Category Archives: writing
“The sand is very sandy,” said the beetle to the gnat.
“Well that’s a very silly thing, for everyone knows that,”
The gnat retorted to the beetle, who’d dug a beautiful hole
At the very very very edge
Where the ocean had taken hold
And filled the hole far sooner than he ever could have told.
The beetle stood so very still and then began to cry.
Seeing such great sadness, the gnat thought to reply,
“I’ll help you dig another, if you’ll only let me try.”
For the gnat was very sorry for the beetle’s predicament
When faced with miles of sand, just where should he begin?
Why, by the boardwalk! Yes of course, the gnat decided so
They took their shovels and their pails and began to heave and throw
The sand into the air, where it landed in a pile
And grew so tall it seemed to them to be a hundred miles.
It grew and grew until the sun disappeared from view
It grew and grew till moon and stars could not be seen, tis true!
So dig they did for several months
Till England’s shores were seen
And France was next
And Italy
So far away from home
That soon the two unhappy souls put down their pails and hoes.
“A hotdog I would like right now,” said the beetle to the gnat.
“Oh do put on some sauerkraut,” and with that the gnat did shout
“But they are far away, you know, on the ocean’s other side,
Where first we started shoveling,” and both sat down to cry.
“I wish the stars and moon would shine their brilliant, dazzling light,”
“I wish we’d never dug a hole before thinking what was right,
For had I thought ahead back then I’d never have proceeded
To dig so much and so obscure the light I cherished near us.”
The beetle did agree with this, and thought it could be righted
So in the night they blew and blew,
The sand fell left and right
And in a day or two or more
The stars began to shine
And soon the sun did light the dawn and with this they did smile.
“Let’s just hold hands, sit down again, and dream of piles of sand!”
©2016 Ellen Kostroff
Leave a comment | tags: dream, humor, philosphy, poem, quality of life, wit | posted in humor, poetry, stories, writing
I always forget that there is no dog waiting at home. Always. And surprised, each time, then saddened, as my expectations vanish, as the air, or the ghosts of dogs past. What is wrong with me?
He is not here, not the last one, or the one before that, or the one before that…but they all hang around, tempting me to believe in their existence. And why not? How comforting, when the wind howls and the rain hits the roof so hard you keep a lookout for leaks, yes, as if they were here, to protect, to comfort. Each time, each and every time, I steep myself in delusions of comfort, safety, blissful ignorance, when there is none.
After the realization…
So you enter your house, put down your keys, head to the stereo, select a jazz CD, get a drink. Does it matter it’s only 2pm? No. Time and wine are independent of each other. Each time you indulge is a new experiment. The first drink you had when the bottle was brought home was sufficient. The second day, also, one drink was sufficient. After that it increased. Two on the third day, three on the fourth day. Today is the seventh day. Today I believe I have lost all hope of maintaining anything resembling a reasonable intake. Today I am about to finish my third glass. Today I have discarded caring, lost all empathy for myself, lost all reasonable connection to the outside. Today, this moment, I am going downstairs to refill my glass.
Heaven help me.
Leave a comment | tags: canine, depression, Dog, Pets, writing | posted in depression, Dogs, Pets, photography, writing
Upon my constitution, around the house I strode
And saw with much disturbance, the stone ’twas cracked, and more.
I followed it for long it was,
No rest was to be shown
How came this crack unto my home
and why so very long?
Are there not better things to do
than break my house of stone?
No answer came my way
And none did I expect
For rue my heart the crack did show
To break my own sweet breast.
Leave a comment | tags: German Shepherd, love, Personal, poetry | posted in Life, Personal, poetry, writing
To say “miss” is to imply there once was, but I assure you there was not.
Growing up in a morass of mediocrity, accomplishments were relegated to others, and ours was a life marked by others’ needs, a turning of the lamp before dawn, a turning off at night. What happened between was of no consequence.
Nor did it provide satisfaction or mere contentment.
It was but a passing of time till sleep. Sleep, less and less each day, and time grows burdensome.
Fragments of contentment appear and disappear, so subtle that their remembrance lasts not long, insufficient to be recorded.
Which yesterday revealed a moment with the possibility of renewal, satisfaction, meaning, continuity? If there was, it is lost, intangible.
Leave a comment | tags: Life, Personal, philosphy, quality of life, random, thoughts, writing | posted in depression, Life, night, Personal, writing
Knocking from the inside.
I have never noticed this
Nor known I was closed.
You could not see
Nor hear me.
Only I hear, the ramblings, deranged.
Laughter and sorrow, wound together
within.
Leave a comment | tags: Life, mystery, philosophy, poetry, quality of life | posted in Life, Personal, poetry, writing
Pain
Last night I sent a bus careening, with people calmly going to their death
In my dream
Wrapped in plastic
But that was the second bus
The first hurtled out of control by itself
The first was a ghost
A foretelling of the second
And a third, split in two, suspended in air
And shrink wrapped
With damage control emblazoned on its side
Spun down the corridor after the two.
Then I woke.
Unscathed.
Later.
At 4 in the morning you wake, depressing yourself
At 6:11 it’s not the same.
Two pots of coffee, and you’re almost sane.
Leave a comment | tags: dream, Personal, poetry, quality of life, thoughts, writing | posted in depression, Personal, writing
why so my heart breaking
why do these tears come tumbling
flooding my soul
why must I feel so empty
oh lord, why am I so adrift, disconsolate
cannot just one thing in this universe make me whole
must I search till my heart breaks for finding nothing to replace the one being
that made my life whole
I cannot end these tears
there is no reason nor recourse for the tale that echoes forth
I have but solitude to seek and in that state I would find a glimmer of my former self
I am hyperbole and so inclined to meaningless allusions
I am a fragment of what you see
and inclined to be nothing more than the wind
and more a figment than truth
I am reality, but only in that fantasy that we perforce seek to surrender ourselves.
oh god, must I be this
I should drown in sorrow before I regain a spectrum of humanity
that this humanity be but wind and water, both gone and vanished into the air
I am but soiled in how I did regard the hearts of others
and yet I would relive these sorrows were you to let me pass to worlds that would divine the beauty of the world to come.
Let so my passage be, and to this I would incline my one true heart
to meet that heart I know does await, if not one true love, than one I should love, and with your will
I truly set my soul to be the keeper of this trust, to that I do compel myself
to fail thee not in this endeavor.
Leave a comment | tags: death, Dogs, Life, love, Pets, poetry, quality of life, thoughts, writing | posted in writing
Brought to tears
my heart does cheer
and thoughts of how you appear
to mellow my response
in ways I may enhance
a quality of life
so often rife
with war and woe
though this I think you know
my feelings are sincere
I must reply
I am not tied
by land or sea or sky
and will admit
with fitting wit
I’d rather live than die.
Leave a comment | tags: cheer, Life, nature, Personal, philosphy, poem, poetry, quality of life, random, stories, thoughts, wit, writing | posted in Life, Personal, poetry, stories, writing
#1
Oops!
Oh my
There it goes
My nose has dropped onto my toes
My toes are running everywhere
I guess that means they must be scared
And so I’ll turn the light out now
And dream some more
Till morning shows.
#2
Hello
Bonjour
I’ll say some more
It’s very likely I can’t stop.
Not now, I’m told
I’m on a roll
And wouldn’t coffee hit the spot?
I’ll drink a pot or two real quick
And then I’ll take a nap, I think
I’ll dream of meadows green and gold
And mice cavorting round the Maypole,
All breeds of dogs charging hither,
I wouldn’t mind going with them.
It’s very plain to me, you see
That dreams are my reality.
#3
Boom boom!
Crash crash!
Down I go
I’m falling fast
Into a hole
Long and narrow
Dark and cold
And very nasty
I tell you so
That you should watch your every step
And so avoid a similar death.
#4
Whoa!
What’s the meaning of this all?
So depressing, that’s for sure.
This meaningless banter in my brain,
I might as well be on a train
Rambling through the countryside
With all the dogs running wild,
With cats and mice chasing round
And ants crawling upside down,
Spiders spinning webs of gold,
I’d be a millionaire, I’m told.
Butterflies riding high
On wings of birds that fly and fly
From tree to tree and mountain top
And then they stop
To watch the sunset from the heights.
It’s quite serene this view below
Of God’s green earth
And nature’s show.
Leave a comment | tags: Dogs, humor, Life, poem, poetry | posted in Life, poetry, writing
Death by a thousand cuts.
A sweet and gentle wish that you would soon reply
to worried inquiries about your health and happiness.
No one would write as you have done without a fearsome demon lapping at mind, souls’ edge.
Take care, and know that someone waits to wrest those demons, ease a heart constrained by hands unseen, by misconceptions of a life’s reward, of waiting for release from things you were always free from
And so you know I wish to hear your plaintive tones against the winds of nature spread so softly that I would even tread to heaven to release you.
Leave a comment | tags: Life, love, Personal, poetry, random, stories, writing | posted in depression, Life, poetry, writing
Oh Jane!
Insane!
Each time he writes your name
His heart beats out a flame!
A fire in his loin
A flutter that doth spawn
A rare a beauteous morn
Awakening of dawn
A veritable display
Of nature’s way to say
Good day!
But lo!
The day draws quick
The spirits unrestrained
Return to rue the day
That turns itself to night,
And man’s abode abides
With heartfelt feelings more.
This day we have adored!
Leave a comment | tags: Life, love, mystery, Personal, poetry, random, writing | posted in Life, night, Personal, poetry, writing
How is your life, by the way?
I hear your anger in the way you write
Your life filled with fear and doubt you cannot figure out
Are those around neglecting what you need?
As blindly you subject
Those who know you not and never see your face,
With mindless rantings, cannot assuage your
body or your mind, as slowly laid to waste.
Leave a comment | tags: Life, Personal, poetry, random, writing | posted in Life, mental depression, poetry, writing
It’s four o’clock
And I’m awake
I run and run before dawn breaks.
The coffee’s made
The dog is out
My body sighs “Shall we not nap?”
But on I strive to ready lunch
What’s there to eat? Have you no hunch?
I look and look, nothing I see
I fear that I may starve, poor me
For error grave, I have succumbed
And cupboards bare, I am undone!
Ah well, all cheery, smiley me I am
A grand adventure is in store
For me and several others more
Notes to take
Lives to unfold
Tales of winter to be told
Those who found the southern sun
The rest who waited till snow and sun became as one.
I know the calendar still says Spring
But just this morn it was declared
September’s date would soon appear
And so I do begin to wonder
Where did I put my scarf, my hat, my gloves from last December
That casually I tossed aside while dreaming
Of August’s heat and swimming pools
Of days where gin-and-tonics rule.
Leave a comment | tags: humor, Life, poetry, random, writing | posted in Life, Personal, poetry, writing
Oh dear!
Alarm not set
The hour is late
And dare I not to hesitate
Abort all plans! Rush! Hurry!
Turn on the lights and dash
What? Did I forget what day it is and what to do that I so quickly undermine myself
And slip and slide across the floor, rushing to the outside door?
Oh my! Oh lunch! Go back you foolish girl.
Your stomach rules your mind; you’ll lose it quickly when entwined in knots and rumbles, on emptiness it lies.
Oh, hurry, scurry, in a flurry, activity abounds.
For once arrived you’ll never care how quickly you have gotten there
And start the day with ease and grace and fall asleep in your small space!
Leave a comment | tags: humor, Life, Personal, poetry, writing | posted in Life, Personal, poetry, writing
As your end nears
my loneliness increases.
Where am I. One day you will die.
And I will be alone.
This understanding is not yours.
Perhaps you understand how limited time is
Perhaps you understand life is ebbing.
And accept it.
To accept end of life.
Every breath is petrifying.
2 Comments | tags: death, Life, Personal, poetry, random, writing | posted in Life, Personal, poetry, writing
Lives unbearable
Mine, not yours
There is no place
turn to nowhere
turn to no one
turn to the dark
the dank
the distrustful
around and around
murder and self immolation.
To rape
Violence all around
Near there is no peace
Far there is no life
Far and near, adrift
Killing of the self
Not death, but maimed for life
Without a mark on the flesh
The marks imprinted on the mind
The mind constricted with the web of fire
A web of pain
Probe the flesh
probe the mind
violate every orifice
till the crimes scream out
but the voice is silent
the tongue ripped out
the rights wronged
traded away
given up
given out
taken
lost
Leave a comment | tags: Life, murder, Personal, poetry, writing | posted in Life, Personal, poetry, writing
A dad is a father. A father of your heart
, a bastion of your dreams, a stalwart of your beliefs. My father is the one I loved, to hold me in my times of need, to comfort all life’s cruel injustices.
Oh god, how have I failed! My father is deceased and I have not rendered him his worth, his truth, his justice. I am unconsoled, for no other knows my failure. Remiss in this life, will I pay for it in another? Can you degrade a father, diminish his worth, devalue his existence? Shall I genuflect? Oh God, should I but honor his life, would I release the longing in me that prevents it, the need to tear apart his self, for his was a betrayal of mine, a denial of another’s life. Forgive me, padre, abba, father of my dreams. How often have I longed for your attention, and fear prevented me from asking, do you love me? Do you know I exist? Do you know I need you? I am but a frail child, alone, adrift, filled with self-loathing for being unloved. And you, yourself unloved, how could you know this? Were we not the same? Alone, apart, we could not touch, there was nothing to say. Controlled by others, by our concepts of others, by our convictions of others deeds, we were silent. How I longed to hear your voice in concert with mine. Would we not have been so perfect, a perfection to God, an understanding between father and daughter? You have betrayed me as much as I you. Strike me, strike me dead that I may know the pain that crossed your path, that ate your soul, that forced you from forgiving those around you. Love I have now, as then, but I would not tell. Can love be hidden so long without it bleeding? So dark is the blood of my tears I cannot tell you the horror it sees, the pain of centuries of unforgiving. Why cry? Ask yourself a thousand times. And a thousand more, for it is a waste of time to think there will be an answer.
Leave a comment | tags: Art, death, Life, love, Personal, photography, poetry, writing | posted in Art, Personal, writing
You watch as he pushes—up, down, up, down—repetitive movements—each time the arm and shoulder muscles define into chiseled shapes, then soften; a form without excess—solid—chest, arm, head, neck, torso, thighs, calves—solid. You, 20 feet from him, think of those enveloping arms as he thrusts into you. His breath, even and paced, as he enters his love, his muscles hard and then a glimmer of sweat and breath quickens as he pushes his arms into the bed—you underneath—this massive solid structure that could crush you, slowly eases down and presses his head into your shoulder with soft murmurs of thanks. You breathe in his scent even as he breathes yours, for what else in this kingdom smells as fragrant as a man after making love?
What defines that first attraction—the musculature, posture, stance, sway of his hips? Is it the smile, voice, eyes? Just the idea of the tips of his fingers grazing your skin, his hand lighting on your shoulder. Is it the color of his skin—warm brown—soft white? Is it the fit of his clothes” Or the memory of lovers past?
And what is repulsive? Body art? Excessive flesh? A body too well fed? And age—both repulsive and attractive. Youth that thinks too much of itself, age that has not accepted itself. A grace of time upon your face, a joy of each hour in your life. So I search for your pleasure in this passing existence.
The curves of woman can be as seductive as of a man. Nay, even twice as. To touch such flesh (without being touched back) is as exciting as the idea of being touched (without touching.) What is it to see pleasure in another’s eyes that derives from you? Your very existence is validated, your life expunged of all wrongs and evils by the pleasure your presence gives another.
A life of too few joys. His flesh caresses mine, soft sensuality weeps to my heart. A presence against me, I am succored by him in sleep, in dreams I avail myself of all he is willing to offer and will deny him nothing. So I am whole, so I am one.
Leave a comment | tags: Art, Life, love, photography, poetry, writing | posted in Art, photography, poetry, writing
It becomes a habit.
As though habits are what makes one.
To have it done out of habit.
Is habit contentment or confinement?
I habitually strangle my inner self by succumbing to the habits of a lifetime, defined by others.
I am a creature, yet habit is what irks. It is not virtuous, this world of habit. This necessity of action and thought that closes the walls, shuts the doors, blocks the light from my eyes, the wind from cheek, breath from chest, terror from mind.
Aye, habit, thou cruel and formless thing, stealthily approaching to steal away my life, contort my mind. Thou makest me, and at the same time shears me asunder. I am your victim, your lover. I genuflect before you. The weight of you is inconceivable. I have no other before me. It is you at my side, in my shadow.
Off of me. I beg. I command. Leave go the weight that drowns what little time is left, carelessly relegating my soul into meaningless perpetuity. Leave the mortal drown in her own demise, not yours, not others.
What say you?
My thoughts, whose are they?
Contrived and bitter, lost years and desires, eaten by habit into emptiness. Turn round, and by habit I am content, even happy, in the small accomplishments of my life.
But these are walls I never scale, that block the world beyond. Repetitive actions. I accomplish the same thing, over, and over, and over, and am content that this one thing, this least of all actions, has been done, and my happiness from it is all that is needed.
It is but a screen.
A tactic to hold me back.
A habit that keeps me safe from exposure.
Exposed from what? From whom?
From myself, of course.
Without it I might succeed or diminish, but I would be me. I am neither.
And so I write to tell you, to warn you,
There is no time left
We are close to death
Always.
1 Comment | tags: Art, Life, Personal, photography, poetry, trees, writing | posted in Personal, photography, trees, writing
It is about love. To wake up and feel warm, a warmth only bestowed by a beloved, the one who lies next to you, though still asleep as you leave that bed, that haven in the night, that place of repose, of comfort and consolation, of quiet both mental and physical, to beat the morning light, to challenge the day anew.
It is love you want, I want. More easily given when gotten, bestowed on the bestower, revealed to the revealer. Love me and I will surely love you. How I can, how can I not help but love you, creature of my soul, whisperer of my dreams, husband of my heart. There is no band upon my finger that could bind as hard as that which lies within me. Is that not the greatest test? Can a sheaf of paper have locks and keys more quick than my soul? A soul, a heart, a dream, all you are to me and I to you, all that life is meant to be, cannot be shoved into a drawer, confined, relegated to be filed away, meaningless if its signers have given up, acquired disdain and disregard. If the paper has more import than the love it meant to bond.
1 Comment | tags: Art, Life, love, Personal, photography, poetry, writing | posted in Life, Personal, photography, poetry, writing
When have I ever said my dearest Love.
If I have not, it has has been my misfortune, for you are, indeed, a person who makes my heart race, my mind do double takes, my sense of reality check itself at the door, along with a great deal of self-recrimination, though God knows, it is not my conscience that has been challenged.
Love, talk of love, and one talks of a life of longing, a list of desires, a looking for a hero, a stanchion in a world of crumbling realities, a heart in search of itself, a physicality created by mind, body and soul, of human warmth, both mental and physical, and trust, the ultimate in human recognition, of lasting connection, of one’s desires so intimately entwined with another’s that you would will your life to their’s.
And so with all the love, and hope, and warmth and human understanding, the desires of years past, the thoughts of time not taken, of life lost and lust surrendered, such that can be relinquished is done willingly, with expectation that this will not be cast asunder, abused or discarded.
It was a day of fleeting remembrances, of flights of fancy, of leaps of love, of leaves of longing, and in its wake, a hope that another is to be.
Leave a comment | tags: letters, Life, love, Personal, writing | posted in Life, Personal, writing
My dog, so soft and sweet as he sleeps
Quiet now before the dawn.
Waiting.
The potential of a new day will fill his heart, his loins.
Soon he wakes
To the light he looks
His knowledge of the greatness is infinite.
Can I be him just one day?
Let us exchange places, just one day
How would it be to know wonder, to look forward to everything.
All expectation
That is he
Not me.
1 Comment | tags: Dogs, Personal, Pets, photography, poetry, writing | posted in Dogs, German Shepherd, photography, poetry, writing
There was a young dog named Squire, who longed to climb higher and higher
Alone on a ledge, he jumped past the hedge
And started to take a real flyer.
Then out of the blue, his mother came to
Calling “Dinner is on the fire,”
and “life is too short for you to abort.”
Leave a comment | tags: Art, Dog, Life, Personal, photography, poetry, writing | posted in Dogs, Life, Personal, photography, poetry, writing
See double. See triple. What else do you see. Who is there for you. See no one. Or only one. The one is a ghost, vision of your past, seamlessly entering your mind, blurring reality with images of before. Before you were alone. Before you were without. Before you stopped living.
Do you remember when you were alive? Flesh and blood still warm, mind coherent, thriving. Now cold, moribund. Only the motions of the living are there, packaged neatly to cheat others into accepting your continuance, an existence, empty, useless.
A fiction. As you pursue words, the ghost takes shape, reaches out to embrace, and vanishes with the dawn winds. A fiction. You wait for night once more to conjure your past, form its body, grasp its heart. You remember. The pain of your life, the pain of your love. You remember. The thrill of your life, the thrill of your love. You remember. The awkwardness of your life, the awkwardness of your love. You remember.
Time dulls the tortures you endure. Your self-inflicted pain. Like needles in your arm. The pain becomes a source of pleasure, a place where you can go, safe, away from life. Indulge yourself in the pain, let it be your reality, where no one else can enter. Yours alone to soak up, to enervate you, to anchor you. It will keep others distant. It will exist for you alone.
Leave a comment | tags: Art, Life, Personal, photography, poetry, writing | posted in Art, Life, Personal, photography, poetry, writing
It tears your heart and soul.
Where it comes from, the depths of your soul, past your own soul, the grief, the loss, incomprehensible.
Take your hand, reach deep within you, pull it out, wrench the pain, all blood, wrench it from you. Life doesn’t exist within loss.
Possible, but impossible with you, to pick up the pieces, choke it back, choke it up, choke on it.
Wails. Unending. The pitch, filled with spirits from a millennium.
Leave a comment | tags: Life, Personal, photography, poetry, writing | posted in Life, Personal, photography, poetry, writing
RunningWithEllen's Blog 