.

I listen for tickled drones.
The sweaty thoughts slacken,
so, please have another drink.

Now awake your bitter eyes,
and take a stab at my poem,
and bid the birds food.

Little do you know they’ll swoop fierce,
bite twice as hard at manna offerings.
All I can say is, “Do Not Feed The Birds!”

I think plastic surgery might be ideal for my lover -
His skin cracks like thin eggs, wrinkles winged.
Clothespegs pin him swarthy and his life will no longer
be tied up in rituals.

Forty years will soon pass and we’ve bloomed,
withered sunflowers that scattered seeds,
and out of this turkey shit miracles came -

Our daughter, Penny, the plastic surgeon is unbiased,
states she’ll fix us for half the price, offers
praise that is only hers and how she can tune
our lyrical bodies.

You’d said she was one we’d have to watch.

Our teacher, Calla, lived at college.
I usually don’t sugar coat things
because then I end up eating them.

She was a science major at first
until moving into the third floor
with the Russians, rubber nipples,
and enough bi-sexual eroticism
to sink honor’s dorm full
of cheerleaders.

There was a party in her room,
and she called at 2:00 a.m.,
complained about the bathroom being dirty
because of her friends doing shotguns in it.
So I told her to clean the tub,
and use their loofah.

She called me back,
a little happier,
and informed me
that not only did she clean
the tub, she scrubbed floors,
and piss covered walls,
even the dirty fungus growing
under the rim.
And stated they’d never know
how hard she’d worked,
as they seldom bathed.

Nights, she writes books, poetry,
and her thoughts leap like mine,
fuse at white heat,
spit out protest,
kindles the amazon,
and eats madly
from take-out bistros.

Each afternoon after work
she calls, and I find her
a little more like a moth
that beats about the light.

Now close your eyes,
and picture my landscape,
push orange limits to the sky,
fluff back these words
I share with you now,
“I miss these little girls
like blueberries
on the vine.”

copyright 2009 Sarah Wilson (Do not copy or use in any medium without written permission.)

My name is Sarah Wilson and I’m a native Appalachian from North Carolina and wear aprons with watermelon pockets, have blue ink for blood, and am double jointed.  In addition I enjoy all forms of writing, reading, painting, embroidery work, knitting, doll collector, and am an avid quilter, which evolves from my native roots. I live with passion and sincerely hope you enjoy looking at my work and reading about my passions. You can view copies of my books under My Favorite Sites.

Favorite Sites:

I am, also, a published writer.  You can check out my books at the below links:

Click here to view Perhaps Next Year at Amazon.com.

Click here to view at Amazon.com

Click here to view Perhaps Next Year.

Click here to view at Amazon.com

If you’d like to contact me you can write me (Sarah Wilson).  Come Back Soon!

swilson4u@yahoo.com

Thanks for visiting me & come back SOON!

Please leave me a comment so I’ll know you visited or sign my guestbook!

Sign Guestbook

View Guestbook

My Occupation:

1. Mother of four
2. Grandmother of eight
3. Wonderful Wife
4. Lazy Writer

My Hobbies:

1. Torturing my hubby by living.
2. Spending all the money I can. (had a prenup – what’s mine is mine & what’s hubby’s is mine too)
3. Trying to see how little sleep I require.
4. Collecting dolls
5. Traveling (even if it’s only by astral voyage)

A Few of the Quilts I’ve Made:

I also know a great internet shop to buy fantastic material with excellent prices per yard!  You will be wowed by the prices!  You can find this online shop here:

Click on Sites to buy from below.  You won’t believe the prices and the quality is unbelievable:

#1 Cloth Site to buy From!!!!  Highly Recommended – Excellent Service!!!!

and

#2 Cloth Site to buy From!!!! Again Highly Recommended!!!!

This is my symetrical quilt.  Everywhere a dove ends one begins.  I made this for my son.

This one reminds me of a flower garden.  One of my favorite pastimes.

This is a colorful bear claw pattern that has angels with brooms.  This is my embroidered quilt.  The smaller flowers are actually embroidered on blocks and sew into the quilt.

I just had to make something different.  I call this the “Curly Q” quilt.

This quilt reminds me of a church window with stained glass.

This is a very colorful storybook quilt a child can lay on and read.

This pattern is “Mill Girls.”

This is the kaleidoscope. You can see the pattern of circles.

This is a “Jack In the Box.”  An older quilt pattern.

I call this Cleopatra’s Diamonds.

Another Passion of Mine:  A Few of the Dolls I Collect:

I am making an embroidered and beaded family tree for one of my daughters.   I have three daughters and one deceased son.  He passed October 2008 at the age of 31, and is sorely missed.  This picture is not that good, but it gives you an idea of some of my handiwork.

My Newest Hobby – I’ve Become A “Hooker Mom” – Dishcloths I’ve Made:

The yellow dishcloth is just a  stitch pattern that                                        developed into a cloth.

This aqua butterfly pattern is by Knits by Rachel.

Betty Boop is holding my xoxo dishcloth.  The pattern is by Knits by Rachel.

There is a border of x’s and o’s.  I used Susan Bates size 7 Quicksilver knitting needle set and Peachs ‘n Creme yarn.

This is the Valentine Dishcloth you can find at Knits By Rachel.

In this dishcloth there is a pattern of two small hearts on top and bottom section and a larger heart in the middle.  I used the Sugar ‘n Cream 100% Cotton Stripes and a size 7 Susan Bates QuickSilver one point knitting needle set.

This is a Stockinette Triangle Dishcloth and is fast becoming my favorite pattern.  I knitted with Susan Bates QuickSilver size 10 needle set and used Lily Stripes, 100% cotton.

This pattern is a Knits by Rachel “Candy Cane Hearts.”  You can’t see the detail in this photo, but there are two candy canes that tilt and make a heart shape in the center of the dishcloth.  I used Bernat Handicrafter “Holidays Prints” yarn and Susan Bates Quicksilver size 7 knitting needle set.  It is very beautiful and soft.

Another Stockinette Triangle Dishcloth!  I used Peaches & Creme, Color  Fiesta.  This company has many colors available and can be found at WalMart and Hobby Lobby Stores as well as on the internet, and is available in cones or skeins.  Also, used in knitting the pattern was a size 10 aluminum knitting needle set.

7/18/2009

Carlsbad Flower Garden Dishcloth

Stockinette Triangle Dishcloth

American Flag Dishcloth

There are so many fabulous dishcloth patterns on the internet, some free, some for sale.  I also belong to www.ravelry.com

Rachel with Knits By Rachel and Marilyn with Knitting Heaven on Earth are two of my favorite pattern writers and both have free patterns and patterns for sale.

He saw it all, showed it to me -
the Mafia, FBI, one third world country,
bobcats on the prowl, treed raccoons,
flashes of the rabid,
streets ending in “th” in big cities,
like the one I drove to one day
after the night he never came home.

Blackberry bushes lay naked in their beds,
and so did I, my lover’s thigh next to mine,
his adagio of panting breath.

Instead of the normal thumps and rustles
that wake dawn to someone’s rising
the phone blasted,
before clouds flickered inky,
and his keys of air shook,
breathed flames in and out of control.

And all the while these beautiful buds spread black lace.

Night before he was intoxicated by the drink of January,
and blossom’s odor hung in careless fashion.

In a forsaken town named Zinfandel
ungodly goings on left him naked,
in a field past the hedgerow’s fare,
and prickly touches scratched his skin.

I remember driving veiled,
the outcast smile,
a million kisses he offered,
and how a tornado stilled in my arrival.

That last week on the swing
he was drinking fermented juice,
laughed, and mistook my breath for his.
I loved this funny cat in a hat with a gaze.

He now sleeps with a lady called death,
and my eyes ride margins
of newest limbs
on an unimportant morning.

Each berry now a crystal ball,
that makes me think
why couldn’t I have been clairvoyant?

This old owl rings copper under morning’s hot rim,
and softly sings Gordon Lightfoot’s Blackberry-wine.

Squatters share this space.
The faces are not clear,
but they like to pen,
bubble dreams,
daze similes.

It’s rare to package intimate torrents,
shower manic glitter inside “pupilscape”.
Words fornicate mind’s pocket,
And the weeping willow mushrooms
exotic brushes; tree fringes cold muller.

Tools of art, fantasy, suffering, and power
of poverty thrust flares of inert matter.

Sparks fly and in the fever
of hallucinogenic dreams
silver sequined mermaids,
and mermen flipper green kelp,
sandbars, and glimmer
of iridescent lay oceans.

It’s the clutch of gadded passion.
Scrimshaw flashes bright like welder’s tool,
but dangerous to the eyeball.

I, simply, want to hopscotch reefs,
sip on island cocktails,
pirouette like clythonic nymph,
take pot shots at Poseidon,
casque beside pirate’s ship,
ride seahorses over pearly fields
and slowly jog rainbows of fish.

And when I surface rocks to sing
the wind will comb my locks
and sea gulls will fly up estuary.

Search for lost sailors will heave oars
to other slippery worlds, hourglasses
of time where tracks are never left,
and realms dream kaleidoscope
between moons of Scorpio and Capricorn.

Gonfalon buoys float seas west,
and draw the sweet abade
of aching violin.

Queen mermaid lingers hotbeds
half naked above sea grape.
Red jasper glimpse pain
to visions or mirages.

Sand shifts memory’s undertow
where memory tosses new beginning.
For each place and each time breath flames
spectacles dazzle symphonic seas,
and balances returns harmony.

May’s mixed-up foxtrot,
sings blue voices
unleashes flitter,
and combs sky strings
for color.

But what I see is the tears
from Adam and Eve
after they were expelled
from Paradise.

Desire rises to let blinded opaque moan,
flow lava, remedy troubles of the world,
and let off course aliens carry beams
to guide celestial onlookers.

The stencil cutouts display,
cup awe for lampshades seen
through sleepy-eyed umbels.

Here pirates hang the moon, drink gin,
and fire their pipes on midnight light.
I hang to night swinging in hammock,
eyes cross-dressing the fullness
that peeps sandwiched between
gray and opaque drifts.

They, seemingly, hold life in higher places,
like we all seem to do.

Blackbeard must surely live,
as the stars gather like sirens ready
to make landfall after chills in the air
have left them moonstruck.

The notion of a pirate and a star ship
of ladies tickles my brain
given his larcenous soul.
Only fools believe they banded
to bury stolen treasure.

Outlines of flying squirrels, kangaroos,
and mermaids drift between sunset boats
of coral. The ill-mannered deep-sky
monsters devour big comets,
and obstinate beings dig out
space ends sucked into inky holes.
It’s just a force of nature.

Sometimes I think of these wicked
as cannibals dancing religious rites;
how they beat and eat the old
to absorb their wisdom,
and at the same time
pay tribute to ancestors.

For a while gaze is on monkeys playing checkers,
wrapped up like pigs in a blanket ready to squeal
to the sound of Gabriel’s trumpet,
which will shower capon’s fall from heaven.

Below springy mountains lie covered,
and whipped with cream
where delicious pastries sprout paths.
Their quarters are made from bread,
and the bridges are spicy sausages.

Glistened drops fall in a small fountain,
and if one is lucky enough to find
they may reduce their age
by washing in cooler waters.

The world will then give birth singing,
and babies will never crawl or drool,
and always respect their elders.
Within this magic -
homes and streets are cut
from colored construction paper,
and the town people rename their land Oz.
Inhabitants become paper dolls.

The downside is there is never a gentle breeze,
or delicate rains so paper people cannot be damaged,
or dissolved. Flowers no longer grow but people arch
the rocks known as “treescapes”, line their walls,
and limbs turn up to form fine drapes of beauty.

And in some coastal towns near Florida
where water is restricted the Betty’s
of the world do not have to moonlight
after midnight, jog in black,
wear night vision goggles,
and hide from neighborhood watches.

Life is bright, lithe, mirthful, slender,
and graceful as Indian figures
riding piebald horses
that warn the faithless
to stay away.

The intimacy of heaven is peace,
no sense of envy, greed or hatred,
and welcomes people like me that want
to astral travel.

Yes! Let opaque be a color,
a staircase descending the western view,
offer glimpses into the inside of heaven
that waves search lights for the lost.

Disguise the ones found as children in wings,
guard them with benevolent pillars of salt.
And best of all let’s forget bad times,
let Karma make paper cutouts
of diverse cultures, clear the night,
strew stars past scuttlebutt, spheres,
and tunnels.